Storn Hefan could only manage a few days without cyberspace. He couldn't resist the longing for virtual worlds where he could fulfill his desires, even his most secret, even his childhood ones. It wasn't an addiction, certainly not. It's like saying you can become addicted to dreams. At the urging of friends, he attended those shameless group psychotherapy sessions where he listened to the confessions of strangers, where the psychoanalyst insisted that computer games were yuck... and bad... and he had to quit, and fast, because then it would be too late. And so it went, and again, and again... Meanwhile, reality became unbearable, graying, and he felt himself cocooning, powerless and drained of perspective, like a fly in an old spider's web.
Hefan felt a sense of depression creeping over him, a sort of inner longing for something undefined. He would have liked to hide away in some virtual world, far from his daily worries and responsibilities. But access to the intercyberworld cost a fortune, and as usual, he was strapped for cash. Unemployment benefits lasted two weeks, and his online debts mounted and weighed ever more heavily. Stress insidiously crept into his mind, tightening his throat with knots of sadness, choking his throat with the bitterness of helplessness—so much so that he wanted to scream, smash something, punch someone in the face. But here, in the office of a well-known company, there was no one there, and of course, it was inappropriate. He grew tired of pacing back and forth. He sank heavily into a chair.
Petitioner Storn was waiting for a representative of a company designing computer games under the popular banner "God's Dream." He had received a notification that his online debts had been purchased and that he was to report for an interview today. He sat and waited for the mercy of some bureaucrat. He was filled with anxiety about his future, and worst of all, he saw no glimmer of hope in his hopeless financial situation, which seemed to him like a labyrinth with no exit. To chase away the negative thoughts, he turned his attention to the monitor hanging on the wall. The image showed a wide-open window, behind which lay an old castle towering over the forests. In the distance, a snow-capped mountain range stretched out, its arms embracing a horizon shrouded in mist. The landscape blinked and transformed into the face of a television pastor, who had recently made a media splash by frightening people with the Last Judgement and the end of the world. As usual, he began his sermon by quoting a poem: "
We transform the Earth
because we love to live in peace
, and if paradise is too small, we'll move on.
We conquer planets
because we want fresh resources
, and if we run out, we'll search for new ones.
We recognize stars
because we seek new places
, and if we discover life, we'll enslave it.
We observe space
because it's appropriate to recognize aliens
, and if we encounter angels, we'll clip their wings
. AND IF WE FIND GOD..."
A familiar signal rang out. The image of the pastor transformed into the opening credits with the news logo, then displayed the capsule, which activated its braking engines and began its descent. The vehicle settled on its actuators and froze in a cloud of red dust. The announcer came on-air and spoke in a warm voice:
"As everyone knows, yesterday, the Prometheus successfully landed on Mars. Unexpectedly, at 8:32 a.m. today, Asia-European Community time, there was a loss of communication. The outage occurred during geological surveys of the planet. Let's hope these are only minor technical glitches, and we'll hear from the heroic crew soon. The international aerospace corporation "Kosmoglob," sponsoring this momentous human mission, refuses to comment on the matter. We've received information from an unofficial source that the crew has found an extinct Martian civilization."
They're up to something, Storn thought with distaste. We'll be the last to learn what really happened on the Red Globe. Someone up there will decide for us what truth will be appropriate and digestible for our sensitive stomachs. They'll serve us bland news on a platter of lies, seasoned with unhealthy sensationalism to sharpen our senses. And we, hungry for news, will, as usual, delight in its taste and lick our fingers, thanking the cooks.
"Please come in! Mr. Hefan?" boomed a metallic voice, rousing the waiting petitioner from his reverie.
One of the doors slid open, and Storn entered cautiously. He'd expected a bright conference room with a long table and a desk that towered over the modest chairs, but instead he found himself in what looked like a bathroom with a shower. In the center of the small room stood an unfamiliar device, tangled in wires like an electric chair. It resembled a complex cyberspace simulator. The virtual helmet and gloves were integral with the suit, a testament to its advanced technology. Hefan heard warm, feminine words.
"Welcome! Please remove your clothing and enter the neutralizer. Then take your place in the cabin and don the suit. We will conduct identification and assimilation with the entry portal."
Storn, while undressing, eyed the device suspiciously. He hadn't seen anything like it before. He thought it was probably some new product that would soon appear on the market, but who could afford it, certainly not me. He checked that the pump was loaded with infusion fluid and that the program exit fuse displayed a twenty-four-hour timer. Everything was in accordance with current standards. This reassured him. He hung the suit on a hanger. Then he entered the cabin and slipped into the suit. The material molded to his body, the ends of the wires sucking into the appropriate organs, even the intimate ones. The helmet's fiber optics integrated with the nerves of his eyes, and spikes of electrical discharge tingled beneath his skull.
"Hello, Hefan!" he heard an authoritative voice, and as cyberspace took shape, he saw before him a slim, birdlike man in a sorcerer's outfit.
Storn looked down and realized he was wearing a similar black and white cloak, emblazoned with unfamiliar runic symbols. He felt for a pointed cap on his head. He found himself on the observation deck of an old castle, sitting in a soft armchair opposite a man in a fairytale costume. The landscape of the intercyberworld was dazzling. Trees rippled all around like a green sea. Island peaks emerged from the forests, foaming white glaciers disappearing into the clouds. Towering clouds loomed over the mountain range, and winged lizards soared against their leaden bellies.
Hefan became interested in the flying creatures and concluded that they were green dragons performing aerial maneuvers. They looked like lumbering ballerinas dancing with each other. Suddenly, one of them began to fight, breathing flames at the other. The attacked dragon had the advantage of height and turned it into speed, instantly folding its membranous wings and diving. He slammed into his opponent's body and nearly tore it in half. The limp body corkscrewed down, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. The victor, screeching shrilly, performed a victory roll while ascending and began descending toward the tower. He perched heavily on its crown. The dragon looked at the people seated in their armchairs and froze like a statue atop the Notre Dame Cathedral.
"I am the CEO of the computer company 'God's Dream'"—the words of the man in strange attire snapped Storn out of his reverie. "I wish to be on first-name terms with you. It will facilitate our further conversation," he stated in a haughty, downright impertinent tone. His handsome face was distorted by a disingenuous smile. It was obvious he was hiding his true self beneath his virtual mask. "So, what's got you so stunned?"
"Of course! I'm very pleased! Uh..." Hefan stammered. He hadn't expected this turn of events. He'd thought he'd be received by a minor official, but instead he was talking to the boss himself, who didn't even want to keep his distance. After all, there was a huge difference between them. Both socially—due to his position—and, of course, financially.
"Do you agree or not?
" "It's a great honor for me. I hope this conversation won't disappoint, Paaaa. Sorry! You?" he corrected himself hastily. A bad feeling came over him. According to the current law, he faced hard physical labor and unemployment benefits being cut. He unconsciously massaged his neck, where the collars were placed on convicts, which used electric pulses to inform them what pleasures they should deny themselves in order to save money and repay the debt.
"You're on unemployment benefits, and you're blowing your entire paycheck on games," the director continued, wagging his finger as if scolding a naughty child.
"I admit it, I'm in a difficult financial situation. I've had some unexpected expenses recently," the engineer said ruefully, and unconsciously began reminiscing about the old days.
Just a few years ago, he worked on barges traveling between Earth and the Moon, as third officer, chief engineer. It was the development of cybernetics that took away his job. And not only him. In the age of computerization and automation, came times of widespread unemployment. Under the pretext of increased safety, the human factor was eliminated as unreliable. In the age of terrorism, even aircraft were unmanned. The pilot controlled the plane from the ground using a cybersimulator, which downloaded data from a real vehicle and created a virtual situation consistent with the real world, thanks to which hijackings and the use of passengers as human bombs ended.
"You've accumulated a considerable overdraft on your online account," the wizard laughed mockingly, looking nothing like the serious director.
"It's not the end of the world," Storn bluffed his apprehension. His voice trembled, unable to hide it. "I honestly don't know what use someone like me could be to you—an unemployed engineer, a debt-ridden dreamer, and a virtual maniac to boot...
" "That last flaw is your greatest asset," the director interrupted his self-criticism with animation and clapped his hands. "I have an offer for you—as they say—you can't refuse," he began, flexing his fingers. "You'll get a job at our company. You'll get a loan at a low interest rate. You'll pay off your debts. You'll be able to fulfill your virtual desires, even the very expensive and forbidden ones. You know what I mean..."
As if to encourage them, waiters appeared with trays full of snacks, drinks, and other pleasant stimulants. The men were naked and only their flowing aprons created quite large tents that clumsily covered their upturned manhoods.
The director, seeing the shocked expression on his guest's face, opened the menu and began drawing strange signs in the air. He resembled a wizard casting evil spells.
He was probably changing something in the control program, Storn thought. He smiled to himself, amused by the fairytale comparison.
Suddenly, the waiters' bodies were transformed. They grew breasts: small, large, perky, balloon-shaped; their hips rounded, and their muscular bodies became more delicate and feminine.
"I noticed you have different sexual preferences," the director explained with a lecherous smirk. "So that you wouldn't feel embarrassed, I chose the hermaphrodite option, which would be optimal for both of us. Returning to the topic of conversation. A moment ago, I offered you a way out of your hopeless situation! What do you think?
" "Before making a decision, I'd like to know what my job would involve?" Storn stammered, taken aback by the proposal.
"As you know, we have a lot of competition." Our cybersimulators are the best on the market, but we need suitable games in which they can demonstrate their full potential. We're researching the market and checking if our products are selling well. Our control system selected you from thousands of players. It determined you were suitable and the best in the game "Red Mission," which we recently released.
"I enjoy playing it," Storn admitted, hoping it might be useful.
"We want to add another level to the game, involving the Prometheus landing on Mars. It's a rescue mission. That means rescuing the trapped crew. Destroying the enemy base. Killing as many cruel Martians as possible, who are torturing them into obtaining information about our planet so they can attack Earth in the future. It's a simple scenario, of course, but as you know, such simple themes capture the players' imaginations the most.
" "Yes. That's true! And what would my role be in this endeavor?
" "We need someone like you to test the games. I want to see how you perform in this mission." Of course, I welcome your opinions, suggestions, new ideas... So what? Do you want to try it?
"Right now," Storn said, surprised by such a rapid turnaround.
"What are we waiting for? You need special preparation.
" "Fine! I have nothing to do anyway," he agreed. The prospect of working for such a prestigious company was undoubtedly tempting and offered enormous prospects.
The director nodded approvingly and began the briefing.
"You'll begin the mission by activating the rescue fighter – the F-666, which is equipped with the lander. In the game 'Red Mission,' you mastered its use, or so our player control system concluded," the director said, simultaneously drawing strange symbols in space. He set the appropriate options on a menu visible only to himself. "Then you know what to do. You have to rescue the trapped crew and destroy and kill the cruel aliens to score as many points as possible. It's simple, let's go?"
"Who needs to get out of here?" the man listening to the briefing nodded.
The seat Storn was sitting in transformed into the cabin of the rescue vehicle. His fairy-tale sorcerer's clothes transformed into a spacesuit. The virtual image lost focus and rippled. And when it regained its shape, he was sitting as a cosmonaut, ready for a rescue mission, in the F-666 universal fighter.
Hefan acted automatically. His ingrained habits and skills, acquired over years of playing video games, were making themselves felt. He began launch procedures, activated the shield generator, and activated the full weapon system and the outer shell regeneration systems. He undocked the vehicle and flew out of the lander's airlock. The onboard computer used radar to locate the crew and display a red dot on a coordinate grid that mapped the terrain in three dimensions. He loved driving this vehicle. It was practically a virtual replica of a real fighter, a universal combat vehicle used by spacecraft. The antigravity engine allowed movement in any plane. It looked inconspicuous, like a glass sphere with a movable console inside, with a human sitting in a semi-recumbent position. A universal eye-shaped cannon, a hedgehog-shaped launcher, and a black spindle with yellow stripes like a wasp's abdomen circled the vehicle's orbit, like sputniks. The fighter demonstrated its predatory nature in combat and was an extremely effective weapon of destruction.
The flight above the Martian surface proved brief. The rangefinder calculated a depth of several hundred meters to the target. The next rescue mission had to take place beneath the planet's surface. Storn found the cave without any problems. Its entrance was covered by a kind of membrane, narrowing towards the center. He checked the vehicle's combat equipment. He was pleased to find that it had a full weapon loadout, which was a great surprise to him. It was the first time he had encountered such a thing in the game.
"Looks like I won't have to resupply ammunition in suspicious nooks and hidden compartments. That's an interesting and innovative idea," he commented with satisfaction, but then apprehension gripped him as he realized he would have to use his weapons judiciously.
He moved cautiously. He slowly made his way into the damp cave. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine, and he cried out.
"Martian cowards! The demon of destruction is coming! Hide your heads in your cosmic asses. It's best not to see what I'll do to you."
"We welcome a visitor from another world," he heard a warm, almost excited voice that penetrated him. "We want to assure you of our friendly attitude. We are a peaceful race and we have no weapons. We abhor violence..."
It begins, Storn thought, surprised, because this type of bluff was quite common in games.
"Yes, yes. Talk, talk. A moment of relaxation and a sudden attack in the back... I have to be careful."
He suspected an ambush and, just in case, switched the cannon to manual control and selected the "flamethrower" option. He wasn't mistaken; something was waiting for him around the bend. The creature was humanoid, but it was difficult to tell its gender; judging by its delicate features, it was an alien. The Martian floated on wings that lost their shape at the tips and dissolved into a rainbow of colors, her face beautiful and soulful. The alien creature extended luminous hands toward the vehicle in greeting, but before she could withdraw them,
Hefan fired his blaster, causing the Martian's body to swell and bloat. The vehicle rammed her bloated torso. He favored these kinds of spectacular crashes. The alien tore itself to pieces, bursting with a boom like a balloon, showering the surroundings with bloody shreds.
The ground was a veritable labyrinth. The pilot followed the coordinate grid. The red dot didn't hesitate, and the vehicle approached the mission objective without any problems. Storn was surprised that there were no interferences on the radar or rangefinder to complicate the game and force the player to search. The counter showed an ever-shorter distance to the trapped crew. The vehicle passed through more and more tunnels. The damp, sinewy corridors resembled the interior of some living creature's body. To ensure retreat, the pilot fired propeller-penetrating mines with thermal warheads into their bloody orifices, projecting from a black-and-yellow spindle like stingers. After a while, the loud effects of finding victims could be heard in the form of sounds reminiscent of courting cats on a March night. These sounds penetrated the mind and were almost painful.
Finally, the pilot reached his destination. Here, he encountered another novelty: the prison was open and unguarded. It turned out the room didn't resemble a torture chamber, with walls dripping with blood. It was furnished as a recreation room, simulating a pristine island with azure coastlines. The beaches were full of coconut palms and chocolate-colored aquatic plants dressed only in flowers. The rescued people refused to enter the vehicle. Hefan had to catch the escaping crew members, stunning them with a special gas, and sucking them unconscious into an airlock, which required considerable piloting skill on his part. He had wasted too much time, and as he had expected, the Martians had already gathered their forces. When he left the prison, they charged at the vehicle in full force. He consciously fired the homing missiles, which shot out from the launchers in all directions like porcupine quills, to reach the attackers with their deadly charges. The alien creatures died with astonishing ease. They were larger than a human and sluggish, even clumsy, their wings tangled as they fled. Eventually, they retreated, leaving behind significant casualties.
Storn took advantage of this, skillfully maneuvering the vehicle through the piles of dead bodies. He pushed the torn torsos aside and cleared a path for retreat. He engaged the autopilot, which flawlessly guided the F-666 fighter along the route it had just traveled, and switched the cannon to automatic mode, now reacting with shots to every movement. He consciously secured his rear by releasing beetle-shaped rover mines from the hatch. These, like worms, entered every nook and cranny of the facility, where, bristling with various sensors, they waited for unwary prey. The automatic cannon fired faster bursts, darting frantically around the vehicle's orbit to reach moving targets. A moment later, the sounds of gunfire faded, indicating they had run out of ammunition. The Martians launched another attack, and this time they had no weapons. It looked as if they were trying to swarm the vehicle with their own bodies and stop it. Now the real carnage began. Storn loved moments like these, when the game forced him to exert maximum effort. He switched the cannon to manual control and activated the "laser sword" option. It was his favorite weapon. He slashed with a beam of concentrated light like a lightsaber. He flew inside like a gyroscope, connected to the device, which replicated the movements of his hand, and for a moment he lost track of his position. Severed wings and limbs blocked the escape route. Severed bodies burst with a gurgle. Bloody goo from the ripped aliens slowed the vehicle, caught it, glued it together. He noticed the loss of speed just in time. He switched to the "helium thrower" option. It helped. Everything around him froze. He felt like he was tearing through layers of glass. The autopilot, in a dispassionate voice, counted down the time until they left the cave: Ten! Nine! Eight!... Hefan placed his finger on the button that fired the nuclear device, and at that moment he heard the message.
"Don't do this!" You're in the breeding ground of humanity. We're creating humanoid races. You need us for further spiritual development..."
The pilot fired the charge, laughing at the naive words. He rammed the frozen exhaust membrane. From afar, he heard an underground detonation.
Hefan was pleased with himself. The mission was complete. The alien base had been completely destroyed, and the hostages had been rescued. He performed a victory roll—a roll around the longitudinal axis while climbing. He increased speed and went into a climb. He deepened the climb angle and performed a loop, and another one. At the horizon, he recovered, using a half-roll, bringing the vehicle to level flight. He rolled into a backflip, pulled down, went vertical, and in a dive, descended to a height of several meters. He set the appropriate speed. He returned to base in a low-flying flight, just above the planet's surface. He skillfully avoided the uneven terrain. He reached the lander without any problems. He entered the airlock and docked the vehicle to the grabbers.
The F-666's cabin blurred, only to crystallize again into a soft seat.
"Master! Welcome back. What a mess. You're really good. I admit I doubted your success. The game seemed too difficult," the director enthused, excited and joyful as a child.
Storn decided to speak honestly about the game he had the dubious pleasure of participating in:
"I have to be honest with my benefactor who wants to give me a job. This rescue mission is just another bloody shootout against defenseless aliens.
" "Did you really not find any merits in its plot?" the sorcerer asked indifferently.
"Well, maybe the fact that I had full weapons, which is truly new, and original special effects like squeezing through the remains of victims, the sounds of agony, the vehicle slowing down because of blood... It was indeed impressive, but instead of fascination, I felt more disgust. And most importantly," he remembered, "the Martians aren't scary enough without weapons!" And on top of that... Those naive lines... You definitely need to change it so the game doesn't, to put it mildly, leave you feeling unsatisfied.
"You might be right, but it's hard to surprise customers these days. They need something powerful, even gruesome. Kids especially think the more violence and blood, the better. Admit it, killing beautiful, spiritual creatures is an original idea. Everyone's tired of monstrosities and hellish monsters.
" "Yes," he agreed, "it was indeed becoming increasingly difficult to satisfy the refined tastes of young players, especially young ones.
" "Okay, I'll pass on your valuable feedback to the team responsible for the game's design. We have to end our conversation here, as I have a meeting of the Supervisory Board of the Kosmoglobu Corporation, in which I am a shareholder, coming up soon.
" "I hope your commitments are still valid," Hefan assured him.
"You fulfilled your task perfectly," the director admitted with appreciation. "From now on, you're employed as an advisor at the 'God's Dream' company. And of course, you have an open credit card for pleasures. See you then!" He waved goodbye and began to adjust the menu options, his figure slowly fading away.
Hefan found himself back in the small room. He rose from the incredible device and began to dress. Instead of joy in the job he had received, he felt a subconscious fear of this cybernetic behemoth, tempting with the attractiveness of virtual experiences that deepened the misery and grayness of human existence. He was aware that the company "God's Dream" had swallowed him into its depths, where he would become one of the cogs in the machine rushing towards addiction to the intercyberworld. As the door opened, he unconsciously listened to the words of the media pastor, whose poem boomed darkly from the monitor speakers:
because there are those who, pouring mountains of rations ,
carve their caves into hell itself
and build altars
for the pride of calves.
And there are also those who, tossed by the winds of selfishness,
patch their lies to the very sky
and worship mammon
for pride
. And yet, swayed by waves of desire,
they pull their impurities from the very bottom
and drown in their own swamp
for vanity's sake.
But there are also the wise, because with the spiritual gardener
they nurture the rose to its inner blossom
and bear fruit in its own measure.
In the name of love,
a flower begins in the mud
. Meanwhile, in the intercyberworld, someone else took Storno's chair. The new seats were filled with men and women in various costumes. Familiar fairy tale characters appeared. One of the wizards rose from the chair and gently pushed a little girl in a red riding hood off her lap. The girl pulled her white knee-high socks up to her bare buttocks, adjusted her skimpy skirt, and straddled another leg. She began shamelessly playing rocking horse. The man standing there spoke:
"As Chairman of the Supervisory Board, I welcome the distinguished guests and shareholders of the Kosmoglob Corporation. I congratulate you on the successful landing of Prometheus on Mars and thank the director of the "God's Dream" company for his brilliant plan, which, as everyone has seen, can be considered a complete success.
" "Mr. Chairman!" a woman dressed as a hideous witch interjected. She kicked aside a wooden boy whose long, vibrator-shaped nose was searching for something under her skirt. "Before we begin dividing this red cake among the colonies, I ask you a question. What was the point of saving the crew? Isn't it necessary to eliminate all witnesses, including the virtual maniac who saved them?"
These words brought a swarming whisper.
"My dears! I believe the public needs heroes. Consider what our famous crew will say." After all, an unmanned, remotely controlled F-666 fighter saved them from certain death during a nuclear cataclysm. This is standard emergency procedure, intended for life-threatening situations. Now they will truly find an extinct Martian civilization, and the matter of their unofficial negotiations will be classified as irrelevant in the current circumstances. Furthermore, radioactive contamination will effectively delay detailed research at the site.
Discussions between the neighbors have erupted again.
The speaker sat down in the armchair. With a gesture of his finger, he beckoned to a woman with predatory features who resembled a Puss in Boots. She approached meekly and did a split, resting her leg on the armrest. The cat tilted her Persian tail and, purring passionately, inhaled a cigar from her shamelessly exposed hips. Then she bit off the tip of an intricately rolled tobacco leaf. The chairman took the cigar. The match girl ran up and handed him a large match. Then she leaned forward deeply, exposing her bare buttocks from beneath her skimpy skirt. Sulfur crackled against her skin with a long drag, leaving a bloody welt diagonally across her hips. A fire lit on the tip of the stick. The girl squealed delightfully, then moaned painfully as the flame of the extinguished match hissed. The chairman shooed the waitresses away, slapping them firmly on the buttocks, and waited for the discussion to subside. He savored the tobacco stimulant and, when silence fell, continued.
"I suggest leaving the Martian slayer alive. Just in case everything gets out. People need a scapegoat. It will be very easy to turn a virtual maniac into a hacker who broke into Prometheus's control panel and played the cruel god of war..."
Thunderous applause and cheers erupted.
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