Бесплатный фрагмент - Classic science fiction. Stories and tales

Classic science fiction. Stories and tales.

Fedir Tytarchuk

Instead of a foreword and explanation

Good day to you, dear reader of this stock. The author of the following stories would like to express their gratitude to you for, in our age of endless scrolling and short memes, daring even to pick up a book, let alone manage to read it, comprehend it, and make what you glean from it part of your inner world. I hope that you are exactly such a reader.

So, what is this book about?!

In your hands, you hold a collection of works primarily in the genre of science fiction. Why primarily? The thing is, over time, the boundaries of what constitutes a fantastic work have become so blurred that it seems fantasy has knocked on our door and become a part of our everyday life. It’s not like the 1960s-70s, the golden age of what was called science fiction, or simply “hard” sci-fi. Back then, everything seemed simpler, at least to the author. But now, as the author is sure, it’s far more interesting.

But let’s not wander into historical thickets and return to this collection. So…

This anthology includes works by Fedor Tytarchuk / Fedir Tytarchuk that have not been previously published or translated.

The collection contains individual stories from several of the author’s series, such as Roblings or His Highness’s Creative Bureau, as well as standalone works that are not connected to each other. The works are rich in humor, irony, and sometimes even sarcasm, and therefore, at first reading, may seem more entertaining than thought-provoking. But believe me, as with any multilayered work, behind the veil of lightness and irony, you can always discern what truly interests and concerns the author.

The theme of this collection, as mentioned earlier, is science fiction. However, the author does not limit themselves to this genre alone. Their “arsenal” also includes a children’s series about a girl named Alenka and the Little Steam Engines living in an enchanted forest… or much “sharper” works, closer to art-house or urban fiction (for example, I Offer You Contempt), which we hope will also be translated from Russian and Ukrainian into other languages. And believe me, this is not the full extent of the author’s repertoire…

For now, you hold the author’s works in the genre of science fiction, and if you enjoy the stories, you are welcome to write to the author, share your impressions, and even support the author in translating their works into other languages. Unfortunately, the rules of this publishing house do not allow an email address to be placed at the beginning of the book (only at the end), so you can find the contact information by scrolling to the final pages.

And yes, the illustrations… The publisher requests that the authorship of the graphic material used in the book be indicated (such are the rules), so I comply — all images used in this book belong to the author and were either created by him or, at his request/assignment, by his wife and daughter. Links to their accounts will also be provided at the end of the book.

And now, dear reader — onward! Read and enjoy!!!

Table of Contents

Instead of a foreword and explanation

From the Cycle — “His Holiness’s Creative Bureau”

His Holiness’s Creative Bureau

From the Cycle — “Workaday Life. Ordinary People”

Workaday Life. Ordinary “People”.

A banal story. Or just one day in the life of an ordinary grocery worker.

The Cellar of the “World Rulers”

From the Cycle — “Roblings / Tales for Roblings”

A Tale about the Creators

The Last Summer Day

“Fresh” Proton

The ship “Trouble” and Captain “Clueless”

From the Cycle — The Jolly Locomotive Choo-Chukhin and His Friends

Prologue…

Baba Yaga and Her Plan to Turn Chew-Chookhin the Engine into Spoons

Stories Outside the Cycles

The World of the Big Show

“SPIRITUAL WORLD”

The Little Uh-oo-Hoo and the First Halloween

The Mercenary-Pinocchio Bar

Who needs you, Sam?

Instead of an epilogue

From the Cycle — “His Holiness’s Creative Bureau”

His Holiness’s Creative Bureau

— Greetings to the geniuses of creativity and jest! — the lanky Alavur barged into the room. His partner, short, wiry, but very charismatic Zalibvang, merely waved in response, rolling in his wheeled chair while sipping a thick, resin-colored drink.

— Your tan is downright infernal! Only… your halo has turned blue, he remarked. How was the vacation?

— Vacation! — Alavur collapsed into his chair. Only memories remain of it.

— And? — the start of a workday in the creative department was always dull and dreary, so Zalibvang demanded details.

— The beaches of the Underworld — a paradise! — he quoted their joint creation, once specifically made for advertising tourism in the Underworld.

— Was it really as wonderful as in our posters?

— I’d say our posters don’t even capture a hundredth of the pleasures Hell has to offer a tourist.

— Well, don’t confuse tourism with immigration! — Zalibvang laughed. I hope sinners haven’t vanished from Hell yet? — he winked at his colleague.

— There’s plenty of that! — the viscous, resin-like liquid oozed from the dispenser and fell to the bottom of Alavur’s cup. Entertainment for every taste! Legalized prostitution with holy men and old maids, beast safaris, or tongue chops from blabbermouths! All ten sins enacted! Not life, but a sweet, heavenly dream!

— Though our salary only covers a couple of weeks in paradise! — Zalibvang smirked.

— Not the worst situation we could be in, — Alavur retorted. Crisis. The flow of fresh souls grows daily, and on Earth, who knows what’s going on, so we have nothing to complain about…

— That’s true, — Zalibvang agreed. The other day, while you were away, someone from the Complaints Department — you know, the ones handling grievances like “for the attention of the Almighty’s office,” “to the boiling cauldrons,” “malicious nonsense,” and such, — he explained, sipping a second cup of the resin-like substance — almost became a father?

— What’s so surprising about that? — his colleague didn’t understand.

— Wait, don’t interrupt! — Zalibvang waved him off. A complaint comes through their line. A parishioner pleads something like: “A heavenly angel entered my chambers and possessed me! He said our son will become the ruler of the world…” and similar nonsense. In another situation, such cases would be sent straight to the cauldrons in the Underworld, but here, a rookie from the same department noticed the potential danger of a precedent, similar to one that happened before and led to… well, you know what.

— Yeah, we had to really spin the “Son of God’ thing. In my opinion, the result turned out excellent!

— So this young demon saw the probable danger and sent it all “where it should go!”

— No way! — Alavur exclaimed. Really there? — he gestured somewhere upwards.

— Exactly! — Zalibvang confirmed. And as you understand, they don’t like jokes up there.

— Indeed, Yezhov, Müller, Beria, and even Iron Felix weren’t trained for nothing…

— Did they even have a choice?

— That’s another matter, — Alavur tried to steer the conversation back on track. What about this fake father?

— They tracked down the complainant, interrogated her thoroughly, which is why she immediately went to a monastery upon return, believing she had contacted the forces of Hell. But they caught the “father’…

— And?

— It turned out to be a low-ranking clerk from the same Complaints Department. He took advantage of his position, so to speak. While reviewing complaints, he would select such — pious and foolish women from remote villages — and study their way of life… — Zalibvang smiled; he found the story amusing. — That’s how it worked out: by day, a quiet, unnoticed clerk in a third-tier position of a second-rate department, and by night — a seducing maniac.

— Oh, really! — Alavur exclaimed. — No one has lifted the ban on intercourse with mortals yet! — he concluded. — Back in the day, we had our fair share of trouble from incidents like that.

— If he had only gone down the “Seduction of Wards” route, it would have ended there, — Zalibvang winked. — But the Divine Security and Arbitrary Justice Service cannot allow such trifles. So the guy went a completely different route! — the liquid in his cup was gone, and he disdainfully tossed it onto the table. — This smells like “Usurpation of the Throne and the Name of the Almighty.” So they’re taking our maniac to the tower.

— Indeed, the tower is a punishment I wouldn’t wish even on an enemy, — shuddered Alavur. — Being thrown into the world of humans, into this abyss of passions, disorder, and arbitrariness…

— And having to follow all of God’s commandments!

— That’s the ultimate injustice! — Alavur agreed. — And why did we even create them back then?

— It was necessary, — Zalibvang nodded knowingly. — Otherwise, the concept wouldn’t have worked.

— You know better, — the colleague agreed. — What will happen to the guy? Do you think he can wriggle out of this? Or… downwards?

— A demon wriggle out of the angels of the DSSAJ? Don’t make me laugh. Once they get a demon in their claws…

— Sometimes I think it would be better if demons ran the DSSAJ. At least you could negotiate with them.

— Blasphemous thoughts! — Zalibvang flared up as the speaker. — Meanwhile, all our thoughts and deeds may be documented in the Heavenly Chancellery.

— Even if that’s so, I haven’t said anything blasphemous, — corrected Alavur. — For the record, — he shouted upwards, emitting snickering sounds. — There were times when demons ran the service… and they managed…

— You’re really stretching it… — Zalibvang waved him off, though without any real concern.

— Do you know what the she-devils in the Underworld are like?! — Alavur threw his hands behind his head, lost in sweet memories. — Slim legs, firm exposed buttocks, well-groomed hooves. And the eyes! Eyes full of fire!! Nothing like our pale haloed pegasi with cornflower-blue eyes.

— That’s a matter of taste! — Zalibvang disagreed. — Some prefer ostentatious holiness…

— Certainly not you! — Alavur slapped him on the shoulder. — Who of us was married to a demoness?

The story of marriage to the fiery-eyed Zharin was a sore spot for Zalibvang, even though more than two years had passed. Their passion lasted briefly, but left a fresh wound in Zalibvang’s heart. In the end, Zharin left for the curator of their department, whom Zalibvang had introduced her to at one of the evenings.

— Well, anyway, — Alavur tried to fix the situation, realizing his slip. — While I was away, what’s new here?

Zalibvang, losing his desire to joke and share gossip, turned to work:

— According to the data from the Analytical Department, the rating of His Holiness, the Almighty, has fallen below the red line. All religions and ideologies, without exception, are losing influence among their flocks. Incentives like Heaven or Communism, promises of eternal punishment, or lack of resources in their world no longer draw people to God. The world is becoming godless and sliding into sinfulness.

— Oh! What a revelation! — Alavur smirked. — His Holiness’ rating has been falling for centuries. The life cycle of this civilization has already passed the saturation stage and is on a decline.

— And up there, they concluded, — Zalibvang pointed at the ceiling with such significance that Alavur fell silent mid-sentence. — They concluded that half-measures would no longer suffice here.

— How so, not suffice? — Alavur asked in surprise. — Maybe a new religion?

— No way! — Zalibvang cut him off. — Remember how we once developed the first primitive religions?!

— Of course! — Alavur laughed. — All that worship of the rising sun and dances around the totem or the fire. Yes, those were the times. We were really carried away back then… We had just started after the old team… And there was a lot of work.

— Humanity was fragmented then — that’s a fact. Each tribe had its own religion, its own beliefs, its own sacred objects…

— But admit it, we slacked a lot back then. Copies of sun worship and night deity…

— There wasn’t enough time and strength, — Zalibvang agreed. — And now, the researchers on Earth are scratching their heads, wondering how in these fragmented tribes, which never had contact with each other, beliefs and legends turned out so similar?

— They search for progenitors. They invent legends themselves… We could learn from them. — Alavur joked.

— Well, they asked for an intern and an assistant from the newly appeared ones… Didn’t work out.

— And how funny it turned out with the Olympians! — Alavur laughed, lost in memories.

— We really overdid it back then, — Zalibvang did not enjoy this topic very much. — Overdid it, and the project was burning. The emerging cultural society had to be urgently directed into the right channel…

— So we created the cult of wine, female beauty, and…

— And sacrifices! — Zalibvang quipped.

— Well, if a hangover headache was blamed on stale meat, — the partner reminded him. — And whose phrase was it then: “Let it all burn!”?

— Yes, it turned out funny. And interestingly, the Council approved the idea at first glance.

— We had just returned from a party. Thinking along the same lines… — Alavur recalled. — I remember more the battle for atheism. Two years of debate over whether it would undermine faith in His Holiness, mislead people, or allow the Demon Scum to seize power.

— It was quite a battle, — Zalibvang agreed. — The haloed ones defended the sanctity and infallibility of His Holiness foaming at the mouth, while the hoofed demons demanded change and freedom for the earthly flock…

— And we got what we got — a compromise that satisfied no one, but was executed strictly according to instructions and thus produced the most unforeseen results.

— That’s how it goes! — Zalibvang agreed. — Remember the instruction error regarding the number of fingers for the sign of the cross…

— A small typo on Earth sparked a war. So, a new religion is out of the question?

— Nope… — Zalibvang teased. — The Analytical Department claims that Earth’s population has developed a stable immunity to various religious and ideological teachings. Worship of the “golden wallet” doesn’t count, of course, as it does not exalt His Holiness.

— Then the concept — wealth tied to faith in His Holiness…

— Money is the prerogative of the one whose name must not be spoken…

— Then a prophet or a saint for that!

— The last of the prophets ended his days in an asylum…

— And what about a regional war in the name of faith?

— They’ve launched about five of those already. They fight, and the result is the same…

Without noticing, they shifted from casual chatter to discussing work matters.

— Social upheaval…

— Happened. The revival was envisioned completely differently…

— And?

— The outdated system collapsed and gave way to what led to the fall of faith and, consequently, His position. So we no longer dabble in social upheavals. Taboo.

— Then a cultural revolution?

— Happened. The last one — sexual…

— Yeah… — Alavur recalled how the demons gleefully rubbed their hairy paws when hearing the results of this activity. Back then, they say, His Holiness even suspected his own creatives of conspiring with demons and the one… whose name was avoided.

— Crisis of worldview!

— Yes, the whole world is a single crisis now. Some more, some less — no one will notice…

— A new pseudo-religion?

— We don’t know what to do with the old ones. And sometimes we have to fight the emerging ones.

— A natural cataclysm?

— If there is one, it will have catastrophic consequences. Everything here is heading toward…

— You mean the purge?

— The purge itself! — Zalibvang smiled. — And if we don’t find a solution here, it will end with it.

The last purge, which entered many religions as the Great Flood, was a reaction to losing control of the situation. Someone might have argued against such a decision, but once it was made up there, it was not discussed.

— Are you serious? — Alavur could hardly believe his ears.

— As serious as it gets, — Zalibvang confirmed. — Information comes through the most trusted channels.

Alavur knew all these channels perfectly well. Another secretary in one of the departments, spilling secrets under compromising circumstances. Alavur sometimes suspected that, given Zalibvang’s number of lustful escapades, he would be better suited somewhere in the demonic quarters, but born “in the light,” he remained haloed and served in His Holiness’ creative department.

The purge was not a first-time event and each time changed the balance of power both within the hierarchy and between the haloed and demonic forces. The latter constantly tried to seize the attention of His Holiness, if not outright usurp the throne. Many specialists, valuable in a world populated with enough humans, became unnecessary and, at best, remained on minimal salaries awaiting changes, or were simply dismissed in a day. The creative department belonged to such sections — His Holiness’ tool, the brain, and source of ideas that would otherwise be useless. Last time, Alavur and his partner somehow survived, endured boredom, even invented chess and played until unconsciousness, but what would happen this time — they did not know.

To say that Alavur and Zalibvang were in good standing with His Holiness would be an exaggeration. As creative beings, sometimes indulging in forbidden substances, maintaining ties with the hostile camp, occasionally receiving gifts from them, and even having relations with female demons, they did not meet all the criteria of sanctity recorded in the foundational documents of His Holiness’ Chancellery. Yet, as long as they presented unconventional ideas and implemented them, much was forgiven. Occasionally they stumbled, sinned, leaked information, committed adultery, and missed deadlines. They were often criticized. Their behavior was held against them. They were feared for the possibility of yet another trick with recommendations for implementing a program. A couple of prophets, sent by their orders to Earth, later threatened severe retribution and were forbidden by His Holiness to even approach Alavur and Zalibvang.

They were not liked, as unconventional upstarts often aren’t, disrupting the well-ordered life of the Chancellery swamp. Demons compiled detailed dossiers on them, seeking ways to capture, bribe, compromise, slander, or tarnish them — just to ensure a specific policy was carried out. At one point, there was even talk of introducing a balancing number of demons into the group… But His Holiness rejected the idea, favoring the one whose name is not spoken…

It so happened that His Holiness, for reasons known only to him, treated the creatives with patronage, though not entirely unequivocally, likely wanting at least someone on hand who could surprise him with something new, bring variety, and stir up the swamp of the Chancellery.

In the case of a purge, when decisions about the fate of many will be made, most issues concerning hundreds of thousands of employees, large and small, would be handed over to the Personnel Department, and they would take care of them first. Alavur and Zalibvang once had the imprudence to include the personnel in the project of creating a church on Earth. They did their job, deployed thousands of their adepts, and developed a fierce hatred for the creatives. After dismissal, the DSSAJ would immediately handle them. Zalibvang somehow managed to have relations with the daughters of their permanent leader, who would have long ago crushed Zalibvang with his own hands if not… And now the opportunity was here…

Zalibvang shuddered, imagining those impassive blue eyes…

“No way! — he pulled himself together. — The purge must not happen! We need a solution!”

— And when is an answer needed? — Alavur seemed to read his thoughts.

— Today! — he whispered.

— Today?! — his astonishment knew no bounds. — A year or two to gather information, the same to process it… Run tests, develop full projects, validate the theory… Prepare a presentation? When are we supposed to do all that?

— It’s much simpler here, — Zalibvang smirked bitterly. — They just need an idea. Any idea that might save the situation. If there isn’t one by four o’clock today — it’s all over. They say His Holiness is tired of humanity. Of their petty affairs. Of disobedience, of twisting his word, of everything…

— To lash them…

— Floggings no longer work. You know that perfectly well yourself… So…

— So we must produce an idea…

— And save humanity! — Zalibvang pronounced pompously. — Any ideas?

***

— Classics?! Really? — Alavur and Zalibvang whispered to each other, standing against the wall in the meeting hall.

— Of course! — the second one agreed.

From their experience, creative ideas that could ignite their department for hours were usually not understood by the “tongue-tied and irrationally thinking” (quote) beings in chairs made of human skin. Convincing them that the sexual revolution would bear fruit only centuries later, not immediately as they demanded, or explaining the reasons behind failures in reactionary nationalism projects — they simply never succeeded. So, the trusted classics always “ruled” — long-tested, universally understandable templates, which, despite more and more glitches over time, continued to serve as a standard of conscientious and quality ideas in the minds of those responsible.

— You’re looking particularly handsome today! — Jarin pinched Zalibvang’s buttocks. — I’m starting to wonder if I should come back to you?! — she winked, narrowing her fiery eyes. With a sway of her firm buttocks, wrapped in a thin skirt made of the latest material brought from Earth, she walked toward the assembled group of “the powerful of the world.”

Zalibvang swallowed hard. Heat flushed through him. Memories of past nights and days of fervent torment returned. “No matter what, she’s far more attractive than the nimbused ones!” — he noted, realizing he was reacting sexually, which in no way suited his kind, the nimbused. “But what to do?! — he soothed himself. Working with human material, creating programs for them to achieve specific results, willingly or not, one has to immerse in their world, join their society, and filter through oneself all the rules and motives that guide human decisions.” This explanation had saved them more than once when questions of antisocial behavior, drunken escapades, dealings with demonic spawn, and requests for test communication with newly departed souls arose. His Holiness did not exactly shield them — no, he was probably more displeased than anyone — but as long as there were results and His Holiness’ will, they got away with everything.

— Don’t lose your head! — Jarin watched Alavur just as captivated. Rumor had it he had even entered her list of admirers, but that topic was never raised in Zalibvang’s presence, who had endured a year with her.

Walking with a slow, model-like step, her well-groomed hooves keeping time, emphasizing her grace with the swish of her fluffy tail, she approached the group of demons and nimbused beings, discreetly running her hand along one’s back and almost immediately entering into conversation.

— Very well, let it be classics! — muttered Zalibvang, his gaze glued to her, though he was burning to suggest his own idea, knowing it would surely be rejected. He knew that perfectly well, yet something inside demanded a protest, something to be done.

— Perfect! — Alavur patted him on the shoulder. Their position on the sidelines, outside the powerful assembly, was quite understandable. As junior specialists, they lacked the regalia of the Council members. But due to their position and His Holiness’ special regard for the creative department, they acted as advisors and chief developers at the Council. They understood the duality of their position, and it reflected on the Council members, who were forced to share the space with the conditionally admitted. The attitude toward the creatives was not exactly cold, but it was tense. The elite did not want someone in their ranks who… But they were compelled. And their hidden irritation manifested in small mischiefs directed at the creatives.

The room, in one of the tallest buildings, a glass penthouse with a stunning view of the surrounding Paradise, the horizon veiled by clouds of smoke rising from the infamous Hell below, filled with the presence of His Holiness. No one could claim to have ever seen His Holiness with their own eyes, but the presence was immediately felt. The instantly virtuous and forgiving aura caused awe in everyone; all present, abandoning their tasks and concerns, hastened to take their seats at the oval table. To anger His Holiness was too costly, as the criteria for evaluation and logic of the Almighty were fundamentally different from any known and often simply incomprehensible.

— I suggest we begin, — His Holiness proposed. Of course, no one heard a single sound; the words formed directly in their minds. This was one of the reasons the Council members disliked Zalibvang and Alavur — His Holiness could address selectively those he deemed competent on a given issue, without informing the others. Naturally, everyone immediately suspected the worst and felt slighted. To anger or reproach His Holiness was pointless — you might just be expelled from the Council, but taking out their frustration on the creatives? That was always allowed.

— The reason for our meeting is no secret. But for everyone to understand the subject and to leave no doubts about the necessity of radical measures, I ask the head of the Analytics Department to read a brief report on the state of affairs on Earth and the level of control over ongoing processes. — His Holiness spoke.

— Good day, esteemed colleagues! — Cyphiron, a thin, self-absorbed holy man, rose. His calculations threatened to spill over his old-fashioned spectacles. — Our department’s analysis involved collecting information both in the field and by surveying souls who have ascended to the heavens…

— Thank you for describing the methodology, — His Holiness interrupted. — Please read the conclusions.

— Yes, of course, — Cyphiron choked, his halo immediately turning red from nervousness. Analysts, like several other divisions, were entirely composed of nimbused beings, for His Light had little trust in the treacherous demons. Not that he distrusted them completely — they were specialists in their own fields, nimbused ones in theirs. Everyone had their place, everyone had their tasks.

— The integral indicators of Human virtue and loyalty in worship have long failed to rise above the red level, which indicates…

— Your evaluation methods are flawed! — objected a corpulent demon, who had overseen alternative religions and ideologies for a hundred years. Once a warrior by vocation, and through the machinations of the one whose name may not be spoken, he became an administrator, but retained the martial grip and inherent cunning of a demon. The creatives, who had developed countless religions and dozens of ideologies over the past century, saw the outcomes among human masses solely as the idiosyncrasies of the overseer and his methods. The overseer rejected all attacks against him outright, being authoritarian and intolerant of objections, attributing everything to human material, planning errors, or the intrigues of other departments. He confidently claimed he made no mistakes — could make none — and that all failures were the work of his enemies.

— The methods have been developed and tested over millennia, — Cyphiron countered, eyes never leaving his sheet. — Tensions over the past years have increased by one and a half times, the probability of full-scale war has risen to seventy-five percent, religiosity and piety levels have fallen to twenty-five percent. The majority of believers belong to traditional religions of tribes in the Stone Age, remote from civilization. Across civilizational groups, piety and willingness to sacrifice oneself for His Holiness decrease year by year… The correlation coefficient between the development of existing civilizations and the decline of faith is ninety-eight percent…

— All very well, — interrupted one of the demons, having understood nothing of the report. — But what does it mean?

— It’s very simple! — answered nimbused Simon. — The world is going to hell! — the joke drew laughter from those present, though His Holiness, as always expressionless, kept the room from fully erupting.

— Clear enough, — Gidivul, the overseer of some fifty projects, interjected. His total incompetence in human matters was compensated by aggressive temperament and absolute loyalty to the one whose name may not be spoken. — Who is to blame? And what shall we do? — he said arrogantly.

— The situation is at an impasse, — the spectacled Cyphiron continued. — All our recent measures were cosmetic, with effectiveness below any criticism, — all eyes immediately turned to the creatives, squirming in their seats.

— I wouldn’t be so critical of the creative bureau, — Morghul, curator of their projects and now Jarin’s new husband, spoke. — These guys have repeatedly helped us, generating ideas that have significantly changed the world and spirituality… I’m sure they have something now as well… Right, Zalibvang? Am I correct, Alavur?

— I must insist, — Gidivul stood, — that we are at an impasse, and any attempt to solve this differently than by full cleansing will only prolong the agony. His voice was so unlike the clumsy words he normally used that the eyes of the assembly widened, jaws dropping. Zalibvang felt instinctively that the one speaking was not a foolish, corrupt demon, but the One, whose name… The transformation of Gidivul was so complete that even His Holiness tensed, studying the speaker for familiar features.

— Any delay is akin to death, — the demon continued. — I insist on a reboot, cleansing the Earth of civilization, casting humanity into primal chaos, and from this building a new society, free of the vices…

— Painfully familiar notions! — His Holiness finally spoke. Everyone tensed. The room filled with the scent of ozone and burning. — I suppose the next proposal will involve changing the structure of existing institutions, granting demons significant power, and splitting authority with you-know-who?!

— I mean something else! — Gidivul slouched, shaking his head. The presence that had controlled him vanished, and he did not understand why all eyes were on him, radiating disapproval.

Lightning flashed, thunder roared through the hall, and Gidivul’s lush mane became a scorched tangle of straw.

— I… I… — he stammered, confused. — I was only… — he sank into his seat, not even touching his smoking hair.

— Henceforth, any such behavior will be met with expulsion from the Council and exile to Earth! — explained the fair Thunderlord, without elaborating, as was customary, the reasoning behind his action. Being possessed before His Eyes had happened before, but the threat of exile to Earth — to humans, to their god-forgotten world, to filth, to the struggle for survival, to the squabbling insignificant creatures — could frighten anyone. And since it was a threat from His Holiness, it was neither open to discussion nor appeal.

— I propose we finish the situational review, — Morgul hastened to change the direction of the meeting. — It’s already clear we are at an impasse. Humanity has slipped out of the Almighty’s control and, as a consequence, morality is collapsing: pride, violation of all commandments, norms, and decencies. There are therefore two opinions — to carry out a purge as the last resort, or to resort to a more subtle and оперативное intervention, which our specialists from the Creative Department will now describe. As you remember, hundreds of the ideas that raised humanity to unprecedented levels belonged to them. We will not let the labors of our millennia simply sink into the Underworld! I propose we use something alternative and effective that, as Alavur and Zalibvang assured me, is in their arsenal. I ask you to give them the floor.

Rhetoric was Morgul’s forte, the very skill that had raised him so high — the same skill that had so easily bound Zharin to him, the same skill that ushered her onto the Council and the same skill that had repeatedly helped Zalibvang and Alavur come out unscathed from sticky, dirty affairs. But, alas, this time they had nothing effective in their arsenal, so Zalibvang took the floor.

— Esteemed Council members, worship of His Holiness, — Zalibvang cleared his throat. Zharin rewarded him with a burning look from her fiery eyes, licked her lips with her forked tongue, and pushed her ample bosom forward, doing it all so naturally and unobtrusively that Zalibvang flushed. Although they had long parted, Zharin would sometimes drop by him, as she did with ten or twenty others. Nothing to be done — the female demonic nature. And if things go well, Zalibvang already had plans for tonight and tomorrow morning.

— The situation is undoubtedly critical, — he fought the redness and heavy breathing. — I am somewhat anxious because using something new, creative, and untested might yield the necessary result, but most likely will have unpredictable far-reaching consequences. — He reached for a glass of water, and the glass itself, obeying the will of His Holiness, leapt into Zalibvang’s hand. The attendees exchanged glances. It was an honor granted to few. The balance of power was clearly shifting, and each assessed their place and actions in the near future.

Sensing the change, Zharin repeated her seductive maneuvers, which most present immediately noticed — everyone except, perhaps, Morgul.

— I propose we resort to a classic, repeatedly proven multi-stage activity, — all eyes fixed on Zalibvang, making him even more uneasy. — A cultural shock and the retreat of civilization by several steps, perhaps even decades. To a state from which we could change the vector of development! — he finished.

— Is that roughly like the fall of the Roman Empire and the Dark Ages in Europe? — an analyst asked.

— Something like that, — Zalibvang nodded, catching the wave. — Roughly the same as what happened to the Chinese world, to the ancient Nile civilizations, to South and Central America. — The remark about the Americas was a slip; there the outcome had been the destruction of civilizations as such. But that’s what creatives and PR friends do: present failure as a grand success. Many disagreed.

— Come on! — Gidivul objected. — This has already happened! — he waved his hand, seeking allies. — It’s all been done. We’re only delaying the denouement.

— You demons would erase humanity from the face of the Earth and remain the Almighty’s sole beloved creations, — Morgul retorted, himself displeased with the proposal but unwilling to oppose it given that His Holiness had just handed a glass of water to the creative.

His Holiness himself was stunned. He expected anything but an old tale about the fall of the Roman Empire, millions dead, the rise of some of the most odious religions hoarded for a rainy day, centuries of darkness and murders in his name… Yet he remained silent, awaiting continuation.

— The essence of the project, — Zalibvang continued, — is to arrange a planetary-level social explosion. And we will do this if allowed. We will raise all the negative, expose all unhealed wounds, proclaim vice as virtue, put desecration of chastity and kindness on a pedestal, motivate murder, lust, gluttony, hatred, and other deadly sins. We will exalt human pride and stir up a wave so vast that it will sweep away all established civilizational centers, cover them with filth and human excrement. Only after humanity has rolled back several centuries, only after that, will we launch reverse processes. From the manure that forms, sprouts will grow that will lead future civilizations to prosperity and to reverence for His Holiness as the one who allowed them to become such. — the creative finished his speech.

Silence hung in the hall.

— And how is this different from total cleansing? — asked the security forces’ curator, sensing a lot of work for his departments.

— In many ways! — Zalibvang answered. — We do not destroy humanity and do not erase the memory of the previous civilization. We merely reboot it. We break the dead-end branch, demolish the walls and props that have grown around today’s world, clear space for new construction, but we do not kill the memory in people, do not exterminate them down to a small group as has often happened before. We preserve their civilization, but we ruin their world…

— Or the other way around, — Alavur corrected him.

If you think about it, the proposal wasn’t as radical as it had been presented. Nothing new — only the scale effect: now the whole world would be involved, not just separate, albeit significant, territories; otherwise — classics. But the way it was presented carried a certain flight of thought, a creative spark and something that appealed to romanticizing the enterprise.

His Holiness pondered, the demons flared up, sensing opening prospects, while the nimbused ones, on the contrary, felt the impending mass of work — they would rather cleanse the world and wait until everything developed anew. The creatives sighed with a certain relief — they had managed to wriggle out. If the proposal were rejected, they’d be given time to prepare a new one, and then we’ll see how it goes…

His Holiness expressed certain doubts. He said nothing aloud, but something in the plan disturbed him. He didn’t voice what exactly, but as soon as the first symptoms of doubt appeared, the assembled brotherhood immediately rushed to criticize the plan, which its ideologists and authors — Alavur and Zalibvang — promptly defended. They were accused of grandiosity, to which they answered that the problem was large-scale and the operation had to match.

The security curator complained that last time he had lost more than fifty elite agents on Earth in asylums or to nervous breakdowns and therefore… To this they replied that, on the one hand, proper conclusions about preparing fighters should be drawn, and on the other hand, war losses are inevitable.

They spoke of the danger of the situation slipping out of control, which was countered by the argument that a purge could be launched at any moment, but trying to save the situation was the primary task.

— I am generally satisfied with the proposal, — His Holiness finally intervened after a couple dozen objections, and all objections immediately vanished. — How do you see the implementation mechanism?

But the mechanism turned out to be the weak spot. The idea itself, as His Holiness noted, was not bad, but the implementation… In fact, the implementation of all “not bad ideas” had suffered these last couple thousand years.

— We were thinking that maybe… — Zalibvang stalled for time, hoping the decision would come by itself. And it came, though not from where they expected, and not the sort of thing one would brag about:

— We will launch saints! — Alavur seized the initiative.

— Saints are an already tried stage, — Cyphiron reasonably noted. — Their effectiveness… — he began to rattle off numbers that no one planned to dispute, nor indeed to listen to. Using saints in a world that no longer believed in them had long been deemed ineffective.

— This is something new! — Alavur’s halo glowed. — Hear me out, then decide.

— Let’s give them the floor, — His Holiness suggested, and everyone not just fell silent, but stopped fidgeting.

— We will launch not one saint or prophet — that’s up for discussion — but two at once! — he paused, expecting a reaction; none came, so he continued. — Two prophets at once. And neither will be extremes, as we have done before. No pure-good or pure-evil. No saintly or wholly depraved. Each will include sanctity and vice, kindness and cruelty, because people are many-faced and the demand for both goodness and cruelty often dwells in a single skull. Two warrior-prophets, consolidating people around themselves, neither hostile nor friendly to each other, sometimes clashing, sometimes acting in concert — a kind of stew of base human feelings that they are called to lead, to raise the wave and ride it…

— But how will they do this? — His Holiness couldn’t contain himself.

— We won’t limit them, — Alavur explained. — We will give them the right to choose, the right to sin and not be bound by commandments and instructions — complete freedom. All the failures of our Prophets and Saints lie in their being constrained from doing evil! — he concluded.

— Hm, — His Holiness considered. — I had not thought of that… — he fell silent again. — On the other hand, I would have expected such an approach from demons or possessed, cursed Gidivul, but from the creative department of the nimbused! — he was surprised and embarrassed.

— We’ve even worked out their appearance, — Alavur improvised on the spot. — A large gathering of people, say some protest demonstrations, and at the crucial moment a pillar of fire descends from the sky and in that pillar our Prophet appears, bearing the message that the world has rotted. That God is displeased with people, displeased that a small part has usurped earthly wealth and prevents the rest from developing. Therefore He sent His chosen warrior… But hearing of the same thing, the one whose name is not spoken sent his demon. He will resemble the first, speak the same, and even do the same things, but he is evil… Thus we will split the protesters and create controlled chaos among them…

— Interesting, interesting, — His Holiness still did not make a decision. — I need to consult my advisors… — and His Holiness moved to confer with the Council, effectively excluding the invited experts from the conversation, practically casting them out. Alavur exhaled — he hadn’t expected such an impromptu and met the disapproving look of his colleague. The idea of two prophets did not please him at all, as it promised uncontrollability and a mass of administrative headaches.

The Council consultation lasted about half an hour. Not a word nor a sound reached the ears of the specialists, among whom, for some reason, the analyst was included. He sat all that time rigid, with glassy eyes, staring toward the hellish smoke curling on the horizon.

— We have concluded the meeting, — finally His Holiness and the Council returned to them. The decision had clearly been made, but the sight of how eagerly the demons present rubbed their hands and paws, how greedily they eyed the creatives, and how the nimbused cast sideways looks with a smirk at the corner of their mouths made Zalibvang uneasy.

— We accept this decision as the basis, — His Holiness continued to pronounce the verdict. — It takes effect this very minute, — he enumerated points that were immediately entered into the protocol as immutable truth and a directive for action. — You have ten minutes to prepare. — His Holiness finished.

— Prepare for what? — Alavur did not understand.

— What? — Zalibvang asked again.

— I believe in you, my dear! — Jarin whispered to him, pushing her sumptuous bosom forward. — Return as heroes!

— But we are ideologists… — Zalibvang cried, cursing Alavur and his two Prophets in his heart. — We are not soldiers! Everyone must do their own work… — they were already being swept through the corridors of reality, being equipped and given survival instructions. You will be provided with every possible assistance! — they heard His Holiness’s retreating voice. I will also be forever near you! — hissed the one whose name is not spoken aloud. — Great times await us!!! — he added.

— Yes, truly great! — flashed through Zalibvang’s mind; he already saw that very pillar of fire, which had struck the sinful Earth not long ago. And he was being drawn toward it.

From the Cycle — “Workaday Life. Ordinary People”

Workaday Life. Ordinary “People”

1.

“Implementing the decisions of the Party Congress, the resolutions of the Politburo, and the wishes of the working masses, expanding the habitat of human civilization, raising cultural levels, and optimizing consumption, the heroes of the Supernova Era make their invaluable contribution to the construction of yet another settlement within the Solar System. The selfless labor and sacrifice of two and a half dozen Soviet people — Soviet not merely in form but in spirit — battling the cosmic cold, deadly radiation, and insufficient gravity, brings us closer, second by second, to the moment when the first settler will set foot on…” — a light touch on the ion console interrupted the stream of high-flown propaganda.

From Sergey Petrovich’s side, this was inexcusable. Leading the project for the construction of the newest “Well” on one of the turbulent moons of the gas giant, he was simply obliged to maintain discipline and the moral appearance of his subordinates, the very two and a half dozen Soviet people… But somehow, nothing went smoothly from the start. First, the project proved unsuitable for local conditions and had to be hastily adapted by several hundred scientific groups. Upon completion of the adaptation, it turned out that the available equipment, delivered by an impossibly large cargo carrier, did not fully meet the construction requirements. However, firstly, the cargo carrier still hovered in the orbit of the gas giant, and sending it back and forth would be economically impractical; and secondly, with some skill and adjustments, albeit with losses, excessive labor, and missed deadlines, the project could be executed… Everyone applauded, once again admired the power and ability of the scientific groups, formed from leading specialists in their fields, to solve emerging problems quickly and efficiently, shook hands, hugged, and then issued the order to continue work.

And everything would have been fine if not for the human factor that slipped into the revised project plan, turning everything upside down. Passing through the chain of approvals and edits, no one among the “signatories” noticed that the secretary, making changes to the original version of the project at two in the morning, had carelessly left the deadlines for the stages unchanged. After all approvals, the error surfaced, but no one wanted to take responsibility for the obvious blunder, and thus collective responsibility — when everyone is responsible, but no one in particular — fell on Petrovich’s shoulders.

Petrovich immediately informed his curator, but he refused to listen, claiming the paper was signed, composed by reasonable people, and whatever figure was justified — just execute and don’t spread panic, or else they might even throw you on Pluto, where they are building an external monitoring station…

And as usual, what starts badly ends even worse. Petrovich did not consider himself a bad manager; after all, he was a 3rd-category administrator with extensive experience, though he had never built planetary stations before. Otherwise, he was a fairly successful leader. Only thanks to his ability to work with people, organize their labor, daily life, and leisure, manage processes, and solve problems did the station continue construction, despite budget overruns and missed deadlines.

He was unable to make up the delays even with additional resources, which were catastrophically diminishing, and he reported this periodically to his curator, Grigoriy Petrovich, receiving only the reply: “At any cost!” and “Don’t panic…”

“Sergey Petrovich, incoming call,” — a girl’s voice from the communicator immediately initiated the connection.

“Good day, Sergey Petrovich,” — the curator was stern today and addressed him formally.

“Good day to you too, Grigoriy Petrovich.”

“Report on the completion of the planned activities…”

The image wavered — another surge of solar activity somewhere along the way disturbed the egregosphere, but the audio remained unchanged.

“The delay has increased…”

“What do you mean, increased?” — Grigoriy Petrovich exploded. “You’ve been allocated colossal funds. You’ve been assigned a critical project, and if at some stage unexpected circumstances caused a delay, by now it should have been long rectified. No exceptions. And your statement today about a delay, moreover its growth, is considered by me as sabotage! I suggest you review your position and set the correct priorities. I expect an adequate response tomorrow…” — the screen went black, the connection was cut.

Only five or six years ago, communication with Earth was so difficult that sending a mission to the edges of the Solar System was considered a kind of blessing — far away from the boss… But everything changed radically after a breakthrough in the study of the egregosphere — some little-studied informational space — and now there was nowhere to hide from the all-seeing eye of the Earth curator.

Petrovich cursed at the empty screen once again and was about to check on the drilling rig that had failed yesterday when a one-line, unsigned, private message appeared on the screen: “Do something! Things are really bad.”

It was the curator, and Petrovich understood perfectly that the official part was official, and he had to talk in that manner, while on a human level, the curator had warned him of the impending problems…

“What’s going on with this drill?!” Petrovich yelled into the void and connected with the tunneling sector.

2.

Activity reigned in the tunneling sector. Alexander Sergeyevich and Valery Sidorovich, burning the priceless energy of the plasma batteries, drove two repair robots across the room. As is customary among repair crews, a good repairman is one who sleeps at his workstation, because all his equipment is in working order.

The drilling machine, nicknamed “Excavator” by the staff, hit a layer of rock it wasn’t designed for, suddenly reversed, and crushed itself. Neither Alik — Alexander Sergeyevich — nor Valerik — Valery Sidorovich — saw anything terrible, relying entirely on the repair robots, which swarmed around the enormous excavator and were supposed to have it repaired by midnight. But what to do with the rock layer that caused the program failure remained unresolved, and for now they focused on freeing their minds from everything extraneous, indulging in base feelings of excitement and competitiveness…

3.

“- What’s going on with the drill?” — suddenly a voice sounded behind them. Both were caught off guard and immediately jumped, dropping the robot control panels onto the floor.

“I’ll ask again: what’s happening with the drill?” — a screen floated directly in front of them, and the boss’s gaze drilled into them. The boss was displeased — there was no doubt about that.

“We reported earlier…” — Alik tried to compose himself, adjusting his work jacket.

“The layer has unknown properties at a depth of fifteen to twenty-two. Power unit and main conductor failure…” — added Valerik.

“All e-stable logic burned out, and the machine almost fell…” — Alik recalled.

“That’s it?” — the boss looked at them with a destructive glare from the screen.

“For now, yes.”

“Expecting anything else?” — the boss smiled sarcastically, but Alik and Valerik were pure technicians, and somewhat naive when it came to politics and human relationships. The sarcasm went completely over their heads, and they only shrugged in confusion.

“Deadlines?” — the boss cut in.

“By midnight…”

“Most likely…”

“By midnight?!” — the boss could no longer contain himself. “What do you mean, ‘most likely’? ” — when it came to instilling the correct values in people and giving proper directives, no one matched his skill, as his subordinates had repeatedly observed.

“You are both Soviet people! Soviet not in name only, but in conviction! The people and the Party entrusted you with a responsible task — to build the first — » — he raised a meaningful index finger — “fully-fledged settlement on another celestial body! This is an enormous honor and responsibility. You were selected here under the strictest criteria, and what do we have now?! We have: operational failure,” — Petrovich began counting on his fingers — “second, misappropriation of resources, and third, most importantly, loss of trust. How will you face your comrades after all this? I’m asking you!”

Both repairmen lowered their eyes, feeling that somewhere they had miscalculated, made mistakes, or even acted negligently, without fully understanding where or how.

“So, esteemed gentlemen, will we fix the drill by lunch? Will we start tunneling by three o’clock? Or head back to Earth immediately, in disgrace? With reprimands and dismissal!!!”

“We won’t make it…” — muttered Alik.

“Excuse me, didn’t hear that?” — Petrovich stared at him.

“We’ll do everything in our power!” — stepped forward the more experienced Valerik.

“And overdeliver!” — added Alik, somewhat out of place.

“Excellent.” — Petrovich smiled. “Then by noon I’ll send the tunneling crew. No time to waste…”

The concept of time here, on the moon of a gas giant, was relative. There was no sunrise or sunset as on Earth, but everyone still adhered to a 24-hour schedule. Morning and evening were relative notions.

Petrovich disappeared, leaving the repairmen alone with their obligation. Below, under the swarming excavator, yawned a hole several hundred meters in diameter and one and a half kilometers deep. According to the project, its depth was supposed to reach just over three kilometers, filled with urban space, and root-like branches were planned in all horizontal directions… The project itself was a grand innovation, but unfortunately, its execution was lacking.

“So, a five-year plan in four years, in three shifts, with two hands for one salary?” — grumbled a dissatisfied Alik.

“Don’t worry,” — replied Valerik. “We just need to fix the power unit by lunch; the rest will follow. Productivity will drop, and we may lose up to five hours, but if management wants a quick start, we’ll help…”

“Eh.” — Alik waved his hand, starting the recalibration of the repair operations. As soon as he touched the “stop” button, all the scurrying robots froze instantly, and a couple even fell to the floor, scattering their tools and spare parts.

“How long will it take you to recalibrate?” — Valerik asked.

“Not long. At most, ten minutes…”

“Good,” — Valerik directed the auxiliary robots to collect the scattered parts. “We have three hours until lunch… Are you trained to recalibrate cyborgs?”

“Of course!” — Alik responded, feeling a little offended. “One of my main specialties. Why do you ask?”

“Just checking. I’ll tell you later. Recalibrate… Three hours should be enough… We’ll head to the mess hall, visit Zinka in the meantime.”

“Alright…” — immersed in the process, muttered Alik.

4.

Zinaida at the station was in charge of the mess hall, the uniform warehouse, and the personal belongings storage. Considering the level of automation, the station could easily operate without her, but according to the Staffing Schedule and Allocation, this position was officially required and naturally filled.

Zinaida was only about thirty. No longer a young girl, but not quite a woman yet, stuck in a transitional age, she was a blend of a highly educated professional, having graduated from a specialized university, and a vibrant representative of rural culture, complete with the obligatory “hands on hips” and “who dares to argue with me?!” attitude.

To say Zinaida was useless would be untrue. She provided meals, monitored uniform maintenance, ensured timely cleaning, and created other elements of “simulated busy activity.” The workers treated her with light smiles but recognized her significance in the predominantly male crew, trapped on the gas giant’s moon for months on end.

Zinaida clearly showed no favoritism, even demonstratively brushing off all admirers, but somehow, rumors and gossip about her life outside her functional duties were full of piquant details.

Zinaida Petrovna was fiercely reprogramming the food dispenser. The machine drove her insane. Once set to provide the optimal diet for workers engaged in construction in space, it stubbornly refused to reduce doses or cut portions. Zinaida knew that back on Earth, people had long figured out how to bypass these “pseudo-scientific” recipes, and the eternal well-being of trade and catering workers had returned to its usual course.

“Zinochka, dear…” — a voice sounded behind her. “We need rags… nothing to wipe our hands with…”

Out of seemingly nowhere appeared Valerik, one of the repairmen whose mistakes had already delayed their return several times.

“That’s not allowed!” — Zinaida snapped, returning to her cursed machine.

“Zin, look… you must have some rags. The old uniforms were retired ages ago…”

“What part of ‘not allowed’ don’t you understand?!” — Zinaida turned her full, powerful chest toward him. “I told you — it’s not allowed! If I start handing out uniforms for rags to everyone here, what do you think will happen? Get out!” — she gestured authoritatively toward the door.

“Eh, Zina, Zina…” — Valerik waved at her and began to leave.

“What, Zina?” — she exploded in her characteristic style, raising her voice and flailing her arms. “All sorts of people wander around begging, yet you ruin the drill for the umpteenth time, and now sit here at your mercy. A couple more times and you’ll have nothing to wear, hiding in rags from the boss. Who do you think will teach me how to do my job?! Get out! I don’t even want to see you!! They hire self-taught intellectuals who are all thumbs. My younger brother, he dismantled and rebuilt the collective farm irrigation system on a bet,” — she pronounced the word “irrigation” with such fervor that Valerik felt uneasy — “a fool, of course, got in trouble for it, but he has golden hands and a sharp mind, unlike these…”

Zinaida got carried away, and from past experience, Valerik knew she could have gone on like that for a long time if not for…

“Are you still fiddling there?” — whispered Valerik, nudging Alik. “Is it really harder than recalibrating a robot?”

“Don’t rush me.” — Alik worked at the console. “We’ll need to convert it back to the screaming fool later; we must preserve the old settings.”

“Ah…” — Valerik agreed. “Go ahead, I’ll keep watch outside the door.”

There was no click, no flash, nothing made a sound, yet Zinaida, in the middle of her temper outburst, suddenly froze and then went limp. Her shapely body would have collapsed onto the mess hall floor, but Valerik arrived just in time, catching her and, with some effort, placed her on a nearby chair.

“Where have you been?” — he reproached Alik, already working on adjusting Zinaida’s settings on the floating console.

“Petrovich was checking on things… personally came by…”

“Ah! Got it.” — Valerik waved. “So, did you send him off?”

“Yes… Don’t disturb me.”

Reconfiguring a cyborg was by no means simple, unlike what an ordinary person used to working with primitive, pre-approved function packages might think. The functions were usually “embedded” in the empty heads of auxiliary personnel, and controlling them resembled the antics of a mischievous monkey putting cubes and balls into corresponding holes. What Alik was doing now was akin to delicate neurosurgery — deciding during a complex operation which neural circuits to activate, which to block, and which to remove or replace with artificial ones. Reconfiguring the cyborg to satisfy very specific desires, adjusting temperament and motor functions, was only a fraction of what Alik, with a student’s agility, accomplished in just ten to fifteen minutes.

Again, there was no click, no flash, nothing, yet Zinaida seemed as if replaced.

“Oh! Boys…” — she moaned in a way that, to Alik, seemed fitting for ladies of her sort.

“Zina! Darling!” — Valerik returned.

“My dears.” — with indescribable grace, crossing one leg over the other and revealing her thigh up to the hip, Zinaida extended her hands toward them. “Shall we be a threesome? Or do you have more friends behind the door?”

“You’ll reset her afterward, right?” — whispered Valerik, approaching, anticipating holding those full forms.

“What question!” — Alik winked at him. “When you’re done, tell me…” — and began to leave.

“Where are you going?” — Valerik asked, surprised.

“Watching the repairs… don’t want the power unit to completely fail…”

“Suit yourself.” — Valerik snorted, adding to the blushing Zinaida, “Just the two of us.”

“What a pity.” — she replied equally languidly. “I wanted to ask him to recalibrate the food dispenser afterward…”

5.

The curator of space projects, though stationed permanently on Earth, could, thanks to communication and monitoring systems, maintain contact and stay fully informed about all seven of his projects. Seven — no more, no less. According to the norms of manageability, this was the exact number of objects one person could effectively oversee. Any more and efficiency would drop due to the sheer number of projects; any fewer and efficiency would also decline, now due to the manager being underutilized. So — seven — was a justified number, just like everything else in Grigory Petrovich’s life and that of his peers.

At the moment, he was fully occupied. While six projects were progressing more or less successfully, the seventh — the most critical — had been stalling from the very start. Grigory Petrovich understood perfectly well that pressuring the station personnel was pointless — no matter what, they wouldn’t meet the deadlines, would only damage the equipment, and risk exhausting themselves. Scanning through the incident reports automatically compiled from hidden cameras, placed in nearly every corner, he deliberately ignored minor and medium violations, as long as it helped push the project forward.

Incident reports were compiled both daily, for the next morning, and in real time, whenever something extraordinary occurred. Grigory Petrovich looked at the repair robots’ skirmishes caused by the two repairmen with complete indifference, ignored the consumption of smuggled alcohol, noted with a smirk the wild orgy in the mess hall with a flesh-and-blood lady, and casually skimmed the notes about the theft of tools made from precious metals — no one could smuggle them out anyway.

Alas, no matter how much he wanted to turn a blind eye, the manual required vigilance and mandatory intervention. So, without much thought, he made the only correct decision that wouldn’t interfere with task completion: Zinaida, involved in the moral degradation incident, would receive a formal reprimand and be addressed at the general assembly, while the repairman would be privately reminded of the unethical nature of his behavior and instructed not to interfere with work… As for the rest — neither theft nor alcohol should impede their laborious achievements. Once everything was done, they would be held accountable.

Grigory Petrovich was just about to announce his unseen presence when, as unexpectedly as he “appeared” on the station, a pop-up screen flashed before him.

The caller was clearly a security officer. They were always recognizable by their sly look, overly friendly manner, and skill at subtly subduing the opponent’s will.

“Good day, Grigory Petrovich,” said someone new, whom Petrovich had never met. Yet the newcomer spoke as if they had been drinking together just yesterday, already knowing so much about each other that a lifelong friendship seemed inevitable.

“Good day,” replied Grigory Petrovich. “Pleasure… May I ask the reason for your call?”

“Oh, actually, nothing…” — the officer smiled slyly. “Just a routine check-in. Wanted to see how your projects are going.”

“The assigned sector…” — Petrovich began formally, but was interrupted.

“Why so formal?! We’re not at a reception or in the boss’s office.” — the officer smiled, making Grigory Petrovich feel uneasy. “Just for the record, you understand… It’s a facilitation function.”

Grigory Petrovich understood both the facilitation and the monitoring functions, the latter unspoken aloud, and he also knew it was unclear which was more dangerous — mere oversight or that so-called facilitation.

“In general, everything is proceeding as expected, given the complexity of the systems… Of course, there are occasional setbacks, sometimes due to technical issues, sometimes human, but in any case, the heroic and selfless labor of Soviet people for the benefit of the motherland and all humanity can solve even such problems.”

“Yes, problems, factors…” — the officer agreed gently. “I understand… We work with people ourselves. Sometimes you have to intervene and make decisions when the situation gets… starts getting out of control.” — corrected the officer. “Recently, I heard a rumor, and I’ll share it unofficially: on one of the off-world stations, the project isn’t exactly failing, but it’s heading in that direction. So the higher-ups wondered about the causes — seemingly the project is correct, designed by responsible people, approved at the very top, an excellent team, perfect code at all levels, yet the project stalls, deadlines slip, equipment is damaged, funds overspent, and there are rumors of alcoholism, idleness, and moral decay… Now try to figure out where the failure lies! Who made a mistake?! Whose competence should be scrutinized?!”

Grigory Petrovich swallowed hard.

“On the other hand,” continued the officer, “people get tired, overwork, lose touch with reality… People get tired. They take on too many responsibilities… What can you do, perhaps it’s best to get rid of such people. What do you think — how should one deal with such individuals to be humane yet not forget their ‘merits’? ” — the officer deliberately emphasized the word merits, making Grigory Petrovich immediately uneasy.

“Well, Grigory Petrovich?” — the officer smiled, not waiting for a reply. “I’m sure we won’t have such problems with you. Despite the fact that you’ve selflessly stayed at the research center for over a year, without contact with the outside world, you haven’t lost vigilance, diligence, initiative, or the desire for self-improvement. People like you, Grigory Petrovich, are the foundation of our present and the builders of a bright future for generations to come.”

Grigory Petrovich didn’t know what to say…

“Well, Grigory Petrovich, I’m glad everything is going well for you. I hope in the future you will continue to delight us with your labor achievements, and I hope to meet you in person, to shake your courageous hand.”

The screen vanished. Grigory Petrovich, hand trembling, took out a handkerchief and wiped the sticky sweat from his brow. “They know everything! Foolish it was to hide failures from the very beginning, thinking we could catch up, divert resources from other projects, solve the arising difficulties… Foolish, foolish…” But had he admitted the failures from the start, his rating would have immediately plummeted, and then, see, it could have fallen below the competence threshold. Then it would not have been a question of moving to the next category, but rather of how to preserve his status at all — “the fallen” were hardly welcomed in the management ranks.

6.

“Sergey,” — throwing aside all formalities, Grigory Petrovich urged the station chief to do everything possible to save the project — “is there truly no way to salvage the situation?”

“We’re trying, Grisha, we’re trying.” In moments of difficulty and general calamity, both upper and lower levels suddenly recognize the interdependence and significance of each party. “You’ve seen yourself — things are bad all around.”

“Yeah…”

Their conversation had been going on for about ten minutes, revolving around minor details that could — or could not — change the course of events.

“You see, I got a call, you know from where.” Grigory understood perfectly well that he would not be patted on the back for divulging this, but compared to the project’s failure, costing the Soviet people and all allied nations enormous resources, it was a minor detail. Immense hopes rested on this project; it had been elevated almost to the heavens, with its completion seen as proof of the capability and power of Soviet society. In official media, everything seemed flawless, exceeding plan expectations: lofty speeches, labor obligations, hero and shock-worker appearances. Any failure could provoke not just worldwide resonance but bury under its debris all those involved.

“They found out after all,” Sergey grimaced. “And what now?”

“We have one last chance…”

Sergey Petrovich expressed himself crudely, which would immediately be noted in his personal file, but the situation was critical.

“Maybe you could check with your people again, how much…” — the curator, losing his composure, could not calm himself.

“What can you expect from these fools?” — the station chief was outraged — “They start battles with robots or reprogram Zinka for… pleasures. I’d personally, with my own hands, deal with the programmers who put positronic connections and personalities into these idiots’ heads…” — he cursed again — “How can one manage with such material?”

“Ah, Sergey, Sergey, you didn’t see the times when these very cyborgs couldn’t even step without instructions, without intervention… Seems like ages ago, but only three or four years…”

“And what then?”

“Well,” — the subject change seemed to lift the curator’s spirits — “they used to slack off, die for nothing, break equipment, so it was easier to replace them with humans. You understand, in such conditions, labor law forbids it — era of robotization and humanity. So they found a Solomon-like solution: give them independence, decision-making ability depending on the situation, emotions, human-like traits… Now you can hardly tell where a human ends and a self-developing cybernetic organism begins. That’s how it is, Sergey… Now we have to work with complicated, imperfect, but autonomous material… You asked how things were — well, I’m more an administrator than a technician.”

“So, how’s it going there, guys?” — Sergey Petrovich connected with the drill site, hidden under the massive dome. “Am I disturbing too much?”

“Not at all!” — reported Ivanov, head of the tunneling crew. “Equipment is operational, though not fully restored, so productivity is at 75% and gradually increasing…”

“Not fully restored?!” — the chief couldn’t believe his ears. “Immediately connect me to the repair team!”

The screen flickered and the image changed. Both repairmen, nudging auxiliary robots with the tips of their boots, continued repairs on the functioning installation, ignoring all rules and instructions.

“Alexander Sergeyevich, how are things?” — suddenly the screen appeared right in front of Alik, startling him. “Why isn’t the installation fully…” — Petrovich faltered; not being a technician, he mixed up terminology — “Not fully operational, but running?”

“Deadlines, Sergey Petrovich. Your order. Repairs are happening on the go…”

“And what if…” — then the unspoken fears of the project leader came true: the drill suddenly sneezed, seemed to leap in place, and plunged into the abyss it had itself bored, dragging repair robots, kilometers of cables, and tons of auxiliary equipment along.

The hundred-thousand-ton structure, occupying the entire artificial dome, seeming so immovable and “eternal,” instantly fractured in several places. Supports buckled, and under the weight and power of the mechanisms, it disappeared into the chasm, collapsing the walls, turning the neat hole into a monstrous crater.

“Oh, God!!” — the curator exclaimed, violating the unspoken rule of denying religion and adhering to materialism, so mentioning God was, to put it mildly, incorrect.

7.

The curator disconnected. There was nothing more to say to the personnel. The project had been irreversibly ruined, the equipment destroyed, and the guilty… what was there to say about them?! Now it was time to think about oneself…

The project leader himself had already stopped worrying about the project. From millions of kilometers apart, both he and the curator found themselves in the same position — utter hopelessness.

“Well now, Grigory Petrovich?” — the screen lit up again before the curator. The osobist no longer smiled. He looked reproachfully, the way adults do toward children, trying to stir in them a sense of guilt and repentance. “You didn’t notice… You didn’t keep watch… Such a project has been ruined…”

“I… I’m not quite…” — the curator began stammering, trying to justify himself.

“Hmm-hmm, no need,” — the osobist interrupted. “Now is not the time to panic, but to act…”

“How?”

“Clean up the consequences…”

“Clean up?” — the curator repeated in a daze.

“Yes!” — the osobist smiled, almost fatherly. “Clean up…”

“But how?”

“Cleaners, deactivators…”

“Yes-yes! Exactly!!” — Grigory Petrovich leapt from his seat, disbelief turning into rising enthusiasm. “There’s a team of deactivators on the cargo ship… I’ll start immediately!”

“Perfect!” — the osobist smiled. “We hope this will be within your capabilities.” And the screen went dark.

8.

“Sergey, listen to me carefully.” — Grigory chattered, tripping over words, utterly losing his composure. “In fifteen minutes, deactivators will be there. This is our chance! If we manage, we might receive leniency…”

“Understood,” Sergey Petrovich nodded. “Go on.” They had long since switched to informal speech, breaking all rules of subordination.

“Fifteen minutes… Deactivators… They arrive, clean up, send in the cleaning crew. Everything’s put in order and you get new workers.”

“And the deadlines? We’re already behind!” — objected Sergey Petrovich.

“Not your concern!” — the curator snapped. “Do as you are told. We need this incident to stay buried…”

“Understood. Waiting.”

Fifteen minutes later, a shuttle docked at the base of the dome. The airlock opened, admitting a team of tall, identical-looking figures — clearly cyborgs like those they had just arrived with, carrying bulky backpacks connected by long hoses.

“Sergey Petrovich?” — greeted the team leader. “How many personnel do you have?”

“Twenty-five,” — Petrovich replied, then corrected himself. “Excuse me, twenty-four… When working under secrecy for so long, you start counting both cyborgs and yourself by head…”

“Understood! Then we begin.” — the leader nodded, never introducing himself.

The procedure took barely ten minutes. To avoid panic and resistance among the personnel working on the now-ruined site, workers were called individually to the project leader’s office. When they appeared, certain they were going to receive instructions, the team acted. One barely visible flash from the decontamination nozzle, and all artificial neural connections in the cyborg’s brain turned into a paste-like mass, unusable for anything.

The team worked flawlessly. The body hadn’t even swayed on its feet before two pairs of strong hands lifted it and packed it into black, ultra-durable bags. The bag disappeared into an adjacent room — the project leader’s shower room — and the next “visitor” stepped into the office…

“Excellent.” — the decontamination team leader, never once smiling, shook the project leader’s hand. “All twenty-four bodies accounted for?”

“Yes, all.” — Sergey Petrovich exhaled with relief, watching in surprise as the twenty-fifth bag was being prepared. “And that one?”

“Pleasure doing business with you!” — the leader’s lips finally curved into a faint smile. “You are last on our list.” A slight flash illuminated the office once again.

9.

“Outstanding work!” — the osobist clapped Grigory Petrovich on the shoulder, smiling. “I told you we would meet again and have the chance to shake hands. Truly excellent…”

“And the project? The global attention?” — the curator asked, watching a small photon rocket separate from the cargo ship, erasing all traces of the failed project in an invisible “black” explosion.

“Trivial.” — the osobist smirked. “Do you really think that when such undertakings were conceived, our people and Party didn’t plan for this outcome? At present, three similar projects are deployed and, thanks to heroic effort, are progressing successfully to varying degrees. For obvious reasons, few know of this, so one or two — maybe three — failures will not diminish the demonstration of power, advanced technology, or the progressiveness of Soviet ideology before the remnants of long-defeated imperialism and some yet-unaligned Third World nations…”

“Really?!” — Grigory Petrovich exclaimed.

“Exactly. A pity about the wasted resources and unfulfilled hopes, but with the second failed attempt, we can implement precautionary measures in other projects, improve technology, optimize personnel, and cultivate more reliable, productive, and efficient management… So rest assured, your labor was not in vain.”

“Thank you.” — Grigory Petrovich breathed a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to think…”

“No need.” — the osobist smiled. “No need… It’s just a pity you won’t be able to enjoy it.”

“How so?” — the same flash that had helped eliminate the catastrophe an hour ago illuminated the office walls. There was no one to support the weakened curator, and he sank to the floor like a leaf in still weather.

Two figures entered the office, carrying the familiar black bag.

“A pity, of course, to waste such talent.” — the osobist slipped his portable device into his pocket. “But, alas, they say this model is currently too problematic…”

“Why’s that?” — asked one of the newcomers, a spitting image of the crew from the decontamination team on the cargo ship.

“They’ve reached the limits of their competence, and further upgrades seem impractical… or impossible. So we clean them up as they stumble.” — he moved toward the door. “Finish this without me.” And he left the office.

“The one we’ve been bagging all week,” — snorted one of the decontaminators. “Keeps messing things up… And who knows, from the same batch, maybe tomorrow it’ll be him in a bag…”

“Shut your mouth and work.” — the second interrupted. “Not our concern.”

“I’m quiet, I’m quiet.” — the first agreed, hoisting the bag onto his shoulder.

A banal story. Or just one day in the life of an ordinary grocery worker

— Is there any sausage? — the shop visitor asked hesitantly.

— No! — snapped the saleswoman, a stout, round woman in a well-worn apron tied tightly across her broad back.

— When will there be some? — persisted the bespectacled man.

— Yesterday! — the saleswoman turned away, showing her disdain for the hapless customer.

— I came yesterday too, — the persistent customer said, surprisingly oblivious to the insult. — You told me it would be arriving any minute.

— That was yesterday…

— So, did it arrive?

— It did. — the conversation felt like talking to a wall. The saleswoman, named Maria Vasilievna, once a beauty, now fattened and softened by the hard path of working in a supermarket, made it clear she didn’t want to converse.

“They’re all the same!” she thought, nudging a box of sausages toward the freezer with her foot. *"Always want something! And here…” * But she didn’t finish her thought because the persistent bespectacled man with his shabby jacket and mesh shopping bag interrupted:

— Then give me one and a half kilos at 2.10 per kilo!

— What don’t you understand, sir?! — Maria Vasilievna turned to him with undisguised rudeness. — There is no sausage.

— But it arrived…

— You amaze me! — she pressed her hands to her chest. — Don’t you understand? If they bring little, it’s gone in a flash…

— But I sat by the window all day yesterday! — the unlucky customer waved his hands. — There was no sausage for sale! I saw everything!

— Saw he did! — Maria Vasilievna snorted. — What could he have seen through those glasses? You wouldn’t even see your own wife unless she shoved you while passing by. Now go away, pest. No sausage. And there won’t be any for you. — And with a sense of indescribable majesty, she left the counter for the back room.

In the back room, Klavdiya and Alevtina were already sitting, sipping freshly brewed tea and enjoying sandwiches with sausage and caviar. There was very little caviar, so the caviar sandwiches were laid out separately, symbolizing their privileged status.

— Sit down, have some tea, Mashenka, — Alevtina offered. — Help yourself to the sandwiches. Freshly cut.

— Oh, thank you, friends. Just a minute.

The rich mixed tea, reportedly 50/50 Indian and Georgian black tea, filled the glass.

— Oh, yesterday I tore such tights, — Klavdiya boasted, showing her plump leg in nude-colored nylon.

— From Lenka at the haberdashery? — the women perked up, envious of their friend like a shop clerk denied fresh beef. — How much did you pay?

— No, not from her, — the privileged caste immediately split, elevating the owner of the new tights above the rest. — From Valeria at the department store. Imported, Bulgarian.

— Well, well, — Maria Vasilievna touched her friend’s leg, admiringly. — And you didn’t tell me? I ran into her yesterday in the stairwell. Rushed to her taxi driver hubby, painted-up minx. And that with her husband alive!!

— Really?! — the tights topic was immediately forgotten, leaving slight annoyance and tension for Maria Vasilievna and Alevtina.

— Shurik lives with us — a womanizer and drunk. Works as a taxi driver and brings girls home after work. Lately, Valerka’s been coming by often. You can’t mistake that dyed hair, — Maria Vasilievna took over the story. — Goes there, comes back home in the evening, to her husband. Lipstick smeared, eyeshadow running, skirt wrinkled. I don’t know… if you visit a man, at least hide the traces of sin afterwards, that’s how I was in my youth… — she stopped herself.

— What are you saying? — Alevtina grabbed the slip of the saleswoman. — Did something happen with this Sasha?

— With who?! Sasha?! — Maria Vasilievna protested, munching on her third sandwich with boiled sausage. — Where is he? Some taxi driver! And me?? You know yourselves, friends.

Her friends knew that Masha’s husband was an engineer, making either bombs or rockets, suffering from insomnia and nearsightedness, and without his wife in the grocery store, he’d have long dried up on his 200 rubles with overtime. “But he’s cultured! — Masha explained, trying to hide her disappointment. — He starts talking, and I don’t even understand what he’s saying. But oh, how he talks! You could listen for hours.”

— So what about Sasha? — her friend pressed on.

— Why are you pestering me? What about Sasha? — Maria Vasilievna waved her hand, adding with a full mouth: — What happened, happened. I’m a decent married woman. Not like some Valerka, the minx from the haberdashery.

— Alright, alright, friend, — Alevtina winked. — Better try the caviar sandwich. It just arrived yesterday. They came from the executive committee and took almost everything. What we managed to hide — enjoy. Who knows when we’ll see caviar again?!

“You talk!” — Maria Vasilievna smiled as she ate, internally scolding Alevtina. — Your fat old porker on the party rations has eaten well. Feeling great! And chicken, and sausage, and probably some caviar now and then. You have no right to complain!”

— Thanks, friend, — Masha smiled, finishing her sandwich. — It’s nice here. And no one’s been at the counter for half an hour. We should go.

— There’s nothing on the counter anyway! — the friends giggled. — Whoever comes, let them manage. Let them go to the bread aisle or spoil the juice and soda. We’re fine. Did you hide the sausage?

— Yes, it’s there. Under the counter.

— What?! — both women jumped up at once. — The manager will see it and take half right away. Oh, Masha, you fool!! Let’s go quickly.

All three almost ran to the now-empty sales spot.

But the very sales spot was no longer empty. Right on Masha’s place stood the store manager, who also doubled as the senior saleswoman — technically against the rules, but very common. And she wasn’t just standing there; she was talking to that same shabby jacketed man with his glasses wrapped in insulating tape.

— I fully understand your indignation, — the Store Manager sweetly addressed them from her “podium.” — Naturally, this is unacceptable, and the guilty will be punished in the strictest manner. Rudeness in our establishment is not tolerated! Your complaint is very important to us and… — she faltered, apparently running out of official phrases. Now she could either repeat herself in circles or switch to the manager’s colorful, expletive-filled language, which she knew well, to put her unruly staff in place.

— But what about the sausage?! — the customer asked pleadingly.

— Please, try to see things from our perspective, — she carefully moved a box of sausages aside and continued. — We are expecting a delivery any day now. Unfortunately, due to the complicated situation in livestock farming, there are currently disruptions in the supply of sausages…

— And milk, and meat, and cheese are gone too, and the cigarettes disappeared somewhere… — muttered the bespectacled man. — Will it at least arrive today?

— We expect it, but cannot promise anything, — the hydra-like manager smiled condescendingly.

— So should I wait here?! — the customer pointed toward the radiators near the window.

— Of course, of course, — she reassured him. — As soon as the sausages arrive, you’ll be the first to see them.

— Then I’ll be first in line.

— Naturally!! — the manager beamed. — What is there to argue about!

— And still, the complaints book…

— Oh, why do you need it? — the manager bristled, her voluminous chemically-lightened hair shaking with her. A previous entry from some hysterical woman had cost them a considerable sum and caused weeks of tension during an inspection by the KRU.

— To write a note of gratitude! — the customer replied simply, and his expression made it clear he was determined to write exactly that.

“Ah, typical type,” the manager mused, once a woman with a name, now simply “The Manager” with a capital M. “You yell at them, insult them, stomp your feet, and they only grovelingly lick your shoes in return. Where do they come from?! And why are there so many of them?! Probably because they have no access to material goods!”

— Of course! If you wish, we can even draft the text for you. A note of thanks from grateful customers is a measure of our efforts to provide them with all the goods.

— I’ll write it myself, — the customer smiled ingratiatingly. — After all, thirty years of teaching experience.

— Very well, as you wish, — the manager eyed him warily. — Alevtina will bring you the book. And you girls, follow me. — she commanded authoritatively.

The manager’s office was a normal room with a personal air conditioner, a small fridge, and a leather couch for visitors. She did not invite the girls to sit, leaving them standing opposite their “throned” boss.

— Masha, you country hen! — the soft opening didn’t bode well. — You’ve long been a goat… Do you want to lose your job?! And where will you go then? Selling pies at the station? They won’t even take you there. You’ll be sweeping streets, picking up dog poop, chasing drunks from stairwells! Do you hear me, my dear donkey?

— Yes, comrade…

— One more stunt like this and you won’t be our comrade anymore, you wide-eyed heifer with an unmilked udder! — the manager even stood up in indignation. — What do you think you’re doing? Who are you deceiving, ungrateful wretch? Who are you setting up? Who are you spying on?

— I… — Maria Vasilievna, instantly turned into a foolish plump girl from one of the non-asphalted villages of the Non-Black-Earth region, who came to the city seeking a better life.

— What am I? My dear, — the manager hissed. — Maybe you want to write a resignation right now? Settle for everything we won’t find, or worse, will find? And leave properly, clean and tidy?

— No, I… — the fear of losing such a “bread-and-butter” job paralyzed Masha. — I…

— You forgot, you fence-post fool, where did we find you? Who sheltered you? Who saved you from the KRU?

— I remember, comrade Manager. I only…

— Then why are you stealing from me? What’s this sausage under the counter? Where did it come from?

— There’s just a little left…

— Ah, just a little? — the manager jumped up. — This morning there was none, and now suddenly it appeared from somewhere? So.

— I…

— You’re a complete fool, dear. Everything left there, bring it here immediately, Mashenka. And henceforth, even once… God forbid you don’t bring the surplus, don’t share the extra, or even whisper on the street about how you eat caviar in the backroom!! You’ll be fired instantly, according to the labor code! Do you understand me, you dumb beast?!

— Yes, comrade Manager. It won’t happen again, — the consequences of her close acquaintance with the local military colonel, who had a mighty body, an iron will, an army of conscripted slaves, and a passion for voluptuous women, suddenly surfaced.

— Then one foot here, the other there. — the manager waved Masha off.

— I’ll…

— Yes, and also don’t forget this — Mikhailych, our loader, is drinking again, so today a truck with milk, sausage, and cheese will arrive — unload it. You’re used to it. You’re free. And you, Klavdiya, stay, please.

Maria Vasilievna, no longer a girl, plummeted from the third floor as if on wings. And just as quickly, she soared back up with a crate in her hands. The scene she witnessed left her in shock.

A tangle of women’s bodies rolled across the floor, alternately flinging arms up, trying to grab hair, scratch faces, or just swing wildly at anything within reach. Screeching and cursing each other, the grocery store employees worked out their grievances:

— I’ll pull every hair out of your head for my Vasiliy! — hissed Klavdiya, kicking the Manager who was struggling to get free from her enraged subordinate.

— We’ll see about that! — replied the Manager, lashing back at her attacker.

— I don’t care that you’re the boss here. I’ll rip out those envious eyes of yours, and you’ll be stumbling with a stick and falling off ladders, you unsatisfied little witch.

— From a frigid one, I hear.

— Frigid?! You dare?! — Klavdiya yelled, and the tangle rolled toward the couch. — I’ll show you frigid. I’ll show you right now… You think that because you can bully and humiliate us, our men are also under your power…

— Frigid-frigid, — teased the Manager. — He told me just the other night. Always comparing us. And never in your favor, you immobile log.

— Immobile log?! I’ll…

Maria Vasilievna carefully set the crate of sausages at the entrance and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her. The Manager’s love for other people’s men was legendary, but in truth, she sinned no more than the others; it was just that, constantly in view, she attracted more attention.

“That was close,” Maria Vasilievna exhaled.

— Where are you going? — caught her by the arm the driver of the freshly arrived truck. — Mashenka, come help. I’ll unload, you just drive it away.

Lyona had arrived, driver of the meat processing plant that could not keep up with producing enough sausages to satisfy the growing demands of the working class. For certain individuals outside the glorified working class, there was enough product — but never enough for everyone.

— Let’s go, Mashenka… — Lyona tried to coax her aside.

— What are you doing?! — the slap echoed through the corridor — I told you already, I’m a married woman. Those days are over.

— Come on now, — the driver persisted.

— I don’t have time for you now. The Manager is furious, threatened to fire me today. Let’s unload your sausage.

Sighing heavily, Lyona stayed silent the rest of the time, obediently unloading, handing over papers, waiting for items to be weighed, stamped, and cleared so he could leave. As soon as he drove off, Maria Vasilievna, once again feeling like little Mashenka, exhaled and watched him go.

The sausage arrived. Word spread immediately through the store. A queue of employees formed at the stacks of crates. Even the loader who had gone on a bender hobbled over, hoping to grab his share. By tradition, insiders could pick better products, stash some “under the counter” for themselves, or trade with colleagues who had access to other material goods, like jewelry or cosmetics.

— Is anyone left in the hall? — the Manager’s voice boomed as she appeared suddenly in the corridor. Crumpled skirt, crooked blouse, thick layer of rouge — otherwise, business as usual. — Mashenka, come see me later.

— As always?

— Of course! — the Manager was all sweetness.

Everything happened quickly and efficiently. So professional, as only retail workers can be when handling other retail workers. Atomic scales were even brought from the backroom — the only scales measuring exact weight in the store. All other scales weren’t exactly inaccurate; they were simply set identically. Even checking purchases against the control scales, customers noticed no difference. Occasionally, an angry customer, noticeably overcharged, would raise a fuss, but either no one paid attention, or the culprit turned out to be the technician who miscalibrated the scales, or the tired saleswoman who made a mistake. Conflicts were sometimes resolved in the Manager’s office, depending on the customer’s rank. Punishment? Never heard of it. Corporate ethics and mutual complicity kept the team in line, occasionally erupting in minor and major disputes, but outwardly, the staff appeared as an impregnable monolith. Violating corporate ethics was the ultimate sin, never forgiven; such workers were dismissed, and the most stubborn sometimes faced documented theft or other unpleasant consequences.

— I won’t give much! — Maria Vasilievna warned immediately. — Yesterday the whole batch was gone; nothing reached the counter. Today a scandal broke over it.

Murmurs of agreement — yesterday it had all been taken. Within twenty minutes, over half of the new sausage shipment had disappeared into backrooms and locker rooms and made its way to the Manager’s office. What remained was placed by Maria Vasilievna, with a sense of benevolence, on the sales floor.

By tradition, the empty hall, nearly devoid of people at empty counters, suddenly filled with bustling shoppers the moment even a single crate of sausage crossed into the sales area.

What was remarkable wasn’t just that everyone immediately crowded the counters, jostling, forming lines, trying to hand over their hard-earned money for sausages at 2.10 rubles per kilo. The real surprise was that in the middle of a workday, when the entire workforce was supposed to be burning at their jobs, a large portion suddenly stormed the store, clearing everything within reach, buying in bulk, yet participating in the communal frenzy of consumption and access to material goods.

— I’ve been standing here… — waved his arms the worn jacket, pushed away from the counter. — Saleswoman! Comrade! Tell them! I’ve been here since morning! I was standing… — his shout disappeared into the periphery, shoved aside by every eager participant in the scramble, most of them women no less robust than the saleswomen themselves, experienced veterans of such situations.

Maria Vasilievna did not bother with such trifles as restoring “justice,” especially since this sausage lover and truth-seeker earned her nothing more than a crate of select products and a scolding from the Manager. Revenge was the sweetest dish, and she indulged in it with great pleasure.

— When will you start giving it out? — fumed the old lady, wrapped in a scarf, as spry as any robust woman. — It’s time to start…

— We’ll start soon, — Maria Vasilievna replied calmly, savoring her brief, absolute authority over the crowd. — The papers need to be filled out first.

— What papers?! — protested the milling shoppers at the counter. — Lunch is soon. Start handing it out.

But Masha was in no hurry to give. “Give” — the eternal word! Not sell, not buy, but give and take — a Soviet citizen raised in the spirit of socialism could think in no other way. Sometimes, sausages and other foodstuffs were “thrown” onto the counter, or handed out by the kilo in a single hand, causing queues with children, grandmothers, and grandfathers to spill out beyond the store.

“Indeed, lunch is soon!” Mar’ya Vasilyevna noticed, glancing at the clock. She didn’t really feel like working, but the desire to set aside something for herself was irresistible.

— We won’t give anything before lunch! — she cut off the customers, not looking up from her papers. — Some of the paperwork isn’t in order… And the display must be arranged first.

— Won’t give, won’t give, won’t give… After lunch, after lunch, after lunch… — the murmur ran through the crowd, instantly causing an uproar.

But their complaints were somewhere over there, behind the counter, in the human jumble. Masha was separated from them by the unbreakable wall of sales equipment and her status as a shop worker. If she said — after lunch, then it meant after lunch. And nothing else.

— The manager! — demanded the crowd.

— Lunch! — Mar’ya Vasilyevna cut them off. — I ask everyone to leave the store. We will reopen in an hour…

Righteously indignant, the crowd moved toward the exit, ready to vent their frustration on each other, quarrel over the queue, and express their disrespect toward the next scapegoat, most likely the man in the worn jacket. Consumer upbringing and conditioning in the country had reached such a level that nothing ever went beyond simple indignation. The gray mass had grown accustomed to insults and humiliation, just to reach the counter and, for a few minutes, feel like something greater, different, superior to the crowd from which they had emerged and to which they would inevitably return.

— What’s going on here?! — a kindly voice sounded from behind. The store manager was making her pre-lunch rounds, checking the sales areas and employees’ dedication to their duties.

— Everything’s fine, — reported Mar’ya Vasilyevna. — We’ll start after lunch.

— Well, that’s good. Keep it up, — she said, patting Masha on the shoulder without even looking at her, and went to the next department.

An hour flew by unnoticed, as it often does, with tea, women chatting in the back room, and sandwiches made from the freshly delivered sausage. Finally, it was time to get down to business! With a heavy heart and a sense of inevitability, Masha took her place at the counter, having previously adjusted the scales for an extra fifteen grams “for herself.”

The little man with taped-up glasses and the now-familiar worn jacket once again tried to push to the front, calling for justice. Once more, the justice of the masses prevailed over individual justice. The man was pushed out of the queue, with a promise that next time he might even be thrown out of the store.

— What do you want? — Masha Vasilyevna asked the first customer who managed to reach the counter, in the most unfriendly tone possible.

— I’d like one and a half kilos of doctor’s sausage, — the elderly woman in a headscarf said pleadingly.

— One and a half kilos… — Masha replied. On the electronic scales, intended to prevent underweighing, but failing at their task, the total price appeared.

— I have a card, — the old woman handed over her worn, previously wrapped-in-a-cloth, plastic pension card. — My pension has been deposited there.

Masha Vasilyevna didn’t really care. She was only troubled when there were too many pensioners, when the cashless payments went into the store account, and there wasn’t enough cash to cover the full overcharge and adjustments for herself. Once, she had even been the subject of an investigation by the audit and control department for excessively high revenue when the documents showed 20% less stock. Everything was blamed on the supplier, explained as their manipulations, but the uneasy feeling remained. Today, however, there weren’t many of these old ladies with their plastic squares — who even came up with this innovation? — so there was nothing to worry about.

— The terminal is on your side, — Mar’ya Vasilyevna reminded the old woman. — Insert it, enter your code, get the receipt.

— Help me, dear, — the old woman asked, afraid of anything more complicated than a light switch.

— Don’t hold up the line! — Masha barked at her. — Are you going to pay or not?

The brisk trading continued until the very end of the workday. As if on cue, another batch of sausages arrived — unexpectedly. Over the quota. They had to accept it, sell it, and by the end of the day, Masha was practically collapsing, radiating contempt for everyone and everything around her. The hour hand barely jumped from one mark to the next, stretching the workday into infinity.

Finally, the long-awaited end of the day arrived. The hand froze for a moment and reluctantly touched the 12. The workday was over; all that remained was to finish up… and there, at the counter, stood that same little man in the worn jacket, ready to place an order.

— I would like… — he began.

— The store is closing, — Masha, exhausted, brushed him off. — Come tomorrow.

— But how is that possible?! — the unlucky customer protested. — I…

No one heard him anymore. Masha left the counter, throwing her soiled apron over her arm. She desperately wanted to lie down, or at least sit — and that moment was near — when suddenly it turned out that the whole staff was being called by the manager.

Cursing the manager, the work, the customers, and the overcrowded service refrigerator where unaccounted stock was kept, Mar’ya Vasilyevna, without entering the locker room, went along with everyone to the manager.

The office was immediately so crowded that the manager had to step back into the far corner and, from there, after scanning everyone and counting almost head by head, announced:

— Is everyone here?

— Yes… — they replied.

The manager checked once more and continued:

— I want to introduce today’s visitors to you: Sergey Petrovich and Anton Antonovich.

Sergey Petrovich was older, about thirty-five, and Anton looked like a young specialist, inexperienced and knowing nothing, assigned to learn from his mentor.

— The temperature sensors of our cooling systems have transmitted information via the communication network about a significant overload, which may cause the freezers to fail. Therefore… — Sergey Petrovich raised his hand, and the store manager’s speech was interrupted.

— Temperature sensors… — he pushed his way to the middle of the room. — Overheating and failure… How I love moments like this! — he nudged one of the frozen figures. — You walk in with some idiotic story, show your ID, and everyone believes you unconditionally. Everyone cooperates… Yes, our little plump one?! — Sergey Petrovich patted the fleshy back of one of the saleswomen, frozen in an unnatural pose on one leg, adjusting her slipping stocking.

— Yes, — Sergey Petrovich suddenly remembered. — Down there, in the lobby, sits this inconspicuous little man. Then you run down and deactivate him too. He’s a so-called “mystery shopper.” Secret shopper — damn them all!

— Alright, — nodded the trainee, — and what about these ones? — he asked.

— Same as always, — Sergey Petrovich waved him off. — Overloads at work. Program errors, algorithm violations, excess independence. Classic.

— But they were supposed to be accounted for? — the young man insisted. — They told us that at the institute…

— Forget everything they taught you at the institute, — his mentor countered.

— And Marxism-Leninism too? — the trainee asked provocatively, but Sergey Petrovich didn’t answer. — And the party history?

— Don’t cloud my mind, — Petrovich nudged the trainee. — Start with the store manager.

— And what do we do with her?

— Same as everyone else — deactivation. A critical measure. When a simple firmware update can’t solve anything.

— Understood, — the trainee replied. — So we load them…

— Yes, we load them, — the mentor agreed. — And every day, — he continued to himself. — The problem sphere of trade! Entire research institutes work on developing proper processes, control systems, creating equipment that simply must work as intended! And what do we get in the end? We create a working staff as close to human as possible. Both externally and in daily life. So close that without a screwdriver and special knowledge, you can’t distinguish them on close inspection — people like people, walking, living, breathing, weaving intrigues, getting married. They even manage to give birth… While under supervision, while the accompaniment process is in place — they work like clockwork. And once the control is removed, everything immediately goes to… well, you know where it goes. All regulations are instantly violated, processes begin to fail, and performing their duties becomes openly… And the original goal becomes twisted beyond recognition…

— Why does this happen? — the trainee asked, opening the manager’s chest in search of the control panel.

— Some say the models are outdated, working for 40 years, and the country lacks funds for new ones; some blame the developers, claiming they sit in labs and never go into the field. And the most persistent claim that the mentality of the people is such — restless and thieving — the people, or even go as far as heresy — blame the system, saying it only produces moral degenerates. And no technological innovation will save you then… it won’t help.

— And what do you think?!

— I don’t think. I know. I know that today we’ll pack them up, take them for disposal, and tomorrow there will be others here — new models or old ones, doesn’t matter. But in a year or a year and a half, the model service store will turn into the same dump with cheating, overcharging, theft, and rudeness, and we’ll have to come again and remove all this trash.

— Well, I don’t think that way… — the trainee disagreed.

— Thinking is fine! Don’t worry, after a couple of years working, you won’t think anymore. You’ll know. Pack them all. They need to be delivered by midnight. And we have to carry out the mind-cleaning in their families too. No help today — the other teams are cleaning the neighboring military unit. Lots of work ahead. We’ll talk later.

The Cellar of the “World Rulers”