Luca thought for sure they wouldn't be looking for him under the guards' noses, at their booth, which stood near the helipad. Fifteen meters away were a thicket of grass... or not grass - Luca wasn't a botanist and didn't know what it was. In general, plants with broad leaves, a meter and a half, under which, kicking out an impudent mongoose, Luka made a nest, fell asleep and slept.
And he woke up from the screams of the guard, calling for some Boris.
The sun had already shifted to the west, he wanted to eat, and his body warned him that in five hours, he would limit his functionality if Luke was not refreshed.
Hinges creaked, a yawn was heard. The second guard mouthed something in English, the first one answered him, and Luca's knowledge was enough to understand: some beast had come and eaten, and today it was gone because it might have been killed.
Luke realized they were talking about an exiled mongoose, and tensed up - what if they go looking for a pet? As if to confirm his hunch, a guard with a bowl came out from behind the kennel, called for Boris, did not wait for him, and headed toward Luca's hideout. He clutched his scalpel, quieting the hormones injected into his bloodstream. A second guard followed, with a machine gun slung carelessly over his shoulder.
Near the bushes, the guard squatted, set down a saucer, peering into the darkness, to where Luca squirmed, ready to throw. This comrade has a pistol in his waist holster. If it's loaded, Luke has time to take him and his partner down-his reactions now surpass those of the average man. If not, would it be enough to evade fire? Fifty-fifty, better not to check.
For a moment Luke thought the guard was looking directly into his eyes, but the man stood up, scratching his belly, complained about something to his partner behind him, and turned around. The other guard scolded some big boss who was... Flying in? Flying in?
From his next phrase, Luca understood only the swear words. Was there talk of him? Probably yesterday they had, today they had a different topic - "big boss". Is it possible that some big shot is coming with an inspection? What an idiot, why didn't you learn English in school?
Luca put a handful of pre-prepared berries into his mouth, like grapes, but his body demanded protein and threatened to turn off his newfound abilities. The guards departed, conversing, and Luka's gaze fell on a bowl of cat food, not dry, but like stew, the kind sold in cans.
"Well, will you be satisfied?" - he mentally appealed to his body, and his stomach rumbled in response.
All that remained was to wait for darkness. Because there were cameras everywhere, and he had to walk at a turtle's pace. Like last time, twilight lasted a few minutes, and night fell as if by a click. Luke crawled back to the bowl, shoved the cat food into his mouth, which tasted quite good, not worse than the usual stew; thanked the guards for not stingy, from the heart, piled the food.
The body seemed to have received for the first time the necessary daily norm of nutrients and had a surprise:
Micronutrient and macronutrient deficiencies eliminated.
An additional feature is available: mimicry - having a sample of your genetic code, you are able to mimic the appearance of a person for 60 minutes.
His metabolism almost spiked and his body temperature rose from surprise. That's what cat food gets you, right? It turns out that English cats are fed in a more balanced way than Croatian cats. Or is Luka really a cat?
Who cares?! The main thing is that he can be anything for a while! He could chew someone's hair, and voila! He could pretend to be a big boss and fly away, steal an airplane and send it flying... Where would he go? He'd better ask Desmond for advice. But no matter how hard Luca tried, he could not get in touch with him, it was one-way, and only Desmond could make it work.
That's the way it is when you need someone, you can't get through to him!
Without leaving the shelter, Luca began to spin in his head how he would get the genetic material of the big boss, and the deeper he thought, the clearer he realized that he could not get close to this man in any way.
Then came the realization that he had forgotten something important-he had to steal the carrier! No one but Desmond could tell him what it was, and the bloody Yankee would say nothing!
Or maybe he's got something wrong.
It would be hard, almost impossible, to get out alone. Luke kept trying to get through to Desmond, imagined himself a Jedi, imagined his thoughts in the form of an envelope reaching the addressee, almost twisted his brains, but to no avail.
At seven o'clock in the evening, the lights came on over the airport. I heard shouting, the guards were fussing too, and Luca tensed up, not knowing what was going on. He froze when a man with a thermal imaging camera passed by.
What was this, another attempt to find him?
The
answer came in the form of a monotonous distant hum that grew into
the roar of a helicopter propeller. A huge iron dragonfly rumbled
almost overhead - the air currents ducked wide leaves to the ground -
and disappeared behind the tops of palm trees.
Looking around,
Luka crawled from cover to cover to watch the arrivals up close,
crouched in the black shadow of a bush, from where he could see the
helipad, where, covering a small two-seater helicopter, slowly
descended the massive steel carcass of the multipurpose American
Iroquois helicopter, the second most common in the world.
There were six machine gunners, among them a guard who called mongoose Boris. In principle, one could sneak into their gatehouse now, finish off whoever was left there, become him... But what would happen when Luke was addressed in English? Would he moo and fake a stroke?
Once again he tried to get through to Desmond, and again nothing worked. He was beginning to wonder what had happened to him.
The chopper blades whistled through the air, spinning more and more slowly until they came to a halt, and a gangway swung out of the Iroquois, and then an armed man in camouflage followed, an old lean young man in white pants and shirt, quite gray, shriveled as a dried fruit.
An unfamiliar elderly Negro woman, also gray-haired, rushed toward him, extended her hand, shook it, and turned to the gangway, where another of his guards, quite young, in camouflage shirts and pants, with a hip holster and no automatic rifle, was coming down.
Beautiful dreams burst soap bubbles: how to get hold of the genetic material of this tall, skinny old man? You couldn't even get a shot at him! Luke gritted his teeth in despair, but did not give up, followed the procession to where the villa and the dormitory with the children were.
Another one who wants to be rejuvenated? Looks like it. The bodyguards followed the boss to the iron gate, the younger one walking behind him stayed with the local, the other went with the lord.
Luca cursed mentally. He knew that his next chance to leave the island would be long before he had a chance, and he knew he had an important part to play: retrieving the carrier. But what was it? How should he get to it?
Ideally, he would take the carrier and fly away. But to do that, you have to know what to take! He can't take an entire quantum computer-the size of a transformer box. Come on, Desmond, where do you climb? Come in, come in!
Silence.
The young bodyguard stomped around the fence, talking to the locals, but they were reluctant to talk to him. He patted his pockets, took out a pack of cigarettes and flicked his lighter. He smoked for a long time and with pleasure. He squeezed his eyes shut and let the smoke out into the starry sky, then turned his head in search of the garbage can, looked at the butt and flicked it into the bushes - it flew a little over half a meter. Luke squinted his eyes - his vision became clear and as if it brought both the bush and the butt lying on a leaf closer.
There must be saliva on it, and bits of cells in it. Would that be enough for mimicry? He couldn't get to the old man, but he could get to this guy. But what about the real bodyguard? Finish him off? His neck stiffened from the strain, and once again Luca relaxed himself and began to move slowly toward the cigarette butt. He froze, noticing a man with a thermal imager making his rounds - they hadn't written Luca off, after all, and were being cautious.
When the sentry was gone, the old man's bodyguard smoked a second cigarette, staring longingly into the darkness, into the distance from where the roar of the surf was coming from. After standing still, he began to stroll along the fence on the asphalt, noticed berries, resembling grapes - the same ones Luca was eating - he pointed at them and asked the locals, apparently, whether they were poisonous. When he got the answer, he stepped to the bushes and began to eat them.
Don't go away, please! - Luke mentally pleaded, walking toward them slowly, so that the motion detectors were not triggered.
A step, another step. For a short time the guy disappeared from view, and when he reappeared, they were separated by two meters - a little more than Luke needed to rush in and hit his opponent with a single blow. Besides, the guy was in a lighted area, and the cameras could have picked up what had happened to him. Luca looked at his face, at the opening of his mouth, where one by one the berries disappeared, at the relief muscles, and thought that he was very young, maybe a couple of years older than he was.
I didn't feel like killing. It was one thing to finish off an opponent in combat, another to hit an unsuspecting man who was not guilty of anything, just doing his job. He certainly didn't know what was going on on the island...
The bodyguard ate the few berries, walked around the bush and plunged into darkness, now only his head was illuminated. A good moment to attack! Luca scrambled up, clutching his scalpel in preparation for a leap, and at that moment the interference rattled in his head, Desmond's excited voice breaking through:
- Hey, Luca, are you okay, all right? We're in trouble...
Luca in a second in the form of a thought-image dumped on him what was going on, concluding:
- We've got to take the carrier and get out. But I don't know what to take, and I can only mimic a guard for an hour.
- And first as a guard, then as the boss? - Desmond asked.
-
I don't know if that would work. I don't know if it would.
-
Then mimic whoever is easier. I can't be with you for long, I have
problems, we all have big problems...
- Ask your Asian girl about the carrier, it's so fucking important.
- Got it. But I don't know how fast it'll work. You have to be in a trance state to contact someone, that's one. Two, we have a huge time difference, she might still be asleep. Plus, you have to be in tune, and Gia is the hardest person to contact.
- So what do we do?
- Kill him and mimic him. We'll take it from there. Stand down.
Luke exhaled a sigh of relief: Desmond was still with him, and had to fight. He looked at the approaching bodyguard, who leaned over, ducking into the shadows, and after normalizing his metabolism for a few seconds to get his reaction back, he lunged at the guy. The scalpel went into his throat. Luca gagged the bodyguard with his other hand, slung the guy to the ground and pressed him on top so he wouldn't twitch in agony and draw attention. He turned away, so he wouldn't have to see his own reflection in eyes so black that the iris melded with the pupil. When the scalpel was removed, blood gushed out, and the boy's pupils dilated, his eyes glazed over.
To keep his T-shirt from getting dirty, Luca turned the body sideways to drain the blood, like a slaughtered pig. In the plans everything was smooth and beautiful, but in reality the little things that could ruin the operation came out: for example, the blood stain on the shirt or the shoes two sizes too small to walk in.
Hands were shaking, my heart was parted - it was impossible to reduce the metabolism, and to normalize the hormonal background, it took time.
As well as to mimic. Luca simultaneously tried to concentrate on his desire to take on the appearance of the murdered man and to handle the shoelaces with his naughty hands. The laces succumbed more quickly, Luca slipped his foot into the shoe-not small! Not even a big one.
One less problem.
Feeling that time was flowing out like blood from a wound, Luka again wished to mimicry, and a text appeared:
It is impossible to mimic due to the lack of a genetic sample.
Damn! I forgot the main thing! Luca ran his finger along the neck of the murdered man, licked the blood from it.
Take the form of this man?
Yes!
Luke thought he would change instantly, but no, he arched and twisted, every cell screamed in pain, and he bit his hand to keep from screaming. It seemed to take him forever, but finally he let go. He pulled on his dead man's pants and T-shirt, picked up his gun, and got up slowly, pretending to be a carefree, berry-eating idiot.
Walked out into the light, checked himself for blood, checked to see if there was any ammunition in the magazine, made himself comfortable in his waist holster. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. Every gesture seemed to scream for a switch, and it would show. The lad must be hot and unrestrained, with his trademark words...
Words! What if someone asks him something in a foreign language? He won't even know what it is. One hour... There's only one hour to get the medium. He won't get a second chance. Come on, Desmond, solve your problems and hurry back with the information!
Luke paced back and forth along the gate, catching the sound of a child crying... Or was it just a dream? Or was it the wind whistling in the wires?
The locals did not pay attention to him, and they are not dangerous, because they do not know the habits of a dead man, you have to watch out for your partner and boss. One must behave mechanically, walk behind, as he had done before. What a foolish thing he had done after all! What if the old man rejuvenated himself for twenty-four hours? He could only mimic for an hour.
So what do we do? Get out before it's too late? Fortunately he got a gun and some clothes. But Luca hesitated, hoping for something and felt like a gnat, frozen in the sticky tar of time.
But not ten minutes later (I suppose) the gate swung open and a smiling old man, still wearing sunglasses, accompanied by an elderly Negro woman, two local machine guns, and a second bodyguard, a stout bald fellow with an espagnolo and an earring, came out. Luke stomped behind them and prayed that no one would come to him with an errand. Another fear crept in, that the dead man's body wasn't cold enough to be detected by thermal imaging, and then the whole thing would be over.
Desmond's agitated voice rang through his head and made Luke flinch:
- I'm back. Got in touch with the Asian girl, Gia, she has contact with the faceless. She's looking for information. How are you?
- Mimicry. I'm following a tall guest in the middle of nowhere. Shit, I don't speak English, they'll get suspicious, but maybe they don't care about me.
- How much time do you have left?
- There's no countdown timer. Maybe fifty minutes, maybe half an hour.
-
Stay close to the old man. I'll be in touch. As soon as Gia gets the
information, I'll get back to you. Be careful! Stand down.
At
least that's the way it is. Luca stared at the backs of those ahead
of him. The woman was saying something to the old man, gesticulating
vigorously, who nodded and interjected. He looked satisfied and
unperturbed. That could not be said about the guards, looking around,
one of them had a thermal imaging camera, which, thank God, he did
not bother to point at the bushes where the bodyguard's corpse was
cooling.
After passing the airfield, they walked to where the laboratory with the immersion capsules was. At the fork in the road, the woman stopped, pointed to the dormitory of beta-testers, and headed there, changing the route. What was that for? Luca himself wanted to see what had become of his brothers and sisters in distress, but every minute counted, and he didn't even have 60 anymore.
Luca thought that the guest would go to the rooms, but ten subjects met him on the doorstep: five boys, five girls, among them Chloe, with whom he was close - his heart ached, but this new Chloe did not have that feline grace, she kept straight, like a soldier, her chin was up, unblinking look was directed straight. The others tried to adopt relaxed poses, but it was like poorly trained recruits.
Their awkwardness could be put down to excitement in front of the big boss, but that's not how a changeling behaves; he's more reserved, looking wary, breathing frequently, his shoulder girdle tense. Here, it's like cyborgs on parade.
The guest introduced himself as Harold Barrow - the name said nothing to Luka; the subjects clapped their hands, not at random, but as if obeying an invisible puppeteer. Then the guest asked, and the subjects, the ones he pointed to, answered, trying their best to look enthusiastic. Harold smiled back, tapped one or the other on the shoulder, and Luke mentally prayed: finish it quickly! Hurry up, there's nothing for you to do here.
At the same time he was mentally urging Desmond on. If he didn't get the information from Gia, it would all be in vain.
After learning what he needed, Harold headed back, Luca trailing the procession as usual and hoping that now they would be let into the lab and he would gain access to the quantum computer. Would he never find out which part was the carrier?
If not, he'll just fly off the island with Harold. When the ability to mimic exhausts itself, kill the passengers, the pilot will take hostages and go somewhere ... Yes, in the same Russia, previously having agreed through Desmond and his tough patrons, so that the helicopter did not shoot down. Or is the mysterious carrier so important that it is better to stay on the island?
A warning knocked him out of his thoughts:
Attention! Thirty minutes to expiration of the "Mimicry" ability.
A few hours earlier. Desmond .
- Father's here," his mother whispered, frowning. - You can't trust him; he must have an interest of his own. - She glanced around the room, nodding at the black bags where the flowerpots were kept. - Get in there, in the pile. Quickly. I'll pretend I didn't hear him, go get the petunia pot.
Desmond analyzed the situation and realized she was right, rushed for cover, but got caught in the sack - it rumbled. While he was hiding, his mother pulled out an earthen pot with a lotus on the side, and spoke:
- Just in case: the mask and lenses are in the safe, code three-five-zero-five...
The door swung open, and her father's silhouette loomed on the threshold. He could only see his left shoulder in the sacks, but he could hear his thoughts:
Damn bitch knew everything, and she'd been leading us around for years. Why did she want the kid? Why didn't she give him away? Or did she not know who he was, but now she did, and was about to do it?
- Arnia," he said, staring at her. - What are you doing here? And where is Desmond, his car is in the garage.
- He took a cab to school, and his battery died.
Anyway, it doesn't matter now, it'll just get in the way. And if the kid left, I'd be skinned alive.
A thought crossed Desmond's mind. How would he warn his mother that his father was aggressive? If he said a word against her, he'd... He didn't have time to think about it: His father's hand twitched, and there were three claps. It was as if Desmond's thoughts had been suspended.
His mother, standing with her back to him, froze. An earthen pot falls from her hands, clattering deafeningly against the tile, splitting in two. The mother's knees buckle, and she staggers backward and begins to topple over... And Desmond belatedly realizes what has happened. A hot wave rolls from the top of his head to his spine, short of breath, a lump curls up in his throat.
He's alive-much more alive than he needs to be. Too alive. Every neuron of him screams in pain, his soul is aching to fight - to revenge, to crush, to smear, but Desmond clenches his eyes, clenches his fists and looks away from his mother, who lies with her head thrown back. In the middle of her forehead there is a black bullet hole, a trickle of blood.
Hate
was bubbling, consuming fear, rolling down her cheeks like molten
magma. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could do! Her father's
thoughts swirled in her head:
We've got to get the puppy to
school before the feds get to him. What do you think of that? Five
hundred thousand dollars almost walked out from under her nose! But
why didn't she turn him in? I mean, she must have found out who he
really was sooner. Or did she know who he was to begin with? Or maybe
neither?
He leaned over his trembling mother as if he were waiting to hear from her, closed her wide-open eyes for some reason, stepped over her body, and strode away. He was in such a hurry that he didn't bother to close the door.
A hot lump curled in his throat, and Desmond roared. The growl was terrifying, full of pain and bloodlust. Desmond bent over the woman who had replaced his mother. Over the one he had never loved-thought he had never loved-until now.
He wanted to take her in his arms, to hold her to him, as if the magic power of his love could breathe life into her. He had forty minutes-just how long it would take his father to rush to the school, to find out Desmond wasn't there...
Or would he have his men do it? Who's he working for? He was offered $500,000 for any of the kids. So he's not a MANAG agent. But what's the third party of interest here? It's hardly faceless.
I don't care!
But Desmond didn't abandon his mother; he took her to the highway and laid her in the roadside grass, so that at least the police would find her and bury her, or else she'd just be buried in the garden. Somehow she seemed to want to be buried in the Christian way.
- I'm sorry, Mother," Desmond stroked her cheekbone, dropped a tear that seemed to burn like molten metal-he hadn't cried even as a child, it seemed to be the first tears of his conscious life. What a pain to be alive!
At home he ran up the stairs to his mother's bedroom, opened the safe, raked the papers into his backpack, found several bags, one of which contained a mask, lenses and makeup, a gun with a silencer, a box of bullets, two skinny packs of $100 each, a total of four thousand - enough for now - and a push-button phone without a camera, with a charger. If his biometric data was leaked into the system, all he had to do was get on the camera, and that was it. He'd have to disguise himself first, then go on the run.
Desmond unpacked the bag, read the instructions on how to use the mask, powdered his face, pulled the mask on, looked in the mirror, and swore he was a pretty pretty girl. It was a good thing he did not have time to cut his hair, such a hairstyle can also be a woman, except that he was five feet tall and had broad shoulders...
And another question: where to get clothes for such a lanky boy? His mother was a head shorter and much more elegant, none of her blouses would fit him. Or could he find something?
Desmond went through her clothes on the racks, threw on one loose jacket, one too small, one too small. The dresses were too small. And that ugly batty sweater? Desmond pulled it on, looked in the mirror: it would do. It was a little short, but okay, and the sleeves could be tightened, like they were only up to his elbows. Long live the ugly fashion of the late eighties, back in time!
He wore his own tattered jeans, with bright embroidery. He changed his shoes into sneakers. He put his things into his mother's orange rucksack. Looked at himself in the mirror, inserted lenses, and became a green-eyed tall brunette - on the face of smarmy, but huge, like a wrestler.
It's good to have money.
Remembering there were cameras in the house, he destroyed the video footage and took the hard drive out of the desktop computer. He wanted to douse the house with gasoline and set it on fire, but Desmond held back. Stuffed his backpack with what he needed and stepped out onto the road, wondering where to go.
At that moment a van painted with advertisements slowly drove past: boys and girls on the dance floor, arms up in the air and smiling, and in huge fiery letters the name of the place: Inna-joob! And a close-up of the face of the girl who'd been talking to Desmond on the subway when he'd been looking for oddities in the behavior of those who used lenses.
Desmond tensed up. The stupid title was a thorn in his brain. Something was wrong with it... Somewhere there had to be... It clicked in his head: Gianni Boo! If you read the name of the place backwards, it would be Gianni Boo! And he thought it was the name, looking for Gianni on social media. That's where he wanted to go! Maybe the girl who gave him the clue was the one who was there!
There was an address written on the back bumper: New York, Manhattan.
Indeed, where else would such an establishment be than in New York, with its hundreds of thousands of illegal aliens? But now the government is going after them hard.
But how do you get there at the beginning of the second night? I don't think there are night trains or buses. Desmond can't get there by plane because he needs papers. He'd better not be at the station either, though now... he looked at his reflection in the windows of the parked jeep. Stopped, looked closely: a tall rough girl, not like him at all, but still there is anxiety that the cameras will recognize, it is better to try to hitchhike in the morning. Yes, and at the station can scan a barcode on his wrist and identify him.
It's
a pity you can not leave by car: the hunt began, and the car will be
stopped immediately.
But where to wait out the night?
As he stomped down the street, he searched for more or less comfortable places, wishing he lived in a safe neighborhood, with no abandoned houses and everything in sight. He turned into an alley, passed through it along the linden trees, rustling with dried leaves, turned again.
Just now Desmond shuddered, and ran down the deserted street, lit by the deadening light of streetlights, past sleeping cars and houses with black windows. Turn around. Another turn.
His father, probably already at school, makes sure Desmond isn't in the dormitory and tries to find out where he is, calls his adopted son. Without waiting for an answer, he gets his men up to the cameras to trace where he's gone. The fact that he left the school in a car is found out in ten minutes. Another ten minutes and the neighborhood will be covered...
Tires rustled, Desmond turned around and covered his eyes with his palm against the bright light of the headlights. The driver switched to low beam, and Desmond raised his hand, not really counting on getting a ride.
But he was wrong. The old Voyager slowed down, the window rolled down, and an elderly dark-skinned man leaned out, spoke reproachfully:
- "What are you doing out at night, daughter?
Do you earn a living with your body on the road? Doesn't look like it; something must have happened to her.
Desmond couldn't imitate a woman's voice, so he leaned over and whispered, hoping they wouldn't suspect anything.
- "I had an argument with my boyfriend," Desmond composed as he went. - Can you give me a lift to the station for the electric trains?
The old man did not suspect deception, since his wife's death he had been plagued by insomnia and did not know how to occupy himself.
- Sit down, I can't help it. Why is he like that?
- He never drank before, but he drank, and..." Desmond sighed, picking out a comparison, "it was like the devil had got into him.
- He was like a devil inside him. "If he ever hit you once, you'd better run," said the old man as he watched his guest occupy the seat beside the driver's.
Desmond showed his trembling hands - powerful, masculine hands. The old man thought, "Poor girl, what a big girl. Where can she find a man to match her?"
- Still shaking. I'm hoarse... la.
- You did good. You've got to know your worth, girl! Do you have money for travel? He looked at Desmond's wrist, where the color barcode was, and thought she had fallen in love with someone in a bad situation, but she was from a good family, and the barcode was purple.
- Maybe you could take me to New York. - Desmond made a pitiful face. - I'll pay for it, I've got it!
The old man hesitated: three hundred kilometers is still a lot and heavy. But on the one hand he couldn't bear to be at home, and on the other he wanted money, for the girl was rich, "purple," she would make a fortune. He would take her to her place, stay overnight in a hotel, see the city, visit John - they said Harlem was civilized now, not like it had been before. But if he transfers the payment to the account, there might be problems with accounting, and he had never figured out the stupid crypto, and he had lost the password to the wallet, which was impossible to remember.
- I'll pay in cash," said Desmond, reading his doubts, "I have, really.
The old man had no thoughts of robbing the poor girl. On the contrary, he thought that the girl was gullible, that if he refused her now, some creep would do it and rob her. Besides, cash made the old man happy; he did not trust anything he could not hold in his hands, though the unit of money had become abstract, subject to implicit laws when it was no longer tied to gold.
- Would four hundred dollars be enough? Please!
That's just great! And enough for her grandchildren's gifts, and her parents have plenty of money.
The old man chewed his lips. He looked at Desmond, at the steering wheel, at Desmond again, and no telepath would have seen how greed was fighting laziness. Finally the old man nodded:
- All right. I'll drive.
Desmond smiled:
- Thank you! My name is Des... Destiny! - He held out his hand out of habit, but the old man squeezed it with his fingers and introduced himself:
- I'm Sam.
Desmond closed his eyes tiredly. Half the problem seemed to be solved. Now to contact Luca, to see how Maria was doing, and to try to talk to Gia, who had fiercely resisted dialogue the last time. But the old man's thirst for communication overwhelmed him, and he said:
- You're good, you're carrying cash. What if your whole system goes down, all the cards with money on them go bust? What then?
Desmond wanted to argue that the security of a digital bank was far more reliable than that of a real one. But he kept silent and just shrugged, while the old man continued:
- My grandson was showing me some scary pictures the other day. Well, not pictures by artists, but doodles with skewed faces. And they're worth, ooh! Millions.
-
NFT? - Desmond guessed, and could barely contain his smile, realizing
the old man was referring to cryptopunk.
- I think so. And I'm
not ancient, I'm only seventy, but I feel like a dinosaur. I don't
get it! - He slapped his hands on the steering wheel. - Seven million
dollars for a piece of shit you can't even hang on the wall! It's not
even there, you know? - Desmond nodded again. - My wife died because
I didn't have forty thousand dollars to buy medicine. And how many
kids from poor families die? Living real people? When seven million
is for a set of badges. Is that the right thing to do? We are a
civilization that is headed for its doom.
Desmond could hardly suppress the urge to cringe, because all the known history of old men talks about it. But he could feel the despair of Sam, caught on the sidelines of modernity, picking up his last time by the handfuls when it's still slipping through his fingers.
- Can I move back and get some sleep? - Desmond whispered, got his consent, and took the two seats behind the driver's side.
Outside the window were the silhouettes of trees. An owl flew over the road, spreading its wings, and disappeared into the darkness. The real thing, the real thing. And the digital achievements of mankind? Which is more valuable, this owl or a cryptopunk? An old man's life, or a set of symbols that you can't even see just like that, without a monitor or lenses.
Gradually my thoughts became confused and relaxed, but neither Maria nor Luca responded-perhaps asleep-but I managed to get into Gia's mind, though she couldn't hear his voice and thought she was going crazy. But Desmond saw a squalid backwater town, a mining farm, a respectable older man - Maria's foster father - who was somehow connected to the faceless and interested in getting all the children together.
Again and again Desmond introduced himself and tried to break through Gia's defenses, but she resisted. He succeeded when the girl was almost desperate. But, thank God, she made contact, even calling Yegor Tochinov to negotiate.
Desmond did not talk about his problems - he would tell her if he could not cope with the situation himself. For now, the main thing was to interest her, so he used the main trump card - information about Maria, and Tochinov immediately grabbed hold of it. For about an hour Desmond was in a state of half-sleep-half-dreaming, now feeling Gia's consciousness and connecting, then waking up and putting himself back into a trance state, until he finally fell asleep.
His traveling companion woke him up in the city. The trip would have taken four or five hours. It was now about six in the morning, and the city was awakening from its sleep, though it was still night: the lights in the windows were on, the first cars appeared in the streets. The high-rises floating outside the window were mesmerizing-Desmond hadn't been anywhere much; his mother had never taken him with her on business trips, and now it was clear why.
He closed his eyes again, tried to reach for one of the boys, but they were probably all asleep; it was evening, if not night at Gia's, and he didn't know where she was hiding.
The thought was that maybe the girl who had called him to Gianni Boo's without knowing it was working for a pocket organization called Manga, headed by someone like Cocker, and he was being lured into a trap. But in any case, it's easier to get lost in some poor New York City neighborhood, and telepathy can help bring the conspirators to light.
As we approached the Brooklyn Bridge, Desmond forgot his troubles and felt like a little boy going to the Christmas tree for the first time. The atmosphere of New York was very different. When the excitement faded, thoughts of his mother came, and his brain seized upon them and began to simulate parallel realities where Desmond had managed to warn her. So realistic did it turn out to be, he believed a little, and calmed down.
The car in front braked sharply, and Sam's Chrysler Explorer almost ran into it. A man in a checkered cap got out of the back of the Ford, ran around his car, waving his arms. At first Desmond thought it was an accident, but the driver's mind was on one thing: "They blocked it, the bastards. He cursed both mentally and aloud at the anarchists and Beschods who were now cordoning off the area, and it was unclear when he, the cab driver, tired from the night, would get home.
- It looks like there's no way through," said Desmond. - Traffic's shut down, they're catching somebody in Manhattan. I'll get out, and you get back on the road; it's a rough part of town.
- Who is being caught? Terrorists? - Sam got all riled up.
- You could say that. Thanks for the ride. I'll pay.
Desmond counted out the promised sum, handed it to the cab driver, said goodbye, and got out on the sidewalk, glanced at the minivan as it rolled back. He backed away as two police vans dashed toward the bridge, sirens blaring.
He'd
never cared for the anarchists' cries about curtailing freedoms and
turning the U.S. into a huge concentration camp. He thought that
universal digitization was a good thing, that it would keep
law-abiding citizens out of the bullshit. And so it turned out that
he, having done nothing illegal, became an asocial element to be
destroyed. If a state of emergency is declared, he will be instantly
identified by a barcode.
So it's better to sit under a bridge
somewhere with homeless people. Or in the famous park, where there
are plenty of antisocial personalities, too. I could not get into
Gianni Boo, so I had to go to plan B, through Gia, to ask Yegor
Tochinov for help. But for this it is desirable to find out what
happened to Maria and where she is. The idea is that now in Europe,
it's close to lunchtime, she should wake up.
But to contact her he would have to go into a trance, and to do that in the middle of a deserted street was problematic. So Desmond walked quickly until he came across a cab rank, jumped into the first one, and asked for a ride to the park, but not to Central, which was in a cordoned-off area and impossible to get into.
It had just begun to dawn, and the request seemed strange to the swarthy, mustachioed cab driver; he thought the junkie was on her way to find some drugs, so he didn't ask. When Desmond held out his hundred-dollar bill, his eyes widened. Cash! And the girl was not a foreigner, spoke perfect English, and was young - they could not tell a dollar from a euro. So something is wrong with her. Or she was a Russian, all of them were strange.
The small square was between the monotonous residential seven-story buildings and was drowned in cellophane wrappers, plastic, some debris. The janitors probably hadn't been in this bad neighborhood in weeks. But there were willows hanging down to the ground. The homeless had settled under one of them, but the other was vacant, and Desmond took it, sitting down on a cardboard box, leaning against the trunk and closing his eyes, but he couldn't balance between sleep and reality, so he just passed out.
He woke up to the sun shining directly into his eye, stretched out, looking up into the sky, where white, fat clouds grazed. Some homeless men were bickering in the neighborhood, and a call to something was coming from a faraway voice, the words unintelligible. It was drawing nearer, and soon Desmond could make out
- Attention! Due to the increased terrorist threat, all unregistered citizens are urged to report to the checkpoints. If you do not report within two days, your civil rights and liberties will be suspended.
Desmond mentally whistled, glanced at the loudspeaker car and remembered the old cab driver, then his mother. What could he do? How to stop it? He left the shelter, walked around the square, caught the interested glances of the young people occupying the inoperative fountain. The biggest dark-skinned guy was interested in the "chick," but he didn't develop the intention to get acquainted, because the police vans pulled up.
The company sprang into action, the boys scattered in different directions, and Desmond himself hurried to disperse, watching as the cops poured out of the vans, but the same ones stopped on the other side of the square. Desmond walked faster, looking behind the guy in the hoodie with his hands in his pockets. If he ran, the cops would be sure to chase, but this way there was a chance of infiltration...
He realized there was no chance when he saw the cops blocking the exit of the square he was going to. The guy in front stopped and jerked backward, almost hitting Desmond, followed by two cops. One stopped in front of Desmond, looked at him demandingly, and, faintly, showed him the code on his wrist. If they scanned it, he was dead.
But no, the policeman just shook his head at the van:
- "Get out of here, it's not safe.
Desmond headed toward the van, showed the code from a distance to the policemen standing near it while the rest of them combed the park and tied up the teenagers. A round-faced, swarthy policeman looked at Desmond and shook his head disapprovingly:
- How did you get here?
He didn't suspect Desmond of anything, but was genuinely puzzled as to what a girl from a good family was doing here. Desmond played on his curiosity and muttered:
- I'm doing a sociology paper, and I came from DC to study youth subcultures and compare them to ours. We barely have any African-Americans left after real estate prices started going up in 2015.
With a slight squint, the policeman suspected Desmond was transgender and moved a little away - how intolerant.
A gunshot rang out - one of the teenagers opened fire, the cops responded and, judging by the screaming, hit. Desmond made a frightened face and walked away, rolled up his sleeve so everyone could see his code-it was more likely they wouldn't scan him.
It wasn't safe to stay in the square, so Desmond wandered into the bar, which was empty of customers. From the angry thoughts of the waitress, Desmond learned that the cops had dispersed everyone; the bar's customers were mostly those who didn't want to be digitized, and they were staying at home.
- Can I stay till tonight? - Desmond asked. - Manhattan's been cordoned off, and I haven't slept in twenty-four hours.
- I don't care if you live here," the waitress, aka the hostess, fluttered her arms and pointed to the couch against the wall. - The cops said they wouldn't let me serve the Bescodians, you know? They said they'd fine me, even though there's no law against fining me for serving customers.
- They're crazy," Desmond said.
-
Want me to turn on the TV?
Desmond thought it would be good to
get the news, so he nodded. The waitress put the remote on his table,
brought the pizza and coffee he'd ordered. After eating, Desmond
decided to contact Gia and Luca first, glanced at the clock hanging
above the entrance: three o'clock in the afternoon. It was either
night or early morning for Gia, early afternoon for Luca, but for
some reason the guy wasn't answering, and neither was Maria, who was
sorely needed, so he wondered if anything had happened to her.
After the third unsuccessful attempt, Desmond turned on the news and learned that after the mass terrorist attacks, the government decided to urgently digitize everyone forcibly. The barcode on his wrist was now more important than his passport, and refuseniks were treated as illegal aliens. They were subject to sanctions up to and including deportation from the country.
It felt like he was surrounded on all sides, and he could not hide any longer. "Come on, Gia, answer me! We've got to get me and Maria and Luca out, too. Perhaps, by joining together, we can stop the impending disaster." But Gia remained silent, as did everyone else. Since there was nothing to do anyway, Desmond decided to take a nap.
He woke up at 7 p.m., immediately contacted Luca, and he answered! And he said things that took the dream away: the guy had learned to mimic anyone and could pretend to be the big boss who had come to the island, to steal the mysterious carrier if he knew what it was, but there was one nuance: Luke could only mimic for an hour. So if Gia didn't respond, didn't find out what kind of host it was...
Desmond glanced at the clock hanging just below the "plasma": it was early eighth, she must be in the morning by now. Was she awake? Probably not. Relaxing, he sprawled out on the couch, sent her a thought:
- Over. This is Desmond. I need you urgently!
No response.
- Gia, this is Desmond. Come in!
Silence.
- Goddamn it, Gia, stop sleeping! - He mentally exclaimed and sent a dose of indignation...
- It's almost nighttime, actually. I haven't slept in a long time," she said indignantly.
- I need your help. Luke, the fourth of ours, can have the host within an hour; he's learned to copy other people's appearances, but not for long.
- Cool, good for him. What do you need from me?
- He doesn't know what the host looks like, I don't know either.
- And I don't really know either... So what do we do?
Ask Tochinov, he must know, and hurry up, Luka doesn't have much time left. Something tells me this host is extremely important. Not only that, he's the only one who can stop....
Desmond himself didn't really believe that a single device, albeit a very cool one, could make a difference in the big game, but he needed to motivate a sleepy Gia, so he went ahead:
- In the U.S., digitization has become mandatory. They are mopping up entire neighborhoods, digitizing them forcibly, and the zombified people don't mind. My foster mother was killed by my foster father because of me. Information about us is leaked to the detection systems, I disguised myself as a woman and sit in a bar, they will find me soon, I have to leave the country, and again I need your help, I can't do anything without connections.
- I'm sorry," Gia said with sincere sympathy, and thought of her mother, her eyes tingling. - Do you know anything about Mariah?
- Nothing. We need to talk to Tochinov, it's urgent, he may know about the carrier! Luka doesn't have much time, I have a little more, but it's also a bit short.
- Okay. I'm on my way.
A siren sounded outside the window, a shot rumbled, a scream sounded. Desmond wondered why they'd decided to digitize the people so hastily, and whether it had something to do with awakening the subjects' abilities and the desire to counter them with something no one was even aware of yet. Although the augmented reality lens tracking system is actually science fiction, how much cooler could it be?
Luca
Surprisingly, the fence and the road to the lab were still remembered in the smallest detail that time. Luca as a bodyguard walked behind the big boss with his ears twisted - in case the name of the boss slipped, because it is not even clear how to address him.
At the threshold of the lab, he wondered if they would let him in. If they left him here, all is lost...
The attendant pointed a finger at Luke and another bodyguard, bald and espagnol-haired, told him to wait here, and Luke clenched his jaw, but the big boss did not agree with her, mumbled something, and she spread her hands, made an inviting gesture.
The second telohran tensed, turning his head on the bull's neck as if sensing an enemy, stepped over the threshold. He and Luka sat down in the office, where he had once waited his turn to immerse himself in the virtual, the boss remained standing, listening intently to the woman. And then Desmond tapped into Luca's consciousness - how convenient! He understands English!
- Listen and watch and translate," commanded Luca, and the lad who was about to speak agreed and lurched away.
The older bodyguard also listened to the older negro woman, rolling his cheeks. He didn't like what she was saying, and he and his boss looked at each other.
-
She suggests he try the capsule on himself and plunge into the
virtual, assures him that it is an inexpressible experience, -
explained Desmond and was dumbfounded when the address sounded - Mr.
Baruch. - Oh, my goodness! That's Bernard's son!
- Who?"
Luca didn't understand.
- Bernard Baruch! A living descendant, and yet a financier and member of the secret government has destroyed all information about his descendants! That's a number! It turns out that the oligarchs from Manga are in league with these, and it is not clear who is in charge now... Baruch does not want to enter the capsule, and categorically.
Luke looked at the woman and it seemed to him that her face seemed to soften, a wave ran across it, and then the illusion dispelled, the lady smiled, apologized and began talking about quantum computers. Desmond translated for Luka, and he waited for the carrier information, but no, she was just talking about qubits and what he had heard many times.
- Where is that Asian Gia? - Luca couldn't stand it. - I have about twenty minutes of mimicry left!
- Went looking for Tochinov. I can't keep in touch with two at the same time. Don't distract me yet, I'm listening... The aunt has gone for a second run, persuading Baruch to become part of the miracle, to immerse himself in the virtual. Why would she do that?
- To get a controllable zombie," Luke suggested. - He'll become like the guys and girls who were with me.
- So the old and new oligarchs aren't on the same page," Desmond reasoned.
Baruch cocked his chin and barked so that the lady retreated a step back - Luca understood without translation that the big boss had refused to dive, but it was unclear whether that was good or bad. Then the woman said something and retreated into the office, where there were quantum computers, huge as transformers.
She returned, accompanied by two men dragging a black box about a meter by a meter, it was carefully lowered to the floor, and she spoke with a gasp, apparently about what was there-the words spoken sounded very much like names and terms, this confirmed Desmond's thoughts, and suddenly Luke was stunned by his emotions:
- Luca, you motherfucker! This is the carrier, you know? They're giving the carrier to Baruch! All you have to do is take it.
Baruch pointed his finger at the box, and the two leisurely carried it away, obviously to the helicopter, and he followed them, accompanied by the senior bodyguard and Luca.
- Gia, where on earth have you gone? We cannot survive without help from the faceless! Not for me, not for Luka. - Desmond's thought rang through his head.
Desmond
passed out, and Luke thought of a way to retrieve the carrier. Shoot
the guards and seize the helicopter? That had been the original plan,
but now, one step away from becoming a reality, it didn't seem so
appealing. Luca was going to rob those who ruled the world. It wasn't
like smashing a rival's car; you couldn't hide from such enemies in
hell.