– So what do you suggest?
– Get your ass out of here. – suggested Shurka pouring in the remaining cognac. – It'll be bad that I won't be able to drink beer with you anymore but… if you're dead, it'll be much worse… Shit, what, what the hell are you doing?!
– I'm rescuing a person.
– One should do it until he's not in trouble himself!
I nodded. Maniac is right. There's the normal hacker's logic in his words, not the one of the self-assured diver who can surface from the Deep.
Where would I surface if overtaken in the real world?
Complexes of physical weakness are strong in all virtual folks. It hurts too much to feel that you're God in the virtual world, but just one of the billions of ordinary people in the real one. That's why we all love martial arts and war games, buy gas and pneumatic pistols, stubbornly attend sport clubs and pump ourselves up in the evenings. Of course we want to feel ourselves as invincible in the real life as we are in virtuality, sure so. But we fail to.
And sometimes one can hear in the Deep: "Remember that guy? Some punks had stuck a knife in him in the alley… got poisoned with fake vodka… jumped out of the window, didn't even leave a note… crossed mafia's path…"
We remember, we know.
Only in the world beyond the screen we're Gods.
– I need just a day more, I suppose, – I said quietly, – Then I'll get out somewhere… to Siberia or the Ural Mountains.
– And don't tell anybody where you go, – nodded Maniac, – Don't even tell me.
The cups were empty and he suggested:
– Should I run to the kiosk for more?
– I still have to draw the body.
– Shit. Run 'Bioconstructor'.
In a minute we were sitting side by side fighting over control for the mouse and drumming against the keyboard. The first drawn body we had to reject – it was way too provoking: two meter high hefty chap, with a huge sword on his belt. All adventurers would pester him as Shurka noted and I had to agree with him.
The next personality was harmless and even pitifuclass="underline" a tattered old beggar… maybe nobody would touch him, but he won't be able to carry Unfortunate for five miles either. This time it was me who vetoed without explanations.
But the third attempt was successful. The guy on the screen was quite strong but with such a babylike innocent face that I felt sick. We dressed him in the ground-long light-green chlamys and hung a rag bag onto his shoulder.
– A healer! – said Maniac satisfied, – A human, healer. Nobody will hurt you there without a reason, neither Elf nor Orc. Medicine is the thing everybody needs.
He started to stuff some jars, retorts, dry leaves into the bag, taking them from accessories menu.
– Will I be able to heal in the role-players' world?
– Sure. The situation there is like this – you come in this or that image and initially have some strength. For instance, a martial art or wisdom or gift of healing. The longer you live in that world, the stronger your abilities are. If you call yourself a healer, you'll be immediately able to fix small wounds or fractures, dislocations…
– How interesting, – I said looking at my new personality, I even started to like it. – Thanks, I would dress as a warrior for sure.
– Yeah, and would get knocked on the head by some old-timer's sword.
– Well, and in what image did you go there?
Maniac was confused.
– You won't tell anyone?
– No.
– I was Ariel the Elvish warrior.
– Why?
– Tried to score Goromir.
For a second I froze. It's none of my business of course, but…
– Goromir is a girl, – explained Maniac quickly, – It's a bloody mess over there, girls play men often and guys play women. I tried to score her for half a year…
– Any success?
– No… Goromir befriended Dianel.
I don't dare to ask who was Dianel in reality: a guy or a girl, too gloomy Shurka's tone was.
– If you meet Goromir there, say hi from Ariel, – adds Shurka, – We parted quite… well. Friendly. Shit.
– I need the server with the city of Lorien, ruled by Legolas. Is this a place where he… this Goromir of yours pastures?
– It's a 'she'! – cuts Shurka off, – I Dunn, haven't been at role-players' for ages. We'll find out.
He loaded Vika and started to browse through servers using terminal. In around five minutes the search was successful.
– Look! "Fair Legolas invites the wise Elves, the brave Humans and the quick Hobbits to the great city of Lorien, for the days of the last battle of the forces of the Good against the Orcs and the Dwarves have come!" They'll meet you with an open hug.
– This isn't necessary.
– Uh… what about some more beer? You have an hour and a half more.
A beer after cognac? Well, but I really have a lot of time, with Shurka's help we were through the drawing really fast.
– Okay, – I decide.
101
I locked the door after Shurka, fixed the door chain very-very accurately, looked into the kitchen to make sure gas is off.
I didn't feel myself drunk. Four bottles of beer is nothing and cognac doesn't count at all. Some odd wires, old slippers, scattered books were tangling under my feet all the way to the computer – Shurka stumbled and overturned the bookshelf when clung to it trying to keep balance. What could that mean?
– Vika, any mail? – I growled.
– I didn't understand you, Leonid.
– Any mail? – I repeated slowly.
– Yes.
Maybe two liters of dark beer, drunk in haste is not that little after all if Vika doesn't recognize my voice?..
I suppressed the fit of guilt and started to look through maiclass="underline" some crap only. I should also take a look at the Bulletin Board.
Of course, none of my employers or friends knows my real address. If somebody wants to contact not just Leonid, but the diver, there's only one way – to post an ad at the Bulletin Board which is just a computer with a modem and lots of disk space to which anyone can connect and read all ads. A coded label allows to filter out unnecessary posts, the code doesn't allow lamers to fake the messages and the vague phrases of the letters themselves will be clear to the addressee only. Complete anonymity and reliability. Go ahead and try to extract secret information from love affairs, commercials and idle chat.
It's not often that I find messages for me on the Bulletin Board, but it was two of them today.
"Ivan! In the eve of the forest journey I'll wait for you at the place where we did division. Gray."
This is Romka. We "did division" in "Three Piglets", and the eve of Al-Kabar operation was a quarter of hour ago.
I sobered suddenly. Why would Romka look for me so urgently? He wrote the letter this night. Did he do it himself or at somebody's bidding I wonder? Man Without Face's, for instance?
The second message was expected.
"Seventy-seven. Where usual, as usual. Brothers."
Seventy-seven is my number. Brothers-divers are outraged…
According to the Code, I told my diver's name (also being the real one, by the way) to Anatol and Dick.
According to the Code, they filed a complaint against me: I intruded into their working territory and used weapons.
This can't be forgiven.
– Unfortunate… – I mumbled, – Bastard… What the hell are you doing with me?
Damned the moment when I was lured by the Medal of Complete License and rushed to rescue you!
– Vika, submersion, – I ordered, – Personality number seven… Healer.