CHAR-les spoke matter-of-factly, as if we hadn't exposed him, but he had caught us at something childish. This made it even scarier.
"It's not that I care, but still..." the polymer creature stretched out, not showing even a hint of agitation.
"Everything," Sergei hissed through clenched teeth, experiencing not the most pleasant minutes. The medicine had not yet had time to fully take effect, relieving the pain from the amputation. "It was clear from the very beginning that you, creature, are not Academician Zakharov!"
My friend died in the proto-array, devoured alive by an aggressive neuro-composition. A fatal accident, for which I was also to blame.
That's why I clung so tightly to the faint hope, casting aside all caution. I wanted to believe so much that my loyal comrade had returned. All this, combined with exhaustion after a long operation on my daughter and godson, lulled my vigilance.
Perhaps the creature was simply waiting for a convenient moment for its "resurrection," taking advantage of a suitable situation. The realization of the mistake came to me when it was already too late to correct anything.
"Even Petrov had more acting skill. Too little pathos, gloss, and cunning. A mismatch of reactions," Katya said coldly, helping her husband treat the stump.
She sighed, tightening the bandage too much, which made Sergei turn even paler before he couldn't stand it and exploded:
"You could have just lived and not tricked! But no, you started showing off! How I wanted to just grind you into powder when you went where you shouldn't have, hoping to get into my soul without soap, with your crooked words. Demagogue, damn you!!!"
The creature laughed, finally dropping the mask.
"I didn't expect to reach you. Why waste words on fanatics? Although... Petrov was right. You are Cerberuses!" All hint of synthesis and artificiality disappeared from the creature's voice. If at the beginning of the phrase it sounded like rusty gears, giving off copper, then by the end it became quite pleasant, but with a cold baritone. "Dogs of the rotten system. What can you expect from you?"
I remembered that voice... Among the candidates was "The Lollipop Ripper." He killed two hundred girls, the youngest of whom was only three years old.
My hand did not tremble when I signed the list, deciding his fate. It was simple: either we pay with our lives, but move the train of progress, or the whole world awaits nuclear winter, when two blocs clash in the final war. The death of those like him, condemned on the most serious charges, in the name of science was better than the death of law-abiding volunteers, even terminally ill ones.
"You don't even see your leash. And your beloved Academician Zakharov... Compared to all his experiments, a dozen or two girls killed by me is not even a trifle... A margin of error. But how can you understand this, little dogs? You only know how to tear throats!"
"Have you said everything?" Sergei snapped irritably. "Why listen to him? Burn him and be done with it!"
"Argon, would you be so kind?" I addressed the squad commander, feeling my heart grow heavy. He knows too much. Unpredictable. Hostile. One life here versus millions there. The math is more than eloquent.
"As expected," the creature said, and I seemed to feel its gaze. "So the sentence is ready! You are no better than those you are about to overthrow. Hundreds like me died in camps and prisons while you, Comrade Sechenov, played God!"
Kuznetsov raised his hand with a polymer manipulator. A fiery ball began to slowly ignite in his palm. The squad commander decided to act for sure, pumping the fiery sphere with polymer to the very brim.
"Then let your dogs destroy even the memory of you! Sic!!!" the criminal said menacingly, without a hint of fear.
All the operatives in the squad were as if struck by current, simultaneously arching so that veins bulged on visible parts of their bodies. Their eyes lost their meaningful expression, while their faces contorted with rage as the polymer expanders implanted in them received the activation signal.
"Good try..." the godson roared, shaking his head, driving away, as he put it, the "wrath of war." "But I'll disappoint you. A wolf may be weaker than a lion, but it doesn't perform in a circus! The first thing the Wizard disabled when he initiated us into his plan was the control function in 'Iskra' and in our 'Voskhod' with Katya."
Several branching lightning bolts and a pair of fiery clots rushed into the hand lying on the floor, breaking against the raised polymer shield. A thin, slightly cloudy veil splashed the fireballs and redirected the energy flow, emitting a slight glass-like ringing.
The bodyguards rushed to the piece of flesh, but my gesture stopped them. This sphere will last five minutes, no more. And then there will only be a puddle of polymer essence. It can be broken through, but heavy weapons in a confined space will kill us faster than this creature. Pat.
"The one you were impersonating," I began, deciding to express what had been bothering me for a long time, since we had time and it was on our side, "once said... He said that we wouldn't be able to convince everyone to accept the new era, which means we have to force them to do it."
Memory obligingly pulled the necessary memory from its depths, which left too deep a mark on me. It was thanks to him that the blinders fell from my eyes.
"Since then, I've thought a lot and came to the conclusion that there must be a choice for the system to work as intended. Otherwise, it will be another tool of control and oppression, and not the most effective one, since its use is obvious."
"O-o-o-o-o... I didn't expect you to loosen control. When you put us in this terrible polymer, there was no hint of such feelings in you," the creature said, scolding me like a boy. "And you talk about free will? After all this? Hypocrite!"
"You were criminals," I said.
"Doesn't a criminal deserve the right to life? It's funny to hear you talk about high things... We tore apart your friend and absorbed his memory. Having collected all the pieces, I realized that you don't know what his plans were. Compared to him, I am just a humble artist," exclaimed the mind trapped in the glove. "Even if I'm not Khariton, I have his cunning with cold calculation...
The hand twitched, rising on its fingers. With a quiet metallic clang, the polymer container opened, showing its virgin emptiness. The severed limb made a semblance of a bow, mockingly saying:
"I wasn't here from the very beginning of this farce. How surprisingly easy it was to slip away in the hustle and bustle. No one paid attention to the small, harmless black blot in the grass..."
At that moment, the protective sphere dissipated. The severed limb was simply ground up by telekinesis.
"Do you think you know what this 'Collective' of yours is?" the creature asked mockingly, broadcasting not from the speakers of the alert system or the radio, but directly into our heads. Polymer! It, as a polymer entity, can resonate with the polymer in our heads, based on the principle of a polymer transmitter!!! Amazing!!!"
"You don't know WHAT you've created! You haven't seen the beauty and harmony of the data array yet! No one has been as deep as I have, the only one of the victims who has retained his sanity. And I will make this world beautiful! After all, I was a sculptor, and I created masterpieces from candy and flesh! Thank you for the chance to sculpt a masterpiece! Live with it now! Humanity is raw material. I am only accelerating evolution. But you will not see it..."
I only managed to catch a glimpse of a blinding flash and the backs of the bodyguards, who shielded me at the moment the shock wave hit the energy shields. A deafening ringing filled my consciousness... and the world plunged into darkness.
***
The explosion literally turned inside out several floors of the "Chelomey" administrative building. Along with the office of Dmitry Sechenov, giant tongues of flame erupted, reaching the upper floors of the skyscraper.
A fiery trail of melting concrete and steel streaked across the sky above the flying city, leaving a crimson arc in a shroud of black smoke, becoming a semblance of a terrifying triumphant salute.
The festive demonstrations that filled the city froze. Flags fell from hands, and instead of marches, the roar of fire hung in the air. It seemed that after the Incident, people could no longer be surprised by anything—but the invisible sculptor had presented the world with a new masterpiece of destruction.
The load-bearing structures of the building shuddered, creaking and groaning, as if trying to withstand an invisible hammer. Metal bent, concrete crumbled, but Soviet engineers had built in a triple safety margin. The frame held, as if mocking the chaos, only slightly leaning to the side.
***
"Damn you all..." Zinaida cursed, tilting the reconnaissance module on its side, dodging concrete shrapnel engulfed in fire. With a crash, the doors of the old secretaire opened, bombarding the interior of the mobile dwelling of the communications officer with dishes.
Fragments of the service scattered in all directions, bringing a few pleasant moments to the five KGB fighters who were escorting the detained Comrade Shtokhauzen. The former German scientist himself was in an unconscious state, suspended from the ceiling by a rope with which he was tied. A bruise was clearly visible on his face, very similar to the back of the butt of the female scout's shotgun.
The module fell like a stone to an extremely low altitude, maneuvering through the landscape, and finally raising a small wave on the Azure. The woman's hands pulled the control stick towards her, lifting the module back up, flaring with afterburner over VDNKh, and simultaneously performing a "cobra" towards "Chelomey," directing all onboard weapons at the city platform.
"Everyone alive?!" Zinaida turned to her passengers, both free and not so free. "Ryaba! Fu! This is for lunch!"
The polymer creature, resembling a fairy-tale hut in miniature, clucked annoyedly, but moved away from the headless goose carcass, shot with a precise shot.
Also captured in the swamp, the goose had the misfortune to make a sound at the moment the German, galloping through the mire, was running away from the enraged woman. The seasoned scout fired, reloaded, and fired again, adding a grenade launcher projectile, aiming at the sound. Only after that did she casually note the slightly singed feathers flying in all directions, but discarded the details unnecessary for the chase.
"It's been worse," Lieutenant Mordakoni assured her, adjusting his uniform. Glancing at the observation window, the committee employee whistled. "It blew up nicely. I've only seen that during FAB tests."
"No," the major stated authoritatively, knowing everything and a little more about explosives. "It was an aerosol volumetric explosive munition. Their flash is very specific... So, darlings! I'll bring the module to the breach now, and you'll receive the survivors..."
"Will anyone even survive there?!" one of the security guards cursed.
"Ha!" the woman chuckled, hiding uncertainty in her words and fear behind bravado. "Sechenov is as tenacious as a cockroach. And the Ryabas from 'Argentum' were there. They don't burn in fire and don't drown in water, especially my son-in-law!"
***
On the territory of VDNKh, on the roof of the "Popov" scientific center, which recently received his name against the will of the head of the scientific council, Academician Lebedev and Filimonenko looked at the crimson of the conflagration, each thinking about their own.
Alexey Vladimirovich sighed, taking a notebook from the depths of his lab coat. Opening the desired page, he carefully crossed out a couple of lines, while circling the remaining two inscriptions.
"You were right, colleague. Nothing ended then," said Comrade Filimonenko. "And it's good that our friend listened to you... As they say, may the earth be soft for him. We disagreed on many things lately, and our views on the common cause differed, but I did not wish for Comrade Sechenov's death."
"I wouldn't be so categorical, colleague," Lebedev replied, smiling at something. "Perhaps our common friend is still alive, and you can say such pleasant words to him personally..."
"You managed... You managed to see something in the Academy of Consequences again?! That's why you seemed so calmly detached to me during all this turmoil," exclaimed Alexander Petrovich.
"Not to see..." the head of the mentioned academy corrected him. "You know yourself that the future changes every second! If it weren't for the principle of superposition, then instead of Future Radio, only white noise would be heard. It's just that before the start, at our friend's request, I made a few predictions... Some of them came true, though not exactly as predicted. And it's amazing! We didn't know so much about quantum fluctuations..."
"What did you find out?" Filimonenko interrupted his comrade. "You knew about all this?! And you didn't fix anything?!"
"Knowing is one thing, and trying to fix it without knowing what to look for..." Lebedev said philosophically. "All our attempts could have brought closer the future we learned about... But I can say that the resulting version, though not ideal, is currently less destructive."
"Even now?!" his colleague was surprised.
"Well, you are alive... And many who should have died are also quite alive," the academician shrugged. "And now even science doesn't know what will happen next in the coming minutes. Either success awaits us, or..."
The head of the Academy of Consequences fell silent.
"Or what?!" his comrade asked nervously, stamping his foot from the emotions overwhelming him.
"Silence on the air and only interference on all frequencies, with the lonely voice of the emergency station..."
"And you talk about it so easily?!" Filimonenko said, to put it mildly, surprised.
"And nothing depended on me. Never. Now everything depends on whether anything survived that explosion. In the predictions, the first ones, two very agile young people were not alive, although one, it seemed, was wandering the earth, and our common friend was a little different..."
"You... you..."
"Crazy?" Lebedev asked his colleague, who was choking with indignation. "Maybe. And who is normal in this world? Is the madman mad or the wise man wise? I tend to think that I am simply an eccentric who has seen too much to worry about trifles that I could not influence, colleague. All that depends on us now is how 'The Collective' will be activated..."
***
While the "3826" Enterprise was once again engulfed in fire, Moscow, polished to a mirror shine, glowed with flags, as if heated to white heat. The city was seething—not in the streets, no, but in the very air, thick with laughter, music, with thousands of throats holding their breath before the great moment. Special clocks, hanging everywhere, counted down the last drops of time of the old era.
People craved change. Not that they knew exactly what kind, but they craved it. Passionately, almost physically. Hence the excitement, hence this general boiling, in which even the air seemed thicker than usual.
And in the very thick of the festive bustle, like random debris, a small group of children was lost. Adults, important and anxiously joyful, bustled past, not noticing how two boys, grunting and pushing, were pushing a wheelchair with a girl up the stairs.
Stas and Artyom waved away the intrusive "Rafiks"—ubiquitous assistants who tried to grab the wheelchair handles and take the company where they belonged. They decided to manage themselves: Vera's new wheelchair floated on a magnetic cushion, almost weightless, lifted off the ground. The children even floated on it once, all together, riding over the river's surface, like on a clumsy but obedient raft.
But the subway stairs, even with their special ramp, turned out to be a more serious test than water.
"Allow me, young men!" came from behind, and someone's old fingers, dry and gnarled, but confident, lay on the wheelchair handles. The boys tried to object, but Vera sharply clicked her tongue, and the protests immediately faded.
The old man, gray-haired and wrinkled, but agile like a boy, took matters into his own hands. His movements were precise, accustomed to effort, but without unnecessary fuss. And now the wheelchair, obedient to his pressure, smoothly rolled out onto the surface, where the air trembled with the roar of the crowd and distant music.
"We are supposed to help!" Stas flared up, nervously running his palm over his Pioneer tie. The scarlet silk burned like a bonfire on his snow-white shirt.
The old man just grunted, squinting one eye: "Then you will help, young men. Keep us company. You are going to the embankment, aren't you?"
The children nodded in unison. Artyom, always stingy with words, just shrugged, but Stas understood what his friend wanted to say. Pushing Vera's wheelchair, which this time did not object, they hurried after the old man.
The holiday buzzed around, and somewhere ahead, around the bend, the roar of the crowd gathered by the river could already be heard. Waiting, holding their breath, ready to erupt in jubilation in a few minutes. After the activation of "Collective 2.0," they promised a spectacular water parade on the Moscow River.
"What am I?!" the old man suddenly realized, slapping his forehead. "Allow me to introduce myself: Georgy Eduardovich. Former general. I teach at the academy at the General Staff."
His eyes, faded by time, suddenly flashed with mischievous sparks.
"Vera," nodded the girl in the wheelchair, curiously examining the unexpected companion.
"Stas, and this is Artyom," the boy blurted out hastily, blushing to the roots of his hair.
"General!" it flashed in his head. He immediately straightened his back, mechanically adjusted his tie, as if standing before a formation of comrades from his Pioneer cell.
Artyom just grunted, but the same respectful amazement was read in his silent gaze. Even Vera quieted down, impressed. Her wheelchair now moved in time with Georgy Eduardovich's steps, as if obeying an invisible rhythm.
And around, meanwhile, the holiday continued to rage. Somewhere an orchestra thundered, the crowd buzzed like a disturbed beehive, and it seemed the very air trembled with anticipation. But here, in this strange company, a separate little world suddenly arose.
"How beautiful Moscow has become..." Stas suddenly blurted out, and immediately fell silent shyly, as if catching himself doing something indecent. "So beautiful that the bourgeoisie and nobles never dreamed of it!"
"Stas..." Vera stretched out reproachfully, squeezing the armrests of her chair. In her voice, there was that very sisterly tone: "What are you saying?"
The old man laughed. His laughter turned out to be ringing, young, not at all corresponding to his gray temples.
"As a former bourgeois and noble," he said, winking at the children, "I can state with full responsibility... indeed, they never dreamed of it."
Warm irony splashed in his eyes, as if he remembered some old, but not particularly important joke.
"I'm sorry, please..." Stas began, blushing to the tips of his ears, but the gesture of a dry, elderly hand cut him off mid-sentence.
"One doesn't get offended by the truth, young man," Georgy Eduardovich smiled.
Unexpectedly for everyone, Artyom's voice rang out, quiet but firm: "And won't you tell me... is it difficult to get into your academy?" He paused, shifted from foot to foot, before adding, almost in a whisper. "I want to become a soldier. And then - to 'Argentum'."
The last word hung in the air, overgrown with sudden significance. Even Vera stopped turning her head from side to side, froze, staring at her brother's friend with wide eyes.
The old man slowed his pace. His fingers, resting on the back of the wheelchair, tapped lightly on the plastic, as if beating out the rhythm of some inner melody.
"It's difficult," the old man finally said, and his voice took on that special, professorial intonation, when simple words suddenly gain weight. "But if it were easy, would it be worth trying?"
He paused, looking somewhere over the children's heads, as if discerning different outlines in the haze of the holiday.
"And 'Argentum'..." his lips twitched into a half-smile. "Yes, I've heard of that outfit. I even taught a couple from there. They've completely forgotten about the old man, but what can you do... Their work is too difficult. Not enough for relics of antiquity..."
"Tell us!" the trio blurted out simultaneously. Even the usually silent Artyom was burning with curiosity, and Vera settled more comfortably in her wheelchair, ready to listen.
Georgy Eduardovich glanced at his massive, army-style watch with a worn strap.
"So be it," he sighed, but his eyes were laughing. "I'll fit it into fifteen minutes..."
And while festive Moscow thundered around with fanfares, and crowds rejoiced, awaiting the dawn of a new era, the small company slowed its pace. The old man lit a cigarette. Smoke curled in the hot air, dissolving in the festive bustle. And he began his story: quiet, measured, as if not for children, but for himself and in a military manner, clear.
Vera furtively wiped the blood that had dripped from her nose, struggling to make her hand move clearly. Glancing furtively at the boys and the old man again, she sighed with relief, glad that her actions had gone unnoticed.
Her thin legs, covered by a warm blanket even in such hot weather, twitched unpleasantly with a cramp, but the girl showed no sign, feeling the familiar pain. "This is nothing! Sometimes at night it hurts so much that I have to scream into the pillow so as not to wake Mom and Stas," she dismissed it.
The girl hid her pain. She saw what happened when patients with her illness were switched to stronger painkillers than the ones her mother was giving her now. She was not satisfied with such an outcome. Vera wanted to feel what it was like to live in the future, even for a moment. And she, to spite all the doctors' predictions, lived to see this future and even went to school herself last year!
However, the child understood: she didn't have long left. Therefore, she wanted her brother and mother to have a good memory of her, not of how she was dying in the hospital. But with each day, it became harder to pretend. No matter how much she trained her memory, learning poems by the dozen, she could already see the first gaps. The disease, which was slowly eating away at her nervous system, could not be stopped so easily...
She sighed, feeling a chill spread across her chest, seeing how the boys, in delight, forgetting all decency, were bombarding such a good old man with questions.
"Only thirteen minutes left..." Vera thought, and from this thought, she finally felt warm.