20.oct.2120
Opening his eyes and looking around, Zavirdyaev did not immediately realize where he was. This had happened before, but usually in some new environment, on business trips. Zavirdyaev closed his eyes again, as if trying to fence himself off from an unfamiliar, alien world, but the strange sensation did not go away. As if trying to shake off the spell that had enveloped him, he suddenly rolled over onto his back and began to beat himself in the chest with both hands. Judging by the sensations, his face was distorted in some kind of frightened-aggressive grimace. There was reason to worry - the animal impulse seemed to have happened by itself.
A series of less than ten blows suddenly put everything in its place.
Zavirdyaev closed his eyes again, but this time simply to relax. A few seconds later, with a light and graceful jerk, he lifted himself up and sat himself down in the middle of the sofa.
- How could it have worked like that? - he thought with a feeling of simultaneous shock and admiration, clasping his head in his hands - it was more comfortable that way.
Time fell apart. The internal calendar was torn into at least two parts, plus smaller fragments that sank into oblivion. On the one hand, yesterday was October 19, 2120, and at the same time, yesterday ended with a delightful sunset and a warm night in Florida, in August, 2113. Somewhere in the fog, episodes with checkpoints were hanging out, the closest to today's date was in Hanover, in the summer.
Zavirdyaev inhaled and exhaled several times. There was a strong impression that if the insight had overtaken him during some physical work or sports, it would have been much more comfortable, but, as he had once been explained, the process could be most favorably realized only during sleep and after it.
His hand reached for his head, to the place where the neurochip was sewn in. Now he remembered its real purpose - it was a kind of alarm clock, even a whole battery of alarm clocks, where each was responsible for its own. The chip was not a neurostimulator designed to combat "chronic fatigue". Zavirdyaev had never had chronic fatigue syndrome either.
With a habitual movement, he grabbed the phone lying on the coffee table and just as mechanically entered the login of the e-mail address and a rather complex password. The last time he entered these combinations was in the summer, when he went to rescue the crazy niece of the KANAR leader, the niece of "Doc". In the following and previous months, he did not remember the existence of the account, which he now logged into almost automatically.
- Good morning, Sir, - said the voice assistant, which was an addition to the mail. - It would be more correct to say "good evening", - clarified the AI. - Let me remind you that in half an hour you need to leave. Have you forgotten about your plans for the coming day?
- I have not remembered yet, - answered Zavirdyaev.
- Great, Sir, I recognize you. Your chip was activated by a security guard the day before. His frame was supposedly malfunctioning. - answered the AI. I have everything from the main things for you. Don't waste time.
- Zavirdyaev did not continue the conversation - it, the conversation, fulfilled its role, strengthening in Zavirdyaev the awareness that what was happening was not a figment of a sick imagination. - My brain will have to work for a long time, - he thought, holding the place where a chip was placed under the skin in a specially carved niche in the skull, stretching several dozen of the finest partially conductive threads through holes of a fraction of a millimeter in diameter to the cerebral cortex.
Once upon a time, people imagined that it was possible to take an ordinary miniature digital storage device and connect it to the brain and watch videos, receive any other information or record it.
As often happened in the history of technology, such seemingly obvious projects turned out to be pipe dreams. The miniature device was just an advanced version of the same neurostimulator, which, as Zavirdyaev, who had been vegetating in the Superfederant all these years, believed, gave impulses to certain points of the cerebral cortex at the right time, close in tempo to natural electrical activity. Such medical devices were not rare.
This neurochip, in purely technical terms, did almost the same thing, only all these years it had been inactive. Apparently, its power supply was remotely charged by a device in the hands of a guard who had received a modified device and a secret assignment. Now the neurochip gave the same impulses as a regular stimulator, but it did it according to its own special schedule and there were several times more points of action. The rest of the work was assigned to the living, that is, to his, Zavirdyaev's brain and ordinary human memory, into which, figuratively speaking, files of a special kind were hammered. These files, of course, were not digital arrays. They did not contain everything that ordinary, computer files contained. These were actions and memories learned through training. Such files were "recorded" under special drugs - Zavirdyaev did not remember the details yet. Now all these technical details were not something that time should be spent on thinking about and remembering. Zavirdyaev got up from the sofa and went about his morning business.
In the bathroom, his attention was suddenly drawn more than usual to the mirror. Having casually washed his face several times, he suddenly began to intently examine his reflection. Again, he took hold of the place where the chip was.
"All the secret information worth billions of denominated dollars is stored here," the thought flashed through his mind. "Not somewhere in headquarters computers, not in encryptions, but here, in living tissue, in my nervous tissue. Even the chip is just an alarm clock..." For some reason, he began to make faces at himself like a monkey. He showed his teeth a couple of times, bared his teeth, pulled back his lower jaw, then closed his jaws, then grimaced some more.
"Congratulations, everything works," his own voice sounded in his head. "I'm a little confused why the doctors chose such an absurd key, but oh well, they know better. A man will come for you soon. He will be where it is most convenient. My message from the thirteenth year is finished.
Zavirdyaev, who had already stopped grimacing, looked himself over once more and continued washing.
- This is simply fantastic, - he thought to himself, - I can really say that I have become a cyborg. The brain works like a machine. Now he read me the message that I wrote down myself. Where will the man meet me? Where it is convenient? And where is it convenient? Of course, if he is an agent, then he knows which way I leave and where I am going. Anywhere on this way. It is convenient everywhere. I was probably thinking exactly the same then. How he will find me is his business and a question of his professionalism.
The feeling of control over what was happening was somehow incomprehensibly combined with the realization that he, Zavirdyaev. Figuratively speaking, was simply floating with the flow now. But the flow was moving exactly where it needed to.
Zavirdyaev was aware that similar scenarios are how psychos finally go crazy. Or rather, they don't go crazy right away, but all these tricks are the crowning glory of destructive processes. This argument was quite convincingly supported by the unmistakably open account, forgotten for all these months and even years, and its artificial intelligence, privy to the course of the matter, or rather, to the necessary grain of the scenario.
Outside the window was a gray autumn evening, turning into the darkness of the night. Only now did Zavirdyaev realize that he had slept quite a lot - almost a whole day. This was not a problem in terms of a purely technical question of cover - then, yesterday, he had two days off ahead of him.
Half an hour after he jumped up from the couch, Zavirdyaev was already running down the porch stairs into the cool autumn twilight, broken here and there by the light of lanterns. After the checkpoint, there were two options - go to the garage to the car or walk towards the office, located in a tall multi-story building, once intended as an administrative and household complex, one of countless at this awkward, never-started enterprise.
Without thinking twice, Zavirdyaev decided to choose the walking option - it would be easier for the agent to make visual and then communicative contact with him.
After passing the checkpoint, Zavirdyaev saw that a man was sitting on a bench installed under a canopy. There, in this smoking room, someone was often scurrying about, but as a rule, all these workers, all these janitors and plumbers, hung around there during the day, and not at eight o'clock.
The man casually stood up and headed towards Zavirdyaev. Coming up, he silently extended his hand. Zavirdyaev also did not say a word. From the outside, everything looked as if the two acquaintances had met on some business. - We'll have to walk, - said the stranger. That was the first thing he said. - Well, if we have to, then let's go.
Of course, they didn't go to the administrative building, but to the exit from the territory.
- What a fortress, - the stranger began to chatter, - I must say, I'm not seeing all this from the inside for the first time. It used to be easy to get in here. When I was young, about thirty years ago, we used to climb here often.
- Are you from here, a local?
- Yes, you could say so. I was smart enough to leave once, before the Super Federation. Then I came here. Now I've dropped in here. Nothing has really changed. True, I must admit, they started to maintain order here. Not like in the old days. "Here" is here, in the industrial town. In the citadel, as we called it.
The agent continued his meaningless chatter, telling how he, as a young, rascally student thirty years ago, prowled around here, in the poorly guarded labyrinths, playing special forces. It was hard to say, or even impossible, whether it was true or just his invention.
Finally, they reached the outer checkpoint, passed it, and found themselves in front of the entrance to a wide, high-mast-lit parking lot-square, which on rare days was filled even by a third.
When most of the square was covered, the stranger pointed to a dark silver Volvo, behind the wheel of which the waiting man was clearly visible.
Approaching the front door, which the driver pointed to from behind the glass, Zavirdyaev glanced at the one-story blocks spread out in the lowland. Here it seemed strange to him why people who were undoubtedly obliged to know a thing or two about conspiracy had not chosen a place to wait somewhere on those streets, but had stood in front of the cameras. Well, maybe not in front of the cameras themselves, but they were probably making their mark in some background. One way or another, it was not convenient to be smart.
- How are you? How are you feeling? - the driver asked rather cheerfully. - I've heard a lot about you.
- Really? - Zavirdyaev answered in the same tone as the driver.
- Don't pay attention, - the Agent's voice was heard from the back seat. - He most likely saw you on TV.
- This has happened more than once, - Zavirdyaev agreed. - I just didn't think that anyone was watching it.
- What are you talking about! - the driver answered, already driving out of the parking lot. It's my responsibility.
- What?
- Of course. The best taxi driver in the Kuznetsk Region is driving now, and maybe even more, - he slapped his palms on the steering wheel, - I have to be in the know, so here you go.
The agent sitting in the back muttered something discontentedly obscene.
- Best taxi driver, have you decided on the route? - the Agent added.
- Everything has already been chosen. The route has been planned, - the driver responded.
- There are two roads to the facility, the choice depends on the current situation, - the driver explained to Zavirdyaev. - Do you see the jeep driving ahead?
- Yes, I see it, so what? - Zavirdyaev answered.
- They are also our people, so everything is under control.
The car sped away from the city, to the east. Somewhere to the right, the lights of the most prestigious area, which had blossomed during the years of the Super Federation, flashed, which the Soviets, in the best traditions of their bad taste, called "cosmic".
Soon the lights sailed off into the distance and disappeared. Darkness took complete control. One thing was good - there was no rain, typical for the season, now.
- So, - the agent perked up. - It's time for me to get out.
- Right, - the driver responded and began to slow down.
Only when the Agent began to get out, Zavirdyaev noticed that he was holding an M-116 in his hands, apparently hidden before that either on the floor or somewhere else. - Well, old-man! - he addressed Zavirdyaev, - Wishing good luck is a bad omen, - he raised his clenched fist.
Zavirdyaev repeated the gesture as best he could and nodded silently. The back door slammed shut and the car moved forward.
- Old-man! - Zavirdyaev grinned.
In appearance, and based on the described adventures of thirty years ago, the Agent was older than Zavirdyaev. The only thing unclear was "a little older" or simply "older".
- That's his joke, - the driver replied, shaking his head, as if feigning irritation. - Actually, seriously speaking, this isn't the first time I've dealt with people going through all this... well, the stuff with neurochips.
- Really?!
- Yes. You shouldn't be surprised. I must say, everything is going pretty smoothly for you.
- Cleanly?
- Yes, that's what it's called. If the process isn't completely regulated, a person can give the impression of... well, like he's not in his element. Like he's hungover or like he's messing around with whatever. As for you, in order for everything to continue to go smoothly, just follow all the instructions. You'll spend two days lying around in the medical block at the Blok Air Force Base... There and here are blocks! - the driver grinned, - You'll take a couple of IVs, the usual post-radiation recombination, and during that time you'll think it all over properly.
- Is that how it is?
- Yes, that's it.
- And isn't it a problem that I'm not glowing? Or am I already glowing?
- Don't worry, you're not glowing. You know, some people play it safe and get themselves an extra recombination. I will only say that for the base personnel you are a Russian-speaking unofficial employee of the AEX inspection department. You are hiding it. English is your second native language, if anything. That's all. What and how to do next, you should know.
- Then I have no questions, answered Zavirdyaev, - for them... for me it is quite natural to get some extra treatment if it is possible to get some treatment after exposure.
- Exactly, - the driver smiled understandingly. - Let me turn on some music instead...