Dawn. The sun gilded the tops of the pines. The air was still full of the night's coolness, drawn from the river overnight. The leaves by the bank rustled almost inaudibly, as if talking to themselves. Sometimes orioles flashed among them—bright as flashes of light.
Summer. For a child, it's not just a season, but a whole world. In the post-war years, the courtyards came alive early. Children's voices rang from morning till evening. Laughter, shouts, crying—everything was sincere, without pretense. Children were strong friends, argued fiercely, and made up quickly. Their lives flowed like a river—noisy, swift, without looking back.
In those days, stories happened that were remembered for years. Simple, but so important. As if each of them could have been the beginning of a book.
Stas got up before the roosters. His mother had already left for the factory, leaving him with Vera. They had breakfast of potatoes and yesterday's bread. He tied a scarf around his sister's braids, put her on his shoulders, and went out. Artyom was waiting by the entrance. He had slept in the attic again. After payday, his father had started drinking, and there was neither food nor warmth at home. Artyom was afraid to go back. And why? There were only empty bottles and drunken snoring.
Seeing each other, the boys greeted each other loudly. Their worries seemed to dissolve. They discussed yesterday's radio concert and walked along the river. A little downstream, they had a secret spot—a small backwater with a clay bank. The water there was always cold, a spring gushed from the bottom, the bottom was muddy, and the bank was inconvenient. But by noon, when the sun warmed the water, fish would swim here. Not small fry, but roach, bleak, sometimes even crucian carp.
The boys had fishing rods hidden here, and at night, they set a "television" net, which they had repaired themselves. Stas didn't like fish—too many bones. But his mother and sister ate them with joy. They lived modestly, and the catch was a great help. Artyom, on the other hand, sometimes had fish for lunch. If the old folks didn't call him to help with the garden, he went hungry. But then—he'd cut the beds, weed the garden, for a couple of kopecks. If they fed him, he'd chop firewood without question.
Approaching their spot, the boys realized something was wrong. Putting his sister down and telling her not to follow them, Stas and Artyom slowly walked to the bank of the backwater. Something light was visible in the water through the thicket of grass, algae, and mud.
Artyom, being braver, leaned down to see what had washed ashore. The boy shuddered when he saw a man in the water.
An adult, not young for a boy, the man was half-sitting, leaning against the clay bank. He would have taken him for a drowned man, his face was too terribly scratched, but his chest was weakly rising. There was an ugly wound on his forehead, and he was clenching some kind of tube in his teeth. His white shirt had turned pink from the blood oozing from a wound on his left shoulder.
"He's a scout!" Vera declared in a squeaky voice, making the boys jump. "He was catching spies! That's why they shot him! Like in those radio stories, by request. Only for real."
"Let him catch spies somewhere else," Artyom said grimly. "He scared all the fish away." He didn't trust adults. He hadn't seen any good ones. They either drank or lied.
"He wouldn't have abandoned you if you were wounded!" Vera stubbornly shook her head. "Dad didn't abandon anyone in the war. Stas?"
The girl looked at her brother. He was strong, but sometimes as unreliable as all the boys. Stas was silent, not knowing what to answer.
"Then I'll drag him myself!" Vera declared resolutely, seeing his doubts.
The boys flinched under her angry gaze. They felt ashamed. It was not fitting for a Soviet person to leave someone in trouble. How many times had the boys from the yard stood up for them? And what about them? Wouldn't they help their scout?
They exchanged glances. They looked at the wounded man again, estimated how to pull him out, and got to work.
"And I said he was a scout!" Vera shouted triumphantly, almost scaring them again. She waved a red ID card, a strange plastic one, in front of their faces. It had fallen out of his breast pocket when the boys were dragging the man to the shore.
"Colonel Kuznetsov. Special Unit 'Argentum'," Vera read out syllable by syllable.
The boys exchanged glances. Which of the boys hadn't heard of "Argentum"? All the capitalists feared their operatives. Even in games, everyone wanted to be one of them. And here—a real one. For real.
They felt ashamed again. He was protecting them, guarding secrets, and they...
Argon came to with a jolt. His nose caught the smell of smoke, and his body instantly mobilized. On the front, such smells never promised anything good. Scouts never lit fires in the open—that was an axiom.
"He's awake! He's awake!" a child's voice rang out next to him, so clear that it easily pierced his aching head.
Argon's eyes darted to the source of the sharp, loud sound. Next to him, in some kind of hut, sat a small, thin, almost transparent girl of about five or six. It was immediately clear that something was wrong with the child. Stick-like arms, twig-like legs. The veins on her arms were characteristically swollen, and bruises from IV drips were visible. A scarf was on her bald head. Her eyes, which took up half her face, were sky-blue, radiating happiness and joy. Together with her carefree, joyful smile, it all looked both touching and frightening. The old soldier felt the smell of someone else's death hanging in the air in his gut.
"Who are you... little one?" Argon asked cautiously in a hoarse voice, slowly sitting up. He grunted when he saw what he was lying on. Apparently, someone had dragged an old undershirt from some workshop, all covered in oil and traces of grease, so it could be torn into pieces and used as tinder for kindling.
"I'm not little!" the girl protested and instantly puffed out her cheeks. "I'll be eight soon! I'll be all grown up! Oh... My name is Vera!"
A rustling sound came from the entrance of the hut. Two boys' heads appeared in the opening, cautiously peering inside.
"And these are Artyom and Stas," Vera waved a thin little hand. "They helped you out of the river, and then I disinfected your wounds with green antiseptic and bandaged them! Here!"
"Thank you," Argon replied, nodded to the boys, and then, glancing at his shoulder, noted that it was bandaged quite professionally. The scout mentally noted the absence of a tourniquet, estimating that he had been unconscious for about five to seven hours. In about that time, his enhanced regeneration could have healed such a wound.
"Are you really from 'Argentum'?" the girl asked and, seeing Argon's surprised eyebrow rise, added, "It fell out of your pocket... I read it..."
Small hands handed him a pass card, which he used as a travel pass in Moscow. He didn't hide it particularly... back then.
"True," Argon grunted, carefully taking the card. He placed it on his open palm so the children could see, and put it into his spatial backpack.
"Cool!" the children exclaimed in unison, seeing the object disappear in a flash.
"Are those... magic gloves you have?" the girl asked, frowning adorably, which looked a bit comical and frightening due to the absence of eyebrows on the child's face.
"No, this is Yarov-Abalakov's backpack, or a paratrooper's backpack. Neuro-compression. This thing on my belt," he showed the children the device hanging at his side. "The gloves are also unusual. These are military-grade polymer manipulators. They can do this..."
Under the delighted gaze of the children, Argon pulled a small stone towards him, taking it with telekinesis, which caused a storm of delight.
"Fish!" the older boy suddenly shouted, running towards the campfire where the river fish carcasses were being fried, as soon as his nose caught the smell of burnt food.
"His father drinks... again," the other boy explained for some reason, clearly feeling out of place. "He lived in this hut, but the nights became too cold. So he moved to the attic... We found you when we went to check the net in the morning. I don't like fish! Just bones! But Mom and sister do... Since Dad died, we only have bread, potatoes, and milk."
"A chatterbox is a spy's find," Argon smiled at the children's innocence. "A soldier won't hurt a child! And won't eat them out of house and home! We'll make a real army lunch now, since the fish is bony."
Carefully standing up, the officer took two new-model army daily rations from his spatial storage. Having acquired the miracle backpack, Argon also took care of its contents.
Before, it was like this: you had to choose whether to take more ammunition or supplies, or an extra weapon. Crawling through forests and swamps, you start to feel every gram of weight on your back more acutely. So the scout equipped himself wholeheartedly, and his soul was indeed very broad.
Fifteen to twenty kilograms of equipment seem light only for the first few hours. The drum magazines for the PPSh, for example, are convenient in combat, no matter how you look at it: seventy-one rounds of ammunition. But two or three such magazines can already become a problem. You have to watch them carefully. Bend one accidentally—and that's it, or make noise with careless movement. With a box magazine, the weapon behaved differently when firing bursts, and the assault rifle "ate" cartridges quickly. Even if the PPSh isn't the most convenient machine for reconnaissance, it's better than others in terms of survivability and ease of maintenance.
With the new rations, it was quite funny at the time, especially with their composition. No one knew the war would end like this, so they made plenty of canned goods. Americans excelled at this. In wartime, a can of stewed meat is hard currency, for which you can exchange a lot. And the capitalists would choke if profit slipped through their fingers. So, out of great greed, they made all sorts of canned goods.
Then the Plague happened, and there were suddenly fewer mouths in the world. The canned goods sat in warehouses as dead weight, sold sluggishly, without much demand. And then the "industrial miracle" of the USSR happened. With better taste qualities, the production cost of the Union was ten times lower, and the final product quality was higher. In terms of taste, at least. In terms of shelf life, the stewed meat produced by Soviet workers could be stored almost forever. The Enterprise went to great lengths to develop convenient and practical packaging, as well as special polymer additives.
The story continued in '50, when the Union bought all the reserves at once, which were almost being given away. After all, even against the backdrop of America's economic crisis, they didn't want to take them. Aggressive advertising became a byword. The very name "SPAM" became a generic term.
In automatic factories, the cans were opened under sterile conditions, polymer additives were added, the contents were heated, and American ham was re-sealed, but now with the addition of vegetables and grains, into a ready ration. The canned goods were bought for twelve cents a can, and then three rubles of profit were made from each. Considering that, thanks to the introduction of new technologies and automation, one ruble officially gave three dollars at the bank, and on the black market, the USSR currency was even more expensive among resellers, as it was physically backed by gold, unlike American currency... The USA, no matter how you look at it, was left in the lurch, feeding the army of its political opponent for decades from its own pocket and adding a good source of income to its treasury.
The daily ration included three meals with fuel for heating, dry water, dessert, drinks, and other small items that made eating a little more pleasant and boosted the morale of the soldier. The Bolsheviks did not skimp on the army. Especially after the Plague, when they were left alone with America.
So the colonel decided he wouldn't go broke if he fed the children. He would have given them all the provisions if he could, but he could see from their eyes: they wouldn't take it. And others might have questions. Where there are questions, there are his colleagues. Now, of course, even the "agency" wouldn't prosecute him, but witnesses to his "indecencies" would be thoroughly shaken. Moreover, if he just fed them, no one would believe it...
Then everything was simple. Pull the ring on the can, open it slightly, and throw it into the fire. As Argon heard, soon they would be able to replenish their ammunition supply on the campfire. The Enterprise was testing a battery for an energy weapon, which, in theory, could be charged from body heat.
The officer chuckled again to himself, watching the children devour the canned goods, licking the cans clean. Even for him, it was strange that in times when people fly in space, children somewhere near Moscow could be underfed. And there was nothing he could do. It's impossible to get resources and people out of the military sector. If the country doesn't invest in its army, it will be ruined by another, if something worse doesn't happen...
"No one will believe us," Artyom hiccuped, full for the first time in a long time, if not his whole life, "And it's a shame, though I understand I shouldn't say it... You're a scout, and you didn't end up here for no reason."
"That's true," Colonel, understanding he was doing something foolish but unable to act otherwise, stated. "But the three of us know. You helped me, and that means we are now combat comrades. One unit. And a unit should have its banner..."
At these words, Kuznetsov pulled out the desired item from the spatial storage. A small chevron, the unit's emblem, which he had stashed away long ago when testing the backpack, and never took out. At first, he counted every gram, looking for a catch, but then he got used to it. So it came in handy, and it proved useful.
"Here, Artyom. You're the oldest, right?" the boy nodded, staring mesmerized at a real treasure. "So, you'll be the commander... of a partisan cell. You can even show it to others. Tell everyone you traded for it. They'll believe that more readily and be envious. But don't lose it! During the war, when we were surrounded, we guarded the unit's banner..."
"I know!" Vera said loudly. "Aunt Rita told us at kindergarten. She fought too! She doesn't even have an arm! I asked her why she was crying when we sang a song... A good song! 'What the Motherland Begins With'..."
Alexander momentarily pictured this scene, and his hardened heart, accustomed to death and pain, skipped a beat. He understood why the veteran caregiver at the kindergarten was crying. Kuznetsov himself was like that. He knew what the Motherland began with, only that knowledge had faded over the years.
"It's a good song," the man said, shaking his head and looking into the girl's eyes. Turning to the boy and placing the chevron in his hand, he added, "That's why it's so important not to lose it."
"And she also said that when they make the 'Collective,' children will stop getting sick," the girl decided to finish the adult off. "I want to see it, but it's too long to wait... Three whole years..."
"If I live that long..." the veteran mentally finished for the child. Some things soldiers understand without words, just from the silence. And Stas's darkened face was only confirmation of his conclusions.
"Well then, to make the wait faster... In three years, when the neural network is launched, I'll come to you... with my unit."
"You're lying, aren't you?" Artyom grumbled grimly. "You'll leave and forget!"
"We'll see," the operative smiled. "If I don't come, it means I didn't live to see it. Alright, gang! It's good with you, but no one will do my work for me. I'm off..."
Getting into the bus, Argon exhaled. An unexpected meeting and unexpected consequences of an equally unexpected day. That's an adventure for you, twenty minutes. Went in and out of the mausoleum...
Remembering how Stalin glowed from radiation, the man tensed. He had to complete the mission to the end. Now he had another reason to do his job flawlessly.
Working at the Enterprise, he knew how many such girls there were across the country. The consequences of the Brown Plague were still echoing, claiming many children's lives annually. The worst part was that practically nothing could be done. Only time and generational change could change something. The Wizard approached this issue very seriously, so as not to make unsubstantiated claims. Soviet science simply lacked statistics and clinical cases. Scientists didn't know where to look to fix the situation, although they had all the tools for it.
This is the time to think about the price of everything. Kuznetsov was a communist, but not a dreamer, accepting the bitter truth. Bolsheviks are realists; they live in reality, not in dreams. Therefore, it's not surprising that, upon learning the truth about the virus's origin, the operative simply took note of it.
He had seen the consequences of nuclear strikes and understood there was no choice. With an antidote, the virus was preferable to hundreds of nuclear warheads. There would have been many times fewer victims. Even when everything went wrong, there were still fewer victims. All who died would have died anyway. Someone would have been lucky and simply vaporized, while another would have died from the consequences of radiation sickness.
It's one thing to know, and another to see the consequences in the eyes of a small child. Therefore, the military man had a new motivation. He would do everything to prevent such things in the future. That is why it was necessary to do the job perfectly.
Taking out his "Shchebetar," he called his fighters, giving them orders to clean up after themselves. No one saw his face except the taxi driver, but he needed to create a plausible alibi just in case.
After giving instructions to the fighters, he sighed and dialed the number of his aunt, who was undoubtedly worried about where this restless nephew was. He had to lie, saying he decided to relax in nature after a walk in Moscow. His aunt chided him, played on his nerves a bit, but calmed down, asking him to call in advance next time. "I made dinner, and you didn't come, you scoundrel!" she added.
After all the loose ends were tied up, Kuznetsov pondered whether to call the Wizard now or wait until he found out what was in that third stage. He concluded that if he was being tracked, and he hadn't put fools on alert, it was better to call when he reached the dacha. Even if he was identified, they couldn't pin him down directly, but they could confiscate evidence. If there was any.
The fighter reached the party dacha without incident. After the leader's death, it became an insignificant object. Only automatic security and Stalin's servants remained there, and only one watchman was alive, so as not to be too brazen.
There were talks of turning the building into a museum, but they all died down. Comrade Khrushchev was very nervous about Stalin, as if he had sworn to come for him after death. He repeatedly suggested burying the body, but the party was categorically against it, leaving the former leader under the windows of the current one. Only the "Corncob" decided to take matters into his own hands—or someone advised him, which no longer matters. After all this fuss, Stalin would definitely be left in place. And so, the chair under the General Secretary was already shaky for everything good. On the other hand, if he sat firmly in the chair, no one would bother to move the body.
Argon didn't barge in. He had relaxed once and got into deep trouble, deciding to do everything quickly himself; he didn't need a second time.
Ideally, he should have waited for his fighters, but a timer was literally ticking in the officer's head. His colleagues shouldn't be considered idiots. Even if there were no consequences, a scandal of biblical proportions would have erupted, and serious players would definitely be interested in what the "Argentum" fighter was doing in the right place.
Knocking out the watchman was easy. His booth was almost on the road to the dacha, blocking it with a barrier. Kuznetsov approached it like a shadow, leaving no trace. His fingers clenched into a fist, but he didn't waste time on brute force. A little telekinesis, an ampoule of sleeping gas under the door—and the obstacle from the old man, with his gatekeeper syndrome, was eliminated for about five hours.
The veteran wasn't worried about anyone seeing the "sleeping" watchman. Although Blizhnyaya Dacha, where the leader died, was already within the Moscow city limits, the building, surrounded by a high fence, had a bad reputation. That's why they put the booth with the watchman at a distance. Otherwise, no one wanted to sit there.
It wouldn't be so easy with the robots. The control node was prudently located inside the building. You could simply approach any of the machines, show your ID, wait for the mechanical bows, when the authenticity of the document was established... but a request for access, in addition to Stalin's personal computer, would go directly to Lubyanka and the barracks of the guard company.
The latter, of course, were empty, but near the dachas of other officials, the committee members definitely had their own people for quick response. Not necessarily to protect the party leadership. The intrigues at the time were such that committee employees could finish the attackers' work, as happened with Beria, who could only be brought to justice because of Stalin's posthumous fame.
There was also a node on the territory of the government dacha that controlled all the cameras, separate from the node controlling the robot neural network. And there was a third node, which controlled the automatic defense systems, in addition to the mechanical assistants of the workers. It wasn't for nothing that there were rumors about the leader's paranoia. Not unfounded, if you know what he actually died from, or rather, who helped him.
The operative faced a task that required not only coolness but also impeccable precision. To fearlessly carry out his plan, it was necessary to send all three nodes for a reboot. He chose the video surveillance node as his first target—the most accessible, but also the most dangerous.
The guardroom, where the node was located, was a relic of the past, built in the days when the leader was guarded by living people, not soulless machines. The control terminal was in the duty officer's room, and it was not easy to get to it. The building, skillfully integrated into the landscape, was designed to withstand even mortar fire. Trees with dense crowns and a special net between the trunks created a natural shield.
One of the hidden turrets, armed with a "Unicorn" gauss cannon, could destroy the building with two shots. It could only be disabled from Stalin's personal terminal, which meant that the slightest mistake would lead to catastrophe.
Argon activated the tactical computer. The image before his eyes flickered, and reality was augmented with synthesized elements. The camera angles were highlighted in an alarming orange, and the robots' visibility zones in a cold blue. He knew that the system required the operative to either see or hear the target to correctly construct the visibility sector, so every movement had to be silent and precise to avoid suddenly falling into a trap.
The operative dashed forward, running from cover to cover. Every step was calculated to the second, every glance quick and sharp, directed towards potential danger. In the garden, to his relief, there was only a robot-janitor, a squat machine on caterpillar tracks, methodically sweeping the paths. Its monotonous buzzing drowned out the scout's steps, but he couldn't relax.
Reaching the guardhouse, the operative acted quickly and precisely. A dash to the building's wall. Cover behind the bushes growing near the building. Another dash. Activate "Spark" by sending the camera above the entrance for reboot. Now he had eight seconds before the alarm was raised!
One second. Be by the door. Amplify the blow with a telekinetic wave, knocking out the lock with his palm. Two more seconds gone. Crouching, he ran through two rooms. For the leg muscles, enhanced with implants from the tissues of higher primates, another second.
Tear off the casing from the terminal. Enhanced fingers with steel cable-tendons rip through the thin metal of the latches. Another "Spark" discharge into the area of the service port, previously hidden by the casing.
The terminal flickered, going into reboot, taking the entire system with it. Two seconds left in reserve. He made it!
Rolling up his sleeve, the operative picked at an inconspicuous mole, pulling a thin cable with a universal connector from his hand. Connect it to the terminal. The biomechanical data storage device loaded a universal control program package. Now the cameras, even if they detected the operative, wouldn't see him and wouldn't raise an alarm. To them, he was a digital ghost.
Tensing the muscles of his arm, Argon pulled the cable back. He took glue from the spatial storage and returned the cover to its place, professionally applying "cold welding" to the spot where the latches had been. Now, at a glance, the terminal appeared untouched.
Crouching, the operative returned to the room, opened the armored window, and jumped out, telekinetically closing the sash behind him and returning the bolt to its place. Already hearing the rustle of tracks, he froze, holding his breath and forcibly lowering his heart rate.
A robot gardener drove into the guardhouse, sensitively swiveling its turret of primitive sensors. It didn't notice the lock malfunction. The bolt was electric, and the door was equipped with electric drives for the convenience of robots. Old models, especially primitive ones, often forgot to close doors behind them. Kuznetsov, knowing this, only broke the bolt, leaving a barely noticeable dent on the door, which the gardener's sensors wouldn't see.
After waiting for the robot to leave, the operative dashed towards the house, moving in short bursts. Even though the cameras were neutralized, the robots inside the house could still spot him.
Pressing himself against the stone wall of the annex, he froze. Before the end of the war, the servants and guards lived here. Then everyone was resettled in specially built buildings, and later dispersed altogether when progress allowed them to replace living beings with automation and robots. The staff of mechanical servants, who only entered the main building when necessary or by order, were located directly here.
It was through the annex that the main entrance to the building for visitors was located. The main entrance was used only by the party elite or the Master himself.
Visitors had to pass through a corridor to the main building. Many recalled this path with a shudder. The reason was the ultrasonic speakers, hidden behind wooden panels, which, when activated, caused a person to experience panic.
The corridor ended at a guard post, but now it housed a disguised rotary machine gun.
Like a weightless shadow, the operative slid along the wall, approaching the windows of the Small Dining Room, where the robot control terminal was located. Stalin sometimes liked to work here.
Taking a burner from his neuro-compression backpack, the scout, having turned on and adjusted the flame, carefully heated the sensor on the window. After waiting for it to fall off, he put away the burner, took out a knife, and carefully pried open the frame latch. If the leader were alive, he would already be swaddled. The robots would not be in standby mode but scurrying around the territory, making an unnoticed infiltration impossible.
Having entered the dining room and closed the window behind him, the operative, without touching the floor, approached the terminal. The floor was "nightingale-like," and there were three laser turrets in the Small Dining Room that swept the room. Here, even if the cameras were disabled, you could get burned. Literally.
Argon had been hacking this terminal for fifteen minutes, with all the necessary tools. After all, the life of the head of state depended on his work. In a fit of curiosity, Alexander even checked the system archive, which could only be deleted with a unique operating system. In the temporary logs, he saw when the algorithm for the medical robot's operation was finalized, and most importantly – who did it.
"Comrade Molotov, so you've been caught! And you're full of surprises. Who knew you were not only a demagogue but also a good programmer? Only 'good' doesn't mean 'excellent.' You deleted the main log, but you didn't know about this one. Even if you knew, you wouldn't have been able to do anything," Kuznetsov thought maliciously, taking a picture with a micro-camera, not trusting his eyes. Even if the lenses recorded everything the operative saw, there were sometimes situations...
Everything else went like clockwork. Without cameras, the turrets could react either to sound or if they saw you, and for that, you needed to disturb the defense system, which the operative did not do.
Carefully prying open the elevator doors and drilling through the cabin floor with a micro-router, Kuznetsov descended by cable into Stalin's bunker, where he had a study.
Not wanting to rush, the scout climbed into the ventilation system to avoid the attention of the turrets, which were initially active here. Squeezing through a narrow pipe, swallowing dust by the kilogram, he reached the network cable, having previously opened the air duct and crawled three meters along the false ceiling, which creaked under his weight. Connecting to the turret network, he rebooted the system remotely, bypassing the terminal. This was the only way to do it. Only here did the turrets not cover their communications.
No longer hiding particularly (what was the point?), Kuznetsov went upstairs via the stairs.
"So. The third step. You don't even need to think here. The stairs to the second floor. They were added when the building was extended. Descending into the bunker is impractical for a hiding place; the steps are concrete. For the same reasons, the porch is out. Only these stairs remain. The leader didn't like using the elevator. It was also added later when he started having trouble walking. His legs didn't obey him very well," the agent reasoned, heading towards the desired staircase.
Reaching it, he carefully examined the third step and, seeing a barely visible seam, lifted the board telekinetically, opening the hiding place.
"Clever. No one would have guessed," the man stated, looking at the stack of notebooks and folders, topped by "The Chatterer." And this was clearly not the official apparatus of the Leader. That one was gilded.
Taking the device, the agent activated it, turning on the playback of the last recording.
"I don't know who you are, comrade..." the voice, hoarse and drawn-out, as if emerging from the depths of time, pronounced each word with slow, almost theatrical solemnity. "But I won't ask for your forgiveness. No. I only hope... that your mind is free from prejudice, from the filth that has entangled the minds of the weak. My days... they are numbered. Time is running out, like sand through fingers. I didn't manage... I didn't manage to finish what I started. The work of my life... it was supposed to be liberation for all the working people. But now... now they are here again. In my head. They whisper... they whisper so loudly that I can barely hear my own thoughts."
At the first sounds of the voice, Kuznetsov sat down on the step, looking blankly into the distance, trying to process... this.
"You will find everything that remains here. Everything I could save. Take it. Use it. Maybe it will help you... help the people. But remember, comrade..." the voice trembled, notes of madness and despair sounding in it, "freedom... it always demands sacrifices. And I... I have already become one of them."
"This is fucked up, comrades!" the agent stated, sitting with bulging eyes. The adventures of the last day had taken their toll.
He took out one of the notebooks, filled with neat handwriting, which gave no indication that the writer was experiencing any difficulties.
Glancing through the contents, without even reading the handwritten lines, the operative closed the notebook and, shaking his head, said:
"Let Sechenov deal with this, my brain is already melting. Let him rack his brains," the detachment commander stated, pulling his "Chatterer" from his pocket.
Pressing three hidden buttons simultaneously, activating the emergency beacon, Kuznetsov quickly began to review the entire contents of the hiding place, simultaneously commanding the tactical computer to digitize, creating an electronic copy. There were no problems with this. It was enough to glance at a document, and the smart machine would immediately create a digital duplicate. But this was not enough...
Realizing that he had undoubtedly been discovered by everyone who cared, the operative decided to get to the roof. It would be easier for "Condor" to pick him up, and the package with the documents would be sent faster...
The emergency call saved me from another call from Comrade Molotov on the government line. This man, like a bulldozer, had besieged the communication channel with the Enterprise since yesterday evening, giving me no peace. His persistence borders on absurdity. Honestly, Colonel Kuznetsov couldn't have staged that disgraceful scene in Moscow! It's outrageous to accuse a professional of such a level of such... impropriety! The scientific council will not leave Comrade Molotov's transgression unnoticed. Forgive me, of course, Georgy Timofeyevich, but you have crossed all acceptable boundaries. Not that you've restrained yourself much before, but at least you stayed within the bounds of business communication, not stooping to street brawling and personal insults.
"Colonel Kuznetsov is calling you on an emergency channel," Left declared, to clarify. "Shall I connect to your apartment or personal laboratory?"
There! Truly a savior! And I could be doing important work right now. We are so close to a breakthrough! New generation neuro-interfaces are already being tested at the Enterprise... Soon, a person will be able to interact directly with spacecraft as if it were an extension of their own body. The stars... They will become closer than ever. But instead, I have to deal with bureaucratic squabbles and listen to Molotov's endless complaints!
I need to find time to rest! I'm starting to sound like an enthusiastic student revolutionary who stormed the gendarme barricades. I'm even talking nonsense in my thoughts! Even though I'm a dreamer, my dreams are based on scientific progress and reality. A Soviet scientist cannot live in the clouds! We are building the future, not fantasizing about it.
"Switch to the apartment. And prepare a light lunch, canceling all other appointments," I decided, after thinking, to rest. At the same time, I'll find out firsthand what happened there. But it's already possible to judge: something extraordinary has happened! The last time Comrade Kuznetsov disturbed me on an emergency channel was that disgraceful incident in Bulgaria.
It was... close. That's how you realize the fragility of life, as if hundreds of operations during the war, with bullets whistling, weren't enough. I only had to operate on my own child and godchild... It's a pity, of course, that I can't open up to my own daughter. It would be easier if she knew: she has a father, not just a mother. But I've crossed the line of ethics too many times to tell her so easily. She'll figure it out herself; I won't deny it, I'll lay it all out. If my godson figured out that his wife is my daughter... Despite his epaulets and life experiences, he's a bit slow in some aspects, although he fights his peculiarity. Maybe by forty he'll gain some experience. How can you be the life of the party, understand people, and yet believe in them so blindly!
Left and Right nodded in unison, curtsying (currently, ballerinas finish their performances with a curtsy). The secretaries and bodyguards left, leaving Bugai at my disposal.
"It's about time," the machine commented on the go, accompanying me.
Entering my apartment, where I had been living since the launch of the first Enterprise production until today, I mentally commanded to activate the communication channel.
"Wizard is on the line!" I reported politely. The military likes everything to be orderly and written in the rules.
"Argon is on the line. Your special assignment is complete," Alexander Ivanovich replied tiredly. "During its execution, I encountered enemy resistance..."
"So you're the one who caused the mess on the Moscow streets!" I exclaimed, feeling a slight disappointment. And Sergey believes in people so fervently. Your humble servant is no better!
The colonel looked at me grimly from the hologram with a tired gaze before continuing:
"Circumstances dictated it. Your most pessimistic assumptions have been fully confirmed. You even made a mistake, underestimating the scale of what is happening... Before I forward the documents obtained during the operation, I will say one thing. An order was given for the burial of Comrade Stalin's body. Secretly. With all due respect, this coincidence already makes one think."
"Is that so?" I uttered, contemplating what I had heard. Made a mistake? Nothing is clear at all. "Forward them."
I activated the gamma connector to upload the incoming package directly into my brain, seeing its volume. As soon as the electronic impulse began to interact with the polymer in my brain...
"This is..." I gasped for air, unable to say anything coherent. Even a small part of what Alexander Ivanovich sent would be enough for the country's leadership to issue more than one death sentence, including the General Secretary. But this passed by unnoticed; as soon as my mind caught a document modestly titled "Observation Diary." What kind of willpower and courage must one possess to keep an observation diary like this, meticulously recording how the contagion devours you? I wouldn't be surprised if one of my colleagues did this... but a politician. I wonder what Khariton, or whoever is pretending to be him, will say about this now!
"The same thing you're thinking," Kuznetsov said dryly. "I've forwarded the documents to the entire detachment. 'Condor' is supposed to arrive at my emergency beacon, but due to the value of the information, I must guarantee its security."
"Do as you wish, Colonel, but the documents must not fall into the wrong hands. I will activate combat robots from the Enterprise reserves at the training ground near Moscow."
"I hope that won't be necessary," the officer said, and then disconnected.
"Won't you share the dirt?" KhRAZ asked sarcastically.
"Take the package," I said, frantically sorting the package in my head, already regretting that I succumbed to altruism, out of joy that my old friend was alive, placing him in the glove on my hand without fully verifying: was it him? And again, it's Sergey who believes in people, not me! So, who is the boy here?
"Bitch, fuck, shit!!!" Nechaev involuntarily exclaimed as soon as he received the package and realized its contents.
"Son, have you eaten too much of that Borzyanka porridge?" Zinaida asked, picking up a rolling pin for "treatment." "Have you completely lost your mind, little rooster?"
"No, Mom," Sergey mumbled hoarsely, putting down the knitting needles with an unfinished sweater with deer. He had rejected dolphins as a pattern outright, and it wasn't difficult for Katya. She had started knitting anyway to develop fine motor skills, and it was useful. "The commander just sent us something..."
"You can safely forget about the tape and line up all the party members against the wall... Your wildest dreams are coming true now... The only good thing is that we are on sick leave and won't have to deal with THIS!"