Maria, now called Rosa, stood on the deck of a barge cluttered with containers. Three hours ago the barge had set sail and, according to a rudimentary calculation, was now in French territorial waters. My father's partner, Gennaro Panzutto, said that Spain was less dangerous than France, but in principle not to worry, he had everything covered and the customs officers were well-fed.
Maria could not calculate, she just had a deep sense that she was being taken seriously. Would all transport ships be stopped? There wasn't enough information to answer unequivocally.
There was a throbbing in my temple. My brain felt like it was expanding and pressing against my skull, my ear was ringing, and I felt the presence of a stranger.
Some kind of schizophrenia. I'd have to study medicine to be able to make diagnoses, instantly analyzing the full range of nuances.
Right now, breathe out and let go. Too much has happened: my mother and sister and brother are dead, Maria is hunted by the entire civilized world, and it certainly doesn't need her alive. But Maria's psyche had not yet fully accepted what had happened and was saved by her aloofness.
Her mood was like the gray sky reflected in the water of the Celtic Sea. And it would be much faster to swim to St. Petersburg. Before my eyes unfolded a detailed map of Britain, including every last detail-as if I'd opened a tab on the Internet! In my head, as if a mouse was scraped, a voice came to me, or a noise of interference.
Yes, indeed, it is a stone's throw from Russia. But because of the international isolation would have to make a detour, and then another flight. And, if they did get the Mary, the first thing they would do would be to stop ships going toward Russia.
It was damp and chilly on deck, but going back to the cabin to the suspicious Muslim woman was the last thing I wanted to do. There were few people who wished to leave England, we must assume that the barge would be full of refugees. Among the illegal immigrants Maria saw several Turks and three girls, who had gotten to know each other and were chirping sweetly. The girls thought they would be dropped off in France, where they would join the harem of an Arab who had settled there.
Maria did not fit into the company of future escorts.
- Hey, Rosa," shouted the assistant captain, who peeked out from behind the container, "come to the shelter now! There is suspicious activity.
Maria did not immediately react to the new name, woke up and ran to the cabin.
- Not there! To the container! - Panic splashed in the man's voice. - In the one you were shown. Possible inspection.
Maria dashed toward the container with the pink band, where the young girls of the oldest profession were trying to open the barricade. Could it be that they'd figured her out here, too? Yes, perhaps they considered it most likely that she would try to leave the country, and were checking all departing ships and departing planes. She should have laid low in the woods for a couple of weeks!
Or did she think too highly of herself?
The pale, agitated mate of the captain came up, jerked the deadbolt, swore profusely, looking overboard at the widening points of the boundary-boats. The girls huddled together, the very fat Muslim woman the most nervous-apparently, she was in trouble with the law.
At last the latch was overridden, and the door of the container, packed with bags of stuff, swung open. Like the other illegals, Maria crawled to the back of the container and hid between the bales. The door clanged, and darkness fell.
When voices came from outside, even her thoughts froze, the only thing left: At least the danger was over! So tired of being afraid.
My brain, which worked like a computer, gave out options for the development of events, but did not draw any conclusions, because anything could prompt the border guards to search: from clashes between criminal gangs to the banal greed.
Wouldn't it be too much of an honor to think that they were stopping merchant ships for her?
At first there was some shouting, but then there was an eerie silence. No one broke into the container to search it, but they didn't say the danger was over. There seemed to be talk of French nearby, footsteps approaching, and each one coincided with the beat of Maria's racing heart.
The footsteps stopped in front of the container, speaking French again. The assistant captain, whose voice Maria remembered, answered in nervous English, and in a tone of doom:
- There's branded stuff in there. Would you like to see it?
The Frenchman muttered something, laughter reverberated. They were speaking, apparently through an interpreter and headphones, and Maria didn't know what it was about. A bolt rattled, hinges creaked, and light burst into the container. Maria held the cellophane bale with her belongings and prayed that the danger had passed.
The other Frenchman mouthed something again, and the assistant captain said doomfully:
- Get out. You've been detected with thermal imaging cameras.
But nobody moved, so he had to say it again:
- Get out, I said! They found you!
The cellophane rustled, the illegals headed for the exit, and Maria was still sitting, pressed against the ribbed metal of the container. It can not be that all for nothing!
- Rose, come out," the man dropped guiltily, "they can see you.
Just come out and take me? No, you can't do that. But what can she do? She had never been into martial arts or martial arts, she could not shoot or even run fast.
Panic rushed in, drowned logic, and Maria did not immediately calculate that the best thing to do was to pretend to be a frightened lowly sheep - then she would not be watched closely, and there might be an opportunity to escape.
- Shall I take you out by your wads? - The question was asked with a strong accent, and Maria answered:
- Coming.
She did not hurry, on all fours moved as slowly as possible, trying to calculate the options, but all conclusions were that for now it was better not to risk. After overcoming the last rubble, Maria looked out from behind the bale. Against the light stood three black figures: two machine gunners and an assistant captain. "As if they were cut out of paper," I thought inappropriately. - And they are aiming at me.
- Hurry up," continued the Frenchman, and Maria accelerated. She stretched out, caught on something.
At the very exit, details emerged: one Frenchman was smooth-shaven, with a massive chin with a funnel, pouched-eyed and beardless. The dark-haired, espagnol-haired one looked more like a Spaniard. In English he spoke.
- She showed her hands.
With excitement Maria was confused and did not immediately understand what they wanted from her.
- Hands up, you fucking sheep! - barked the owner of the espagnolo.
Maria raised them and stepped into the light. At the side the unsuccessful escorts surrounded a fat woman, wrapped in black from head to toe, like a brood of ducks.
When the Frenchmen saw Maria, they looked at each other as if they had been expecting her. The beady-eyed man closed his eyelids as if to say, "Yes, she is. Maria looked up at the deck, estimated the distance to the board. Would she be able to jump out? In all probability, yes, but she would be caught up by the boat.
- By what right are these people here? - The swarthy man asked the captain's mate.
The Italian captain came running up, small, round, nosy, with his hands at his sides, and became unconvincingly agitated:
- What is this outrage, we have everything agreed!
He looked pleadingly into the eyes of every frontier guard, as if he had known them for a long time. Wasn't he the one who leaked Maria? But how did he know who she was? For him her name was Rosa.
He pointed to the escorts:
- Are they even of legal age? In short, captain, your ship is under arrest.
The captain's nostrils flared and he spluttered his arms:
- You wouldn't dare, we have a treaty!
- Shut up!
Their third fellow-soldier brought the male illegals at gunpoint, and while they, together with the swarthy one, kept the illegals and the crew at gunpoint, the dull-eyed one contacted his own by radio, reported on the job done, and then turned to the captain with a gloat:
- The ship is under arrest. We're looking for a dangerous terrorist. - The fat Muslim woman paled at his words. - That is why all illegal aliens must be screened. - He said to the illegals: "Detainees, attention! Women, with me!
Maria could not hold back her sarcasm:
- This criminal is a woman?
- Stop talking! - The swarthy man shouted, pointing his gun at Maria, who already knew that they would not kill her. Not now, anyway.
Turning around, he headed down the deck toward the gangway, and she followed right behind him, trying to read the signs that would suggest that the barge had been delayed because of her, and not finding them. Neither did she know if she would find out that she had false papers. Had Panzutto's people managed to tamper with the biometrics in the recognition system through the lenses? And was that even possible?
We'd have to look into the technical side of it.
The gangway descended to the border boat, numbered P302, where four illegals crowded the cramped deckhouse. The usually lecherous female escorts were as silent as water below the grass. The elderly captain shook his head at them and spoke in English:
- Where did you girls go? Did you want to live a beautiful life? You fools! - He tapped himself on the forehead. - What did they promise you? A beautiful life? They would have sold you into slavery, and that was the best-case scenario.
The tallest of them, a little stooped and long-necked, had forgotten where she was from the experience, puffed and burst a bubble of gum, covered her mouth with her hand. The captain shook his head and turned to Maria:
- Well, what about you, are you too? So refined, so clean?
- I'm not," she wheezed and stared defiantly. This one sure doesn't seem to know anything, thinks that prostitution can be fought with words.
The engine roared. The boat turned toward a dark strip of shore, visible through a single square porthole like an ordinary window, and headed toward land. Everyone was silent, the big-eyed man was talking over the radio, and Maria was looking at the shore, which was slowly approaching, and mentally tried to delay the moment of disembarkation - what could be waiting for her there, it turns out, she liked to live madly!
If you want to give a man a reason for living, try to take his life.
The
coast was taking shape. The curves of mountains appeared, then the
silhouettes of buildings, other ships. The Cutter No. 302 passed the
port and turned off its engines, leaving only the splash of waves and
the distant mechanical noise of the port, through which the hum of
another engine came more and more distinctly into view.
The
captain, looking at his instruments, fussed and mumbled in French.
The radio squealed and burst into speech. The captain listened,
nodded, squinted at the prisoners, glanced at the beady-eyed man, who
shrugged his shoulders.
How lacking in language!
The door to their quarters swung open and everyone turned around, a short, balding, slightly flabby man was standing at the threshold. He stepped inside, looked around, and jabbed his finger at Mary.
- You're coming with me.
- What's the matter? - She winced, and then felt the edge of her nails digging into her palms.
- We'll see what happened," he smirked.
If he'd searched long enough to find her, there would have been a look of triumph on his face. The man was perfectly calm, as if he'd known Maria was on that barge. She peered into his face, made sure he wasn't wearing augmented reality lenses, and she felt more at ease.
- Come on, let's go.
Maria listened to him, turned around on the threshold: the captain was staring at her in bewilderment, the blank-eyed man was also calm, as if he knew that this would happen, but the captain did not.
- I didn't do anything... wrong," she muttered.
The short man, who was half a head below her, said:
- Up against the wall, hands behind your head. And traveling illegally, do you think that's a good and right thing to do?
Maria obeyed, resting her forehead against the iron wheelhouse.
Her palms patted her sides, stroked her hips, slid to her stomach. Maria clenched her teeth, suspecting evil. By law she should be inspected by a woman, but this man didn't care about the law. And what was to be done? A merry-go-round of thoughts swirled. Who would help? Should I call the captain? What if there was something human left in him?
Walking over her belly, her hands went higher. Squeezing her breasts, the man gasped.
- Oh, you freak! - Maria exclaimed and with all her might stepped on the toe of his shoe, turned around and hit him in the groin with her knee...
She tried to hit him in the groin. She missed - her knee slipped on her thigh, her opponent ducked. But she did not have time to pull back and got a fist to the jaw. The blow was so hard that Maria was thrown back and pinned her head to the metal of the cabin. In the ears rang, before the eyes danced colorful flies and circles, nauseated.
- She screamed, "Help! - she screamed. - She cried out, screaming. "It's a kidnapping! They're going to kill me!
Her own voice sounded as if from afar, the world swayed, darkened, and soon turned black. For a few seconds Maria was conscious, understood everything, though she saw nothing, but soon she was turned off.
***
She woke up with a headache, burying her nose in a white pillow...
Wait! A pillow?! Judging by the actions of those looking for Maria, she should have been killed! But for some reason she's alive... They decided to wait, took her to the experiments? Well, yes, why waste such a chance.
Groaning and clutching her eyes, she rolled over onto her side, and was thrown right onto the gray tiles of the floor. When she felt better, she looked around and found herself in a cramped little room with a single bed, a desk, a stool, and a bathroom that didn't close. There were cells in the corners of the room.
It looked more like a prison than a laboratory. Clinging to the wall, Maria sat up in bed, restraining her nausea. And then the door swung open, an unfamiliar guy in camouflage pants, T-shirt and flip-flops burst into the den, put the bucket, splashing water, and began to clean up from the floor. The other guy stayed by the door.
- What's going on? - She wheezed in English, but the boy pretended not to understand her. - Where am I?
He was wielding a rag and didn't even look around.
Definitely not an employee of Manga, he looked more like a bandit than an orderly, like his partner. Maria turned her gaze to the other man and turned to him, folding her arms across her chest:
- Please tell me, what's going to happen to me?
- They don't answer to us," he answered with an accent.
- Where am I?
- Listen, you impertinent woman," said the janitor, straightening up. Shut up and keep your mouth shut. If you do that again," he pointed to the floor, "I'll make you eat it.
"It's crazy," thought Maria, watching them. - They're treating me like a prisoner." Or maybe they were. Maybe she really was just detained as an illegal immigrant. But, supposedly, they had to check the database - what if she was transported that way, because she was hiding from the law?
That's more likely-is she being held to turn her over to the killers? It made me feel cold. Most likely it is, she has only to meekly await her fate. And what good are superpowers when she's locked up inside four walls?
Daddy, Daddy, where are you? You must be watching my movements! If you have connections even in Great Britain, surely you can bribe a border guard!
Connections... Mafioso Panzotto...
While waiting for the barge to depart, Maria researched information about him. Gennaro was a member of the Italian Camorra gang, involved in drugs, human trafficking, had a mining farm supposedly on her father's property.
Maybe he leaked the information to his own and it was taken to demand a ransom. Illogical, then the father confiscates the mining farms. Or was the information leaked by his proxies? After all, the Camorra is not a single entity with a common center, it is made up of many factions.
As much as I'd like to count on it, it's better to prepare for the worst. Without any sympathy or information from the janitor, Maria looked at the closed door and sighed. She got up, stood shaking, and went to the bathroom, where she looked in the mirror above the bathroom and was frightened by her own reflection: the right side of her face from cheekbone to lower jaw was purple with blue dots, swollen, like a flush.
She was a beauty, I could tell. The lusty border guard came to mind, and she shrugged. No one would feel the urge to paw her or do anything worse.
If it weren't for the nausea and the headache, Maria would have gone crazy with despair, but as she lay there, she wished for one thing: for the unpleasant sensation to end. She felt so bad that she would fall asleep, then wake up, then be in a borderline state.
When the door lock clicked, Maria pulled herself together, concentrated. Such fatigue came over her that she didn't care. An unfamiliar swarthy middle-aged man walked in, looked intently, and spoke with a soft accent like Gennaro's:
- 'Come, someone wants to talk to you.
"That's it, then. Soon at least it will be clear what awaits me," Maria thought aloof, and slowly, slowly rose, clinging to the wall, waddled to the door.
Desmond
Rolling back against the wall, Desmond wished he had a firearm and nothing to answer the gunman: he had always believed that people of his level of social importance were protected by the state, weapons were the destiny of beggars, chewing each other for a piece of sausage.
What to do? Reason insisted that if the feds or agents of MANGA had fired, there was no point in fleeing, the building was surrounded on all sides. But his instinct for self-preservation drove him out of the room, he didn't care about logic. Desmond crawled to the corner, ran over to the door on all fours, jumped out into the corridor, where anxious students had already poured out. Their thoughts and panic came down in an avalanche.
The only one in possession of a submachine gun was a Hispanic student a grade below him.
- They're shooting," Desmond yelled, "at the rooms!
Not a couple of seconds later he was alone in the empty hallway, sniffing at his roommate's room with a gun.
- What the fuck? - indignantly, the Latino man flared his arms.
The windows of his room faced the same direction as Desmond's. He stalked to the wall, but did not venture to peer out, lest he should become an easy target; and what was there to see in the dark? But he could hear the crackling of branches, cursing and shouting. It was as if the shooter had been apprehended, and was cursing in a painfully familiar voice.
- Did the guards work? - The Latino suggested, and went to the window, too. - What's the matter?
Desmond shrugged.
- Shot. At me.
They got the shooter in custody, so they weren't MANGA agents, and we can relax.
- Yeah?" Latino looked at Desmond respectfully. - Holy shit!
The guy was an athlete and didn't exactly fit in with the intellectuals. He heard curses, and Desmond recognized Max's voice, remembered his threats.
What a bastard! But it's a good thing it's only Max.
- Sorry, bro. - Desmond patted the Latino on the shoulder; he wouldn't read his mind - the green social code bar said that Desmond wasn't likely to like his primitive thoughts.
Back in his room, he glanced at the two bullet holes above the bed, flicked the crumbs off the bedspread. Yeah, Max's marksmanship wasn't all that great. I could tell he hadn't practiced shooting. He's got the jump on him, and he's got the jump on nothing. Rotten son of a bitch.
I'd like to clean up, write a statement to the director...
Before he had time to think about it, there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for an invitation, they swung it open. On the threshold stood two school guards.
- Mr. McGowan, are you all right? - The taller one asked.
- As you can see, yes," said Desmond.
In fact, they wanted to get the formalities over with and escort him to the principal's office. Listening to the apology, Desmond gathered his thoughts and thought about what he was going to say. He decided to act according to the circumstances and, when the guard was finished, was completely mentally and physically ready, he followed them into the administration building.
The lights there were out, and when the guard walking ahead flicked a switch and the corridor lit up, Desmond had already realized that the director had not yet arrived on the scene, for his working day was over, and he had to wait until he arrived from home.
- What did you do with Max? Did you call the police? - Desmond asked.
The guards looked at each other. From their thoughts Desmond realized that no, just handcuffed and locked him up, waiting for Steve, the principal that is, because a school shooting would tarnish the impeccable reputation of Esperanto, the school for the select few.
Desmond had just sat down on the couch in the hallway when Steve came running in. He was wearing jeans and a sporty-looking shirt. Seeing Desmond rise to meet him, he smiled and muttered:
-
Thank God you're all right!
You have to hand it to him, he cared
more about the student's life than he did about the school's
reputation. In general, Steve was a good guy, not the kind of
principal that scares kids. Once, during a dinner in the school
cafeteria, which was held every year on Thanksgiving Eve for parents,
the cooks could not cope with the load, and he put on an apron and
began to help them arrange the food for the guests. But Desmond had
no illusions: Steve knew how to be tough when necessary.
Opening the door, the headmaster, flashing his glasses (plain, gilt-rimmed), continued:
- He was a calm guy, but after the conflict with you, he went crazy. Will you tell me what you think about it? Come on in, have a seat.
Desmond had read his mind: the director was not aggressive, and thankfully so. Contrary to expectations, Steve sat down not at his desk, but in the chair across from Desmond, and he began the story of how Max had slandered him to his teacher, who had called his mother, concerned that Desmond was a drug addict and a gambler. The classmates saw the conflict brewing and took Desmond's side, even though he didn't ask them to: they stopped talking to Max. And he thought it wasn't their will, but Desmond's intrigue, and he pounced with threats, which, as it turns out, should have been given meaning and told the guards.
- Did you know he had a shotgun?
Desmond shook his head.
- I'm sorry about what happened. I won't file a report, and I wouldn't advise you to call the police. We'll sort it out on our own.
But the director was thinking differently and wanted to do everything according to the law, he understood that it would not be possible to hide what had happened, and he was upset in advance. He didn't fully trust Desmond, thought he was cruel, and wanted to suspend him from school until the interrogations were over.
That was the last thing he wanted to be tied down to! In light of his recent discoveries, it seemed especially important to Desmond that he had his freedom of movement. But what the hell: the police were serving the interests of the metacorporation, and if Manga were interested in Desmond, the police wouldn't make a difference, because they had fewer options.
- Maybe I should switch to distance learning," Desmond said, seeing how difficult it was for the director to tell him and making it easier for him. - By the time the cops interrogate me and draw conclusions..." He grinned. - And I can't get my classmates to talk me out of it. But I don't need them to, they saw for themselves who was right.
- Thanks for understanding! - There was a touch of sincere gratitude in Steve's voice.
- So I'm going home," said Desmond, holding out his hand.
The director shook it and said guiltily:
- 'It's late now...
- That's all right. It's uncomfortable to sleep in a room where I almost got shot.
It was the beginning of ten. Desmond planned to get home at the beginning of twelve. Hastily packing his things, he got behind the wheel and drove home, wondering if his mother had returned or not. He didn't know her movements at all; she could have disappeared, could have dropped like a snowball.
Most likely, she was gone, and an empty and humming mansion awaited him, where he could relax and listen to his brothers in misery: Luca, Maria, Filipina Gia. Thoughts of his woeful fate shifted to Luca. What had happened to him there? What was the danger?
The roads proved unloaded, and Desmond made it home in less than an hour. He showered, regretting that he couldn't log on to Dream and ask for help from Ree's virtual assistant, whom he'd stuck a birthmark in the shape of a triceratops head like Luca had. She and the guy were definitely dating! With girls, too, most likely. And there was a connection between them for a reason.
As he lay in bed and tried to make mental contact, Desmond thought of one thing: What had happened to Luca?
This time he managed to connect with him as if from outside, his consciousness was fuzzy, and many of the questions he wanted to ask had weathered out of his head. But Luca heard Desmond! Told him he was an orphan, now in some place in the Virgin Islands, where he was testing a supposedly new game world that almost killed him. The guy also has superpowers: his body is capable of fantastic things, like being able to go into anabiosis and change his body temperature. He was also able to get his hands on a medium, but neither Luca nor Desmond had any idea what it was.
The connection with Luca was cut off several times, and he had to tune in again.
How to help Luca? Connect his mother, ask her for a trip to the Virgin Islands? Nonsense! Or make contact with the girls? Maria was unlikely to help, but Gia might know what the carrier looked like... If only she knew what the carrier was. Probably information.
She was connected to Maria next, nauseous and dizzy - she passed it on to him. She looked like she was in jail. Yeah, the barge was held up, the girl was picked up as an illegal alien? Or was it MANGA agents who tracked her down? Maria, come in. Maria, what happened to you?
The door opened, and a swarthy man demanded her to come out, the girl complied, staggered in front of him.
-
Maria, my name is Desmond, and I'm a telepath. Can you hear me?
-
Maria, my name is Desmond, and I am a telepath. Can you hear me? -
Desmond kept saying it over and over again, but the girl didn't
respond.
Nothing. Maybe she was too sick, or maybe she really couldn't hear.
He woke up in frustration, rolled over onto his side, and tossed and turned, trying to stop his thoughts and reconnect with someone, preferably Gia, but he couldn't. He got up to get some water. He strode barefoot and in his underwear into the kitchen, put a glass of water to his mouth, began to drink, and at that moment the key in the keyhole rattled, the door slammed, light, hurried footsteps came from the first floor.
Desmond imagined his mother crossing the living room, proud, impetuous, confident. The light in the living room came on, the water in the bathroom gurgled.
Desmond tried to tune in to his mother, to read her thoughts-no luck, she was too far away, but he was so hopeless that he could jump down the stairs. Of course, his mother didn't know he was home; she thought he was at school. Climbing up the stairs, he sat down behind the railing, confident that he could not be seen in the dark.
His mother sat down at the massive table, brewing some of her favorite Chinese tea. "What to do? Now I'm screwed either way. Why did I take it then? Why didn't I turn him in to the agents? Why did I listen to Satoshi so much, which is what sparked the doubts. Now everyone's dead, it's only a matter of time... But I can try to save him."
Desmond felt cold, his heart as if clutched by icy pincers, he knew that his mother was thinking of him, something irreparable had happened, and it was dangerous to drag on.
- Mom," he called from above, and the woman flinched like a gunshot, her head tilted back, looking up at Desmond.
Hate. Pity. Fear. Some semblance of love. Her mother's feelings, incomplete and as if hollowed out, were like a shower of water not hot enough and not cold enough. Only the soul-wrenching despair was full-bodied.
- Son... why...
- What's wrong, mother?
"We must save ourselves, turn him in."
"No, we must at least save him, there is no more help for ourselves." Mother rose, rattling her chair, straightening to meet him, her chin up, and Desmond began to descend.
But first I had to tell him the truth. That I wasn't his mother, that I hadn't mastered the role. How would he take it, would he listen? And what kind of power he has? Would he strike me with lightning or kill me with his eyes?
Desmond clutched at the railing. The world shook and crumbled. She, Arnia McGowan, is not his mother? Is that why she's thinking of turning him in to the corporation? So she suspects something.
Her mother took a step back, looking at him like an executioner.
Too selfish and cruel. Won't understand, won't accept, will curse me... What to do? What?
That's what Desmond was thinking. Open up? Then he wouldn't have any cards left. Play dumb? Then she wouldn't tell him anything. Reveal the gift in part and make it look mysterious?
- I know everything, Mama," he muttered.
But she was no fool, and she gave a surprised expression to her face, raised an eyebrow slightly, not reacting to the bluff as Desmond had hoped. And he continued:
- That I am the adopted son.
- What makes you think that? - He understood from her thoughts that she was probing him, trying to find out what kind of gift he had.
There was no desire to approach the woman who'd allowed the thought of giving him up for slaughter, and Desmond remained standing on the flight of stairs.
- Did the forensics," he shrugged, "a year ago. But I didn't tell you because you're my mother, anyway. You gave me a start in life, and I'm grateful for that.
The mother felt no remorse for her thoughts, she was just inclined to save the boy, she would be liquidated anyway, when they found out who she had nestled in her bosom. Now that's interesting; she'd love to tell the truth, but she's afraid he won't believe it. Desmond decided to give her a push:
- There's something connected with me, isn't there?
Her mother threw up her hand to cover her mouth, her eyes flashed. In her mind she was saying goodbye to the charity party, where she had not had time to go, and to her favorite teas, and to the white sands of the ocean, where it was so pleasant to soak in the waves.
The telephone appeared in her hands - Desmond tensed. Her mother defiantly turned it off and put it on the table, and then she ran her finger over her lips, and Desmond understood. Shaking her head, she beckoned him to follow her to the stairs, beyond which was the entrance to the basement, where unnecessary junk was stored.
Desmond looked at her straight back and realized that this woman had finally made a choice: she would help her adopted son for the sake of a future that was to be taken from them.
This is interesting!
Taking out some kind of device, the mother circled the basement with it, closed the door. She leaned against it, and at once somehow got old, droopy, began to resemble a balloon, from which the air was vented. Then she jumped up, went to her adopted son, put her narrow hands on his shoulders, and looked into his eyes.
Desmond
was seized by her pangs, a love mingled with the inevitability of
loss. Tears came to his eyes, but his mother held on. She really is
iron! So that she could not see his weakness, Desmond drew her to
him. He held her tightly, for the first time in a long time. Or maybe
for the first time since he'd been her son.
- You're not an
ordinary boy," she said, unaccustomedly gruff. - And I am not
what you think I am. I don't bring justice to the world, on the
contrary! I am a careerist who has done terrible things, very
terrible things...
- For example, the attack by Cocker," said Desmond, and his mother broke from his embrace, but she crumpled, realizing that she was too old to handle him.
- How... No, no, don't say anything. They will get the knowledge out of my head, even if I refuse to speak. There are several of you, two of the girls they've figured out, but they've lost track of them, they're helped by faceless people. No matter how hard I tried to discredit the crypto-enthusiasts - it didn't work, thank God! Don't talk about yourself, just listen. One girl has a phenomenal memory. Her brain works like a computer. The second is a hacker capable of influencing virtual reality. They haven't found the others. Not yet! But they have the biometric data of all the children who..." She puffed her chest and burst into a story of how she worked at a secret base in Mexico, where, as it turned out later, experiments were conducted with the minds of children - they tried to program them, but something went wrong, and almost all but a few died. She learned all this later, and began searching for the children in secret from her superiors. Eventually she found Desmond and, instead of reporting him, adopted him-as if some unknown force had forced him. That the main reason for the adoption was the boss, who could appropriate the accomplishments, she was silent about.
Now MANG agents had tracked down Maria, found out what her abilities were...
- Traced her how? - Desmond asked, though he knew the answer from her thoughts, and he didn't like it very much: with the help of Roger's tracking scanner, which through augmented reality lenses enters into resonance with human consciousness and uses his senses to communicate with the outside world, fixes oddities in human behavior and starts following a suspicious individual through alien eyes.
The picture came together. Desmond walked around the basement, stepping over the junk. He had almost figured it out himself yesterday! After all, that's exactly what he'd observed in the Underground Railroad-the process of merging the inskin with the mind.
- The more time one spends in the Dream, the more controllable one becomes," he surmised, based on the fact that it was mostly the poor who found oblivion in the Dream, the successful who lived well enough without needing to embellish their lives.
- Probably," my mother nodded. - But not everyone can do it, Roger. I, for one, am not. Or maybe I just don't see what's on my mind, because I don't spend much time in the Dream..." She paused, searching for ways to help her adopted son, and remembered what she'd said was important: "They're going to put your biometrics in the database. If you walked past the camera, if you said a word-though your voice probably wouldn't work anymore.
- Or pick up a phone with a camera and get caught by a driman with a lens...
- The mask! - smiled my mother. - Fake lenses and - some Harlem, from there - to the Third World countries, through them - to Russia or India ...
She was about to continue, but there was a knock at the door, and the man, whom Desmond still yesterday thought to be his father, spoke:
- Darling, are you there? Open up, there's something important to talk about.
Desmond looked at his foster mother, she was pale, her face stretched, but her upturned chin said that she would not give up.