Chapter 9

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Run or fire?!

A fragment from some old movie stuck in her memory.

Indeed, to run or not to run? And if running, where to?

The doorway was closing much louder than it had opened, the walls humming and rumbling, very ominously and with a kind of grim immutability, finality. Like a guillotine in a slo-mo

Finishing the sealing cycle of entry A

0:57

Technical readiness of the medical kit

4:19

Hurry up

"I need Kryp," the girl whispered with numb lips. "I'd be gone without him..."

And then she grasped at Machine's clause like a thin rope, more like a thread of hope.

"Entry A? Is there any other entrance?!"

Technical exit

The passage is dangerous

The return route is undetermined

High probability of laying the route in the vicinity of the communication/navigation point

Accompanying is limited

Finishing the sealing cycle of entry A

0:30

"Give me the first aid kit," Olga whispered.

The draught increased, and there was a real breeze through the narrowing passageway, cold as a freezer. From here, I could see the waving of the cloths with the magical symbols. The heavy cloth swayed as if it were a bundle of chains, slowly and with dignity. The lanterns beside the drab bookstand danced with a reddish light. Shadows bounced in many corners, and it seemed as if Olga were not in the machine room but in a witch's lair. And the smell of incense came from somewhere, though a moment ago it smelled only of rubber and heated insulation. Funeral incense the girl remembered well from the day of her mother's funeral.

"Get the medicine," Olga spoke even more quietly, forbidding herself to think of fleeing. At other times, in other circumstances, she probably would have considered it a courageous, very brave act. But here and now the strength of mind was only enough to fight another rush of chilling terror.

There's been a lot of panic attacks in the past few days... One could go crazy.

The armor doors closed with an unpleasant, clanking, and somehow final clang. It was as if the echo stuck in the thickness of the metal and went walking among the atoms of chromium and whatever else the sturdy alloy might contain. Olga felt trapped in a real crypt. The tale of the witch's house turned into a story about being buried alive.

It got hot very quickly. It was as if an electric stove had been turned on under the ribbed floor. Olga shrugged, threw off her jacket, and only now realized that it was not the hall that was hot, but her fever. Not sickness, but nerves. The wait stretched on and on.

"Do you have any watches?"

I don't control the time.

The hours don't belong to me.

"No! I mean..." Olga shook her hand. "I mean the ones you carry with you to measure time."

Mobile Chronometer

No.

At Ballistic Station XVI they are used rarely, selectively.

No reserve and repair fund.

"How do you live here, like savages..." The girl muttered. "I wish we could find some Casio. And music to play, Montana.

For no reason, she remembered that the electronic "Casio" of some model deserved the honorary title of "bomber watch," because it was cheap and reliable, just in case of a bomb timer. So the company even had to make excuses.

The question was rhetorical, but Machine didn't realize it and answered:

There is/was a schedule.

There is/was a sound alarm.

There is/was a strict schedule.

There is/was a built-in definition of Omniscience servants.

The need for individual determination of time is limited.

Mobile chronometers are not needed, there are none.

"Whatever."

At least one good thing came out of the dialogue about the watch - it filled the waiting time and distracted the girl from thinking that she had badly miscalculated by choosing the first aid kit over running away.

Delivery.

A nickel-plated tube came down very softly and quietly from above. It resembled the pneumatic mail that Olga had seen here before, but the cylinder was thicker and engraved, which intertwined the familiar images of a gear skull with clever mathematical symbols. A round hatch opened at the bottom and the cargo fell out, clattering against the metal floor. Olga belatedly rushed to pick up the fragile - surely very fragile! - object. The pipe, meanwhile, rode back out, rustling quietly on the rails.

Hmm, it doesn't seem so fragile.

The "resuscitation kit" looked a lot like a Soviet plastic toy, both in texture and, more importantly, in color. It was shaped, intricately embossed, about the size of a large car medicine kit. Piggy-pink and smooth, on a thick latch with a lead seal. The material seemed not only smooth but sensibly hot as if the Machine had just molded the container to its contents. Yes, it probably did.

Olga weighed the box in her hands - a little heavy, but bearable. She estimated that the stuff was probably shockproof or something, so she could not wrap it in rags. She put it in the shoulder bag. She didn't want to leave.

"Well..." the words were stuck in her throat. "So what's about coming back?"

Destination Point.

"I have a map... well, I mean, the scheme..."

Only now did Olga realize the problem that had appeared. After all, Fidus's drawing is nothing but crooked dabs made by a weak hand. But what else was left... She took the crumpled sheets out of her pocket, which was in such a state that only wiping was left to be done. She waved in the cool air, wondering if there was a scanner of some kind. Skull hovered in front of her face, flicking a removable lens

"Yeah ... you must be a scanner, too," Olga thought aloud.

She searched for a flat, smooth surface. She found it almost immediately - another mechanical box and laid out Creep's diagram. The skull quickly "looked through" it with a quite cinematic laser tag. In the process, Olga again felt an attack of acute disbelief in what was happening. How to combine all this? On the one hand an intelligent computer, advanced techno, and a giant hologram of stellar space. On the other hand, there are all sorts of things like a dead man on a caterpillar and flying skulls with a laser pointer. It could only happen in a dream, but it didn't feel like one. And the smell of blood in the alchemical warehouse was stupefyingly natural. She remembered the warehouse, and a bitter, astringent lump came to her throat.

The girl fought an attack of nausea and thought that the last time she had vomited so often was when she had first encountered booze. At this time, the skull finished driving the red ray over Kryp's scheme. The Machine was pensive. Olga didn't see or hear anything that could be linked in any way to "full protection mode." Nothing had changed, only the armored doors were now closed, glinting dimly with reflected light.

Not knowing what to do, the hapless explorer staggered to the gate and scratched the smooth metal with her fingernail, then knocked. She put her ear to it, more for nothing than to try to hear something. Nothing. Silence.

The watch was missing, well, just a lot.

"Yes, I already understood, there is no repair pool," she whispered to herself with only her lips. "There won't be a watch."

Another indefinite number of minutes passed. Nothing happened, no one attacked the machine room. Olga went to the gate a couple more times and listened, with no effect. Tried to take a nap, it didn't work. The old habit of sleeping anywhere and in any circumstances had disappeared in a year and a half of moderately comfortable urban life. The metal floor was pleasantly warm on one side and too hard on the other. Olga was also somewhat surprised to find that the horror was letting go, the sheer fuckery of what was happening had lost its sharpness. Apparently she... slowly beginning to get used to it?

Ugh. She wanted to spit out of an excess of feelings, but it was somehow awkward and unclear how the Machine would interpret the introduction of unsanitary conditions into its temple of electronic hardware. The thought of spitting drew with it the next - about thirst and water. But the girl did not have time to think about it - with a loud chirping sound came the familiar "printer". A ribbon of fine coated paper slowly emerged from the wide slot.

No guys, the technology here is a mess, thought Olga, pulling the ribbon as she printed. A matrix printer (from the sound of it) and a very slow one were drawing some crap of zeros and ones. There seemed to be another diagram...

The start point is conventionally defined, the source material is damaged, error probability 37%

The return route is completed.

The alternative path.

Olga grasped the mirror she had found right through the fabric of her pocket. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth so as not to start squealing from everything at once - anger, fatigue, reluctance to go over the ridges again, and disgust for printed maps. The machine waited patiently and then reported:

Recommendations

1. To reach Fidus Kryptman using Scheme A

2. Save Fidus Kryptman

3. Give Fidus Kryptman the Message and Scheme B

Approximate walking time of 7 standard hours at a speed of 5 km/h

Warning: The alternate route goes through the navigational support and astropathic communication station

In the process, it is advisable to hope for good luck to maintain emotional balance

"Thank you," Olga muttered, not knowing whether to cry (again) or laugh. The computer's advice was both silly and mocking, and touchingly naïve

Follow the pointer

It took her a minute or more to realize that the pointer was a flying skull that buzzed, flashed its lens, and didn't even flick its teeth. The traveler felt that she was almost in love with the motorless toy, a jack-of-all-trades.

"Do you have water?" the girl asked.

Technical water supply behind you

The symbol is a blue triangle

Touch Panel

The technical water supply was hidden under a tin box and most resembled a combination of an upside-down drinking fountain and a urinal. It took a bit of fiddling with the control panel before Olga realized that it was not necessary to poke the glass rectangle with her finger. She had to run her palm over it, almost touching it, but "almost". However, after all the agony, there was a reward in the form of a trickle of warm, but quite drinkable water. It smelled of some chemicals, but it was no stronger and no more disgusting than ordinary chlorine.

Olga washed her face with pleasure, thinking that this was the first washing she had done since she had been here. She decided not to be embarrassed by Machine and wiped herself down to the waist. And at the same time, she cleaned her jacket and jeans as best she could. The area around the urinal was naturally turning into a porkpit, but Machine did not react. Wet clothes chilled her skin, and the girl belatedly thought that if there were the same draughts outside as before, it would not be good. And she might even catch a cold.

And fuck it. The inner voice suggested that drafts were the last thing on the list of future threats. Olga filled a camping bottle with water, wiped her face with the wet lapel of her tattered and ragged jacket. She adjusted her homemade sheath with an old knife. The time had come. She didn't want to leave, the machine room seemed safe and comfortable. And there was warmth and water. Live and let live until you were rescued.

"What should I be afraid of...?" asked Olga and slouched down, feeling a certain discrepancy between her beloved self, the dangers outside, and the task at hand. All this "to get and save" with faith in luck and other higher forces.

Accurate formalization is impossible

Reason 1: insufficient data, high level of heuristic assumption, and incorrect extrapolation

Reason 2: Your lack of appropriate terminological knowledge

Adapting the knowledge will require an extensive series of introductory lectures on the administrative organization of the Imperium, its theological principles, and the physical-mystical element of the construction of the universe

"Is that so..." she squeezed out, feeling that she was tired of this talking and typing conversation. And tired in general. She wanted to leave as soon as possible.

An extract accessible to your understanding:

As a result of the Ritual and the interference organized by the task force, Ballistic Station XVI began to move into a chaotic unstructured pseudo-reality [Warp]

The transition has not been completed

Ballistic Station XVI exists in two unstable states at this moment and in the future of indefinite duration

State A can be defined as Basic Reality

State B can be defined as a borderline existence on the edge of chaotic unstructured pseudo-reality [Warp]

Right now you are on the Station in state A

State A is moderately stable

The danger is represented by automatic security systems, individual representatives of station personnel, factor X

Moderate danger, 37% chance of collision and death

"Holy shit!" Olga vigorously expressed her attitude toward the "moderate" thirty-seven percent.

The return route will pass near the navigation support and astropathic communication station

In this location, the boundary between states A and B is unstable, and the risk of temporary unification of matter/reality states is high.

If you get into such an intersection, you have a 99% chance of being killed

1% - mandatory reservation "miracle with faith in the Emperor"

"A dinosaur encounter, yes. Fifty-fifty."

No

Not a dinosaur

Automatic security systems, individual representatives of station personnel, factor X

Not 50/50

37/99

Olga thought about describing to the Machine the mathematics of "fifty percent probability of an event," but decided that it would take a lot of time and be of little use. Because the computer seemed to have no sense of humor at all.

"And why I should go so close to the asstropathi?" she asked a more logical and pertinent question.

This is the only route that optimally balances risk.

The others imply an unacceptable probability of encountering hostile conditions or losing one's orientation.

Passing near a navigation station does not pose a significant threat in the absence of items exposed to chaotic unstructured pseudo-reality [Warp]

Such an object can act as a trigger event, provoking the temporary union of the states of the two realities.

A necessary clarification: do you possess such an object

-?-

Olga thought honestly and said honestly:

"No."

The Machine was "silent," apparently deciding that there was nothing more to discuss. The girl went over in her mind all the items that she had acquired while wandering around the Ballistic

Station. Nothing resembled ...

She looked again at the printed card.

exposed to chaotic unstructured pseudo-reality [Warp]

No, definitely nothing like that. Although ... Olga remembered Fidus' "credit card" heated up like in a microwave oven. Yes, it was unhealthy stuff, which was quite a bit like something witchy and "pseudo-real". But the "paiza" had already disappeared somewhere in the depths, and Machine was not going to bring it back. So it was already a computer's problem, not Olga's

"No," the wanderer repeated firmly. "There's no such thing."

My navigator will guide you part of the way.

Not for long

Retransmitters are damaged

The range of direct control is limited

The flying skull flicked its lens again, and it looked funny, just like a wink. Olga smiled weakly.

It took a few minutes to organize the luggage in my backpack. Make sure the machine has nothing to eat, only water. Get plenty to drink, and grab a couple of very lab-medical-looking robes from the technical locker. Olga reasoned that Kryp would have to be wiped again anyway, and maybe even changed his clothes. Something clean would come in handy.

Just don't die there, buddy, I'm on my way back.

Olga felt a little warmer in her soul. Olga had already forgotten what it was like to think and care about someone. Especially now that life had taken on new colors.

Only 37% made her nervous. But forty is not a hundred.

"Well ... Let's move," Olga finally said, hoping that it sounded and looked more confident than her inner readiness for action.

The printer rattled for the last time, printing again a rather extensive message.

Olga

I am not a sapient.

I don't feel emotions.

I have no attachment to animate entities

But my existence and functionality involves the constant processing of information

The information exchange with you is different from the daily exchange with the operators

In the coordinates of emotional perception, it can be qualified as "interesting"

Continuation and expansion of the exchange is desirable

In the coordinates of emotional perception, it can be qualified as "hope"

I was interested in communicating with you.

I hope you'll come back and we'll keep in touch.

Luck.

Success.

Surviving.

If the above goals cannot be achieved, physical and emotional suffering of indefinite duration is inevitable.

Pain and suffering are chaotic, entropic, useless.

With such a development, I wish you a painless and quick cessation of existence.

See you or goodbye.

Olga almost choked on her saliva at the last admonition. Obviously, the Machine sincerely - as much as one can say about a set of electronic circuits - wished her good luck. But the machine's advice reeked of a kind of hopelessness. Hopelessness like "duck and cover."

"Let's move," she repeated, feeling as if her lips were numb from the frost.

She looked around the machine room one last time, so strange, chaotic, pointless, and stupid, unlike a normal computer room.

And so cozy.

Safe.

"Lead me, skull, show the way."

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