VIRUS

A seagull flew over a small fishing boat and headed east. A moment later, the first rocks jutting out of the water began to move beneath it, heralding the approach of shore. The bird soared, riding the air currents rising above the ocean, still warm despite the approaching evening. With each passing moment, the shore looming on the horizon became clearer. The outlines of a high cliff, plunging abruptly toward the sea, were already visible. The low-hanging sun cast deep shadows over its successive refractions. Three columns of smoke, scattered irregularly along the upper edge of the cliff, slowly ascended toward the sky. The last campfires burned to the accompaniment of a song that drifted toward the ocean. The people of Brzegi were bidding farewell to summer.

The bird circled the shore and flew lower. It landed on a large boulder, more of which were scattered in the water at the foot of the cliff. The seagull dodged the cold spray of sea foam that rose with each wave's impact several times, then began checking its wings. She wasn't alone, however:

"I told you to set the hook faster!"

"That's how I lost my last two..."

"Ugh, don't worry, Grandpa Grimweld will be home waist-deep in cod today!"

A lively discussion was brewing on a nearby rock. The two fishermen, the young men Teg Grimmer and Pef Grim, looked like typical East Coasters. Dark-haired, of average height, contrasting only in the size of their ears and noses—physical attributes Pef had developed decidedly beyond measure. The conversation would likely have continued had it not been for the shouts, muffled by the surf, from above:

"Pef, Teg—we're back!"

The boys rose as slowly as they were reluctant and began to slowly pack their bags. Pef was clearly more adept at reeling in lines and folding rods, whom Teg tried clumsily to imitate. A climb up uneven wooden stairs awaited them. While the descent was a genuine pleasure—the prospect of catch, as Pef used to say, gives you wings—the arduous ascent, and, worse still, the empty landing net, were a harsh compensation for all the benefits of fishing. Pef always liked to diversify the hated ascent by stopping halfway and looking west. A foolish romanticism, so unnecessary for a future fisherman, made him believe the tales of the elderly. They dwelt, both colorfully and obscurely, on a mysterious white sailing ship that would one day arrive carrying on board the descendants of those who had once set out into the unknown. Reality, however, never lived up to his dreams. Today too, he saw only the surface of the sea passing almost invisibly into the sky illuminated by the last rays.

He glanced at Teg, who was laboriously climbing, as if uninterested in the scenery around him. "In general, since he arrived, he's been uninterested in anything," Pef thought. He was polite, eager to talk, but seemingly absent. He often fell into a reverie. He sat motionless, oblivious to everything happening around him. The only thing that made Teg feel emotion, or rather, almost seethe with excitement, were some interesting, though utterly trivial, natural curiosities. In this way, he acquired a collection consisting of stones of unusual shapes, two lizards with various physical defects, a daisy with particularly intensely colored flowers, and finally a bird feather whose origins no one could explain. However, he spent most of his time talking with a certain Piter – the local lunatic. His attitude toward this man resembled his attitude toward the rest of the "exhibits." It seemed that if he could, this "coincidence" too would have found its way into some album or display case. Obvious difficulties, however, meant that Teg often had to visit the resident of the old mill to conduct his research. Pitr's problem was that he spoke, but effectively bypassed all the rules of the language. And it wasn't some fancy dialect or vernacular, but rather irregular clusters of strangely familiar sounds, from which one could often deduce something meaningful. Sometimes he managed to utter a sentence, but immediately reverted to his old mannerisms. Teg not only spent hours jotting down some of Pitr's lines, but, even more bizarrely, tried to communicate with him. The first few such attempts, in which Pef participated, ended in failure, which completely discouraged him from continuing to accompany the "lovers of madness," as Teg was known in the village. The perpetrator of the whole mess explained it by his apprenticeship in the school of Psychic Magic, whose domain was the matters of the human spirit.

The story of Teg's appearance, officially accepted in the Large Networks, also raised some doubts. He was supposed to stop there only for a two-week stopover, en route to the Grey Fort, a hundred miles away. However, about 20 days had passed since he'd entered the village, and nothing indicated he'd ever wanted to see Old Artyom again, watching over the village entrance. His Grim ancestry, reflected in the surname he'd given, combined with an impossible-to-remember list of family connections, led Aunt Gabriel to welcome him with open arms. He was one of the nephews of his recently deceased Uncle Trak. Pef, who had been orphaned at the time, was living with his aunt, and felt the loss of Trak—his favorite playmate—deeply. Grandpa and Aunt, the only relatives left in the village, were too busy finding him decent food and a place to sleep to bother with any entertainment. He knew this perfectly well, so initially he welcomed his new cousin with genuine joy. However, his carefree attitude toward the newcomer began to take on a suspicious tone when Teg's considerable ignorance of the basic topography of the Grim clan was revealed. "How on earth could he not know that Grandpa Rabort came from Dragon's Edge, after all, he rambled on about it several times a day?"—this thought still nagged at him. Not wanting to worry his aunt, he didn't mention his doubts. However, as he climbed the last step of the stairs, he decided to do it today.

Meanwhile, Teg had already sat down by the fire, surrounded by a few remaining people. He quickly began gnawing on the remains of the roasted meat. Predictably, he took a seat next to Pitro, who smiled benevolently at him, munching on a large drumstick. After a moment, as was customary, another bizarre conversation began, perhaps intelligible only to the two of them. A brief exchange of pleasantries, consisting mainly of animated gesticulation, turned into a monologue from Pitro, whose fragments Teg tried to fill in the blanks in his worn notebook.

Pef approached his aunt, who was packing the remains of the celebratory dinner. The older, stocky woman still seemed to be in full force, thanks in part to her cheerful, weather-beaten face. He sighed,

"I got a bit cold there...

" "Looks like autumn won't wait this year..." his aunt replied.

"Here's your coat," she added after a moment, picking up a linen cloak, probably belonging to one of the neighbors. It smelled of fish, like almost everything in the Great Nets. Pef tossed some wood into the dying fire and sat down.

"I have something to tell you, Aunt..." he began timidly.

"Excuse me, darling?" his aunt asked.

"It's about Teg, there's something with him..." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that at these words, Teg, sitting almost twenty meters away, had interrupted his conversation with Peter and glanced around nervously. He shook his head for a moment, as if searching for something, then looked in his direction. Pef could bet he saw fear in the eyes staring at him. But he quickly averted his gaze and continued:

"Listen, Auntie, I talked to him and..."

Suddenly, Teg jumped up and walked toward them with quick, decisive steps. In the most inappropriate and surprising way, he said, or rather choked out:

"My job... the visit is over, thank you, and I'm leaving. See you!

" Auntie's eyes widened:

"What do you mean? Now? Right now? And your things?

" "I have to, right now, right now, it's urgent. There's psychic magic involved," he replied artificially. He then added: "My things are yours. Let that be some kind of thank you."

Pef looked unsurprised by the situation. He stood up, looked into Teg's eyes, and said firmly,

"That's a strange magician who leaves without his books." He turned to his aunt,

"I've suspected it for some time... I think we're dealing with an impostor!"

Teg jumped back, turned, and began to run. His aunt remained still, too surprised by the turn of events to take any action. The others sitting around the fire hadn't even noticed, accustomed to the antics of the young. Pef gave chase to the fugitive. He was a good sprinter and rather highly estimated his chances of success in the chase. However, what completely surprised him was that Teg was running toward the cliff. They were still about thirty meters from the edge. What was he doing? There's no way down there... More thoughts raced through Pef's mind. Finally, he shouted,

"Stop!" Can't you see you have nowhere to run?

Teg didn't answer. He kept running. Another ten meters, five, two... He can't do it! He can't! Pef was starting to get scared. A meter. The edge. The figure disappeared.

"Oh my God!!! Noooooo!!!" his aunt, watching from behind, screamed.

Pef stopped dead in his tracks, then slowly approached the cliff. Terrified, he looked down. The rocks and the waves crashing against them.

***

As Teg approached the edge, he knew everything had to be in sync. Otherwise, all his work would be for nothing. He had to jump far enough that they would think he'd fallen into the water. He tensed his muscles. He stepped on a rock jutting out of the cliff and kicked off with his right foot. He felt a cold wind rush through his body. He managed to look down—the sea was approaching quickly. Mechanically, he extended his left wrist and grabbed it with his other hand. He pressed the blue button protruding straight from his body.

***

Red light... means we still have a day. He slowly tried to lift his eyelids. It never works the first time. And on top of that, there was that unbearable itch. You could go crazy, but it was impossible to scratch yourself while being hooked up. In general, being entangled in about a hundred different wires was pure agony. Getting up was an art. The stiff half-inch cables extremely restricted his movement, and the electrodes, attached with elastic tape, caused pain with every careless movement.

So he lay there, wondering how best to escape from under all this machinery. After a few minutes, he managed to open his eyes. For a split second. The light, striking his unaccustomed pupils, caused an involuntary reflex to close his eyelids. At least he knew the tear-removal system was working properly and no excess pus had collected around his eyes, as had happened so often before... He carefully moved his right arm. The tape stretched along its entire length, causing excruciating pain. The worst were the IV needles – essential for longer expeditions. Eventually, however, he found his way to the face and began systematically disconnecting the electrodes one by one. After a few minutes, the face was ready. In the meantime, he managed to blink a few more times, his eyes almost adjusting to the light. Gradually, the image began to take on relatively sharp contours. He saw nothing of interest. He knew this view well. He was in the corner of a small room with a single window. He lay on a rubber mattress placed directly on the ground, surrounded by various pieces of equipment. All those unfortunate cables were connected to it. From his position, through the window to his right, all he could see were grayish-brown clouds moving slowly westward. Faint light fell on a small wooden door opposite the bed. It led to the rest of the apartment. Thierry Lamarche, for that was his name, spent another half hour struggling with the network of wires before he could finally sit on the edge of the mattress and try to stand up. Although the equipment attached to his body moments ago included stimulators for almost every muscle, getting up was always a challenge. First, he had to warm up the stiff muscles from the waist down. Then he began a few awkward attempts, usually successful after about the fourth attempt.

Today, it took six. Thierry went to the window. From the sixth floor, he had a view of a typical twenty-first-century neighborhood. Rows of gray stucco apartment buildings were separated by perpendicular streets lined with stunted trees. Various pieces of debris, scattered by the wind, littered the sidewalks, forming larger clumps here and there. The weather was quite typical for mid-March. Gray, broken clouds occasionally formed corridors through which the sun shone.

Nothing interesting at all, Thierry decided, and was about to turn around when he noticed something unexpected. A figure was strolling along the sidewalk. It walked quickly, confidently, as if knowing its purpose. Pedestrians usually heralded something bad. Usually, it was some kind of breakdown, and Thierry particularly hated that. They'd send in the repair workers again, and it would take a week and a half to clean up after them. Apparently, no system was perfect...

Because what else could it be but a breakdown? The Brotherhood provided a full range of products necessary for life, good enough that everyone knew they couldn't afford better. So what was this damned pedestrian looking for between the apartment buildings? Fresh air? It had long been fresher in the buildings... Views? Thierry chuckled to himself – what he could see through his window effectively disproved that hypothesis. So maybe space? – even the cheapest virtual toys offered realistic projections of steppes or deserts from every corner of the world.

Thierry knew this; after all, he was a dp—a dream programmer. This romantic title didn't even begin to capture the often monotonous nature of the job. Hours of poring over code, patiently debugging—all so that some John Smith could briefly enjoy commanding the battlefield of Waterloo. Fortunately, since the release of version 2.0 of the software, instructions for the computer could be entered in natural language. Although Thierry was well-versed in all computer terminology, it made the work significantly easier—computer terminology wasn't always suitable for describing all the nuances a client's world should possess. Of course, a dp didn't create the entire world, nor could he. It was enough to outline the general assumptions of the vision and its main threads. The machine filled in the rest with standardized material, drawing from large databases. Everything was there—from geology to a catalog of typical religious behaviors. The final phase involved imbuing the dream with distinctive features—details that bore the imprint of the creator's hand. Thierry considered himself particularly good at this. In fact, ever since he could use "ordinary" language to describe the world, he almost considered himself a writer, creating grand, ultra-realistic epics. He looked proudly at the table under the windowsill. Sketches of his latest project lay there. A sheet of paper hung from the polished tabletop. Among the underlined paragraphs, he saw a snippet of scribbled text: "Pef always liked to diversify his hated ascent by stopping halfway and looking west. A foolish romanticism of soul, so unnecessary for a future fisherman, made him believe the tales of old men."

He'd been working on this project for almost six months, commissioned by somewhat obsessed fantasy enthusiasts. Like all previous clients, he'd met these clients online. Recent problems with one of the main characters—Pitro's language algorithm was in a terrible state—caused a slight delay in completion. He was worried they might cut his fee. And then there was Pef. He'd figured it out much sooner than expected. That's the whole point of programming a vision. Once launched, it develops, evolves, and becomes real. Large Networks, for example, had been operating on his computer for over three months. Entering the created world to make repairs, Thierry encountered a different environment than the one he'd envisioned before launching his dream. This world was more real, already possessing a history. The longer it operated, the better the impression it made. A better impression meant more money from the client. Therefore, it was crucial not to disrupt this development. By intervening in the program, the DP had to invisibly fit within its framework. A realistic biography for the dream's protagonists, a reason for appearing in their world—all of this delayed the confusion. The hardest part was the disappearance itself. Often, unfortunately, it ended as if he were on the edge of an unfortunate cliff. Thierry hoped the residents would believe he had drowned and wouldn't have to reset his dream. In either case, he'd have to work some overtime. The rest would proceed as usual—he'd send the completed project to the clients' computers, and after receiving it, they'd transfer the payment to his account. It had always been this way, for the 25 years Thierry had lived in this building. Back then, he'd still occasionally ventured outside. However, he'd spent the last two decades confined to his four walls. Just like most of the tenants of this and other buildings. Looking at the situation rationally, he couldn't see a single reason to leave his M3. Everything is a creation of the senses, so if the world couldn't offer any new experiences, why bother? Using a few simple devices, even for an inexperienced user, one could conquer Mt. Everest with Sir E. Hillary, and in the evening, watch the shore emerge from the fog from the deck of the Santa Maria. The computer's artificial intelligence was perfect. Thierry remembered the scandal caused 20 years earlier by the appearance of computer-controlled interlocutors on online conversation channels. Initially ridiculed, with little erudition, they eventually began to supplant "real" acquaintances. Why talk to someone who holds grudges against us when a personalized friend scales the heights of intelligence, sympathy, and openness? The information to the senses was the same. All that was needed was to eliminate the outdated division between reality and virtuality. Besides, the conversation itself still retained a certain degree of reality.

His thoughts were interrupted by a strange noise coming from the stairwell. Years of practice had taught him to pick up every sound reverberating within the walls of the building with remarkable precision. He could unmistakably distinguish the sound of boiling water in the kettle of his upstairs neighbor from the unbearable snoring of his downstairs neighbor. This time it was different. The steady, dull clatter brought to mind something long forgotten, something disturbing. Thierry had last heard it about five years ago. There was no doubt – someone was coming up the stairs… A pedestrian…!!! So this was where they were going, he thought anxiously. He began to pace nervously around the room – back and forth. He was anxious, more than that – afraid. He couldn't explain this fear. After all, he met thousands of people every day, traveling between dreams. He discussed them, laughed with them, argued with them… Perhaps they weren't entirely "real"… but still. Despite this, the inexplicable fear persisted. Something deep inside him told him the stranger was heading straight for him, moreover, he was almost certain of it. The sound of footsteps was already approaching from his floor, growing steadily louder. A moment later, a knock sounded. Thierry finished his nervous pacing around the room and strode purposefully into the small hallway. He opened the door.

A short, rather stout elderly man dressed in a brown suit stood opposite. From his chubby face, behind wire-rimmed glasses, two kind eyes gazed at Thierry. A rather impressive, curled mustache, which, like his remnant of hair, was showing its considerable graying, completed the picture. In short, the picture of kindness.

"Hello, sir, and allow me to introduce myself," the newcomer began in a strong but gentle voice. "My name is Eugene Partree. I apologize for disturbing you, but this matter is of the utmost importance.

" "Good morning..." was all Thierry managed to reply, stunned.

"Maybe we should go in; it'll be easier for us to talk," the other suggested. Thierry had no desire to let a stranger in, especially one so unusual, but the old man's energy seemed to leave everyone vulnerable.

"Fine..." he replied after a moment. They entered a room with a mattress. Thierry handed the stranger a slightly worn wooden chair and sat down on the floor. The old man made himself as comfortable as the archaic furniture would allow, unbuttoned a few buttons on his jacket, and then began:

"What I'm about to say may sound strange to you, very strange. It will probably sound unbelievable—especially since I look quite, erm... unbelievable myself. Perhaps that's for the best..." The old man paused for a moment, looked out the window, and then added, "It will certainly shock you..."

Thierry eyed the newcomer suspiciously. He was clearly dealing with a madman. Yes, he had let a madman into his house, and now he was talking to him. He couldn't imagine anything more absurd. He replied firmly:

"What do you mean? You'll understand, I work here... I don't have time for this nonsense!"

Eugeniusz looked at him calmly, cleared his throat, and then said,

"As you wish... maybe it will actually be better this way. I just hope it ends happily. So... let's get to the point. As we both know, you're a dp. His name is Thierry Lamarche..." At these words, Thierry's face took on a look of complete confusion, "... and, colloquially speaking, you're producing dreams. You've been working in this industry for 30 years, and I have to admit, you're quite good. Unfortunately, good doesn't mean infallible... And such a mistake... a mistake... anyway, it's hard to call it a mistake... maybe bad luck... such bad luck happened to you 10 years ago. A newly created virus infected a quarter of the computers in the national network. Your computer included. Your mistake was simply that you didn't scan your disks with a repair program. A small mistake, a simple oversight." But due to an unfortunate coincidence, the car alarm on your device didn't work. It was a terrible coincidence... You're probably wondering now, why am I spouting such nonsense about viruses? They've been around forever – it's normal. Yes, you're right, but not entirely. This virus was different. It was created in the studio of one of the creators of Dream-maker – dream-creation software. It's a stupid and sad thing – the guy joined some cult accusing the virtual world of all evil. He had a sense of mission. He wanted to punish the entire virtual entertainment industry. He created a terrible tool for this "punishment." The virus was a true masterpiece. As you know, normal dream projection programs, when integrated with the brain, only send information. The new virus could read it. Read it and create dreams from it. After playing out a dream, upon awakening, each of us has certain expectations about what we will see. It was these expectations that the virus collected. Collected and visualized. The man thought he was waking up, but he remained in the program—here the old man paused and looked Thierry straight in the eye. "You, Mr. Thierry, have been connected for 23 years. What you see now is just a projection. I am your projection. The rescue team sent me. Unfortunately, we only just found you. We are very sorry, Theirry.

" Lamarche was still sitting, but his face was as white as a sheet. He slowly stood up, then shouted,

"What the hell are you talking about, idiot?!! Don't you have anything better to do than scare decent people??? I'm a DP, understand?!! I can distinguish virtuality from reality!!!

Eugene sighed, looked at Thierry, and said slowly in a sad but firm voice,

"Look out the window, Thierry..."

Thierry turned and looked. Outside the window, he could see a vast sandy beach. It was around noon, the sun at its zenith. Waves were slowly lapping the shore, surrounded by a pine forest. People were lying on several spread out towels, and three children were playing with a ball among them.

Theirry was still standing, but it was obvious he was having trouble. He was soaking wet. He slowly approached the window and spoke hoarsely:

"Projector in the window... nice trick... projector in the window."

He swung and hit the glass with all his might. It had no effect. He ran to Eugene, pushed him off his chair, picked up the chair, and threw it at the window. The glass shattered. Theirry felt the salty smell of the sea breeze on his sweaty face. He collapsed.

***

In the small room, several figures in blue uniforms knelt above the mattress and the equipment. Some were slowly unpacking the equipment, others were busy over the body stretched out on the mattress. They were talking quietly among themselves:

"As usual, my heart gave out...

" "I hate this job so much!

" "Fortunately, this was the last one..."