Alexey Kalugin
The color of blood. wandering mind
Wine sour life.
William Shakespeare
The guard turned up his collar and pressed his ear against the fake fur. Although it is artificial, it is still soft, pleasant. And even kind of warm.
The guard walked along the gate. Frost - minus twenty-three. The snow crunches softly underfoot. Here, no one sprinkles the roads with a reagent of unknown composition, due to which the snow turns into a slushy mess, slippery like a rolled ice crust. Everything here is pure and natural. Three times a day, an imported snow blower that looks like a strange robot from Star Wars passes along the path that stretches through the forest belt. From the highway to the boarding house gate. Snow flies to the side of the road, and clean asphalt remains behind the snow blower. The English mow their vaunted lawns every day. And we have to remove snow three times a day so that the roads are clean. Well, what can you do - such a climate. But no reagent that corrodes the soles of the boots.
The guard stopped in the middle of the road, straightened the belt of the machine gun thrown behind his back and turned towards the guarded object.
The entrance to the object was closed by forged double-leaf gates. On each sash there is a bizarre monogram, similar to a lowercase letter "v", inscribed in a vertically elongated oval formed by a line drawn from the lower tail of the letter. On top - peaks. In appearance, the gates seem to be light, performing a decorative function rather than protecting the object from unauthorized entry. However, they can only be landed with a tank. The guard saw how these gates were tested for strength. The doors didn't even sway when the Mercedes rammed them at full speed. But the vertical bars of thirty centimeters crashed into the hood of the car. To pull it, I had to adjust the tractor. So the only passage to the territory of the boarding house is through the duty room, which is to the left of the gate. In appearance, the duty room also looks like a decorative extension, but in fact it is fortified so that it can withstand many hours of siege. The guard in the duty room just needs to press a button to block the door and lower steel shields with narrow slots of loopholes onto the windows.
Behind the gates is a snow-swept park with paths running to the sides. Trees stand bare, heat-loving bushes are covered with a special polymer film, flower beds and flower ridges are covered here and there with colored shavings peeping out from under the snow. Three guards ply the paths of the garden. The guard at the gate saw only one of his colleagues. But the other two were also somewhere nearby. They walk along the paths of the park even at night, by the light of lanterns.
After seven alters escaped from the boarding house, the facility's security service was reorganized. In fact, this meant that several high-ranking heads flew. The security company that provided security at the Boarding House No. 45 was liquidated. And the guards, who were unfortunate enough to be on duty that night, are now on duty somewhere o-very far away. So far that even the name of this place few people know. And who knows, he prefers not to remember. There are rumors that even the director of the company that installed the video surveillance system at the facility did not go around the world, but sat down, seriously and for a long time. It's always like this with us - they begin to put things in order only after the roasted rooster has done its job.
Three people near the main and only gate. One - on the street, two - on duty. The three are walking along the paths of the park. Three - at the entrance to the building, which is at the other end of the park. Two more patrol the perimeter from the outside. All with weapons. All in full combat readiness. It is not clear only what they are guarding now, if there is not a single alter in the boarding house? And from the entire staff there was one doctor. And he has no idea what he's doing. Although, of course, no one requires understanding from the guards. They have a different task.
The guard tilted his head to the other side to tuck his right ear into his collar. The frost, of course, is not so strong as to freeze your ears, but why not warm it up if possible.
To be honest, even despite the constant checks and annoying briefings, work at the Boarding House Number Forty-Five facility is the best of all that he had. Silence, peace, excellent feeding and fresh forest air - what else could a guard wish for? In the summer, it will be grace at all. The boarding house is located away from the roads and public recreation areas, so there are no casual passers-by and even more so cars here. The locals know that there is a sensitive, guarded object here, which, out of harm's way, is better to bypass. For the really stupid, frightening signs are hung everywhere: “The object is under protection. Entrance is strictly by pass. Violation is a criminal offence." Well, who will come here after this?
The guard on the park path greeted a colleague on the other side of the gate with a raised hand. Reciprocating the same gesture, the guard at the gate looked at his watch. Another twenty minutes - and you can go to the duty room to drink hot tea with a royal sandwich. He will spread ketchup on the bread, put on it a thick piece of ham, two rings of salami, a slice of onion, a lettuce leaf, a slice of maazdam, smear mayonnaise on top and cover with another piece of bread. A story, not a sandwich!
Adjusting his automatic belt with a habitual movement, the guard turned his back to the gate. He whistled softly in surprise.
A strange type, who had just come out of the forest belt, was briskly stomping along the virgin snow. He was wearing an orange construction suit and a blue plastic hard hat on his head. In his hand he held an object that looked great like a mesh string bag, which in the old days all conscious citizens of the country of the Soviets always carried in their pocket, in case something suddenly “thrown out” in a nearby store.
Seeing the guard looking at him, the man waved his hand.
The guard cursed silently. Such a good day - no wind, sunny. The snow sparkles, as if sprinkled with diamond dust. Tea and a royal sandwich are waiting for him in the duty room. Everything is great! Just great! So no, the hard one brought some weirdo. Which was quite specifically directed to the gate of the protected object.
Without taking his eyes off the man in the orange overalls, the guard walked sideways to the duty room and banged his fist on the door a couple of times.
The door opened.
What? - a security guard with red hair like fire and a scattering of large freckles all over his face looked out from the duty room.
Look. - The guard at the gate pointed to the guest.
The redhead chuckled and hid behind the door.
Almost immediately, the door swung open wide. Both guards who were there, red-haired and dark-haired, in short-brimmed sheepskin coats thrown over their shoulders, ran out of the duty room. The dark-haired one was holding half of the sausage sandwich he was eating when the red-haired one informed him of the impending invasion of the protected area.
Barely glancing at the man walking in the snow, the black-haired man immediately issued a verdict:
Some kind of moron, - and bit off a piece of bread with butter and sausage.
He seems to be barefoot, - the guard at the gate said not very confidently.
The redhead took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket and put them to his eyes.
Exactly - barefoot, - he confirmed.
Precisely - a psycho, - the dark-haired man approved his initial diagnosis and put the last piece of a sandwich into his mouth.
Stop him,” the redhead said to the guard at the gate.
How? - he did not understand.
Tell him to stop.
The guard took a step forward.
Hey! You there! For persuasiveness, he raised his hand. - I order you to stop! You are in a protected area!
The man walking barefoot in the snow waved his hand again. But he didn't even slow down.
Maybe he's deaf? - suggested dark-haired.
You still have to make out the detention, - the redhead drawled dejectedly.
Making a detention means filling out a pile of papers that no one needs, but required by the protocol.
Stop, they tell you! the guard shouted again.
This time, for persuasiveness, he pulled a machine gun from behind his back.
Maybe call the doctor that lives in a boarding house? The dark one chuckled.
He is a specialist in alters, not in psychos, - the redhead answered.
What we are going to do? - asked the one with the gun.
Well, if he wants it. - Red pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket and deftly twisted them on his finger. Let's meet the wishes of the working people!
A man in orange overalls and a blue helmet stopped three paces from the guards. He really was barefoot. His overalls were far from new, stained with grease and with a hole in his right knee. In his shopping bag he had several plastic bags filled with some dark liquid, and one thick book. The man was short and unprepossessing. His face seemed like a thousand faces that you see in a crowd and immediately forget as you pass by. But his gaze was so confident that the guards even somehow felt uneasy. It seemed that this psycho barefoot sees through them all, knows all their ins and outs.
Hello, - the stranger said in a simple, casual tone.
Hello, - the black-haired man nodded displeasedly.
Alexey Alexandrovich Kalugin
The color of blood. wandering mind
© Kalugin A.A., 2017
© Design. LLC "Publishing House" E ", 2017
* * *Wine sour life.
William ShakespeareThe guard turned up his collar and pressed his ear against the fake fur. Although it is artificial, it is still soft, pleasant. And even kind of warm.
The guard walked along the gate. Frost - minus twenty-three. The snow crunches softly underfoot. Here, no one sprinkles the roads with a reagent of unknown composition, due to which the snow turns into a slushy mess, slippery like a rolled ice crust. Everything here is pure and natural. Three times a day, an imported snow blower that looks like a strange robot from Star Wars passes along the path that stretches through the forest belt. From the highway to the boarding house gate. Snow flies to the side of the road, and clean asphalt remains behind the snow blower. The English mow their vaunted lawns every day. And we have to remove snow three times a day so that the roads are clean. Well, what can you do - the climate is like that. But no reagent that corrodes the soles of the boots.
The guard stopped in the middle of the road, straightened the belt of the machine gun thrown behind his back and turned towards the guarded object.
The entrance to the object was closed by forged double-leaf gates. On each sash there is a bizarre monogram, similar to a lowercase letter “v”, inscribed in a vertically elongated oval formed by a line drawn from the lower tail of the letter. At the top are peaks. In appearance, the gates seem to be light, performing a decorative function rather than protecting the object from unauthorized entry. However, they can only be landed with a tank. The guard saw how these gates were tested for strength. The doors didn't even sway when the Mercedes rammed them at full speed. But the vertical bars of thirty centimeters crashed into the hood of the car. To pull it, I had to adjust the tractor. So the only passage to the territory of the boarding house is through the duty room, which is to the left of the gate. In appearance, the duty room also looks like a decorative extension, but in fact it is fortified so that it can withstand many hours of siege. The guard in the duty room just needs to press a button to block the door and lower steel shields with narrow slots of loopholes onto the windows.
Behind the gates is a snow-swept park with paths running to the sides. Trees stand bare, heat-loving bushes are covered with a special polymer film, flower beds and flower ridges are covered here and there with colored shavings peeping out from under the snow. Three guards ply the paths of the garden. The guard at the gate saw only one of his colleagues. But the other two were also somewhere nearby. They walk along the paths of the park even at night, by the light of lanterns.
After seven alters escaped from the boarding house, the facility's security service was reorganized. In fact, this meant that several high-ranking heads flew. The security company that provided security at the Boarding House No. 45 was liquidated. And the guards, who were unfortunate enough to be on duty that night, are now on duty somewhere o-very far away. So far that even the name of this place few people know. And who knows, he prefers not to remember. There are rumors that even the director of the company that installed the video surveillance system at the facility did not go around the world, but sat down, seriously and for a long time. It’s always like this with us - they begin to put things in order only after the roasted rooster has done its job.
Three people near the main and only gate. One is on the street, two are on duty. The three are walking along the paths of the park. Three - at the entrance to the building, which is at the other end of the park. Two more patrol the perimeter from the outside. All with weapons. All in full combat readiness. It is not clear only what they are guarding now, if there is not a single alter in the boarding house? And from the entire staff there was one doctor. And he has no idea what he's doing. Although, of course, no one requires understanding from the guards. They have a different task.
The guard tilted his head to the other side to tuck his right ear into his collar. The frost, of course, is not so strong as to freeze your ears, but why not warm it up if possible.
To be honest, even despite the constant checks and annoying briefings, work at the Boarding House Number Forty-Five facility is the best of all that he had. Silence, peace, excellent feeding and fresh forest air - what else could a guard wish for? In the summer, it will be grace at all. The boarding house is located away from the roads and public recreation areas, so there are no casual passers-by and even more so cars here. The locals know that there is a sensitive, guarded object here, which, out of harm's way, is better to bypass. For the really stupid, frightening signs are hung everywhere: “The object is under protection. Entrance is strictly by pass. Violation is a criminal offence." Well, who will come here after this?
The guard on the park path greeted a colleague on the other side of the gate with a raised hand. Reciprocating the same gesture, the guard at the gate looked at his watch. Another twenty minutes - and you can go to the duty room to drink hot tea with a royal sandwich. He will spread ketchup on the bread, put on it a thick piece of ham, two rings of salami, a slice of onion, a lettuce leaf, a slice of maazdam, smear mayonnaise on top and cover with another piece of bread. A story, not a sandwich!
Adjusting his automatic belt with a habitual movement, the guard turned his back to the gate. He whistled softly in surprise.
A strange type, who had just come out of the forest belt, was briskly stomping along the virgin snow. He was wearing an orange construction suit and a blue plastic hard hat on his head. In his hand he held an object that looked great like a mesh string bag, which in the old days all conscious citizens of the country of the Soviets always carried in their pocket, in case something suddenly “thrown out” in a nearby store.
Seeing the guard looking at him, the man waved his hand.
The guard cursed silently. Such a good day - no wind, sunny. The snow sparkles, as if sprinkled with diamond dust. Tea and a royal sandwich are waiting for him in the duty room. Everything is great! Just great! So no, the hard one brought some weirdo. Which was quite specifically directed to the gate of the protected object.
Without taking his eyes off the man in the orange overalls, the guard walked sideways to the duty room and banged his fist on the door a couple of times.
The door opened.
- What? - a security guard with red hair like fire and a scattering of large freckles all over his face looked out from the duty room.
- Look. The guard at the gate pointed to the guest.
The redhead chuckled and hid behind the door.
Almost immediately, the door swung open wide. Both guards who were there, red-haired and dark-haired, in short-brimmed sheepskin coats thrown over their shoulders, ran out of the duty room. The dark-haired one was holding half of the sausage sandwich he was eating when the red-haired one informed him of the impending invasion of the protected area.
Barely glancing at the man walking in the snow, the black-haired man immediately issued a verdict:
- Some kind of moron, - and bit off a piece of bread with butter and sausage.
“He seems to be barefoot,” the guard at the gate said, not very confidently.
The redhead took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket and put them to his eyes.
“Sure, barefoot,” he confirmed.
- Exactly - a psycho, - the dark-haired man confirmed his initial diagnosis and put the last piece of a sandwich into his mouth.
“Stop him,” the redhead said to the guard at the gate.
- How? - he did not understand.
- Tell him to stop.
The guard took a step forward.
- Hey! You there! For persuasion, he raised his hand. - I order you to stop! You are in a protected area!
The man walking barefoot in the snow waved his hand again. But he didn't even slow down.
Maybe he's deaf? The dark one suggested.
“You still have to draw up a detention,” the redhead drawled dejectedly.
Making a detention means filling out a pile of papers that no one needs, but required by the protocol.
Stop, they tell you! the guard shouted again.
This time, for persuasiveness, he pulled a machine gun from behind his back.
- Maybe call the doctor that lives in a boarding house? The dark one chuckled.
“He's an expert on alters, not psychos,” the redhead replied.
- What we are going to do? asked the one with the gun.
Well, if he wants to. The redhead pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket and deftly twirled them around his finger. Let's meet the wishes of the working people!
A man in orange overalls and a blue helmet stopped three paces from the guards. He really was barefoot. His overalls were far from new, stained with grease and with a hole in his right knee. In his shopping bag he had several plastic bags filled with some dark liquid, and one thick book. The man was short and unprepossessing. His face seemed like a thousand faces that you see in a crowd and immediately forget as you pass by. But his gaze was so confident that the guards even somehow felt uneasy. It seemed that this psycho barefoot sees through them all, knows all their ins and outs.
Jun 27, 2017wandering mind Alexey Kalugin
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Title: Wandering Mind
About the book "Wandering Mind" Alexei Kalugin
Alexey Kalugin is one of the most significant names in Russian science fiction. An experienced writer, he has already written more than 30 novels and is not going to stop there. His book "Wandering Mind" once again reminded readers of a talented writer who decided to continue his series of books "The Color of Blood".
It is noteworthy that, in turn, the series is included in the global cycle "Absolute Weapon", which was founded at the end of the 20th century and is considered one of the oldest cycles.
The author Alexei Kalugin managed to twist the plot in a really interesting way. Alters in the world have a hard time, because the authorities do not give them a descent, trying to put everyone and everyone in a special boarding house. Their confrontation with people has been going on for a very long time, and no one wants to back down. But there were rumors about the legendary alter, who is able to create everything that one can wish for. And when the situation between people and alters began to really heat up, the rumors turned into reality.
The master is the one for whom nothing is impossible, even to join the fight, showing all his strength. But what are his motives? What advantage does he want to take from this whole situation? And it would seem that there are already enough problems, but no. To all this, wild alters were added, about which practically nothing was known.
Except, of course, the obvious fact - they are attracted by a thirst for blood.
The Wandering Mind is a worthy continuation of a series that you really want to read and reread. Alexey Kalugin created not just a great story, he also took a lot of time to make all the characters described in the novel as realistic as possible. Each of them appears in the imagination as a full-fledged hero, for whom it is impossible not to experience any feelings and emotions. You sincerely worry about them, watching their ups and downs.
Author Kalugin has his own unique style. All his fans from the first lines can recognize the person who wrote them. The second book in the "Color of Blood" series retained all the features of the author, including a light style and colorful descriptions. She is so interesting to read that time with her just flies by unnoticed. It is simply impossible to tear yourself away until the last page has been read. What else is needed to include the author in the list of favorites?
All those who can't wait to find out how the series will end will be happy to know that the final part is also available for reading.
On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online book"Wandering Mind" by Alexey Kalugin in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find last news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginner writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at writing.
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© Kalugin A.A., 2017
© Design. LLC "Publishing House" E ", 2017
* * *
Wine sour life.
William Shakespeare
Prologue
The guard turned up his collar and pressed his ear against the fake fur. Although it is artificial, it is still soft, pleasant. And even kind of warm.
The guard walked along the gate. Frost - minus twenty-three. The snow crunches softly underfoot. Here, no one sprinkles the roads with a reagent of unknown composition, due to which the snow turns into a slushy mess, slippery like a rolled ice crust. Everything here is pure and natural. Three times a day, an imported snow blower that looks like a strange robot from Star Wars passes along the path that stretches through the forest belt. From the highway to the boarding house gate. Snow flies to the side of the road, and clean asphalt remains behind the snow blower. The English mow their vaunted lawns every day. And we have to remove snow three times a day so that the roads are clean. Well, what can you do - the climate is like that. But no reagent that corrodes the soles of the boots.
The guard stopped in the middle of the road, straightened the belt of the machine gun thrown behind his back and turned towards the guarded object.
The entrance to the object was closed by forged double-leaf gates. On each sash there is a bizarre monogram, similar to a lowercase letter “v”, inscribed in a vertically elongated oval formed by a line drawn from the lower tail of the letter. At the top are peaks. In appearance, the gates seem to be light, performing a decorative function rather than protecting the object from unauthorized entry. However, they can only be landed with a tank. The guard saw how these gates were tested for strength. The doors didn't even sway when the Mercedes rammed them at full speed. But the vertical bars of thirty centimeters crashed into the hood of the car. To pull it, I had to adjust the tractor. So the only passage to the territory of the boarding house is through the duty room, which is to the left of the gate. In appearance, the duty room also looks like a decorative extension, but in fact it is fortified so that it can withstand many hours of siege. The guard in the duty room just needs to press a button to block the door and lower steel shields with narrow slots of loopholes onto the windows.
Behind the gates is a snow-swept park with paths running to the sides. Trees stand bare, heat-loving bushes are covered with a special polymer film, flower beds and flower ridges are covered here and there with colored shavings peeping out from under the snow. Three guards ply the paths of the garden. The guard at the gate saw only one of his colleagues. But the other two were also somewhere nearby. They walk along the paths of the park even at night, by the light of lanterns.
After seven alters escaped from the boarding house, the facility's security service was reorganized. In fact, this meant that several high-ranking heads flew. The security company that provided security at the Boarding House No. 45 was liquidated. And the guards, who were unfortunate enough to be on duty that night, are now on duty somewhere o-very far away. So far that even the name of this place few people know. And who knows, he prefers not to remember. There are rumors that even the director of the company that installed the video surveillance system at the facility did not go around the world, but sat down, seriously and for a long time. It’s always like this with us - they begin to put things in order only after the roasted rooster has done its job.
Three people near the main and only gate. One is on the street, two are on duty. The three are walking along the paths of the park. Three - at the entrance to the building, which is at the other end of the park. Two more patrol the perimeter from the outside. All with weapons. All in full combat readiness. It is not clear only what they are guarding now, if there is not a single alter in the boarding house? And from the entire staff there was one doctor. And he has no idea what he's doing. Although, of course, no one requires understanding from the guards. They have a different task.
The guard tilted his head to the other side to tuck his right ear into his collar. The frost, of course, is not so strong as to freeze your ears, but why not warm it up if possible.
To be honest, even despite the constant checks and annoying briefings, work at the Boarding House Number Forty-Five facility is the best of all that he had. Silence, peace, excellent feeding and fresh forest air - what else could a guard wish for? In the summer, it will be grace at all. The boarding house is located away from the roads and public recreation areas, so there are no casual passers-by and even more so cars here. The locals know that there is a sensitive, guarded object here, which, out of harm's way, is better to bypass. For the really stupid, frightening signs are hung everywhere: “The object is under protection. Entrance is strictly by pass. Violation is a criminal offence." Well, who will come here after this?
The guard on the park path greeted a colleague on the other side of the gate with a raised hand. Reciprocating the same gesture, the guard at the gate looked at his watch. Another twenty minutes - and you can go to the duty room to drink hot tea with a royal sandwich. He will spread ketchup on the bread, put on it a thick piece of ham, two rings of salami, a slice of onion, a lettuce leaf, a slice of maazdam, smear mayonnaise on top and cover with another piece of bread. A story, not a sandwich!
Adjusting his automatic belt with a habitual movement, the guard turned his back to the gate. He whistled softly in surprise.
A strange type, who had just come out of the forest belt, was briskly stomping along the virgin snow. He was wearing an orange construction suit and a blue plastic hard hat on his head. In his hand he held an object that looked great like a mesh string bag, which in the old days all conscious citizens of the country of the Soviets always carried in their pocket, in case something suddenly “thrown out” in a nearby store.
Seeing the guard looking at him, the man waved his hand.
The guard cursed silently. Such a good day - no wind, sunny. The snow sparkles, as if sprinkled with diamond dust. Tea and a royal sandwich are waiting for him in the duty room. Everything is great! Just great! So no, the hard one brought some weirdo. Which was quite specifically directed to the gate of the protected object.
Without taking his eyes off the man in the orange overalls, the guard walked sideways to the duty room and banged his fist on the door a couple of times.
The door opened.
- What? - a security guard with red hair like fire and a scattering of large freckles all over his face looked out from the duty room.
- Look. The guard at the gate pointed to the guest.
The redhead chuckled and hid behind the door.
Almost immediately, the door swung open wide. Both guards who were there, red-haired and dark-haired, in short-brimmed sheepskin coats thrown over their shoulders, ran out of the duty room. The dark-haired one was holding half of the sausage sandwich he was eating when the red-haired one informed him of the impending invasion of the protected area.
Barely glancing at the man walking in the snow, the black-haired man immediately issued a verdict:
- Some kind of moron, - and bit off a piece of bread with butter and sausage.
“He seems to be barefoot,” the guard at the gate said, not very confidently.
The redhead took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket and put them to his eyes.
“Sure, barefoot,” he confirmed.
- Exactly - a psycho, - the dark-haired man confirmed his initial diagnosis and put the last piece of a sandwich into his mouth.
“Stop him,” the redhead said to the guard at the gate.
- How? - he did not understand.
- Tell him to stop.
The guard took a step forward.
- Hey! You there! For persuasion, he raised his hand. - I order you to stop! You are in a protected area!
The man walking barefoot in the snow waved his hand again. But he didn't even slow down.
Maybe he's deaf? The dark one suggested.
“You still have to draw up a detention,” the redhead drawled dejectedly.
Making a detention means filling out a pile of papers that no one needs, but required by the protocol.
Stop, they tell you! the guard shouted again.
This time, for persuasiveness, he pulled a machine gun from behind his back.
- Maybe call the doctor that lives in a boarding house? The dark one chuckled.
“He's an expert on alters, not psychos,” the redhead replied.
- What we are going to do? asked the one with the gun.
Well, if he wants to. The redhead pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket and deftly twirled them around his finger. Let's meet the wishes of the working people!
A man in orange overalls and a blue helmet stopped three paces from the guards. He really was barefoot. His overalls were far from new, stained with grease and with a hole in his right knee. In his shopping bag he had several plastic bags filled with some dark liquid, and one thick book. The man was short and unprepossessing. His face seemed like a thousand faces that you see in a crowd and immediately forget as you pass by. But his gaze was so confident that the guards even somehow felt uneasy. It seemed that this psycho barefoot sees through them all, knows all their ins and outs.
“Hello,” the stranger said in a simple, casual tone.
“Hi,” the dark-haired man nodded displeasedly.
The rest didn't respond at all.
“I'm not crazy,” said the stranger.
“You can see it,” the redhead chuckled wryly.
- What's in your net? the black-haired man asked.
- Book. Ulysses by James Joyce.
- What are the packages?
- Hemacones. They store donated blood.
– Where did you get them?
- Are you really interested?
- So, let's get to the point, - the one with the machine gun intervened. - Since you are walking with a book, it means that you know how to read?
“Yes, I can,” the barefoot man confirmed.
Have you seen the boards? That the territory is protected?
“I saw it,” the stranger did not deny.
- Why did you come then?
- I need to go to the boarding house. The stranger pointed out the gate.
- For what? the guard repeated his question.
“Doctor Kartsev is waiting for me.
The guards looked at each other.
“This is the same doctor who lives in the boarding house,” the barefoot man confirmed.
“We don’t know his name,” the dark-haired man shook his head.
"You're not supposed to know that," the stranger smiled faintly. - You must protect the territory.
“That's what we're going to do now. The redhead showed the handcuffs to the stranger. - Throw your bag on the ground, turn your back on me and put your hands behind your back.
“First, I can’t see the ground,” said the barefoot man.
- So, throw it in the snow.
“Second, you can't handcuff me.
- Why so? The redhead squinted curiously.
You can say that I am not in your power. Or that it's not in your power. What do you like better?
“I just asked you to take me to the boarding house,” the barefoot man shook his head in dismay. - Is it really that hard to do?
The redhead nodded briefly to the black-haired one:
- Let's take it.
And they immediately rushed to the stranger.
He didn't even move. He only raised his free hand and quickly touched the forehead of the dark-haired one who was the first to be next to him. Only then did he take a step back. Bending at the waist, the dark-haired one abruptly leaned forward, ran by momentum two more steps and fell, burying his face in the snow.
- Oh you!..
It seemed to the redhead that the stranger had knocked his friend down with a blow. He intercepted the handcuffs with all five and swung to hit the opponent in the temple.
But the barefoot man evaded the blow with surprising ease. Without making unnecessary movements, he moved as if he knew exactly what each of the guards would do next. Turning on his heel, he pushed up the barrel of the machine gun pointed at him and quickly ran his fingertips over the forehead of the machine gunner. An expression of extreme surprise appeared on the face of the guard, which immediately turned into a mask of utter serenity. The guard tried to take a step, but lost his balance and fell. First on the back, and then on the back. Yes, he remained lying, holding a machine gun in one hand and staring at the sky with an empty, meaningless gaze.
Seeing that things were getting really bad, the redhead dropped the handcuffs and pulled the pistol out of its holster.
The stranger looked at the Colt in the guard's hands and smiled.
“Do you think I can catch a bullet?”
Looking at the imperturbably calm face of a stranger, the red-haired guard involuntarily backed away.
And the stranger took a step forward.
And then the guard pulled the trigger.
There was a muffled pop. A puff of gray powder smoke rose from the barrel of the pistol.
At that very moment, or perhaps a moment before, the stranger waved his hand in front of him. As if he wanted to catch an annoying fly. But what kind of flies in winter?
For a moment, everything around seemed to freeze. The sounds seemed to be frozen in the frosty air. The guard's hand, in which he held the pistol, seemed to stiffen. He couldn't lift it up or down. So he held it in front of him, looking at the smoke enveloping the barrel.
Then the stranger held out his fisted hand and extended his fingers to the sides.
There was a bullet in the palm of my hand.
The barefoot man threw a bullet in, caught it with two fingers, and immediately, continuing the movement of his hand, threw it into the redhead's forehead.
An idiotically happy expression appeared on the guard's face. His legs buckled. He fell to his knees, fell to one side, and remained lying with his arm tucked behind his back and his knees drawn up to his stomach.
Without even looking at him, the barefoot man threw a string bag with a book over his shoulder and, whistling softly something from Bowie, walked towards the duty room.
With a snap of his fingers, he unlocked the turnstile, walked through to the other side, and out into the park.
Alarmed by the sound of the gunshot, two guards patrolling the park ran towards the gate. The guards didn't even glance at the man in the orange jumpsuit and blue helmet coming towards them. They were only human and couldn't see the Master if he didn't want to.
The master extended his hand and lightly stroked the cheek of a guard who ran beside him with two fingers. He seemed to stumble on the run, sharply leaned forward with his whole body, ran two more steps by inertia and fell, spreading his arms to the sides.
The second guard, who stared at his comrade in surprise, was patted on the shoulder by the Master. And he, too, sank into the snow.
The third guard stood at the intersection of five paths. He seemed to be choosing which one to follow. The master made it easy for him to choose. He touched the button on the guard's sheepskin coat with his finger, then stepped over his body and went on.
The Master spent twenty years and two months within the walls of this boarding house. During all this time, he only saw the park once - when, together with other alters, he ran away from the boarding house. But then it was night. In the light of the lanterns along the paths, the park looked bewitchingly mysterious. It seemed that it was enough to step on one of its paths to get lost forever among the causes, spaces, times. By daylight, the garden was beautiful. Even though the trees were bare, the bushes were covered with polymer films, and only three colors filled the space around: white and black below, piercing blue above. Silence, peace and tranquility reigned around.
The world was not just good, but perfect. It was impossible to change anything in it. Every detail was in its place. Everything was full of meaning and meaning. Never before had the Master felt such peace. He even decided not to touch the guards near the building. But they ruined everything. They jumped out from different directions, pointed their machine guns at him and began to demand that he throw the shopping bag on the snow, put his hands behind his head and kneel down. For starters, they should have thought about how he managed to get to the main building, passing everyone who was in his path. They preferred not to think, but to act.
Humans are still unimaginably primitive.
Chapter 1
Stalker
Sharkov looked through photographs selected by the Kaiser universal search engine for signs of external resemblance to the embodied alter in a leather jacket and bandana, whom he had been trying to find for the third month. Access to the Kaiser UPS was provided to him by the curator Bapikov. Before, Igor did not even know about the existence of a search engine that could bring together all the information about all the inhabitants of the country, obtained from a variety of sources, from the use of travel tickets, passes and bank cards to video footage from all working surveillance cameras. Yes, it just didn't make much sense. In all available photographs, the alter's face looked like a deep finger smear on wet paint.
The only conclusion that could be drawn on the basis of the data obtained was that Alter traveled a lot. But there was no order in his movements around the country. Comparing the detection points of the alter, the Kaiser's automatic localization system came to the conclusion that Moscow was his permanent place of residence. But Sharkov himself guessed about this. The system failed to more accurately indicate the possible location of the alter.
Alter never used credit cards. But he apparently had plenty of other documents. He ordered train or plane tickets via the Internet, each time under a new name. Sharkov decided that he could catch on to this. There are not many specialists who can make a high-quality forged document. And none of them will work with a stranger. So, it was possible to try to reach the alter through them. But when Sharkov shared his thoughts with Bapikov, he said that all this was nonsense.
– Have you carefully read the materials on the Kungur incident? Bapikov asked.
- Of course. - Sharkov was even offended by such a question.
“And what document did our alter use there?”
He showed the security guard the ID of a colonel from the "O" division.
“Now, what sane specialist would take on the forgery of an officer’s certificate from the “O” division?” He knows perfectly well that as soon as at least one fake document of any of the units that has at least some relation to the Eternity project emerges, such a wave will rise that few will seem to anyone. The manufacturer of the fake will be found at any cost and will arrange such a public flogging that henceforth it would not be customary for anyone to engage in such cases. Not for any money.
- It turns out that the guard from the Kungur polyclinic lied?
“No, he did see the ID of a colonel from O Division. Although in fact there was no certificate. Some incarnated alters have unique suggestion abilities. He can show you a photo of Marilyn Monroe and convince you that this is a portrait of a back protector.
- It turns out that the documents on which he issued tickets do not actually exist?
“Exactly,” Bapikov nodded. - Look for other clues.
Sharkov searched. But the more he puzzled over this case, the more obvious it became that with the help of ordinary operational-search measures, the incarnated alter could not be reached. Possessing truly inhuman abilities, the alter easily bypassed the traps that trivial criminals fell into. He was smarter, faster, and more resourceful than anyone Senior Lieutenant Sharkov had to deal with before. What could the hunter come up with, if even the Kaiser, having shoveled through a bunch of information, could not even get close to this damn alter?
But Sharkov was not going to give up. The hunter does his job, performing precise, automatic actions. One by one. In a certain once and for all sequence. What Sharkov was doing now was like extracting gold in the most artisanal way - with the help of a basin of water. Here it was important not only and, perhaps, not even so much exact calculation, but painstaking and systematic, as well as chance and luck. Sharkov himself would have laughed if someone had told him about this six months ago. But now he methodically, again and again, sorted through all the available facts, most of which he gained access to only thanks to Bapikov. He systematized, compared, rejected, looked for connections. The elusive alter turned into a fixed idea for him. It became a challenge, accepting which Sharkov could no longer back down. He led the hunt for a cunning and dangerous beast, the most dangerous predator of all that has ever existed on Earth. The sophisticated human mind, multiplied by superhuman abilities, made him invulnerable. But the fact that the alter, most likely, himself believed in his own invulnerability, sooner or later had to lead him to a mistake. Let not a serious mistake, but a tiny miscalculation. Sharkov's task was to notice this golden grain among the sand stirred up by water.
But there was another reason why Sharkov exhausted himself with work. The calendar counted down one day after another, and there was no news from the ill-fated alter from boarding house number forty-five, whom he and Kartsev sent to the lair of free alters. If he doesn't show up, the heads of Dr. Kartsev and Senior Lieutenant Sharkov will be the first to fly off their shoulders. And even if this is only a figurative expression, there was no doubt that their future life would be harsh, like winter in Siberia, and bleak, like the everyday life of a goldsmith in a dysentery hut.
While working on it, you could almost forget about it. Or pretend to forget. Like, I'm all like this, in business, I need to catch the embodied alter, but I don't care about anything else.
To distract himself, Sharkov typed in the Kaiser's search box the name: “Yulia Alekseevna Levchenko. Location".
"Kaiser" immediately pointed to a point on the map and threw out a label: "Pension No. 1."
Well, that means that Yulia was not kicked out of work - already good.
However, the curator made it clear that all decisions on the organizers of the escape of the alters from boarding house number forty-five would be made after it became clear whether their idea had worked or not. Kartsev expected that the alter specially prepared by him would return in two or three weeks. A month passed - the alter did not return. Sharkov did not lose hope. Because otherwise there will be nothing at all.
Sharkov really wanted to talk to Dr. Kartsev. He assumed that Victor might have some ideas about why the alter was delayed. After all, he not only knew him personally, but also programmed his consciousness. However, this was not possible. Sharkov's every step was carefully watched. Each of his sneeze was evaluated by experts. Having no idea how his call to Kartsev would be regarded, Igor decided that it was better not to give the observers any extra information for reflection at all. Therefore, all the time he worked, he sat in the tiny room that was allocated to him, and worked hard. Well, or pretended to work.
Next to the name of Yulia Sharkov entered a new query: "Parents".
“Mother: Levchenko (Samusina) Tatyana Andreevna.
Place of birth - Moscow.
Higher education.
Graduated from the Pedagogical Institute.
Specialty - teacher of biology and chemistry.
Currently, she is a housewife.
“Father: Levchenko Alexey Igorevich.
Place of birth - Moscow.
Higher education.
Graduated - (space).
Specialty - (space).
Place of work - Division "M".
Sharkov clicked on the name of Yulia's father to get detailed information about him. But in response, a red warning message lit up on the screen:
“ACCESS FIRST CIRCLE!!!
ENTER YOUR PERSONAL ID NUMBER!!!"
In order not to enter into an argument with a stupid machine, Sharkov pressed the button to cancel the command.
Leaning back in his chair, Sharkov stared at the bare wall opposite. Light gray color soothed and gave the eyes a rest.
Despite its tiny size, the room was proudly called an office. I wonder who sat in this room before him?
In fact, Igor was not very interested in knowing this. I just needed something to unwind. Julia, I remember, said that she reads poetry when she wants to unwind. Sharkov did not like poetry. Or - did not understand. Basically, there is no difference. Therefore, in order to distract himself, he thought about all sorts of nonsense.
The room that was now his office was at the back of a corridor that ran along the office of the head of Unit O and turned right just behind him. Before, Sharkov did not even suspect the existence of this nook. The door of Jamalov's office has always been the final destination of his march along the corridor. But if there was a room, then someone must have occupied it. That's the way it is in government agencies. There is no other way.
Sharkov again turned his gaze to the computer screen, on which four multi-colored pie charts were placed. Two clearly demonstrated the distribution of attendance of the officially non-existent, and therefore blocked site alter.ru, depending on the region and the day of the week. The other two displayed the age and gender status of visitors to the same site. Not trusting the data that the visitors themselves indicated, Kaiser made its own conclusions about the age and gender of users, based on the nature of their records. Sharkov himself did not yet know why he needed this information. On the one hand, it could come in handy, on the other hand, he tested the capabilities of the Kaiser, which seemed limitless, but at the same time had no practical application. Perhaps because Igor has not yet learned to fully use all the features of the search engine.
There was a gentle knock on the door.
With a habitual movement, Sharkov turned off the screen.
- Sign in.
The door opened slightly, and a messenger peeked into the room.
- Allow me, comrade senior lieutenant?
“Come on,” Sharkov waved his hand.
The messenger entered the room and gently closed the door behind him. A very young guy, twenty years old, no more. Skinny, lanky. Face with small pockmarks and pimples. Dressed in a simple dark blue suit with a white shirt. The black and gold striped tie is tied in a wide knot, which looks rather ridiculous. The sleeves of the jacket are a little short, as if from someone else's shoulder. Although, perhaps, the way it is - you can’t really shine on a sergeant’s salary. The guy probably only dreams of how to transfer from staff work to a squad of hunters.
Sharkov silently nodded and dismissed the messenger with a gesture.
How interesting it turns out: the senior lieutenant is a comrade, and the curator is already a master. Because he doesn't have a military rank? Or for some other reason?
The curator always sent a messenger for Sharkov. The curator didn't like phones. Sharkov only once saw him talking on his cell phone with his superiors. In fact, it was hard to even call it a conversation. Bapikov pressed the button to receive the call, silently listened to what he was told, and likewise, without saying a word, pressed the end call button. That's the whole conversation. Apparently, the curator not only disliked phones, but did not trust them. Apparently, because he knew the possibilities of modern means of collecting information better than many others. The same "Kaiser" with whom Sharkov tried to establish mutual understanding could instantly connect to any working phone. It was only necessary to indicate the corresponding number. And enter the access code to listen to it.
Sharkov switched on the screen again for a second to make sure that it was password protected, got to his feet, buttoned his jacket with all the buttons, straightened the skirts, straightened the cuffs and ran his hands through his hair. Order. Now he was ready.
Sharkov left the room and carefully locked the door with a key.
The curator of the power sector of the Committee of Eternal Security, the head of the special department, Yuri Stanislavovich Bapikov, occupied the office of Colonel Vadim Dzhamalov, who was officially still listed as the head of the "O" unit. However, from the moment the curator Bapikov appeared in the unit entrusted to him, Jamalov diligently kept aloof from everything that was happening. Mainly because he did not understand what was actually happening and how it would affect his future career. Jamalov was an excellent servant, a kind of good reducer, transmitting orders from a higher command to subordinates and demanding their strict execution. But he did not know how to calculate complex, multi-way combinations. Under him, the hunter squads worked clearly, like a Swiss watch. Until a tiny grain of sand got into the mechanism - a free embodied alter. Not being ready for such a situation, Jamalov preferred to push all the work of finding the troublemaker to Sharkov. In the event that Sharkov manages to grab the alter, all the laurels will go to the wise leader. If the atrocities of the alter continue, Sharkov alone will have to answer.
In principle, the calculation was correct. Only absolutely in the spirit of Jamalov - very straightforward. The colonel did not take into account the fact that Sharkov could start his game. Which led to the fact that Bapikov, the curator of the KVB sector, appeared in the “O” division. And Colonel Jamalov was put out of his own office. Therefore, Sharkov had no illusions about the feelings that Jamalov had about him. If Bapikov becomes disappointed in Sharkov, the curator will not even have to come up with a punishment for him. It will be enough to give it to Jamalov. And he will make sure that Sharkov suffers as long as possible, preferably until the end of his days.
Sharkov knocked on the door of Jamalov's former office and entered without waiting for an answer. Bapikov terribly disliked all these army “permits”, “exactly”, “no way”. He was an exceptionally collected person and did not want to be distracted by completely useless, from his point of view, formalities.
Having thrown Jamalov out of the office, Bapikov did not occupy his large desk, confidently standing on four lion's paws spread out to the sides, with a marble paperweight and a gilded writing set. Anyone who sat down at such a table immediately began to appear taller, more solid and wider in the shoulders. Perhaps this is exactly what the curator did not like Jamalov's table. Unlike the colonel, he did not try to emphasize his own importance. Because she was already clear.
Bapikov chose a place for himself in the center of a long conference table. He sat directly opposite the entrance, facing the door, under a large portrait of a spin-protector in a heavy, gilded frame. There was an open laptop in front of the curator. To the right is a cup of tea and a large dish of pies painted in blue flowers. Bapikov liked to chew on something while he worked. But not with strangers. For Sharkov, he made an exception - either he did not consider him an outsider, or he did not take him into account at all. To the right of the laptop were the curator's smartphone, a thick leather-bound notepad, and a large gold-cased fountain pen. Even at their very first meeting, the curator made it clear to Sharkov that all these items were used not only for their intended purpose. The closer to "Eternity", the more opportunities, but also the stricter control.
The problem of alters seems to be insoluble, since those who are able to solve it do not recognize methods other than force. According to the authorities, a good alter is an alter locked in a special boarding house. Tension in the relationship between people and alters creates an explosive situation. And it is at this moment that the Master enters the game - the legendary alter, about whom they say that nothing is impossible for him. But what his goals are, no one knows yet. And to top it all off, out of nowhere, wild alters appear - creatures obsessed with a thirst for blood, whose animal instincts have prevailed over the human mind ...
The work was published in 2016 by the Eksmo publishing house. The book is part of the "Ultimate Weapon" series. On our site you can download the book "Wandering Mind" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The rating of the book is 5 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also refer to the reviews of readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In the online store of our partner you can buy and read the book in paper form.
