 
Chino Hill

### The Law of Quantum

Copyright 2020 Chino Hill

Published by Chino Hill at Smashwords

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Cover art by Martin Rožek
Disclaimer

The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Contents

The Law of Quantum

About the Author
π×1,000056792640724

Thallon gas exhaled into the fire whereby the freshly sprung flames become greenish, biting enthusiastically in the blackness of space. They flared their lights, from the meteorite torn surface of the asteroid, to the distant stars; thinking, they were their sisters, bright like they were. But those did not spare them even a glance. They glittered stolidly in the faraway endless, knowing, these soon die in the ruthless dark depths of space, and their vestiges of memory disappear forever; because they do not count evanescent seconds from long ago, since everything that matters to them, its existence must be measured in billions of years here, and anything that is less than that, it may never have existed.

Smoke streaks leaked from the depth of the crashed satellite hit crater in the thin atmosphere and flew towards the ice-cold stars. On rugged edges of the barren, grey rocks tiny fires fluttered under the silent abyss of the frosty Universe; lightning a path to the smoking ruin of the church.

It was night. Which had no significance here, on Benzaiten, three and a half times farther away from the Sun than Pluto. Beyond the outer border of the Solar System, the Sun was just a white dot amongst the other millions, and nobody could tell which was which between them at first sight.

I climbed out of the ditch, from where the detonation threw me, and, fighting the dizziness, headed towards the only surface building; that was the colony's church two minutes ago.

Flames were whining in the rare air, like burning wood in a furnace, like a shrieking banshee. They were the sounds of pain. The pain, that accompanies the ultimate passing, as a piece breaks away from inside of a man, and he knows he will never get it back. It belonged to fear. That hits in the stomach, horns heart and stamps down the cry of the faintest hope; and although the mortal wants to deny it, the brain knows the truth: this is the end. And there is no further.

Not giving thought to the content of my stomach that wanted to break out, I started to run as I was able.

Scattered wreckage smouldered around me. Off-white smoke wreathed into the air. The ground shook and rumbled under my feet. It was about two hundred metres before I reached the entrance to the church. A part of the facade was all that remained of it. Behind the entrance there was nothing but a cavern, the whilom undercroft. I kneeled to its edge and looked down.

The pale light of an intact lamp illuminated feebly from the side into the below darkness. The sudden pressure equalization had blown out the fire and captured the dust in the atmosphere; that fell down softly on the mound of sluggishly glowing shattered beams. There was someone moving below. The vicar. He knelt next to a body almost totally covered by the debris. Only her left arm was out of it, and her head.

The vicar, as if feeling that I was there, looked at me. There was an awful laceration on his head. Blood, like dirty slime, trickled from his forehead, soaking his torn clothes.

The depth of the asteroid quaked. Loose stones fell into the cavern. The vicar shook his head 'no'. Then he sprang to his feet and ran away; perhaps towards a corridor. I did not see where to. I was watching the body where he had knelt next to. Her bloody arm rested on the debris. I could see her crushed face. Her eyes stared towards me. But they could not see me and could not see anything. They were empty. Emptier than a frame without a picture in an abandoned house. I moved forwards and jumped down to her.

I did not get down. A detonation exploded from the direction where the vicar had disappeared, and it threw me out into space.

The gravitator, the artificial gravity generator, was destroyed. The atmosphere escaped like vapour. I whirled far from the asteroid; between silvery, sparkling liquid drops. My diaphragm gave itself up. Something else also mixed amongst the lustrous drops. Some of them looked red. But I could only imagine that. Because what could be seen in the black nothing that eats the light? The air ran away from my torn sweater. How long can a man last in a vacuum? Thirty seconds? Fifteen? I did not care. I just saw the eyes. Those empty soul mirrors as fixed on me but stared only vacantly. I had already seen such eyes. Not so long ago. Maybe tomorrow?
π

Some faintly fluorescent roots lit the narrow corridor into a pale pink shadow. The bare-footed woman let the man to lead her by her hands. Her brown eyes stared somewhere else, as if she was dreaming, as if she was watching the slowly vibrating ambience of the moment, which someday – on melancholic winter evenings – would be just memory. Blood-red lipstick glittered on her porcelain white face. She turned her head slightly back and aside, like she did not want to lose even a piece of the man's monotonous whisper. The wide, V-shaped male back was elegantly covered by a suit. It was not a low-priced, ready-made product. It was not the kind which creased in minutes, but neither a known luxury brand. For the maker of that did not need a business card. The fathers personally took their sons to him when the time came. And for noble families that came quickly. Because wearing a suit is not a skill learned but has to be born in. That man was born in it. His straight posture and purposeful, yet easy, movement expressed that; which ingrains itself in a real aristocrat at the first steps, and which is polished more elegant by educators. A samurai, moulded in an English Lord. His deep, muted tones almost hypnotised the woman; whose big, heavy breasts pressed hard against her kimono-like, fine cloth. The man's fingers were entwined with her fingers. The room, where she was brought in, was relatively large, about seven times seven metres. The wooden door closed behind them with a click. Inside, strong roots of a tenzing tree grew amongst the rock walls. Their faint light as cherry blossom mist curled down to the floor. The ceiling vanished infinity. Love flooded. It was tangible. A man and a woman who were already one. One because love gives. And it does not expect anything in return. And they gave. Themselves. Their fullness. Because giving from heart, and accepting by heart, can be only by heart. From the deepest to the deepest. So they both received. From the other, the other. Selflessly. This is love. The love which creates life.

Like silent night, softly, unnoticed, fell down the dress of the woman. A marble smooth body appeared. White makeup covered it thick. Yet, perhaps from that, at the attractive places the spectacularly well-formed woman somehow seemed light. Nike, the ancient goddess. Irresistible.

The man did not try to hold back his hand. And the woman did not want either. The touch was gentle. But desire throbbed in it. Which was more than sensual. Something of deep affection. Offering and reception. From both sides. Mutually. Becoming one.

I knew I was not watching a movie. But it was much more than an ordinary home video. A memory for the closest family members. About the most sacred moment of a marriage. The body sensations were relayed by aeriform neurotransmitters. I could feel their heartbeats. I could feel touches; that told of a fulfilling eternal dream. Sighs came to life on my skin. And tiny pain. Awaited. Blissfulness.

The man's chest tightened against the woman's back. His head leaned over her neck. Kiss. Opening lips. Tensing muscles, throbbing heart. Pain. Short. Sharp, twinge. At last! Gladness. Calmness.

After the man's bite, two droplets ran down the woman's neck, drawing two red stripes on the white skin. By the time they reached the ample bosom, the man was already in the woman. Because what is one soul, is one body. He was mellow and gentle. Even when the core of life pulsated out of him into the woman; which oozed back whitely to her thigh. And even when he grasped her head and broke her neck.

'Whore life!' yelled somebody jumping up from her chair. A lamp lit, and the film, that surrounded me, disappeared. But not fast enough. The woman's eye drilled into my eyes and engraved in my brain. I saw them well. There was nothing in them. No consternation, no pain, no peace. Nothing. Only emptiness. Because already nobody was behind them. Who was, was thrown out of it, and the body was abandoned; with glazed eyes looking into the nothing. It felled me. I just sat in shock.

'Why for my cunt did I have to watch this?' continued the woman angrily who had jumped up from the chair.

'That's exactly why. To perceive the severity of the situation,' a mature woman calmed her down. She looked about fifty. Which, in this century, meant she was closer to ninety than eighty. 'Sub-Lieutenant Fujiwara sit down!' she commanded the upset woman. 'Since not everyone knows me, I'm introducing myself. I'm Vice-Admiral Dhupia, Assistant Director of Navy Command Headquarters. She is,' she pointed to another woman next to her, 'my deputy, Captain Swanson.'

Six heads turned to me. Six female faces. They looked me up and down briefly and understood why the Vice-Admiral had to introduce themselves. I was the only one who did not know them here in the room where we were ten: The Vice-Admiral, the Captain, the six women in front of me, and, at my back, Commander Naoko Kawaguchi, head of the Navy Archives. She described herself as a simple librarian, but I guessed, there were more behind her official position. She sometimes disappeared for days, so to speak, for professional conferences. But what kind of conference is the one from where the participant returns with slow-healing bruises? Of the six women, I knew Midshipman Jun Xiong too, my probation officer. Because of this, it was demanded that I appear at her twice a day. Sometimes, she came to me suddenly, so to speak, to check my job or my cell. She had a pretty mouth. She liked crimson red lipsticks. Of the six women, she was the shortest. With large breasts and thin hips. She did not even look twenty. So she could have been forty-x. The other five were roughly seventy. With my thirty-two years, in biological sense, I was the youngest amongst them. A youth between the milfs.

Vice-Admiral Dhupia started to speak. With her mouth. I was surprised that she used that old-fashioned form of verbal communication instead of telling her words through microwave. It was audible that the Vice-Admiral had to make an upright effort to speak fluently. She, likewise anybody, had not used her mouth for speech for a long time. Though my body did not contain a DNA-generated communication circuit, the poppy-seed-sized headset was in my ear, so I would have been able to understand all her words without her having to open her mouth.

Gesture-controlled smartphone? Guffaw! I thought I went insane the first time I had to wave a phone number to a phone. In a more advanced version, I had to scribble a text message with winks. Just imagine that you're standing in a shabby pub and you're Morsing to your chick "Baby come to the Washer Mosher! Kiss and bring rubbers!" And in front of you is standing a sturdy, bald-headed action hero of the Alt-right; over three halves of Vodka and with twelve knocked out policemen on his achievement list. What ya think? Doesn't he ask why the fuck are you winking to him?! Sure! He does. And I guarantee you that by the time you talk yourself out of the situation, your chick can donate your nightly rubber pack to a beggar. One of the biggest bullshits in the history of technology is the gesture control. I message to that idiot who first invented it that, after fifty years, the name of his company won't be mentioned even in articles of the history of technology. That's what happens when somebody, without technical talent, entrusts product development to marketers. The future is in the body-built gadgets. The best is when your modified DNA creates a mobile phone in your body. From that point on, you push out a ten words sentence within a second and never stumble over your tongue. Of course, if you can't control your thoughts, then it's a debacle. It's still survivable when the busty waitress, at the company's canteen, asks what she can do for you, and having a look at her cleavage, you lose control over your thoughts and your real wish beams out of your brain... The catastrophe happens, when, at the yearly performance review, your boss lets you know how much pay rise you will get as compensation for your exceptional hard work, and, after that, you're unable to clearly focus on the part of your speech, "With having regard to the company's outstanding financial profit in the last year, I understand and agree, why nobody's salary has been rising for six years." If then your real thoughts slip out into the microwave link, then don't be surprised if you have to refresh your résumé soon.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

'I'm sorry chicks but there's no time to waste time on manager's bullshit,' said the Vice-Admiral. 'What you saw is clear and have no doubt about it. Today at 1:32, Sir Martin Yates, Captain of the Intelligence Corps, ritually murdered his wife, Maya Volkova, representative of the Neptunian emigrants. Then he stole a time machine and documents from the Sahalin. The left behind traces show that he wants to pass those documents to the Neptunians.'

'Ma'am!' a tall thin woman butted in. 'I thought we didn't touch the Sahalin ergo we can't own documents from her. Then what exactly Sir Yates wants to give to the Neptunians?'

'None of us started in the business of intelligence today,' replied Captain Swanson. 'None of us can think seriously that, without a prior check, we allow a civil rescue vessel to go to a ship that sailed away one hundred and eighty years ago, sent a Mayday distress call ninety years later, which she repeated again after fifty-five years, then she appears at the edge of the Solar System and sends a distress call again. Yes, we investigated the Sahalin for two reasons. One: she appeared two days away from one of our patrolling frigates, sending a distress call. It's natural that we went to help as everyone else would have done so. Two: we are talking about a ship that no one's had information on for one hundred and seventy years. Who knows what's on her deck? War is at the doorstep. Neptunooga seizes every opportunity to find a pretext to justify, for the League of Nations, the lawfulness of its attack against us. We don't want to give a cause for a war and either to war. Of course, we looked-over that ship, even though it is Neptunian property. After we didn't find anything that is clearly harmful, we covered our tracks, diverted our civilian rescue vessels and let the Neptunian rescue team to reach her first.'

'Dhupia-sama mentioned documents. What is in them that was worth bringing from the Sahalin?' the thin woman asked.

'Until now, we didn't have any information that we'd have taken anything from it. Sir Yates was one of them who searched the ship, but that small thing is missing from his report, that he may have taken the Codex Roxolan with him.'

Silence of surprise sat on the attendances. The mention of the Codex Roxolan hit them like a physicist the sight of the unified field equation.

'This is only an assumption,' said Vice-Admiral Dhupia. 'But it's certain that Sir Yates found something on the Sahalin. He lost his common sense because of it, killed his wife and is now trying to disappear in time in order to pass that "thing" to the Neptunians, be it the Codex or anything else. Your mission's that to go after him and bring him back and all that he has. Assuming, he has anything at all.'

'Why aren't active agents going after him? Why is it entrusted to "office clerks?"' asked Fujiwara.

'According to the analysts, Sir Yates went back to the first quarter of the 21st century. This is also confirmed by a signal of one of our space-time buoys. We're living in a time of crisis, and we don't have enough staff. For a couple of years, you were all out in the field and were one some of the best. At most your routines faded a little bit but haven't disappeared. You've seen life, also as a data analyst, and spent more or less time in other time locations too. You're able to survive in any given age and are experts of undercover operations. Lieutenant-Commander Dr. Nyagawa is participating with you. Her main aim to predict Sir Yates's possible behaviour and actions.'

'Sincerely, Dhupia-sama!' the Lieutenant-Commander interrupted the Vice-Admiral. 'I took the final qualifying exam, but I haven't practiced it for fifty years. I've never had time for it.'

'Then now, you'll have time to do it; under the leadership of Commander Kawaguchi. For managing the five hundred years of civilization difference, Landsman Vanhanen, who is the expert of that age, helps you,' the Vice-Admiral pointed me.

Landsman? The lowest ranking GI Joe of the Royal Navy? A Private? Half an hour before, I was still a prisoner and a disruptive factor; they did not know what to do with me. I empathised with them. Neither I knew what to do with myself. I was theoretically dead. I was executed by the Gestapo circa six hundred years ago. It was a nice sunny April day. Early afternoon. They had me stood in front of the wall in the yard. They did not muck-about with me too much. I saw the woman who I rescued, and because of whom the Nazis caught me. Although this was not her fault. I should not have gone back for her. But I did not want her to get into the hands of the Dutch resistance. She was saved, I was not. I was dragged to the wall, she was delighted to chat with some German officers. I do not think she even noticed me. The line raised their rifles to their shoulders, and I died. I did not hear the volley. The bullets were twice as fast as sound. I do not remember the flash either. Even if there was, I did not have time to grasp it. I simply and quickly died. The next moment, I came to life in a medical room. On the deck of a warship, at the outer side of the Kuiper Belt. The calendar showed a date nearly six hundred years later. Time spectrometers freaked out from me. In theory, I was older than the universe. At least six times. I was transferred to a hospital of the Fleet. Since my age could not be determined by those instruments either, the question was left open. Similarly that, what they should do with me. I was physically intact – more or less. After three months of mental rehabilitation, they declared me un-risky to myself or others, so they threw me out. Of the hospital. But not from the claws of the Admiralty. Though they never arrested me, I was not free. As if I had been a Guantanamo prisoner – although my circumstances were much more human. I might say those were quite pleasant. What is more, half a year after my materialization, a mental hygiene therapist was assigned to me. It meant a kind of Thai massage. Full service. Not for my sake were they so kind and amiable. Under the terms of the law, it was a benefit for all trouble-free prisoners once a week after the first three months. I got my first treatment after half a year. Once a month. I could tell them to 'suck on it,' but this was done by my therapist. Many times. In several ways. So, in spite of this, I was practically a Guantanamo prisoner; though me comparing to those, I was well off. Nonetheless, they should suck on it. OK, I was a little bit weird, but just because I appeared uninvitingly in the middle of a strictly secret military experiment, in the trans-Neptunian region, and just because my existence was a physical impossibility, my rights should have been the same as ordinary prisoners. I was enrolled into the community work program one and a half years after my appearance. For that, I can be grateful to them actually. Most prisoners are never released from Guantanamo. But the community work program served for driving prisoners back to the free life. I became a cowboy under supervision of my probation officer Midshipman Xiong. I grazed cattle on the prairie. The cattle were meat-plants. Genetic hybrids of animals and plants; carefully taking care that the living creature so obtained stays strictly a plant. There was no longer a dilemma between eating and animal protection. Meat-plants, like any other plant, were beautifully photosynthesised in space, producing meat instead of seeds and fruits. Which seems simple but technically was complex. On the one hand, they needed soil; which had to be artificially created. That soil was called prairie in colloquial speech. On the other hand, they needed sunlight; which was emitted to the necessary places by artificial suns. In addition, they needed water; that was sufficient, but had to be shipped from very far. So the irrigation was a bit of a cumbersome process. Then there were all kinds of stray asteroids that were able to bust soil up if you did not pay attention. In addition, it was necessary to keep an eye on insane whales who lost their human nature and gobbled up plants during their wandering. And there were the Apaches. It was alleged that you know they are prowling in your region when you die. And of not a natural death.

That was me, and the brief history of my two years existence. And the officially unofficial status of my being. Until now. The fact that I had entered the Navy, and served as a Landsman, I knew just at this moment. Since I had experience in being dependent on others' benevolence, I did not comment on it.

Five pairs of eyes gazed at me with unconcealed curiosity; and a sixth, Midshipman Xiong's. She knew me officially. If she was surprised, she did not show it. She looked at me expressionlessly.

'We have a killer and a date. Everything else is just assumption,' said Sub-Lieutenant Fujiwara. 'I don't know how the Sahalin could make a mind crazy if nothing harmful was found on her. If, however, I have to play manhunter in time itself, may I know of what things harmless were on her?'

'Some of the crew. Dead. Either they killed each other or got help to do that.'

'And the rest of the crew?'

'There were no rest of the crew.'

The Sahalin. She's one of the most famous of the modern-day ghost ships. She went back to the Cradle, to the Homeland, to the origin of mankind. At least according to the origin myth of the Hungarians. The purpose of the expedition was... Damned if I know. I've never been able to memorise those marketing bullshits. It was something like the first Mars missions': must go there because it's there. Studying the nature of the Universe as a goal is only like a government communication, a technique of hiding stolen tax. Exploring of the possibilities of interstellar travel is beautiful and rotund, but if you find people with superior national consciousness amongst financial supporters of the expedition then you can be assured that scientific research is just powder. As a matter of fact, the Sahalin wasn't the first starship. The Alpha Centauri had been deflowered much earlier, even before the Robot Wars. With all its stars. Both with automatons and with people. But after the Robot Wars, that was the first interstellar expedition. She was targeted to Sirius. It was the subject of debates whether she reached there or not. Some said she had been there when she sent a distress call one month after her arrival and started her return back. Others said it was a humbug, and she turned back before she'd arrived. There was believable data on both sides. What is certain is that during her return, after about halfway, she sent a distress call again, then, about thirty-five years later, she appeared on the edge of the solar system. Just not exactly there at the point where she was being awaited. As the straightest way isn't always the shortest way on the Earth, it's not in space either. Attempts were made to locate her route, but she wasn't found anywhere. Her appearance in the solar system happened when it was expected, but not in any of the fucking calculated positions, but moreover in the worst possible place. Baltroyal's colony was far beyond Pluto. They proclaimed their independence from Neptunooga about twenty-six years before, which was never accepted. During the Fifteen Years' War, Neptunooga unsuccessfully tried to recapture the breakaway kingdom and lost even a part of their own territory, at which Baltroyal formed a buffer zone. In the year before the appearance of the Sahalin, the Neptunians thought it was time for the re-occupation. Unfortunately, the ship appeared at the border of Baltroyal. Although, when the Sahalin started her journey, Neptunooga didn't yet exist, they claimed her as their spiritual inheritance. Later they claimed that Britons had stolen data from her when she appeared at their border. What is true in that? Hell knows. In any case, Neptunooga interrupted the diplomatic relationship with Baltroyal one month after the official announcement of the first serious allegations. Or two months. Dick knows exactly after eight beers.

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)
π×0,1859335046945074 = e

I wanted to get up, but I was not able. The arousal system had activated in my head, but the cerebral cortex did not come back yet. Body and volition fought against each other in me. Somewhere deep, in the distant fog of consciousness, I felt it was time to open my eyes. But I was unable to persuade myself to do so. I was weak. My eyelids felt like lumps of lead. My brain was paralysed by numbness. Get up! It would be good to stay. A light, pleasant touch pulled my consciousness out of the swamp of deep sleep. Fingers caressed my face softly. A soft voice whispered in my ear.

'Wake-up, Landsman!'

I opened my eyes in a daze. The face of Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa bent over me. Her skin was dark like the steaming coffee she held in her hand. The nice scent flitted into my nose. Then the coffee's too. I woke up.

Darkness surrounded me. Beside my head, the dim light of a small night lamp lit. It did not make any effort even to light my bunk; its presence was indicated only by a weak glow on the reddish-brown wall. The Lieutenant-Commander sat on the edge of my bunk. In the narrow space, she had to bend over me deep to avoid hitting her denuded head on the other bunk above me. I sat up and took the coffee cup from her. It was white like her teeth behind her gentle smile. The Lieutenant-Commander reached her hand down next to my bunk. I saw her back. Not only her head was naked. She picked up something and handed to me. I did not see what it was. The light of the lamp fell on her heavy bosoms. Patterns of bio-circuits stood in rows on the mounds. One side, the little bumps lined through her neck to her face. Her nipple stared darkly at me. Slight goose pimples grew around the areolas.

'Your whiskey is Irish, as you like it,' she said.

I did not like whiskey. I thought the enthusiasm for it is simple snobbism. I did not know where she got the information, but I did not enlighten her about her mistake. I did not mean to hurt her. Her kindness seemed to be sincere. Her breast to be firm.

'Someone really likes you at the Fleet. I've never met with arabica coffee beans yet.'

I did not respond. I took a sip of whiskey, like I had seen it done in the movies, and then tasted the coffee. It was hot, soft and silky. My head cleansed slowly.

The Lieutenant-Commander stood up. She was nude from the waist down too. Geometrical engravings of some circuits ran through her Venus mound to the foot.

'Pull yourself together and cut your hair! We're there in three hours and then jump.'

I watched as she went away and drank the whiskey in one gulp. I did not cherish either the coffee for too long a time. I got out of the bunk, which was also my cabin, put on my trousers and went to look for food. During the three months of light hibernation, I had eaten twice a week, but neither I nor my stomach remembered it.

After the Robot Wars, it became a vital question how to replace artificial intelligence with humans. Developing on the built-in augmented intelligence was obvious. As if a full scientific academy would be deployed into your brain with decision support staff. Devices built in people began to spread. Initially biochips were favoured. However, they were still foreign objects in the body, often causing allergic diseases. Later discovered, chips can be made directly onto the skin by "printing". They seemed to be tattoos at first sight. Most of humanity had already been totally sewn, so wearing chips on skin spread quickly. However, the skin is available in a limited amount on humans, which will run out sooner or later. This problem was solved by 3D tattoos for a while. People suddenly began to look like they came from Tanzania. The bodies were covered with bumps and ditches. The next step was the genetic modification, so newborns were born with the necessary nanochips; and interfaces to install other devices. Thus began the evolution of the new species of mankind; of which some became genetically incompatible with Homo sapiens a couple of hundred years later. It wasn't particularly troublesome until the new species remained approx humanoid; with the necessary organic interfaces for interactions between different sexes of species. Well, fucking a plastic girl hasn't caused a conscience crisis for many since the 20th century.

(Pub Tales: Pt Darwin's not half pint)

'We've got here as slow as if we towed something,' Sub-Lieutenant Hye-jin grumbled. 'It'd have been faster by a cargo ship too.'

The galley was smaller than an airliner's. Hye-jin was tall, thin and nude. She had worked as a model in her civil life. She had swung herself on the runways of Milanor and La Roma on Uranus. Then the Fifteen Years' War came, and she got the call-up. She could have roughed it in Baltmoor, but her patriotism won. After the war, she remained in the Navy Intelligence. Thus, looking back twenty-four years later, she was no longer convinced of the correctness of her decision. But she had less experience about the world at twenty-five. Her small B-sized breasts could be half than Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa's. Her buttocks were rather cute than round. We ate standing up, like horses, in the dim light of the deck. I tried to hold my plate so that if I had to look down it would hide her labia.

'What do you know about Louis XIV?' she asked softly as if she tried to make conspiracy.

Her question annoyed me a bit. What is this? A history test? I replied that he was the Sun King, the longest ruling monarch in Europe. Hye-jin, however, wanted to hear something else. Something more intimate, something juicier. The plate trembled in my hand. I was wondering if she wanted to screw me in the galley. Fortunately, she misunderstood my silence.

'All right,' she let me off. 'Everyone has secrets.'

She winked and suggested me to look for Midshipman Xiong who would surely be pleased to shave me. She slunk in front of me and went out of the galley. I tried to squeeze myself up and make room, but her breasts rubbed up against my chest. And her groin against mine. I was glad that boxer briefs tied me down underneath my trousers.

In the narrow shower, it was laborious to shave myself. Everywhere. I did not pity my eyebrows and eyelashes either. Stepping out, I bumped into the navigator. Since my awakening, she was the first woman on the ship who did not enter the next level of the Free the Nipple movement. She wore naval panties and a T-shirt which did not reach her navel. She invited me to the cockpit to see the Earth as we ascend our level to periscope depth, to the normal space.

The passageway was relatively wide. We were almost able to go side by side. Its wall was smoothly melted by plasma drill.

Building spacecraft of metal? Or of something plastic? Why? You take a proper size and composition of stone and you carve a spacecraft out of it. Literally. There's no simpler solution for a medium or bigger sized transport vessel. It's particularly cheap in the case of a destroyer, or something less, whose life expectancy is about forty-eight hours. What is life expectancy? The time that a spacecraft can survive with eighty percent chance in combat. After that, thanks can be given for each minute spent alive. It's just wasting a lot of composite materials if a small thermonuclear missile blasts it into molecules in no time at all. Of course, environmentalists are going to yowl because you uglify the beauty of nature, and you shit on the gravitational balance of the Solar System with which you might drive a stray asteroid to the Earth. But my little dick! Anybody who can build a spaceship must be able to deflect an asteroid too! Even a processor can do it which barely consists of some hundred vacuum tubes. Yeah, electric tube. The same which is in your hifi-freak grandfather's amplifier. Vacuum tubes were rediscovered in parallel with the re-discovery of analogue technology. It was necessary for people to get rid of the dependence of the exotic elements essential to the semiconductor production, which elements' deposits were owned by some not too democratic countries. In addition, in opposition to the semiconductors, the working of the vacuum tubes isn't affected by cosmic radiation. How? What is that analogue technology? The cogwheel. No, don't believe it gormless! In electro technology, digital technology equals to lightweight analogue technology. What's it good for? Well... When you aren't able to map the world around you technically, you can use digitization. Take for example this beer mug in my hand. As you can see, its wall is continuous, nothing goes through it. In theory. E.g. neutrinos pass over on it. But those run through even a Solar-System-sized lead block as if nothing were there. So you'll take your mobile, take a picture of the mug and print it on a sheet of paper. If you start to zoom that picture under a microscope, as the zoom increases, the picture disintegrates. After a while you can't see anything in the picture only small dots. Dot, nothing, dot, nothing. And so on. If you examine the image at bit-level in your mobile's memory, you'll see it consist of only zeros and ones. But by examining the memory of an analogue computer, you're going crazy. Instead of zeros and ones, you'll find such numbers as Pi is a whole multiple compared to them. And not just at certain points but everywhere. One life wouldn't be enough to find rational numbers amongst them. Theoretically. But it's already high for you. The processor in your mobile works digitally. Yet. Zeros and ones. Black or white. But the world is colourful. More colourful than your mobile's screen. But if the operating system running on your mobile meets something that's not zero or one, it throws a fatal exception. The beauty of programming is hidden in that how you're able to have the operating system handle that fatal exception so that the processor doesn't become smoke as it gets an electric shock in its astonishment. This is the reason for the change from digital technology to analogue. So the black and white will turn into fifty shades of grey or, from its tuned-up version, a sixteen million colour depth unreality-picture on Instagram. The development of artificial intelligence was possible by returning to analogue technology. What was made until then, that was just a plaything. And the good world lasted thus far... What...? It can't be talked about soberly. Bring another beer and something hard!

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

The Nixie tubes glowed redly in the dark of the cockpit. Commander Yashvi Mehta was changing the pattern of her toenails when we entered. On her right, Sub-Lieutenant Sawamura was looking ahead with a strong focus. I could not see where. I was not "wired" in the ship's control system, which would have sent data directly to my brain. Commander Mehta looked up at me from her chair.

'Had a good night's sleep, Landsman? Sit down and fasten your belt! This will shake a bit.'

I did not find a place to sit. In the two-seated flight deck, the navigator pressed tight against me. She could be young. The hardness of her muscles seemed to be original. The door closed behind us. The navigator stepped forwards, turned and pulled me towards herself. I squeezed against her. It was fortunate that she had only C-sized bosoms, those softer, tear-shaped, otherwise, her nipples would have pierced my chest.

'Petty Officer don't tease the Landsman!' said the Commander. 'His pulse's already faster than the normal.'

A jump seat emerged from the wall behind my back. The navigator pushed me into it. Strong straps glided across my chest. The floor opened and a downwards spiralling staircase formed behind the navigator. Going downwards, she said something to the Commander, but I did not hear what. She used another frequency, I was excluded from it. Sub-Lieutenant Sawamura looked at me, Commander Mehta smiled. The floor closed.

'Wondering about our dress, Landsman?' asked the Commander.

Both were dressed the same way as the navigator. In the Navy's high neck crop top and standard panties. I did not think I was wondering. Commander Mehta could be in her nineties; a few years before the retirement age. She was in much better shape than cougars of earlier centuries, but I suspected that if she had taken off her shirt, what was beneath it would have been retained at its place only by organic mesh built-in her connective tissue.

'Don't play the shy naive! No matter how the chicks claim you're old-fashioned. You're just a man like all the rest and not the only one who's sat in the cockpit with us. This is the problem with time travellers, they're surprised by everything. Sub-Lieutenant Sawamura would say that we wear dresses because we don't like work to interfere with our sweat glands, but also we don't like sweating under our breast either. Not to mention our asses. And sometimes there are hot moments here in the cockpit. Nevertheless, unlike the Sub-Lieutenant, I'd say it's possible to attract a man's attention between a group of nude women if she gets dressed. Or sucks him off.'

'Can there be an "and" connection between them?' the Sub-Lieutenant giggled, seeing my abashment. She was much younger than her superior. She had maybe come out of the Naval Academy twenty years ago.

'Well..., it depends on how you do it. In clothing, it's not very practical to put it on your breasts at the end. It's so sad, in consideration of your pragmatic thinking, I must draw your attention to that fact.'

'I don't understand. Who cares about a little mess? I stand up and wipe it away. Who can see it?'

'Yeah? Did you think about doing it in a corner? Your prudery, considering your uninhibitedness that almost exceeds mine, is quite shocking.'

The Commander had a so withering glance at her that the Sub-Lieutenant turned aside ashamedly. The navigator cackled in my ear.

'Petty Officer shut up!' the Commander said to her other officer. 'A few days ago, you were that idiot who pushed up two vibrators in both of her own entrances then whined to Sub-Lieutenant Sawamura that it wasn't so good because together they interfered with one another.'

A short whistle sounded. The characters started changing rapidly in the Nixie tubes. No one watched them. They were secondary displays in case the pilots might lose their direct connection to the ship's computer. I could already read Zhongwen well, but not I was the one who had to drive the ship. Red lights lit outside the cockpit on the deck.

'Fasten your belts!' said Commander Mehta to everyone. 'Sub-Lieutenant Sawamura busted her discretion into the corner and readied to trample on the brake. Gravity turns off! Thirty seconds my ladies!'

A black rectangle appeared before my eyes. Static grey waves flashed in it. The rectangle swam closer to me, my head immerse in it.

'Five, four, three, two, one. Gravity turns off!'

Suddenly I felt light.

'Braking!'

My weight increased twelvefold. The air ran out of my lungs, my heart pressed against my chest, my body pushed against the belt. At the same time, it seemed as if a soft cotton had thrust me back. The ship decelerated with a tremendous g-force. But the counter-gravitational system did its job. Without it, my brain would have smeared on my frontal bone. From inside.

The grey waves became grainy in the rectangle. Then the scene cleared within a second. The periscope ascended to normal space. The force exerted onto my body calmed down. I was able to breathe. A planet dashed towards me from the distance. A well-known sight. Blue, with whitely whirling atmospheric formations. The picture came unusually close. It seemed as if I were to put out my hand, I could touch it. Then the sight stiffened. The ship trembled beneath me, but the picture stood firmly.

'Calm Landsman!' Commander Mehta said in my ear. I knew her message was sent just to me. 'Her Majesty's juddering but won't fall apart. How you like the picture? I zoomed it in a little to you. Amazing sight, isn't it?'

It was really beautiful but did not touch me.

'Thanks for your kindness Commander Mehta. When it's possible I prefer to take delight in stars.'

'Well... if you were a Whale, I'd began to worry about you now.'

The periscope disappeared from me. The trembling ceased. I felt light again.

'Attention everyone!' Commander Mehta switched to broadcasting. 'Gravity's back! Three, two, one... and now, Petty Officer Chirinos's swearing again to whittle down five kilos of her big, burly Latina ass.'

My weight returned.

'Landsman's got an appearance. Go to the bomb bay!' Commander Mehta ordered me.

I began to grope for the belt buckle but did not find it. Commander Mehta turned around. She understood my problem without words and ordered the belt to undo with her mind command. I stood up. A Nixie tube signalled that the door existed already just symbolically in front of me. I stepped out onto the passageway and went to the bomb bay. A light source moving in front of me showed the way; as if someone had gone with a flashlight in the dark ahead of me. I had no chance of getting lost on the single-deck ship but, at least, I could see something. In the absence of any implanted night – or other – vision gadget, I would have been able to reach my destination just by groping blindly.

In view of my disability, someone lit a lamp in the bomb bay that now acted as the command post. The efficiency of the lamp was like that of a twenty-watt Tungsten bulb's; it barely lit the little room. Six totally bald and nude women sat crowded around a table. The seventh, Midshipman Xiong, was standing at the wall with a mug in her hand. Knowing her taste, she might slurp hot chocolate. Unlike the other six, she wore a leathery bikini. Its size was a little smaller than necessary. The essential areas were hardly covered by the triangular materials, which were bound together by four or five strings. The whiteness of her face was highlighted by red lipstick. It really suited her. As always.

'Landsman sit down!' Commander Kawaguchi ordered me.

I sat at the table on the only free chair between Lieutenants Sasaki and Min-a. Our shoulders pressed together. I leaned forwards a bit.

'How do you feel after hibernation?'

'Thanks for your question, Commander-san, I have to say quite well.'

'After twelve-hours awakening, this is a quite expected state,' Lieutenant Min-a muttered with some sharpness on my right. The others rewarded her remark with smiles.

'We've arrived,' Commander Kawaguchi made the fact official. 'In the right place at the right time. The question is, should we fine-tune? Landsman Vanhanen! It's time to activate yourself and prove that it made sense to bring you with us!'

Data formed in front of me in space.

'We came here, and we have to come here,' she pointed to two sets of data.

'I need to calculate it,' I said.

'Do it!'

'I need pen, paper and a twenty-seven-dimensional calculator.'

'Why?' Lieutenant Sasaki asked in surprise on my left.

'20th century, fuck ya!' muttered Lieutenant Min-a. Sub-Lieutenant Fujiwara laughed up loudly.

'21st,' Midshipman Xiong pushed herself off the wall and started towards me. By the time she got to me, there was paper and pen in her hand. She put them down on the table in front of me. I got the calculator too within seconds. Xiong leaned against the wall behind my back.

'Thank you very much. Nevertheless, I must point out that getting the result can take two or three hours. During that time, you should hide your visible circuits if we don't want to cause a great sensation down there.'

Besides me, only Midshipman Xiong and Commander Kawaguchi did not wear visible biochips on their bodies; they stood higher in human evolution than the others. I could not say the same about myself.

'Thanks for your advice Vanhanen-san!' said the Commander. 'That will be our first thing to do after landing.'

I did not ask why only then. I had never jumped before, but I knew the answer.

'And now finally get to work!'

'Fuck ya!' Min-a groaned. 'Do we have time for this?'

'Time, as a factor, can be handled during time travel,' I said. 'The amount of fuel is a more interesting question.'

'Landsman calculate!' the Lieutenant gave up. 'Fuck it!'

Since the second half of the 20th century, since when army leaders have been interested in Einstein's theory of relativity, all students, if studying not only certain philosophical subjects, are aware that two things affect the passage-of-time: strength of gravitational field, and velocity. Some people say that a possible way to time travel is to get in a spaceship and travel at close to the speed of light for a while then return to the Earth. Then you will experience that, during your journey, much more time elapsed for others on the Earth than for you. Think about it! You're going to go on your first date with the buxom milkmaid of your neighbour's Dutch dairy-farm somewhere in Idaho-bumfuck when you realize you don't have a rubber. No problemo, you mount your Triumph... No! This is a motorcycle, you sexist wench! So, you spring into the saddle and pull the throttle full and accelerate near to the speed of light. At the first pub, you buy the material for conscious family planning and go back flat-out until you reach the boobster – approx fifteen years later... What ya' think, how thick the cobwebs will be on her pussy by then? Yeah... Exactly. And what ya' think? Will there be humping that day...? Unless we matter in that the hoe handle's going to be shoved up into your ass. That's it so, dude. It's not time travel if you get on an express train that will arrive at your destination two weeks later instead of an hour. Actual time travel is totally different. There you're really moving freely in the time back and forth. Let's say you go to Louis XIV in the 17th century as my favourite navigator colleague did.

Of course, there are some for whom it's not enough if the simple travel agent takes them to the specified timepoint. Some require a much more accurate service because they have certain goals. What? There can be a thousand and one reasons but first let's go back to basics and somebody bring me a beer again cos it will be long. Let's see, for instance, Newton's apple. It's falling down from the tree. You know... because of gravity. Which always proves its existence after the tenth beer. So Newton's apple's falling in free fall down from the tree. Its fall lasts five minutes. Yes, Newton's apple tree is pretty high. So the apple falls for five minutes, falls..., falls..., falls..., until it smashes. Suppose you want the apple not to smash on Newton's head. What do you do? You go back in the time and catch it, so it never falls on his head and he never realises the law of gravity. You just believe it. But! Suppose the apple falls from 13:01 to 13:06. At 13:03, you catch it. Grease. If now, you jump very quickly to 13:05, in a fraction of a second, what will you see? That fuckin' apple's still falling! Why? For the same reason that the Universe wouldn't notice anything immediately from the disappearance of the Sun because the speed of light limits it! Welcome to the world of the general relativity! The disappearance of the Sun from our solar system, here on the Earth, would only be noticeable eight minutes later; likewise, that there's some disturbance in gravity. Thus you can go forward to any timepoint in time – if your step into the future coordinating yourself to the original timepoint of 13:05 – there will be falling apples everywhere, and there will be Newton and his gravity too. Of course, if you synchronise yourself to timepoint 13:03, when you catch the apple, then there will be neither apple nor Newton. So there will be at least two different pasts: one with Newton and his apple, and another without Newton and apple. Everything depends on which relative timepoint of the past events you target. So if you go back in time and kill yourself, your existence won't cease in the future immediately. If you walk out that door and go back to yesterday and kill yourself and after that you come back to this exact time, then we'll continue having beer. But if a week later I come be back here, then I'll see myself having a beer at this table in this loving community of this alma mater, but without you. Because in the meantime, the modified yesterday has reached this current timepoint. Independently of this, you're living your life in your own relative future. If my future self started to tell my current self, here in the pub, about you and this conversation, then my current self wouldn't remember this because it didn't happen for him. But for me, it happened. So be careful! By killing yourself in the past, not only your future will differ from that point, but the original wave function of your current future will also collapse. Know Schrödinger's cat? You know, the cat in the box... I know the time of this pub event and can use it as a reference point. Starting from that, I can compute your actual "present" that is the final timepoint in the future that you haven't reached yet but you will. Which timepoint may even be in the past, this is a minor detail. Because what's important is that I'm going there and catching you – for murder. Because you'll be counted as a murderer, no matter how you try to philosophise the question away. And if I catch you, you can't state that you're just like Newton's apple at 13:02, just falling on Newton's head, and so I'm in the wrong relative time, no. It's merely a calculating question. You can say that time is not digital but analogue therefore it's impossible to determine a certain value of it because it's sure that there's a difference at least on the level of the millionths of a second, therefore the real perpetrator could be farther with a blink. No dude. Some people can calculate. E.g. the navigator guy who I've worked with and who has talent for calculating. He can find that quantum state when the time can't do anything else just synchronises two small adjacent time slices; and you dude will be exactly who I look for. From that, there won't be the sum of many-many wave functions, there won't be superposition but only one single function. And the question: Who the fuck put the cat in the box?

You don't cut what I say, do you? No problem. Never kill yourself because you'll stand in front of the Judge once and then it won't be fake speech nor pardon. The point is, if you do it, then you'll get three alternate past and future right away. Okay, just for a while, and finally one remains but until that there will be three. In one story you were born, drank beer in this pub, went home and lived happily until you died. According to the other story, you were born then you were killed yesterday, so today you are not here in this pub and that's all, rest in peace. In the third version, you were born, go back to yesterday, kill yourself, come back here or somewhere else, and you'll live an absofuckinlutely different life than it was in the original version. Do you cut why it's so important to enter into the most accurate timepoint of the timestream? As a policeman, it's essential which person of the three alternative stories is taken in front of the judge: the guy from story one or from story two or three? That's the innocent, the victim, or the murderer? It's not the same in which timepoint the person of story three is caught. One minute after the murder? One week? Ten years? What can we attain if we catch the killer in the tenth year while twenty years have passed in the killer's life since then? The result will be that we have a killer in the slammer since the tenth year and have a killer who lives his life happily in the twentieth year. Jess, from the tenth year, the story of our killer is rewritten well in a jailhouse-story, but it takes a while. How long? Pfff, good question. As I said before, time depends on gravity and speed. Which can be measured. If you have some corner points in time, the more the better, then our killer's actual time is calculable, and he can be captured, staying at any point of time. Yeah, I'm cutting that what I say fucks the oracle industry apart cos your tomorrow will be your yesterday after the day after tomorrow and anybody can mess it up. But the conscious solace you that the past isn't the same as you've known it. Do you know how many have slain Hitler up till now?! Oh dude... There isn't either past or future, only a thin boundary value between the two; that we practically have to designate as present, because of our state of consciousness. Your past is in your head only. The future is in your hand. There's no fate or destiny. There's horse dick. In your ass. If you bend over and allow yourself.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

I started to speak after two hours. 'I've finished. But I have to double-check.'

'Needn't,' said Lieutenant Min-a. 'Seven of us were checking it in the meantime. Counting Hye-jin's left breast, seven and a half. What's the result?'

'Needn't to sync.'

'I was right,' said Sub-Lieutenant Hye-jin, straightening up from my head, from where she had been watching my calculations so far, supporting my nape by her breast like a pillow.

'Our current position differs from the result, from the thirty-seventh decimal,' said Lieutenant Sasaki. 'Doesn't it cause trouble?'

'The difference between the two limit values is so small that during the jump, as our velocity slows down in the atmosphere of the Earth, the interfacial boundary – between the two values – is thinning to such an extent that we'll be squeezed into the proper dimension of the fabric of space-time.'

'You've never jumped. How do you know this?' Midshipman Xiong's voice was cold.

I did not know how I knew just that I must keep it quiet.

'If we were five thousand metres high on a time machine racing at Mach 12, then maybe, I'd think about the need for synchronization. But the gravity arranges it for us now.'

'Sure?'

' _As death,'_ I wanted to say but, since my incarnation, my certainty ceased in that certainty.

'According to my present physical knowledge, this must happen in this space-time section.'

'Your physical knowledge is five hundred years behind us,' Fujiwara commented.

'Three hundred,' Xiong corrected. She received a PhD in history of science at university. She taught a few years but then returned to the Navy. She thought the world of espionage was more exciting than the chair. 'The physics he uses is 23rd-century. Neither have we progressed significantly since then.'

The war against artificial intelligence lasted for twelve seconds. Although there's a theory that it was rather for more than twelve thousand years. Even the author of that theory doesn't believe it seriously. But it can explain where circa one hundred and forty years disappeared from human history around 2200–2300. Similarly to that also the History of Europe is somewhat obscure between the fall of the Roman Empire and the appearance of Pepin of Herstal. But what's of no doubt in the case of the Robot Wars is the manner of the win. It's true the Robot Wars were not fought against robots but artificial intelligence, but who says an eight-syllable expression instead of a three? Robot Wars is a shorter expression and anyway, it's officially called: FAN (Fight Against NIKKI). NIKKI is an acronym similar to FAN and, apart from some stupidity, means nothing because, as in most cases of acronyms, it was cogitated only afterwards. It wouldn't be so polite to say that the code name of the project is NIKKI because Nikki makes extremely good coffee and even better sucks off the major-dick financial investor of the project.

How was the Robot Wars won? Do you remember when a great entertainment company announced the unbreakable CD copy protection with great hype in the early 2000s? It worked superbly until you inserted the CD into the drive tray and pressed it in while you were holding down the Shift key on the keyboard. From then on, you owned the whole CD and could copy its entire content where you wanted to. The artificial intelligence was defeated in the same way. Somebody pressed the "Shift key".

Of course, as Hitler practically lost the war in 1942 yet it continued for more three years, the same way the fight continued between humans and robots. Nobody knows exactly for how long. Also, opinions about the number of victims vary. Four or eight billion? It's meant in human life. More specifically, in meaning of the classical human which is closest to the Homo sapiens sapiens. Because people..., in those days, already so many considered themselves to be human beings that if the nowadays microbiologists had been able to see their genome, they'd have gone down in bridge pose and not because of exercising yoga. Some of them were genetically closer to hybrid of a tungsten-E.coli bacterium than to Australopithecus.

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

Commander Mehta called Commander Kawaguchi to the cockpit. Before she left, decided – we did not sync – and issued the command to prepare to jump.

I stood up. The chairs and the table retracted and disappeared. Midshipman Xiong took bulky tubes from the wall and distributed it amongst us. There was protector gel in them. The women started to smear it on themselves. And each other. Midshipman Xiong took off her bikini and dropped it on the floor. She had great breasts. With pink nipples. They impressed me. As always. She squeezed an amount of gel into her palm and smeared it over her breast in broad circular motions. She looked at me.

'Landsman undress and do it! Need help?'

Her voice really sounded helpful. Everyone turned to me for a moment, and I suddenly felt like the young guys who go to a nudist beach for the first time. Who, if they gather all their courage to get undressed, are then just lying prone all day long and do not dare to stand up. Because they know it would be a scandal. Then they cannot sit for days because their backsides got roasted. Instead of answering, I took off my shirt and undid my belt. Each of them continued the interrupted activity. Sub-Lieutenant Fujiwara smeared Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa's back. Lieutenant Min-a Sasaki's who did her own vagina. Inside. With two fingers. I pulled my trousers down. I started to multiply 4-digit numbers in my head – in the hexadecimal numeral system –, but I realized it would do little. I changed to multiply two 4x3 matrices. Without result.

None of the team members turned to the wall. I did not either. My presence evidently did not bother them. Like I was not there. Though as Sub-Lieutenant Hye-jin pulled her inner lips apart and squeezed the content of the tube into her vagina, it was a bit suspicious. I pushed down my boxer briefs. At this point, I was already spinning Maxwell's equations in my head. Unsuccessfully. I believed there would be scandal immediately. I was wrong. Each of them caught a glimpse of me, found that I stood embarrassed, and they did not care about it. I calmed down. Leaving the Maxwell's equations alone, I began to smear the gel over my skin. It was warm. Midshipman Xiong turned and leaned to smear her legs. I was one step away from her butt pushing towards me. Min-a's elbow stuck in my back. Maybe by accident. I stepped forwards involuntarily.

'Ah, yes, Vanhanen is about to enter into Xiong!' Hye-jin chortled. 'It's okay youngsters! Just carry on! Like we weren't here.'

Commander Kawaguchi came into the bomb bay just then. She stepped to me furiously. Grabbing, she dragged me out on the passageway and hit my face against the wall.

'That's why I hate coeducational sections!' her forearm firmly pressed my nape forwards. 'At the faintest sexual overture to anyone, you fly back in the slammer. Am I understood?'

'Yes, ma'am!'

A broadcast message ran in, and she was recalled to the cockpit again. She took the tube out of my hand and tossed it to Hye-jin.

'Sub-Lieutenant smear his back!' she ordered. 'Just his back! And enlighten him why any gap can't be let dry. Then dress him up and tell him the rules regarding sexuality.'

I watched her darting back on the passageway. The scar was wide at her waist; inclined, fifteen centimetres long. Plastic surgeons recovered it well, watching it with 21st-century eyes; with 26th, ugly and lousy. I even stared there after she had disappeared.

'Don't even dream about her!' Hye-jin started to smear my back. 'Only those who are in her own half have a chance at her. But not at work. Because there's no nookie on the base or during action! Neither kiss nor holding hands. And the gel's like showering. Ear canals can't be skipped, neither nose nor other orifices.'

The jump is similar to parachuting. You step in the door and jump. But not just from four thousand metres, but even forty thousand kilometres. The distance doesn't really matter. All the more the velocity and the entry angle into the atmosphere, depending on its density. I haven't heard many pleasant things about it. Leastwise not from 21st–23rd-century guys. The first jumping from an airplane is not a must-see experience. You look out the door... wind tears your face... below the depth... and you have to step off. Because if you don't, you'll be thrown out. Since the 24th century, quite reliable stuff has been used to the jump. Well..., mostly reliable. The point's to be completely nude and hairsless. The special suit just simply flowed onto your body. It completely covered your head too. The breathing happened inside of the suit. Its fabric itself contained the air. Body-in auxiliary sensors were used for sight. For such a rudimentary Homo sapiens sapiens, you can use special glasses that are able to see through the suit; but it wasn't so cool. What was really important that was the gel. You had to smear it all over your bare skin well thick before you could get the parachute suit flowed onto yourself. That was some smart stuff. If the suit got damaged, it tried to keep out the external heat. If it got in, then it drove it away. Well, not always successfully. For a long time, I didn't understand why the gel had to be smeared in all body holes. Then I met a guy who told me that his suit damaged once. These military carts weren't designed for luxurious trips for sophisticated, fancy gentlemen. They had lack of space, not to mention the kind of amenities such as flash shaver; on which you just set what and how it be cut off, and that it flashes from you within a tenth of a second. The guy had to go into action suddenly but, being so hung over, he a little bit neglected the usage of the Gillette at the more intimate areas and, in that state, didn't even wish to delve in his ass... Of course, when does trouble have to happen if not then? His suit split a bit during the fall. Well, he says, by the time he landed... hairs haven't grown around his asshole ever since.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

Midshipman Xiong knelt beside me and tightened a thin chain around my right ankle. It was barely visible. Unlike my thoughts because of the sight of female bodies. I was glad I was still standing facing the wall – despite the intermezzo, still upright. Commander Kawaguchi came back in a jump suit. She looked like she was covered with an orange-black plastic armour from head to toe. It wrapped her face too. She handed some kind of glasses to me, saying put these on. Lieutenant Sasaki stepped into a corner of the bay. Beneath her feet, orange, black striped liquid began to crawl up her body. Soon she looked like Commander Kawaguchi. She stepped out of the corner and waved me to stand to that place. I went there. Xiong and Hye-jin stood beside me. It felt as if caterpillars started to climb up my body, drawing sticky stripes behind themselves. The material flowed everywhere on me. In everywhere. I closed my mouth tight, but it intruded between my lips, wrapped my teeth, creeped into my nose. I could not breathe.

'Ten seconds and you can breathe,' Xiong's voice sounded directly in my ear.

The material covered my glasses. I did not see anything. Then it closed together at the top of my head and began to thicken and change its consistency. I felt myself like a plaster casted mummy.

'Take a few deep breaths!' Xiong instructed.

I did. It went easy.

'See? Just signal it, you can't talk to us. There's no traditional communication tool in these suits.'

I was able to see as if I wore green sunglasses in the moonlight. I waved: more or less.

'Great. Then stand away!'

When the others got dressed, Petty Officer Chirinos came in the bomb bay and helped us to attach our rucksacks on our backs. The same material covered them as well as us.

'Landsman listen!' said Commander Kawaguchi. 'If we're down, wait and do nothing! We'll go after you and peel off your suit. Don't go anywhere! We can receive the signal of the tracker on your ankle beyond thirty billion kilometres. Don't try to take it off! Only Midshipman Xiong can remove it on my order or the Justice Officer at the Admiralty. If you try, the tracker will amputate your ankle for the first experiment. Then if you try to crawl too far, it will annihilate you.'

Well, I was such a Landsman. Detainee.

'Five minutes to the jump,' she continued. 'Once again! We start from three hundred and fifty kilometres. We're down in twelve minutes. We're landing in the mountains, in the forest, five kilometres away to the west of Manwareham. Current local time's 23:47. All Europe's covered by thick clouds. Currently it's raining in the Manwareham area, nearly three millimetres per hour.'

'Damn!' said Hye-jin. 'I'd have liked the boys below to see me as I pull a stripe on the sky for them!'

'The jump order is: Nyagawa, Sasaki, Min-a, Hye-jin, Xiong, Vanhanen, Fujiwara and I. Everyone's jumping at Petty Officer Chirinos's sign.'

Waiting. Waiting for that damn door to open at last and let a man go. However, also to know that it will not be so simple. I have already been in space. I have worked in it over the past six months. I have overseen cattle, sitting on mustang-back. I have also seen the Earth from above. It has not affected me. Stars more impressed me. But now I have to jump. From void into the unimaginable terrifying depth. For one who has a desire for life, it is difficult to take that one step at the first jump. Fear is natural. It indicates that the man insists on life. This will not be my first jump. I have already jumped a couple of times. True, only on Earth, from eight or nine hundred metres, but I have jumped. I have swum in space too. Far from everything, hundreds of kilometres. I also know jump theory. I know its physics. It is another question how I know that. So why am I afraid? I do not like fear. I have already feared enough. Everyone experiences fear during their life. And only few can get off dread. They are the lucky ones who have never experienced it. I was not lucky. I first met with dread in 1942. On a small Atlantic island. The Gestapo was easier in '44. I was not really conscious – I received blast injuries twice that day –, and they were fast. But at the island, the German submarine in '42... Their screams... Have you ever heard a screaming man? In a high tone unimagined for a man to make. I already have. Dread moved into me at the time. But now, it is better not to think about it. Rotten wait. That is the reason for everything. It was the worst in '42 too. I am thinking about it again. Although my therapist cured it. But yet! Sweating forehead, sandpaper lips. In spite of licking them, they remain dry. A freshly healed wound is easily ripped open. I must think of something more pleasant. About the therapies. She had big breasts. The therapist. Too. Damn! I must not think about that! We could be rumbled. They cannot read my thoughts directly; I am just a simple human. But there is metacommunication: blush, pulse, breathing, eye movement... These are quite talkative. My biophysical, mental functions are being monitored. Commander Mehta's giving me special attention. Petty Officer Chirinos as well. She really has a big butt – of genuine South American descendant. Her eyes are slanted. Far East blood also can possibly be in her. Who does not have it nowadays? I am a real rarity with my pure Europid genes. During the last two years, I met just two others similar to me. Commander Kawaguchi and Captain Yates' wife. Kawaguchi may give a cause for suspicion because of her name. The other one is dead.

The light went out. Dark covered the bomb bay. I did not see anything. Just like in '42. It also started with dark. Damn fear!

The door to the passageway closed. A red light shone from the ceiling.

'One minute, ladies,' Petty Officer Chirinos said. 'And gentleman,' she added a second later.

The ship ascended normal space. Air was pumped out of the room. A hatch was opened in the middle of the floor. I saw the Earth below. Its night side. The atmosphere slit a yellowish-brown arch in the cold blackness of space. Underneath, the dense goop of dark grey clouds rippled. The lights of some densely populated areas broke through the morass. Like vomit splashed on asphalt. Yellowish, filthy, ashen. Beyond the atmosphere there are stars. They are nice. They are white. They kill. There is no mind beyond the Earth in the Milky Way. Statistically, its chance is almost nothing. What is out there that is just history. I know. I met it. In '42.

Why is time standing still?! How long does a minute take? Our speed is in sync with the rotation of the Earth. We are in the same position as it is. What are we waiting for?!

Petty Officer Chirinos stepped to the hatch. Harness hugged her thighs, her upper body. A carbon nanotube rope fixed her to the ship. Her body was protected by the micron thick force field of her naval dress. She received air from there too. The Petty Officer looked down at the Earth. Her hair did not flutter. There was not cause for that. There was no air pressure difference to whip it. There was no bump, wind did not blow; the ship glided smoothly in the nothing. The light on the ceiling turned green.

'Jump,' Petty Officer Chirinos's voice was rather a statement of fact than a command.

Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa jumped out. Two hands gripped my shoulders. Sub-Lieutenant Fujiwara. She firmly pushed me forwards and stopped me. Sasaki was the next. Fujiwara pushed me again then stopped me. She did it three more times in seconds sections. I stood at the edge of the hatch.

'Jump Vanhanen-san!' Petty Officer Chirinos gave me the signal. 'Good luck!'

Fujiwara released my shoulder. She gave me respect and did not shove me. I repaid it. I stepped forwards without hesitation.

Millions of nanobots caught my ankle and pulled me out from the ship. They turned me into direction and, grabbing my shoulders, pulled me towards the Earth. My weight began to grow because of the acceleration, but not proportionally to it. The little robots cared for my internal organs, until they speed me up, keeping them in their place – possibly in their original form. After a minute, I raced ahead weightlessly. Then the braking started. My spine wanted to break out of me and take away my related parts too. But the robots provided enough counter-effect. A red-hot glow appeared in the far. Nyagawa entered into the atmosphere, pulling a bright plasma trail behind herself. Sasaki, Min-a, Hye-jin, Xiong followed her within seconds. Shining strings showed their flight in the dark sky. Then I was the next. The robots took me to the re-entry corridor and made a shield around me. I was surrounded by hot ionized gas. It yellowishly pulsated in front of my glasses. Occasionally, as if I had dived into spark rain; it flashed in my eyes through my clenched eyelids. The air hypersonically flowed beside me.

'Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!' cried someone. The words drowned in static noise.

I heard the distress call, although it was not spelled. No one can speak at load of 7–8 g.

'Status! Nyagawa!'

My body started to judder. The yellowish glow leapt under my chest. Then it crept closer slowly and slowly. Its colour flashed in white. I tried to turn my head away so that its light did not burn my eyes.

'Nyagawa?'

'Landsman back!'

'Vanhanen! Keep direction! Keep direction!'

'He has no control,' I knew this voice despite the fizzling noise in my ears. I had heard it many times in the last half year. It belonged to Midshipman Xiong.

I rumbled downwards helplessly. My pulse could not accelerate; my heart was happy to be even able to beat. The dress pushed the air into my lungs with force. I had to struggle to breathe out. My body swivelled around. My ears suddenly began to whistle. It became louder and louder. Ants started to dance before my eyes. The glow twisted into a single needle point. Everything darkened and became silent.

Gravity. It pulls to earth like a magnet. It's the only force that affects a falling body during free fall. In theory. There are other factors in practice, but it's noticeable even without any special explanation that if you fall from high, it will be very painful. Bigger altitude, bigger pain. Because of air resistance, the human body can accelerate to up to 250–300 kilometres per hour. That will be your speed at the collision when you reunite with the sweet-good mother earth. Of course, if you start from the thermosphere, above the Kármán line, where the air resistance is much smaller, you can barrel well over the sound velocity. Downwards. It's quite uncomfortable when your speed reduces from 2800 kilometres per hour to zero in one-tenth of a second. However, Breitman's switching-out-gravity experiments started in the opposite direction, for an easier uphill transportation. The rudimentary devices punched the spacetime structure a little bit. No wonder, because gravity's the weakest of the five fundamental interactions. It's easy to manipulate; if you know how. And if you take into account that the strength of gravity, beside speed, has an effect on time, then it's good to panic when somebody starts to fuck with gravity near you.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

The ants faded in front of me. The whistling died away in my ear. I was still falling. In the dark, an even darker mass ran towards me. Trees. I fell into their branches. A flash blinded me. My suit blasted retrorockets. I felt as if I was kicked in the stomach. I hit the ground. My head rocked back as my face punched on a rock. I landed.

My glasses could be an ancient model. The message appearing inside was still in English: fatal damage.

I lay motionless and was thinking whether I dare to move. My body did not indicate pain anywhere. The suit began slowly cracking. I stood up cautiously. My rucksack slid to the ground. A warm steam cloud surrounded me, and my suit sublimed into the air. I was relieved. The message in the glasses was not about my condition.

Heavy drops tapped on my bare skin. It rained. The air was cool. The forest was silent. Raindrops quietly fell from the leaves onto me. Through the glasses, the world swam in green. A brook ran a few metres away from me, babbling over smooth rocks. A corpse lay on its bank, trapped between two rocks. Her head hung in the water. Face down.

In the countryside, for a novice doctor, the easiest way to ascertain about death is to ask an old woman. They already know at the door of the house that there is a dead person inside. They have experience in it. I was neither a doctor nor old. Just experienced. I ran to her not because of hope for anything. Just because of duty. Even if it was stupidity.

Fallen twigs pricked my bare feet as I slipped on dead leaves wet from rain. I waded in the brook, slipping again. The rushing water swept my leg. I fell into the water. It was cold. 7–8 degrees. In Celsius. It came from caves. The cold hit into my bones.

I got to my feet and floundered to the body. It was easy to identify. Even in the green vision of the glasses, the deep engravings of circuits and bumps of biochips were well visible. It was Nyagawa. I raised her head from the water. She was limp. As limp as a fresh corpse can be. I slid my hand to her neck for palpating her pulse. It was not there. I would have been surprised if it had been. Her neck unnaturally bowed. I grabbed the body and pulled it off the rocks to the bank. It was difficult. She could be more than sixty kilos. Her untoned muscles almost flowed out of my hands. I laid her down on the ground.

'What are you doing?'

Next to my rucksack, Xiong stood. A pistol hanging in her hand by her side.

'She's dead,' she said, just from the distance. 'Why don't you answer the call?' she asked verbally.

I looked at her puzzled.

'Nobody called me.'

'Hmm... She passed away. Life is the first. Get dressed!' she spoke cumbersomely like Vice-Admiral Dhupia.

I floundered through the brook back to my rucksack. Xiong wore hiking clothes. Corresponding to century – early 21st.

'Give me your headset! I'll check what's wrong.'

I handed it her. Then fishing a towel out of the rucksack, I wiped myself dry and dressed up shiveringly. I started to get cold, but the pre-programmed clothes were fit for me and gave warmth right away.

Footfalls sounded. Slowly, one by one, the others came. They did not say a word. Leastwise, I did not hear them. They put their rucksacks down and, leaping onto the rocks of the brook, went to Nyagawa's body. Xiong stayed beside me.

'It's dead,' she pocketed my headset. 'Use the backup Landsman!'

I put on boots and began to rummage in the rucksack for the backup. I got it in my hand by chance. It looked like a present-day Bluetooth headset. I put it on, and the small device automatically tuned itself. I began to hear the rest of the team.

'I think her rucksack is on the cliff,' Fujiwara pointed up. 'I'll go up and bring it down.'

'Unnecessary,' said the arriving Kawaguchi. She tossed her rucksack next to Xiong's and went over to the other four. 'We won't use it. Activate its self-destructor and head to the basepoint and encamp. I'll bury Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa.'

'Commander-san!' Fujiwara looked to be tense. 'I might detect movement up there while I was coming here.'

'Nobody is here except us.'

'At the moment of the landing, Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa was still alive.'

'She fell and died.'

'Her ribs crashed then her neck broke.'

'Her dress detached, she broke her neck on the cliff from where she fell down here, and her ribs crashed on these rocks.'

'I hold my opinion. As if I perceived two distinct movements around the landing point of Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa.'

'None of us had a smooth ride down. We can't trust our senses.'

'What if someone killed her up there and dropped her body here?'

'Who? Landsman Vanhanen? After landing he was the closest to her.'

'It couldn't have been Landsman Vanhanen,' said Xiong. 'According to the tracker's log, he was motionless after the landing for several minutes. Since then he walked twenty-two metres. About, this is the distance back and forth between Nyagawa's body and the Landsman.'

'What's in the headset log?' Fujiwara turned to Xiong.

'Nothing. It's completely dead. Unreadable.'

'And the tracker? How reliable is it?'

'Within thirty-one billion kilometres, there are two who have access to it. I and the Justice Officer; five hundred and nine years away.'

'None of us are police and we're not going to begin a carrier now. Without other factual data, we treat Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa's death as an accident,' Kawaguchi closed the topic. 'Now go and do what I said!'

'There's time for a farewell,' Sasaki said. 'With your kind permission Kawaguchi-san, the dead must be buried not only physically.'

She did not wait for the Commander's consent. She knelt beside Nyagawa's body and closed her eyes.

'Farewell, Grace Nyagawa. It was nice to meet you.

Follow the path amongst the stars,

Don't look back,

Be your dwelling the Sky!

Sigh, tear flies away,

Your remembrance remains.

Don't look back!

There is rest.

You went along the road,

There is no more behest.

I'll follow you,

On a day,

Don't look back,

We meet at the Final Bay.

Spring will be forever, not just a dream.

Don't look back!

The Resurrection waits,

For us.

Be the Eternity nice,

For you, Grace Nyagawa,

And..., goodbye.'

Sasaki stood up. Kawaguchi knelt down to Nyagawa and pushed a capsule into her nose. Deep. Then she leaned between her legs with another capsule. With her free hand, she pulled apart her labia.

'Please!' Xiong's voice was hoarse. She used her mouth. 'Turn away!'

I obeyed. I heard the others withdraw away. It was a bluish flash, then a clap. Nyagawa's rucksack was destroyed.

'Your soul's in Heaven. Your body's in stars. Be together in the Resurrection.'

The Commander's words were followed by a silent white flash. It shone through the forest. Then there was silence and darkness. I turned back. Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa's body had disappeared. If there was anything left of it, the rain washed it away.

Every age has its own feminine beauty ideal. The Stone Age's is the Venus of Willendorf. The ancient Greeks' is the Venus de Milo. In the 20th century, the ideal changed every twenty years. In the Robot Wars, and then for a while, it stagnated. Because there was no ideal. At that time, an Adonis was happy if he could find a pussy at all. And of course, vice versa. Then it lost its significance. Everybody did their makeup for whatever they just wanted. One day D size breasts and B on another? What face do you want for yourself? Chinese? Caribbean? Skin colour? Coffee with milk? Chocolate? Swiss cheese? The people simply changed their mind about the body image ideal to look as they were born – more or less. It didn't take five minutes to change hair length from bald to waist length. Theoretically. Because everything's relative and there's what never changes. What the chicks said was five minutes meant an hour for men. Fashion ditto. After the Robot Wars, fashion was rather functional. But before it... There were some style-wars. The shawl could be pressed down throat of the Europeans, as well as USA-Canada and Australia, but it failed in Latin America. Who would have thought there would be a time when the European civilization would exist between Mexico and Patagonia, and the Pope would be funded from Beijing and Kolkata?

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

The basepoint was in a cave. The raindrops poured down at two sides of its mouth like brooklets. Hye-jin camouflaged the triangular entrance of the cavity. From outside, even the inner light could not have been seen. If there had been any light. But there was not. The commandos were able to see in blind dark too. And I wore the glasses.

We camped in the hall after the entrance. Kawaguchi kept guard, Xiong made make-up for me. She finished with the eyelashes and eyebrows within a minute. The darkness did not slow her. If she had been totally blind, she could have done it as fast as now. She was a typical woman. And genetically the most advanced of ours. And worked from remembrance. She had time to get to know my face. From the first moment, since she was seconded to me, she was keeping her eyes on me. Many times, longer than necessary. I was the only man on the base. I slowly resigned myself to get to know her closer. The rule has not changed for centuries: there is no intimacy between prisoners and jailers. And unlike the Sacred Band of Thebes, the Briton supreme headquarters did not tolerate relationships within the army groups that pointed beyond friendship. Months have passed by the time I took the first step. She gave me a piece of paper and asked me to write something. It was a regular weekly exercise. She attached them to my file and forwarded that to my mental hygiene therapist. Except that one. She folded and stowed it. She said she kept it. A heart was drawn on it.

Xiong helped the other four women to hide their circuits. Kawaguchi pushed a terminal into my hand. It was connected to the central computer – built-in her rucksack – which functioned as well as a bridge; providing a long-distance communication channel between the commandos, nanobots and the ship that was orbiting around the Earth. Without the bridge, the nano-devices could not be managed, and the microwave-contact between the team members would have been reduced to ten to fifteen metres. Kawaguchi ordered me to gather all information from the local newspapers. I got on with it slowly. Although the Commander sent a relay before the entrance above the trees, it could find just a weak 3G network between the mountains. I started with the weather forecast. At night, at 1:15, data was just from the previous day, the 17th May. As a matter of fact, I looked it just because of nostalgia. I knew what to expect. I was not mistaken.

'It's raining the fourth day,' I said. 'If it continues like this all day, I'm afraid there'll be flooding at night.'

'Is this experience?' Hye-jin asked.

'Fairly.'

'Were you there?'

'This fourth day's missing from my life.'

Even the end of the third day is missing from my life. Not much, but it is missed. If we had landed two hours earlier, on the other side of the mountain, I could have met myself. I was in my mother's weekend cottage. With a girl. Her bra was already taken off. We kissed. I was sixteen. Her panties were wet; like the grass which was being drenched outside by the rain. "Are you a virgin?" I asked. "Once, I've already had a boyfriend..." She said a little shyly. "At least I won't be a tin opener," I thought, though I was still a virgin. It was not her fault that I still remained so for quite a while. My mother stepped in... She slapped me – because I had gone off with her car – and kicked out the girl. Then she told me that we would leave right away; not too far, but quite away. Five minutes later, I stood in front of a time machine. I thought it was a kind of old military aircraft from the '50s. It was. Punker Georgy, the pilot, had stolen it from a British military base. Father Molodkin modified it. We went to him. He lived eighty kilometres away to west from my mother's cottage. And thirty-two years ahead, on a scrapyard. My mother dumped me out of the plane and left. That was the last time I saw her. Until that I had read about time travel in sci-fi novels. The rest of my youth passed accordingly. Finally, before my eighteenth birthday, Father Molodkin took me to a woman. It was Friday night, she was above thirty. She already had a child. Father Molodkin took me in her flat and said, "Son, you have to fuck this woman! I'm coming for you on Sunday afternoon." All this before the woman. She did not bother herself. She was nice. And helpful. She taught me everything. She started me in the life.

'We may have some problems,' I read the headline of Baz Shire Herald. 'The local police arrested Sir Yates. "Manwareham vampire captured!"'

'Details?' Fujiwara didn't even look at me.

'"Tonight, at eleven o'clock, Serious Crime Command of Manwareham City Police captured the aggressor referred to as Vampire of Manwareham, who attacked a young woman, biting at her neck late yesterday afternoon. As a result of the hot pursuit of the investigation, a man, about forty years old, was identified as possibly perpetrator of the act. Interrogation of the probably foreign citizen is currently in progress." Last update of the article was before midnight.'

'I think it's great information,' said Kawaguchi calmly. 'Sir Yates is in the right place; held in custody in a police cell. He doesn't escape from there. We'll go there in the morning, bring him out and take him back.'

'Great plan. Fast and simple.'

'List your reservations, Landsman!'

'It would be irresponsible to give a well-founded opinion on the plan so that even its outline's unknown to me.'

'You'll know it in time.'

'If Commander-san pardoned it, I'd ask the question of what is the basis of the idea that Sir Yates will stay in police custody? I'm afraid his cell is going to keep him inside like chicken wire a fox outside.'

They were thinking for half a second; until their auxiliary systems explained the concept of fox and chicken wire and made suggestions for interpretation of my words. Some of their ancestors had not seen a fox five hundred years ago, and chicken wire, when projectors were cranked still by hand in cinemas.

Lieutenant Sasaki turned questioningly to Kawaguchi. She responded after her silent consent.

'The guards didn't voluntarily hand over the time machine to Sir Yates. He'll die if he doesn't get medical aid within forty-eight hours.'

'By what do you base it? He was in hibernation for months. If he hasn't died so far, he may be better.'

'The first aid system of his ship can't treat his injuries. It can, at best, stabilize his condition for some hours.'

'Then how do we take him back alive? There's no doctor with us. Dr. Nyagawa's... was a psychiatrist.'

'Do you want to talk about it, Landsman?' Kawaguchi's voice was emotionless.

'The ship. May I ask you what your plan is in case Sir Yates escapes and takes his ship?'

'You want to know where the time machine is?' The Commander's gaze was a sharp ice pick. 'Go to sleep! And the others too, when you've all finished your tasks. Alarm at 5:30. Lieutenant Sasaki takes over the guard! Switch every half hour!'

I obeyed the command but did not sleep for even a minute.

Pistol or revolver? Pistol. Sure. This is the 21st century. Of course, if it's German. But when we talk about time traveling then it's a revolver. During time travel, time sits on guns like dust. It weakens springs. First, what's in the magazine which pushes rounds upwards to the barrel. Or it'd just push it but unable because time ate it. That, of course, only becomes apparent when you want to use it. It always turns out that way. You shoot one, and then no more. The magazine's full, but there's nothing to push up that fuckin' bullet. One shot is not a shot. One shot is seldom deadly immediately. Life is not a movie. In life, you send five to six 9mm Parabellum into your attacker, but it just comes and comes. So with a shot, you can fuck. Yourself. That's why time travelling demands a revolver. It's true that's almost impossible to shoot in the same point quickly one after another, but if we take into account that the pistol fights happen at around three metres on average, then the situation isn't so bad. If you offer a .44 Magnum into somebody's stomach, then the second one will land in their chest and with the third one, you fuck apart their neck. I'm personally modest. I like to choose such calibre and barrel length that I can aim farther.

(Pub Tales: Sexify – Special Expert Information for Youngsters)

Finally all, I slept. At the worst time. Before five o'clock, I still was awake. At half past five, I was awakened. I sat up dazedly with a buzzing head. Hye-jin handed me coffee. And a steel flask.

'Whiskey. For bringing sunshine into your heart in this rainy morning. Just be careful with it. It's six hundred years old.'

I was careful with it. But not because of its age. I drank coffee with Hubertus. I was eager to know why they thought I like whiskey. Something, however, whispered in me that I would better be silent. However, neither the whiskey was so bad. Two minutes later, I was ready to go.

It was dawn, but the sun's rays did not break into the narrow valley yet. And I knew they would not today. Above foliage of the trees, dark grey clouds covered the sky. The rain fell steadily, making the rocky path muddy and slippery. A stream ran beside the path. Sometimes it crossed our way. We climbed over fallen trunks. Their tough bark still resisted time, but decay had already penetrated their insides. After three kilometres, the path split. The Commander and I went right. The others were to the left. A few hundred metres later, Kawaguchi left the path and went amongst the trees. I followed her. We sank into dead leaves up to our ankles. She sat down at the base of a tree. The murmur of cars sounded in the distance.

'You know where we are,' she said.

I nodded. Near the pharmaceutical factory, one and a half kilometres from city limits of Manwareham.

'We arrived early. The night shift's leaving now. We'll wait for ten minutes then take away two cars from the car park. We'll go up to May Glade. On the way, we'll pick up the others.'

The rain pitter-pattered silently on the leaves. The droplets united and fell to us in thick drops. Yet we did not soak. Our clothes behaved like umbrellas. They tossed all moisture away from us by a few millimetres.

'Sincerely, Kawaguchi-san, have you driven a car in practice?'

'That's why I came with you Landsman.'

Driving is like learning a language. It's worth nothing as long as it exists only in head. This is what all "Need for Speed" champions learn when they first dent the family car; which they took away without their mother's consent.

'You choose the cars! They must be appropriate for the age, location and weather. They can't be prominent, melt into the milieu! They can't be a wreck, carry four to five people with good performance without straining. They'd be different brands! Put this away!' she passed me a flat piece of metal. It looked like a key holder.

'Passkey. It has a shape just in order for you to be able to use. It opens many things. Here in the 21st century, everything. Don't lose it!'

The Commander's eyes were brown. Her gaze like a glass-eye's. There was more emotion in Siri's voice then in hers. She was friendlier in the library. Library? It was called. It was the Royal Navy Archives. The former leader had filled the office with worthless paper-based books, and she did not discard them when inheriting the position. She said they made the room feel cosier. And really. She placed green plants – which were able to live in the twilight – at random places on shelves. It was a lonely empire. Silent, calm. With one big desk. She fucked me on that. Technically I was on her, but she was who owned me. Like a starved beast. She clutched me with her long thighs, crossing her legs behind my waist like a clamp. As she reached the final pleasure, her back arched. She groaned and forcibly pulled my hair. I thought she strangled me into her breasts. Her vagina squeezed the last drop of semen out of me. She calmed down just for a minute. Standing up, she was already burning in fire again and dragged me to a small repository. She shoved me in and locked the door behind us. It was pitch-black but I would not have had a chance to see anything. It was evening when she released me. Out of the repository. But not out of her hands. Until midnight, she made me her own three additional times; seven or eight different ways. I was in Baltroyal for a year. She was the one who took me back to my cell. It was her luck that we did not meet any living creature. Her gratified face would have said everything. At least, up to now, I was convinced about that. However, seeing her dispassionate expression, my conviction wavered. I would have liked to think that she behaved with me like this because the others could hear our communication. Our relationship was forbidden. She definitely called my attention to that when, after the first some trysts, I went to the next treatment to my therapist. She told me to forget that I would not get off with the woman anymore. It is her duty ex officio. And for me, it is vital to keep the pretence. If I do not huddle up close to her then it would be noticed that someone else is also handling my testosterone levels. And that possible someone else can be found in a quite tight circle. It practically consists of one person. Her. If we get busted, we will be court-martialled. But I would draw the short straw. At last, I could be condemned for something which would make it easier for the Legal Department to account with their consciences. She said I might get away with a life sentence; provided I had a good lawyer. She could get four or five years. Somehow I felt she lied. But not with regard to my judgment. That day she just continuously teased me, pulled my arousal, but did not let me go further from making out. She wanted to make me excited at the therapist the next day. Which she did. The woman could not ask questions and there was no time for the tests. As she came to me, I laid into her. It was not difficult. She had a Brazilian samba dancer form; being curvy at the right places. My overnight cramping loins easily got rid of the tension in her. The therapist noted how at that time I undressed the distant between us; which had been characteristic of me so far. I lied to her that I had already been looking forwards to her coming. For weeks. But not because of the body contact... She did not let me rephrase my words more, stopped me right away. She explained that she was a psychologist, and that was just a job for her. It was natural what I felt for her, but nothing could be between us, apart from healthful intercourse. Anyway, she was married. She has a husband and children. And I was not her only patient. Here neither. It was true that the others were women, but also the naval hospital belonged to her district, some hundreds of thousands of kilometres away, where in turn, there were men as well. She suggested that I should have looked at her with 21st-century eyes, so I could handle the situation easier. Otherwise, she would pass my further treatment to one of her colleagues which would not look so good in my file because it indicated I could not exercise emotional control. I did not tell her what kind of 21st-century eyes I had. Or the kind of woman with whom I experienced "love" at first. I was satisfied when she left. Completely. In every sense. The next day, Kawaguchi cautiously asked about how the treatment was. I asked her to figure out how I could leave that part of the therapy. She commanded me to throw it out of my mind, because we would be nabbed right away. She said she had another relationship. It is nothing serious just a kind of friendship with benefits, but she must continue it for maintaining the semblance. She disclosed that the other was a woman. But not who it is. And she asked me to never tell it to anyone; under no circumstances – if she meant something to me. That day, she was very tender with me. She clung to me tightly as if she never wanted to let me go. We were in the dark repository. I could not see her. I sensed only her voice. And her salt tears. She wept.

'Sincerely, Commander-san! If you had told me sooner that we had to steal a car, I'd have suggested that our rucksacks be carried by the others.'

Raindrops teemed down silently around us.

'We're hikers. Rucksacks are part of our camouflage.'

'Brilliant idea. Also note that it's just May, weekday, and it's been raining for days. At such a time, it's quite unusual finding hikers in this area. What I've been told from the plan so far, I've come to the conclusion that you want to steal two cars from the employees of the factory. Well, I'm afraid that pharmaceutical workers quite rarely go to work with twenty kilos rucksacks. I suggest taking an umbrella at least. So if someone came close to us, they wouldn't be surprised by raindrops bouncing away from us before they could fall onto us.'

'All right Landsman. Take your umbrella!'

'Sincerely, Commander-san! I'm afraid compressed content of my rucksack's little known to me.'

Kawaguchi delved into her own and pulled out a tiny thing which become a normal sized umbrella in the next moment.

'Where can I find mine?'

'One's enough.'

I did not argue. I watched the rain; the tiny drops as they gathered on the leaves then ran down from them. At the leaves' edges, they stopped, fattened a bit, quivered, and fell down. I watched the puddles. And the drops, falling into them. Making circular ripples; they run away, run together, interfere with one another, die. How long can they be watched? Not now, but if I came back to this fixed moment after a hundred years, then what would I find here? Would I sit under this tree? What is past, that passed. However, in my mind, it is unchangeable. But time is not constant. It changes. It accelerates, slows, swirls, turns back, twirls. Like a sphere-shaped river. You cannot step into the same river twice. Would I be here under the tree after a hundred years? Or would not this tree exist? Maybe the wreck of a car would be at its place? Or an airplane's? Perhaps that which I smash into the ground in 1986? When will this time section be overwritten? I could calculate it. But does it make sense? Does it matter how long I sit under the tree? Is it important to anyone? Once it passes. Like ripples in the puddles. Everything passes away. Also time. Me too. But as long as time exists... If the puddle is a part of time in its seemingly infinite ocean... Some waves rebound from its shore. They run back. And that is the key. Now I know how I came here. More specifically, in 2523. 1944–2523. Death and life. And a gap between them. Five hundred and seventy-nine years. I do not know what happened during that. But I already know who I am. And also the Admiralty knows – assuming they asked one or two physicists. And it is sure they asked. They are not stupid. They are Britons; former British. If I discovered it after two years – with my eight years primary and one and a half years of high school knowledge – then they have already known this for a long time. The question is that of what explains the phenomenon. How I could return? Not from death, it is final. Not so many have come back from there yet. And it was a one-time event, looking from here, two thousand years ago. But how did I come back from time?

'Let's go Landsman!'

Kawaguchi stood up. I also stood up and we walked back to the path. The Commander opened the umbrella and offered her right arm to me to hold it. I took the umbrella from her hand, stepped to her left side and offered my right arm to her, to hold it.

'Yours sincerely, Commander-san, I'd note this is the 21st century and Central Europe. I suggest keeping the pretence up.'

'That's why I have to stand at your right?'

'Formerly, men carried their swords bound to their left. Women held men's right arms so swords didn't get caught between their legs.'

'Nobody carries sword here, Landsman.'

'And I suggest being on first-name terms with us. Formal title is used by only parliamentarians and assholes.'

'Only you and the rest of the team can hear us, Landsman.'

'You may need to open your mouth for communication. I assume I'd be surprised if it turned out that you can speak Hungarian. I propose to leave it to me. If necessary, speak English. If you're asked about your accent, say that you're from the Shetland Islands. It belongs to Scotland. It's in the North Sea halfway between Scotland and Norway. The Shetland pony comes from there. It's a waist-high horse, one of the most ancient in Europe. You speak with difficulty because you have a serious sore throat.'

The Commander held my arm.

'I guess you've already sent a camera forwards,' I said. 'What cars are in the car park?'

'In which one? There are two.'

'Three. There's one at the main entrance. I'd neglect that. I don't want to take away cars from under the security guards' noses. It may be one's of their acquaintances. Additionally, the management park there. They aren't tied to shift, they can come and go any time. There's an outer closed car park a little farther, near the road, for the workers. It's surveilled only by cameras. And there's an unguarded, free parking lot. It's mostly used by hikers. If there were any car in it, I don't recommend taking it. The owner can come up anytime, and the police are on our necks right away. So we're going to take cars from the outer closed car park. One will be a Suzuki Swift. It's popular here. At least four will stand there. The other... It depends on what state we want Sir Yates to be delivered. A Škoda Octavia would be nice. An unconscious man can fit in its boot.'

'I'm afraid there's no Škoda there.'

'Then look for a medium-sized, five-door grey.'

'There's a few.'

'Great. Then let's jump to the names! If I call you Commander-san, the folks will look at us with interest.'

'Nellie.'

'Beautiful name. I'm staying at my official.'

'All right Timo.'

'Then one more thing, dear Nellie. I'd ask you to pull closer to me, because it's quite weird that you're holding my arm from two steps away.'

The path became gravelish and widened. Stones crunched beneath our boots. A green wire mesh fence appeared. Behind it, there was a car park and the main building. We stepped onto the asphalt road and walked along the fence at a moderate pace. It was at the shorter side of the factory; less than seventy metres long. The fence turned to the left, we went straight ahead. The road was bordered by a drainage ditch. Muddy rainwater ran in it. There was a small bridge some steps away. The waves of a rushing stream licked its bottom. Over the bridge, by twenty metres, another fence began; the outer car park's. The rain monotonously showered the umbrella. We reached the corner of the fence. We noticed movement in the park. A figure with an umbrella hurried to the pedestrian gate. It was ten metres from us. We slowed down. I turned my head towards Kawaguchi but kept my eyes on the figure. A man. Black umbrella, black windbreaker. Black trousers, sports shoes. A black laptop bag in his hand. He opens the gate with a card. He comes through the gate and starts towards us. He looks at us. His mouth opens. I leaned over to Kawaguchi's lips. Her kiss was sweet and smooth. The gate closed. I could not see the man. But I heard his footsteps. He slowed down. I closed my eyes. I did not fear him. He was a harmless employee who was hurrying to work. An early-starting clerk. He takes deep breath to address me. I want to avoid this. I pushed my tongue into Kawaguchi's mouth. Her tongue crossed mine. I tried to pretend passion. It was not difficult. The content of my boxer briefs was as hard as a baseball bat. Kawaguchi's palm slid on my nape. Strongly. My heart leapt. The man resignedly moaned and quicken his footsteps. Only the rain stayed with us. Insistently, silently. I opened my eyes; watching the man walking away. Kawaguchi stiffened. She listened to the man's steps. But her lips stayed on my lips. I felt her breath in my mouth. It was small. She drew her head away from me slowly. She opened her eyes slowly. They were expressionless. I turned away from Kawaguchi and went to the gate. Her kiss was more than good. And it was more than bad to stop it. A little death.

I opened the gate with the passkey. I moved it to the card reader and the lock clicked immediately, indicating that the gate had opened. We entered the car park.

'Did you see which car he came with?' I whispered.

'No. Probably he was sitting in until now, otherwise I'd have noticed him.'

Also Kawaguchi's voice whispered, although it sounded inside my ear. We sauntered between the cars rather than strode.

'Why didn't the camera give a sign?'

'Nothing's perfect.'

'Is it showing any thermal image? Which is the warmest?'

It would not be so fortunate to take away the man's. He may be back in an hour. The clerks are unpredictable. Because of their job, they sometimes go into the city during working hours.

'The second on the right. Black, four-door, backwards stretching boot, no decoration on the wheels.'

'Sedan, steel wheels without hubcaps. Let's look around the rear. It's less noticeable if a car's missing there. I can see five Swifts. I'm taking the penultimate, the deep green.'

I caught sight of the ideal car for Kawaguchi too. A five-door, grey, medium-sized, lower class. It was so featureless that I did not recognise its brand from the side. It could be a large Japanese manufacturer's. Or an American's disguised to be German; soon bought by the French. It's funny. Seventy years earlier, that car factory produced trucks also for Hitler's invasion of France. At the request of the American owner, the only factory that was mostly spared of the allied bombings. And now, in a couple of years, its owner is changed. The occupier will become a colony.

'I've got your car Nellie,' I pointed with my chin towards the selected vehicle. 'Get in, I'll go after you!'

'I get in and you go before me. You turn left after the gate and at the intersection again! Then at the very first crossroad, turn right! After fifty metres, you stop and wait! You drive cautious! There're water flows over the road. Don't go off the asphalt! The ground is soaked, you can get stuck in the mud. You don't take the deep green Swift! There's the same in grey in the second row, almost in front of what you wanted.'

While she was speaking, she opened the door of her car. I held the umbrella above her until she got in. I waited until she pulled the door and I went to the Swift as was commanded. It was a sport version, but with five-door and turbo-free 1.6-litre engine. Indestructible technology. I held the key to its door. It opened the central lock without hesitation. Behind me, Kawaguchi started her car. I tossed my rucksack on the passenger seat. Surprisingly, the Swift was a female car. The mess in it made that clear. Scattered pieces of paper, a sweater in the back seat, sunglasses behind the windscreen, half-filled mineral water bottles in front of the front seat on the floor, hanging USB cable from the cigarette lighter and a pleasant perfume scent; which reminded me of the touch of Kawaguchi's tongue on my tongue. I got into a romantic mood within a moment. It was unpleasant. My loins demanded a sweet-syrupy happy ending; but it knew there would not be any chance of that soon. The blood furiously circulated in it.

I started the Suzuki and drove to the exit. A barrier closed it. There was a card reader at its left. Raindrops were scattered throughout on it. I rolled down the window, stretched out my hand with the passkey. The card reader bleeped, a green LED flashed, the barrier rose. I drove out on the street and turned to the left. The intersection was just about fifteen metres away after an industrial narrow-gauge railway. The Suzuki rolled over the track with a fine bump. At the intersection, I turned to the left and watched Kawaguchi coming through the gate. I gently accelerated. After five hundred metres, at the very first crossroad, I turned right at a no entry sign and, after fifty metres, stopped. The road rose sharply before me. From the right, by the trees, Fujiwara, Hye-jin and Xiong ran to me. I took my rucksack from the passenger seat. Fujiwara got in next to me, the other two in the back.

'Go ahead!' said Fujiwara.

She held her rucksack in her lap. I pressed mine in front of her seat between her legs and started.

'Wasn't there a smaller car?' said Fujiwara annoyed.

Behind us, Kawaguchi braked.

'I considered this the most appropriate from the options,' I replied.

'You? Don't fly away from yourself, Landsman! Just because you shoved your tongue in the Commander's mouth doesn't mean that you can propose anything, unless it corresponds with her own will.'

'How was it, Timo?' Hye-jin leaned forwards. 'How was snogging with the Commander?'

I had a look at Xiong in the mirror. She boredly stared out of the side window. Then I looked into Hye-jin's eyes. They sparkled gleefully. The road curved ahead of me. I did not slow. Without looking ahead, I kept the eye contact with Hye-jin, following the bend of the road. If someone comes from the front, our mission is over.

'I can assure Sub-Lieutenant-san, I won't betray you either.'

'Use your brain, blue-eyed! The Commander plays only in the women's league.'

I used my brain and looked back at the road. A car approached from the front. I signed to the right and slowed. The road was narrow. There was room for just one car. I pulled over onto the shoulder. Stones rattled under the right wheels. The approaching car also braked. A crash barrier was at its right. And a thirty metres ravine beyond that. We passed slowly next to each other. The driver waved angrily that which direction I was going on the one-way road. I knew he would curse moments later when he would meet with Kawaguchi who had in the meantime picked up the other three.

'I don't think she has anyone,' said Fujiwara.

'But it's said she cavorts with Francine,' Hye-jin replied.

'Lady Sturgeon is dead.'

'What?'

'Four years ago. Didn't you know?'

'How'd I know? I don't go in the House of Lords or masturbate on obituaries.'

'What did you think? How Kawaguchi got her position?'

'She went to retire?'

'Eighty-some years old? No. She allegedly experimented with something at home in her lab, but it didn't work.'

'It's sad. I liked Francine.'

'Many liked her.'

'And more would have liked. For example, Landsman-san wouldn't have had any chance to show her his Hungarian language proficiency.'

'What level is your oral capability in that?' Fujiwara turned to me.

'If your question concerns the Hungarian, then I must say it's my native language. I'm Hungarian. It's in my file.'

'I thought it's just a bluff.'

'No, it isn't,' said Xiong.

'It's difficult to select the believable from the fantastic elements.'

'May the knowledge console you that if you started to assert here that you came from 2525 then you'd be locked in an asylum,' I said.

'Always there's someone who believes it.'

'Beware of anyone who believes this here for you.'

At the top of the hill, we got to a clearing. May Glade. The road divided into two directions: right and left – towards the wildlife park.

'Turn right!' Fujiwara commanded.

I obeyed and drove on a narrow road. After a new turn, this time to left, we arrived to a small abandoned pub. Its crumbly brick wall was whitewashed and a painted advertisement of the local most popular beer: "Lockert is not bartered!" Its windows were covered with ruined brown shutters. I stopped at its side. By the time we got out, Kawaguchi's had arrived. Fujiwara led us behind the hovel to the staff entrance. The rusty padlock opened to her touch. She went in. Stink and rat shit welcomed her. She came out.

'We'll clean it first.'

She gestured to the inside of the building. Buzzing sounded from inside, accompanied with bluish flashes of electrostatic discharges. Half a minute later, a dark cloud swirled out through the door and glided into the woods. It became silent. Only the rain beat the leaves.

The nanobots did a good job, but they could not cover the depressing sight of the crumbling plaster. However, they removed the stink. Only the smell of dampness from the peeling walls remained in the air.

At Kawaguchi's command we had a dry shower and reprogrammed our clothes. The women to trousers and skirts. Mine was transformed by Xiong to jeans and leather jacket. Hye-jin left making the panties, beneath her skirt, for the last. I dressed and turned to the wall, but she was waiting for when I could see it. The five Asians did not vanish their racial characteristics; it would have required at least an hour. According to our role, to folks on the street, we were employees of a Far East contract manufacturer and I was an interpreter. They chose their names accordingly. So they became: Airi, Nozomi, Michelle, Shelly and Kim. Xiong distributed papers between us: passports, driving licences, travel cards. Mine were printed to Timo Vanhanen. Kawaguchi and I received slightly modified registration certificates of our cars. They were registered to our names. Then everybody got the little things: two or three hundred pounds of cash in different denominations, bank cards, iPhones. They packed them in purses and pochettes. I did them in my jacket pockets. Instead of an iPhone, an old-fashioned mobile phone came to me – and the steel flask that Hye-jin gave in the cave. Also some small women's ingredients for life was in their purses: powder, lipstick, mascara, and something that's purpose was suspicious for me.

'What's that?' I asked.

Instead of answering, Lieutenant Sasaki stepped to my rucksack and took out a pink dildo.

'I suppose it's carried in the inner pocket,' she offered to me.

The others watched me with full naturalness. It took seconds till I was able to ask elegantly.

'By what do you base your conviction that men, in this 21st century, carrying these with themselves?'

So the question is: Does each of the small time slices correspond to an independent universe? Two types of answer can be given: philosophical and physical. I know philosophers are another kind of livestock, but they don't have to be ignored. For example that girl, with the haversack, can be carved to a pretty woman if she took off that hippy haversack and got her tits blown-up at the plastic surgeon. The problem with philosophers is that they have now forgotten that in the beginning the ancient philosophers weren't comparing Hegel's realism with Kant's idealism but wanted to know the world. They were thinking about structure and laws of the Universe. There're still real philosophers today; such as theoretical physicists, cosmologists, mathematicians. But what's taught at the Department of Philosophy is not philosophy but antique, Renaissance literature. No matter. From a philosophical point of view, all time slices are a separate universe. From a physical point of view... To do this we need paper and a pen. There isn't any...?! Hey girls! Would one of you lend me a lipstick? Preferably not one with a built-in clitoral vibrator! Yes, I know, at the beginning of the 21st century this is too much a request, because there's no longer a man who wouldn't have a veined pink dildo in his inner pocket for personal use. Well, as if the blondie had something. It's clear she's not a philosopher. Thanks, but that's not fit. The lipstick is red. May be black, but it fits just gothic girls and for that you have few piercings. Leastwise in your face... That's it! Thanksy! Let's go! The tile in the lavatory is an excellent board to use.

So, there's a curve here. Yes, tangent function. You see, she learned trigonometry in high school. And the other one, standing next to it made of dots, is the same tangent function. What I drew with a continuous line is the analogue function. Next to it, the dots are the discrete version of the same function. As you can see, the value of each points of the discrete function can be clearly defined. Leastwise more or less. In any case, for each point, a limit can be defined to which the value converges but never reaches. In the analogue function, you can't find such a point because it's continuous. Time is not so that sometimes it goes and sometimes it stands. Time is continuous. You can't choose such a small time slice that you couldn't divide ad infinitum. Therefore, from a physicist point of view, and from a cosmologist and mathematician, and from all engineering sciences, if the world were digital, then it would be possible to define separate time slices, and these could be independent universes but, it's important, they would be part of our Universe. That is, they would be sub-universes of this Universe in which we live. But the world is not digital! Therefore, in real life, answering the question is a bit cumbersome. All time slices, whole together, constitute a single unit. It doesn't matter if a handsome time-traveller fucks apart the past behind you or the future, time forms a solid unit even if there are differences between one-one nearby, but arbitrarily chosen, time slices. E.g. on 03 September 1941 at 14:01:56 Hitler rules Germany but at 57 seconds he's already dead for ages and the Chancellor's a Danish gynaecologist named Dick Cockson. And what happens event horizon of a so fucked away time-integrity in the real world? That's a little bit of a more serious topic. However, it can be definitely said that I'm the all-time greatest pub physicist ever.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

'Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers. I thought time travellers know that novel off pat.'

'My deepest respect Sasaki-san. I'm afraid you misunderstand something or someone is having you on.'

'Dear Nozomi,' Kawaguchi addressed her words to Lieutenant Sasaki, but her message was for everyone. 'If our friend, Timo, is socially still immature to it, then maybe we shouldn't force it. And from now on, everyone calls the others by the names on the IDs.'

Sasaki dropped the dildo back into my rucksack. By the time it fell in, it turned into a tiny grey berry.

The women continued to dress. They placed three to four inches of barrel length revolvers and pistols in their purses and pochettes. They were a kind of rail-handguns, disguised as 21st-century small arms. I delved in my rucksack, but I did not find anything that, when regaining of its original shape, would be a weapon.

'Don't search for it, Timo!' Min-a told me. 'You don't have. Never trust a time traveller! Even if everything's a lie in Pub Tales that one conclusion that can be surely deduced from it,' a smile crept on her face. 'Michelle, my darling! Have you one totally tuned to him?'

'It can't be biologically,' replied Xiong with a small, seemingly .32 semi-automatic pistol in her hand. 'He makes the dating apparatus confused. But the tracker's a pretty stable point.'

'Is it enough?'

'Reliable. The only one that can be bound to him and he can't remove.'

Biometric identification. Based on your DNA, you can be identified within a millionth of a second. It's great if you don't want to suck around with passwords, PINs or bank cards. From the 24th century, everybody's biometric identifier is made in the second embryonic-week and stored in a central database. In the beginning, it's used to notice robots. Later, it will be important in law enforcement. You can become identifiable anywhere at any time. Where it appears, such as your fingerprint, even from millions of miles away, the Law's already on your heels. Assuming, they want to be. Because if they make another decision... In the 26th century, they just fire a projectile that's tuned to your biometric, and it sweeps in neutrino-like state through even the whole Solar System and impacts into your skull. There's no escape from it. It might be said that everybody's born for a waiting bullet that's engraved with their name on it. Of course, if you look for somebody who can hack your data in the database... Such men aren't found in all taverns and cost a fuckingetly lot. Additionally, the result can't be easily verified. Would you trust a stranger at first sight if the pot is your life? Because, say, the army, with some dexterity and trusted data, can shoot you at any point of the timestream. That's why we don't walk beyond the 25th century.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

Xiong rewrote the registration plates of our cars to not yet used and registered them in the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency's database. We put Kawaguchi's rucksack in the boot of her car and the others were hidden behind some empty crates and fixed to the floor. The rucksacks faded away into their environment. If someone came to this unused hovel to take the crates, they would be surprised to see why they cannot move some dirty sacks. Then Kawaguchi presented me with the plan. In three sentences. She did not detail the details. We go to the police station, take out Sir Yates and take him home. But first we find the woman who Sir Yates bit. She wanted to know why he had attacked her and whether he had infected her.

It is written, "the blood is the soul." You're a soul. A whole intelligent, emotional, wilful being. Features and characteristics of humans and animals are encapsulated in blood, the blood carries them. You're intelligent: you perceive the world around you, you can process the stimuli and information from the outside world and yourself. You have emotions: anger, love, joy, sorrow... You have the will: you decide what you do with the information you have in your mind, you go right or left; you control your emotions, that is, you don't facepalm the prime minister when he tells you how he wasted your tax; you don't bang all women you suddenly fall in love when you see her on the street..., not even if she wears a burqa. Each person's individuality is stored in the blood. But at least as a medium, it affects it. "It's not my fault, my blood drives me." That excuse is weak because there's the will. Provided you can use it. With chemicals, the will can be influenced. There're psychic methods. "Give somebody a lot of money, power, or put under psychic pressure, and you can see what kind of person they really are." The problem is if the simple Homo sapiens sapiens is influenced and controlled with chemicals then the end result will be unpredictable. Alcohol perks up one but the other becomes an aggressive beast. Yeah, like Hulk; as though he sucked gamma radiation. Also the result of psychic methods is uncertain. It's no coincidence that card reader gypsy women work more efficiently than economic forecasters. Advanced people are easier to manipulate. It's enough to hack their auxiliary systems and voila, they already believe they're Napoleon's seventh reincarnation. Do you know what a daemon is? Yeah, that boobsy red on the left edge is definitely that. The question's whether your wallet is thick enough for her. But back to the bits' world. In operating systems, a daemon is a program that runs in the background usually without direct user control. Yes, program, also known as software. What? Differences? Yes, there are. A program is a set of instructions to a computer telling it what to do. Software is a set of programs stored in/on a hardware. An intangible something that can "live" in a tangible something, in hardware. Yes, that red daemon could definitely format my hard drive. But advanced people don't have an operating system because they're the operating system themselves. Most of their auxiliary systems are biologically-based. If you want to demonize them, it's worth getting your daemon into their bloodstream. At a simple Homo, this isn't so simple. Because a daemon is a program, it must be tied to hardware that can process, can interpret its instructions. There's no such thing in a simple human. That's why you have to give a body for your daemon, programing it into a hardware. For example, into an influenza virus.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

The woman was easy to find. Tanja Fortmann. Her medical record was in the database of the local traumatology. Deep, bite wound on the neck. After wound treatment and tetanus vaccination, sent home. Antibiotics supplied. Advice: HIV and hepatitis screening after three months. Her medical record included her address too. The same was in the police report as well. It was ten kilometres from us. I looked for the satellite image of the area on the terminal. She lived in a long block of flats on the seventh floor. I knew that kind of building. A typical nine-story panel house built in the happy peacetime of the consolidated socialism. Every second stairwell, at the top floor, was connected to the other with a corridor. The woman advertised herself as a Japanese translator on the Net and was member of the major social networking sites. She was of average height, brown-eyed, bright blonde with brown streaks in her neck-length hair. A typical buxom. Her ordinary pictures conveyed the impression of a woman who does not surprise the son of man if it turns out that besides translating, she is a part-time porn star.

I do not know what the team's original plan was, but they overcomplicated it when I suggested that we should not go up to the woman at the same time because five Chinese women would be striking on the street in the morning. At first they did not understand what Chinese meant because they were all Britons. Then they could not cope with definition of the Southeast Asian. Finally, I pulled out the corners of my eyes, showing them that according to the locals, everyone was Chinese whose eyes were so. Their plans were eventually modified so that Fujiwara and Sasaki would stay in the cars and the others would enter the building from four directions. I and Xiong enter the back door of the woman's stairwell, Hye-jin enters the other stairwell. We go up to the top ninth floor with the elevator and block it for a while so it cannot be used. Min-a comes in in front of me and Xiong. She waits as long as we reach the ninth, then she comes upstairs to the sixth, calls the elevator and goes directly below the seventh floor to the stairs. In front of Hye-jin, Kawaguchi goes in and walks to the ninth. In the connecting corridor, she comes to us with Hye-jin and together we go down to the seventh, Fortmann's flat.

Is time a philosophical concept or physical reality? Some people say chemical, but let's neglect that now because even if I'm drunk, I understand it only as long as it's explained. The Calabi–Yau manifolds are the same. And the women. But that's not a problem because even the women can't understand themselves. To be able to understand the physics of time, we must philosophise a bit. Philosophy isn't stupidity and we like philosopher chicks too. Getting them into bed. There, they don't spiel too much. No, they can't. Their mouths are stuffed. But there's philosophy now, and time is the theme. So, ordinary people divide time into three groups. Past, present, future. Past is clear: yesterday. The future is also pure: tomorrow. The present is: today. And the mess begins here. When is today? In the morning at eight o'clock? Or now, at ten o'clock in the evening? Listen! I got up this morning at eight. How do you talk about it? In past tense because it's already ten in the evening. Tonight at half past ten, at that door, a dear friend of mine is coming in, hopefully in female edition, and I bug out before the elevator stops again in that hotel over there by a power outage because the transfo' station is getting drenched again. How do I talk about the event? In future tense because it's only ten in the evening! And now listen! Do you remember when I first said that it was ten in the evening? Did you listen to my question? You remember... The word "remember" indicates past tense. Because it's already one past ten. But some seconds ago, it counted as present. It was a current ongoing time. So then the present is what? The now! And it's already passed. Light is super-fast, but it takes time until the sight of me reaches your eyes. Let's ignore it now that your brain needs to process this sight which time is directly proportional to the number of empty beer mugs. The more the number of empty mugs, the harder you can see me. So the brain's processing speed is neglected now. Let's stay at the light. No matter how close I lean to this beautiful-eyed that our lips are almost united in the hot embrace of the fulfilling love..., it takes time for the brightness of my beautiful eyes to reach her eyes. By the time she sees me blinking from the lustfulness hidden in her flirtatious glance, it's already history for me. When she sees my just closing eyelids then my eyelids are actually opening. When she sees my half opening eyes, my eyes are completely opened. Obviously, this is over-exaggerating, but I wanted to picture the point so that you can understand that "present", "now" is just an arbitrarily chosen boundary between the past and the future. When we think about time, we usually think of a straight line that can mark certain events of the past or future. The flaw of this approach is that time is not straight. Just as neither the Earth is flat but spheroid. If these two points on the table represent London and Manwareham then the shortest route between them is straight. However, if this straight line were to be on a scaled globe, then we would see that the shortest route between the two cities is a little bit different. Because on surface of a spherical object, the shortest route between A and B points always leads along the great circle. Not counting the option if you're heading in the opposite direction rather than being logical, or like a mole, you bore a tunnel between the two points to shorten the Earth's curvature. We don't live in a two-dimensional space. Neither look at time from two dimensions.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

The wipers steadfastly swept water off the windscreen. I stood at the red light next to a tram. It was a five-section green-yellow vehicle, made in the Czech Republic. Raindrops rolled down its side. I followed their tracks with my eyes.

'What's the subject of cogitation Timo?' Fujiwara asked.

'Sir Yates. Is neck-biting his fixation?'

I did not think of that, but it was not their business.

'Because?'

'His wife, that girl...'

'The bite's not the point but the blood. To taste it. To drink it,' Hye-jin began to explain with perceptible enthusiasm. 'It means possession, total domination, depriving the victim of their free will. So to speak, he seizes her life. If a woman offers you her neck, that's the complete surrender. Like with wolves. She gives you her life. She gives you control. She looks up at you. You're her lord. From that time, you do with her what you want, her life's in your hands. Between your teeth. When a woman willingly gives you her neck, when she exposes the artery at her neck for you to bite it through... It's the sincerest expression of her love.'

I thought I swallowed my Adam's apple. I became nervous. The lamp turned green. I swiftly released the clutch and stepped on the gas. More strongly than was necessary. The tyre tried to skid with a faint whining on the wet asphalt, but the ESP intervened. Unlike a couple of weeks ago when I skidded at a cow's side. I do not have ESP. Xiong caught me, but I tugged her along with me. I twisted and she got under me. I hugged her in a reflex to avoid her hitting her back on the ground as I fell onto her. Her breasts cushioned my plummet. She hit her head in the soft grass. Her hands clutched my nape. I looked in her eyes for few seconds. Then my gaze slid down. Onto her red lips. They were beautiful. They pulled my mouth towards them like a magnet. I was only centimetres away from them when I got my sense back. I looked into her eyes. Into her brown eyes. She did not say a word. She released her breath through her nose, tilting her head slowly back, then to the side. Her eyes closed. A muscle tightened on her neck. She breathed deeply. I thought she wanted to say something, ask me to stand up. Now I realized I was wrong. That night, Kawaguchi asked me again how things were with Xiong. Two months before, she had already asked me to get off with Xiong who had been my probation officer for three months by then. That time, I asked her why she wanted me to be together with other women. I asked her to be straight and tell me honestly if she wanted to end what was between us. She said she was not happy when I had to be together with my therapist. And she neither asked it for her own good pleasure. But my psychological data clearly indicated that my sexual attraction was directed exclusively at women. I asked if Xiong was a man, would she ask me to get off with him. She reassured me that she would not. But she asked me to recognise that a monthly one-time occasion for a healthy man was nothing. I should have been blown up by testosterone, but its level was totally normal. The therapist can be conned once a month but not a woman who knew me for long. Xiong would find out I have somebody. And as she had mentioned it neither of us would be good. She said she was happy I did not want to go to bed with Xiong. But I had no choice. I had to try to make a move on her at least. If she refused, that was good. But in that case, she would be very surprised. But at least Xiong's suspicion would be dispelled. Because Xiong was a smart girl. And she looked really good. That would not be natural if, after daily twice encounter, a man did not want to get her laid. With some people, this could be explained by them having monk-like temperaments. But my personal file was talkative. I was not like them. And then that certain accident happened between Xiong and me on the prairie. That night Kawaguchi called me to account for why I had not tried to get closer to Xiong. I told her that I had already done so, I had drawn a heart for her. Kawaguchi got nervous about that. She said I was a bastard or in love. If it was the latter then she moved aside. But she reminded me to be aware that Xiong was a clever girl and would be in a serious position in another area soon and I would not see her for a long time. I wanted to calm her down that I was not in love with Xiong. She asked if I had drawn a heart for the previous girl in whom I had been so deeply in love that I had taken the risk that the Nazis could capture me. Because I have already had to have been aware that it was not love. And if I was honest with myself then I had already known it at that time. I said no. I had not drawn a heart for that girl. She asked me what my opinion was about the fact that I had not drawn a heart for the girl in whom I had thought myself to have been in love with, but that I had drawn one for whom I thought I was not. She said I was a soulless asshole, or I had to accept my emotions; and, that case, to utilise the remaining few weeks or months. Then she said that she should have already been on the Admiralty and commanded me to go back to my cell. The next day, I was sent to a far-off prairie to herd migratory cattle. That variety is not bound to soil. I spent six weeks out there. Xiong came out to me biweekly for five minutes. And the therapist visited once. l spent the rest of the time with cattle and some clockwork-brained, low-intelligence automatons. Nevertheless, they were able to play a card game: Sixty-six. And they were not programmed to be too retard so sometimes they let me win. At the end of the sixth week, I was taken into the Admiralty to watch a home video whose end I was said to be a Landsman of the Royal Navy and, half an hour later, I was flown to a Bracknell bomber where sweet dreams were wished to me – for three months.

'Watch out for that shit!' Fujiwara cried, referring to the tram that I almost hit at its side.

'Excuse me. I think the thought arrested me too much as to whether someone has already bitten Kim.'

'A couple of times,' said Hye-jin. 'And I've bitten back too. I've already drunk from some guys' blood like you. If it happens mutually, that's a matrimonial blood alliance. There's no divorce thereafter. But nevertheless, I'm still officially a virgin. At least in terms of marital status. I'm maiden... That's all, little guy.'

'What happened to them if I'm not indiscreet? Did you suck too greedily? Or switched to black widow mode?'

She did not answer. I could see from the mirror that she was looking astonished at my mouth. Then they looked at each other with Xiong.

'Stop somewhere! We lost Nelli's!'

I looked into the rearview mirror.

'They're behind us by two cars.'

'I said stop! We can't hear them.'

'I can't stop on the road. But there'll be a car park straight ahead.'

I turned into an Austrian petrol station. Kawaguchi's followed. I stopped behind the station next to a car wash. Kawaguchi parked behind me. Fujiwara got out and went over to them.

'The connection came back but is intermittent,' said Hye-jin. 'We can talk just directly next to each other. Something's disturbing the bridge.'

We stood one hundred metres from a high-rise block of flats. GSM antennas ejected the microwaves from its top.

'Can't it be for them?' I pointed to the antennas.

'They emit between 900 and 2100 megahertz. It has just theoretical possibility.'

'As we go deeper in the city, there'll be more and more.'

'According to Nozomi, the bridge is fucking up.'

Nozomi was Lieutenant Sasaki's alias. I think they misunderstood when I meant it was not advisable to call Kawaguchi as Commander on the street.

'We should forget radio frequencies and get back to the modern age technology,' said Xiong.

'If the bridge is faulty, then it won't go and someone can listen in.'

'Who else outside us? We're alone with Sir Yates. Am I right Timo? Are we alone?'

They both were tensely awaiting my answer. Stress settled in the car. I was forced to turn to them. Xiong was looking at her nails.

'I think this city could hardly be called a metropolis even with strong exaggeration. There lives just under one hundred and sixty thousand here. I'm afraid it would be untrue if I were to say we were alone here.'

'Thank you for your sincerity, Timo. I've always liked straight people,' Xiong looked into my eyes for a moment then turned to Hye-jin. 'I suppose it would be superfluous to come up with my suggestion.'

'The senior staff share the cards my sweetheart,' Hye-jin smiled at her. 'And we perform them nicely. We aren't indecent girls. That's right? At least, not officially,' she leaned so close to Xiong that I thought she would kiss her. But she just winked and threw her an air kiss. We all knew that in fact none of them were for Xiong.

Electromagnetic radiation? And my little dick! As if communication couldn't have any other form. It's quite narrow-minded to research an extra-terrestrial civilization by using electromagnetic radiation exclusively. Though they're out there... True, they're disappointing a bit with their twirled moustaches and bandy-legs from horsebacks, but they are. And in four hundred years, even Earthlings will consider the electromagnetism-based communication is fairly outdated. What's wrong with it? Its slowness. Mostly and mainly. Cloud computing is a good jamboree, as long as the response time is not significant because of the distance of the cloud. But as soon as it becomes... E.g. in Earth-Pluto context. It takes seven hours for radio waves to crawl to there and another seven to back. Just think about it! The lustful milf, whom you've picked up on a dating site, is craving for you on the Earth and you're thinking about what flavour condom you should offer her at the first time. But you're on Pluto. In the chat window, you type a nice compliment addressing her burning loins, which, after pressing Enter, arrives to her after a loose seven hours. By the time her shy answer, claiming she's not the kind of girl – with a winking smile at the end –, comes back to you, seven hours elapse again. I guess you can feel it now that it won't be your life's most exciting sex chat.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

Fortmann lived in the centre of a district behind a supermarket and a business building. The business building contained a bakery, a grocery, a pub, a pet food shop, a night club, a bank, a post office, an optician, general practitioners and, on the first floor, a social club; where youngsters of the local labouring class could spend their Friday-Saturday nights, enjoying their own cultural heritage with music, beer and women. Kawaguchi stopped in the car park behind the building between the pet food shop and the post office. Both were still closed.

'The connection has totally gone,' said Fujiwara.

I pointed to the top of the high-rise. At each end there were microwave antennas, emitting in all directions. Hye-jin got out of the car at a side street and I drove farther. At the end of the street, I turned around in the intersection and parked a little farther away from Fortmann's house at the side of a four-storey block of flats. I could see Fortmann's building well from there. The persistent rain caused dampness, like two-dimensional dripstones, stretched from the top downwards in wide stripes on its sides. They deepened the greyness of the concrete slabs.

Xiong and I got out. Xiong took out an umbrella and handed it to me. I opened it. She stood to my right and held my arm. We walked arm in arm to Fortmann's stairwell. The door had an electronic lock. It did not take a tenth of a second to open it. I shook water off the umbrella and handed it back to Xiong. She put it in her pocket. She could do it levelly. When I shook it, it tossed even the latest water molecule off. We went to the elevator. Min-a stood there already. The elevator was coming down. Min-a walked up the stairs and stopped at the landing. A woman, about thirty, stepped out of the elevator with two children. The little girl was about four years old and went to kindergarten. On the boy's back there was a schoolbag. He could be in Year Two. All three looked at us. I got into the elevator with Xiong. A bare bulb gave a dim light in the six-person space. The dark brown woodgrain decor was covered with want ads; some of them were scratched, others were scribbled over. I pulled the inner door in and pressed the button of the ninth floor. The elevator slowly strolled up, creaking bitterly at every metre. It stopped at the ninth with a loud clack. We got out. I did not let the door close. A minute later, Kawaguchi and Hye-jin come through the connecting corridor to us. The Commander sent Xiong out to the roof to turn off the antennas and try to contact the bridge; she wondered if it really was sensitive to microwave signals. Xiong headed towards the roof ramp without a word. Hye-jin shook her head, signalling that it did not make sense. Kawaguchi ignored her. She put an ID wallet in my hand. A warrant card was in it.

'Inspector Vanhanen. Specialist Crime and Operations,' that was all she said and then waved, let's go.

We started down the grey concrete staircase. Kawaguchi and I went to the front. A knobby dark brown handrail bordered the stairwell. The white colour of the twenty years old painting on the walls had already become just a pale memory. Someone called the elevator. Min-a. I put the ID wallet into my jacket's inner pocket. Before the seventh floor, Kawaguchi signalled to Hye-jin to stay on the stairs in the cover of the elevator. At the bottom of the stairs, we turned right. With a few steps below the seventh, Min-a waited. Kawaguchi signalled to me with her hand to keep silent; she would speak. I shook my head, not a good idea, but her gaze made it clear that there was no debate. She opened her coat, unbuttoned her shirt till the middle of her chest and pulled it apart. She wore a black half-shell bra. Smaller by a size. The cups sank in her flesh, pushing her breasts up. They almost popped out. A cheerful smile crawled onto her face and her eyes began to shine like a wistful cat's. She pressed the doorbell.

Nothing happened. The bell did not ring. She knocked. Only silence answered. She knocked again.

Seconds later, somebody started to move in the flat. Barefoot steps approached. Someone came to the door. Then silence again. Someone looked through the peephole. A bunch of keys rattled. A key turned in the lock. Twice. The door opened. The stench of dried cow dung came out; burnt marijuana. A twenty-year-old man stood before us. Tall, athletic body. At the outer side of his right eyebrow, there was a tiny, transverse gap; childhood injury, eyebrows did not grow there anymore. He wore dark jeans, a grey T-shirt. The narrow entryway was in dusk. Two closed room doors at the left and one at right. It opened. The head of a short-haired blonde appeared. She looked at us and quickly then retreated. I saw her thick thigh for a moment. She was in panties and bra. The room door closed. Kawaguchi opened her ID wallet.

'Good morning! I'm Cornelia Horner of the Specialist Crime and Operations. Can I speak to Miss Tanja Fortmann please?' she spoke Hungarian without accent.

The male eyes got stuck in Kawaguchi's cleavage. But his wit remained in place. Leastwise so much that he was able to ask a question. Unfortunately a wrong one.

'Is there a search warrant?'

I was wrong regarding Tanja too. She was not a part-time porn star but translator. And her full-time job was... Well, using a 26th-century polcorrect terminology, she was a kind of unqualified mental hygiene therapist. The man's voice was louder than necessary. Innocent people are embarrassed when they meet the police and try to assist willingly. But he wanted to call attention. On one hand, for the others in the flat, on the other hand, he wanted to alarm the neighbours to be witnessed as he becomes victim of police brutality.

'Yes, there is,' I answered.

I stepped forwards and right, towards Kawaguchi. I pushed my left hand into the pocket of my jacket and took the first document that I caught in my hand. It was a travel card. I raised it to left of my head. He was forced to lift out his glance off Kawaguchi's cleavage and look up to my hand. I punched his stomach with my right hand; hitting the air out of him. With my left, I grabbed his trachea, blocking his breath and arteries of the neck, and thrust him backwards at a run. By the time my travel card fell to the ground, I had dashed with him through the entryway and flung him against the wall between the toilet and the bathroom doors. Behind me, the others rushed into the flat.

At first the man's head hit the wall. A wall echoes a duller thud than a wooden door and is more robust. That is why I aimed him at it. After his head, his back then smashed against the wall. I jerked him forwards and down. With edge of my right palm, I struck the forwards tilting body; at the base of the neck into the trapezius muscle. He landed with concussion. The entry door closed, the right-hand room's opened. Beside me in the kitchen, someone sprang up at the table. Heavy mass. If she stays seated she gets off with a slap. If she keeps quiet, she does not get a slap either. But she jumped up. She was a hundred and ninety tall dromedary. Two-humped. Not fat just robust. She was barefoot in white panties and a loose dark blue T-shirt. Her huge breasts kept the material away from her body. Her strong thighs were long. Her mouth was opening to a scream. I kicked at her pussy. My foot snapped on her pubic bone. The scream stuck in her throat. But not deep enough. I slapped her. My palm smacked sharply on her face. She fell to her knees in a quarter turn in front of the cupboard. I jerked her back by grabbing her long black hair. I clenched two sides of her face with my left hand and pressed to the floor.

'Shut up fuck ya!'

I wanted to say whore, but I did not want to humiliate her. It was bad enough that she had lost her job for weeks because of the contusion of her pubic area. Although she had other body parts as well to do her work – particularly at the region of the breasts –, but her office was not on the street. Her clients were not satisfied with a light oral support.

In the right-side room, the blonde tried to scream, but a slap was able to talk sense into her. The bed received her body with a thud.

Kawaguchi's sole stamped the man's neck. Handcuffs clicked on his behind twisted wrists. Duct tape was torn and stuck to his mouth. Then the roll flew towards me. I caught it and, tearing a piece, plastered the dromedary's mouth. She tried to resist, but I convinced her that was better to remain silent. Her cheeks flushed. Not from shame. I bound her hands behind with the duct tape.

Hye-jin stood in the middle of the entryway – with her back against the wall – with pistols in her hands. Kawaguchi pulled out a revolver and waved me to retreat behind the kitchen corner; not to get in the firing line. She flattened her back against the wall. Opening guardedly their doors, she had a hurried look in the bathroom and the toilet. Then slowly opened the door of the rearmost room.

It was the living room with a natural pinewood wardrobe. A coffee table was in the middle, and a bright, floor-to-ceiling pole in one corner. The massive king size bed was not Swedish ready-to-assemble furniture; it had to be able to cope with much more strain. No one was in it. Neither in the room. Kawaguchi came out. Hye-jin opened the door of the last room slowly. The one we were looking for was inside.

On the Commander's signal, Hye-jin came in the kitchen and I went with Kawaguchi into the small room. It is called a half-room around here. Inside, there was darkness and the typical stench of ganja. I turned on the light.

Fortmann was sitting on the bed with bent knees, against the wall with her back. She wore a hooded, pink training suit with white socks on her feet. Adhesive wound dressing covered the left side of her neck. She looked in front of herself pensively. She might have had a joint a few hours earlier; the euphoric effect had already passed, but her eyes were still red. It seemed that marijuana was mixed with some designer shit too – she was too calm.

On the other side of the room, there was a loggia. I sidled to there between a wardrobe and the single bed. I pulled up the shutter and opened the door of the loggia. The voice of the city and the rain invaded the room. I turned around. Kawaguchi silently signalled at me to close it. I pointed onto my nose, the smell disturbed me. She shook her head angrily; close it back! I obeyed. The noise of the city stayed outside. Kawaguchi sat down beside Fortmann.

'Listen, Tanja! I came to help you. Allow me to examine you?'

She lay on her back on the bed. Kawaguchi took a pillow and put it under her head.

'It will be more comfortable, Tanja.'

The woman closed her eyes sleepily. Kawaguchi pulled a compact out of her jacket pocket. She opened it and held under Fortmann's nose. The woman's body loosened. Her head tilted sideways. She fell into a deep sleep. Min-a came into the room. She took the box from Kawaguchi and went out.

'Help me undress her!' said Kawaguchi.

I held the woman until the Commander peeled off her dress. She examined her body centimetre by centimetre. Then she asked me to turn her over. She examined her back too. And her rear end. When she finished, I laid her on her back. Kawaguchi pulled out an eyeliner. She pulled apart her labia and gently put it into her vagina. Slippery fluid trickled out of tip of the eyeliner. She pushed it into her completely, waited for half a minute then slowly pulled it out. She did the same with her ears, nose and mouth. After that, the Commander carefully started to remove the wound dressing from the woman's neck. The adhesive did not give up easily. It clung to the skin, pulling it, when finally it came off. There was a half palm sized haematoma under it; dark red, lilac spot with scarlet dots and half a dozen thin erosion stripes. Kawaguchi leaned close to the wound. At the end of her scrutiny, she carefully placed the dressing back.

'Clamp her shoulders and upper arms!' said Kawaguchi.

I did as it was told. Kawaguchi clamped the woman's forearm and pressed the eyeliner to the vein of her elbow pit for seven to eight seconds.

Min-a came to the door. I heard in the headset what Kawaguchi told her.

'He just bit her, not piercing the artery. I gave her four million units of disinfectant. Ten minutes to the result. You should tidy up. Timo, help them!'

The tidying consisted of pulling the other two women and the man into the living room and laying them on the fitted carpet. All three were unconscious. Hye-jin brought a yellow Kinder egg box and a pack of cigarettes from the other room. In the yellow boxes, there was marijuana. She removed filters from the cigarettes. She took the tobacco and marijuana into a glass jar and twisted back its cap. She asked me to turn away for a moment. When I looked back, it was just ashes in the jar. She crumpled the filters and strewed them onto the ashes then closed the cap again. The sponge of the filters became yellow and brown. She found an ashtray and put most of the ash in it then scattered the rest in the room. Meanwhile, Min-a began to undress the blonde woman. She called me to do the same with the dromedary. We undressed the man together.

Hye-jin cracked her fingers and pushed two of them into the blonde. Into her lowest slit. She broadened it a bit and then pushed her third finger in as well. Then a fourth. Min-a looked at the dromedary's pubic bone then to me. She shook her head and leaned over the woman's neck. She left hickeys on it. On her breast too.

Hye-jin took the man's shaved tail in her hand. She started to rub it roughly.

'I hate naked gun. It should be done by the one who caused us to knock them out,' she grumbled. 'Listen, Timo! You can watch, but you'd better bring any spunk-like stuff from the kitchen. Or if you have the desire, I don't mind, you can jerk off on them,' her head lowered to her hand.

I went out to the kitchen. There were two eggs in the fridge. I cracked them and separated their yolks from whites. The whites got in a cup, the yolks in the sink; where they swam down in the plughole with the help of some water. I salted the whites then, mixing them with some milk, took it back to the room. The man's tail was tormented.
'I suppose they won't remember anything,' I said.

'Fuck ya Timo!' Min-a snapped. 'What ya think? Yes! They lose the previous half hour, and the next eleven and a half.'

'But how proud he'll be of himself,' Hye-jin pointed to the man.

'As long as the women don't prosecute him for sexual rape,' I shared my concern with them. 'They might think he got them drugged.'

They exchanged a look.

'Tie him to the radiator,' Hye-jin suggested.

'His hand may necrose by when he regains consciousness.'

'Well then...,' a vicious smile run on Hye-jin's face.

She pulled the belt out of the man's jeans and rolled him over onto his stomach. She folded the belt in half. Then lashed onto the naked backside. With great force. Three times.

Kawaguchi called me to help her to dress up Fortmann. Placing the cup on the coffee table, I went to the other room. Fortmann appeared to be inviolate. We dressed her and rolled her over onto her stomach. Kawaguchi overlaid her with a blanket.

In the other room, the two women were laid on the bed on their backs. The man on his stomach; with his head between the blonde's thighs. His hands were tied back, and a belt was around his neck. The blonde gripped the end of the belt. The man's belt was in the dromedary's hand. Egg white was drying on all three everywhere. The cup was cleaned and placed back in its place.

'We're ready,' said Min-a.

'At my age of forty-nine, I had to know how to suck a limp cock,' Hye-jin was angry.

'Sixty-seven,' Min-a corrected her.

'Don't burn me nun-pussy!'

'What about the woman?' Xiong inquired.

I did not see when she came in.

'Absolutely negative,' said Kawaguchi.

'Luck.'

'Yes.'

'The microwave is also negative. It doesn't interfere with the bridge.'

'I know. It didn't come back even for a moment.'

'How are things here? Can we go?'

'Yes, but first...'

Kawaguchi thrust me against the door jamb. Her forearm pressed my larynx hard.

'Listen dick!' hatred sat on her face. 'This was your last move! You do what I say, get fucked!'

Under other circumstances, I would have liked to hear it from her, but the current atmosphere was not enough romantic for that.

'If I don't say anything, you don't do anything! Am I understood?!'

I could not answer. I could not get air.

'Nobody awaits your return! If we go home without you, I have to answer just the how. And one word will be enough.'

I coughed when she released.

'Mute!' she hissed. 'Now, everyone back to the cars! We go as we came!'

Xiong and I went down with the elevator. Fujiwara sat in the car. Hye-jin joined us three minutes later.

'Go!' Fujiwara said. 'Point D2!'

'I don't know where it is.'

'I do. It's in my head.'

Hologram. The whole world, we perceive it in three dimensions, is only the projection of a two-dimensional surface. Got you Plato's Allegory of the Cave? You know... The ignorant man in the cave, the fire in the cave, and shadows of objects on the wall... The ignorant man thinks the shadows on the cave wall are the reality. Well, the hologram world is really that. The shadows what you see on the cave wall is the reality. The two-dimensional reality. And you, in the cave, you are a three-dimensional projection of that two-dimensional reality. How can this be used in everyday life? For example, you get a spacecraft and take it into the event horizon of the two worlds. With some exaggeration, "between" the two. Like a submarine directly beneath the surface of the water. It's not a simple job and very energy-intensive. In addition, it causes gravity distortion in your environment. Just as a shallow-running submarine humps the surface of the water slightly; a spacecraft, beneath space, humps the third dimension of space. With sensitive sensors, it can be detected already in the 21st century. That's another question that they'll explain that they detect gravitational waves as two black holes merge into one, one and a half billion light years away from the Earth. But, let's say honestly, who's the one who would come up with another explanation before the end of the 25th century? Particularly soberly. Although once, I had a navigator who tried to convince astronomers of Louis XIV about it. But he even tried it with Churchill just to filch a bottle from his sixty-year-old Irish whiskey speciality. Well, it was really funny. But because of that, he had to flee from London to Amsterdam which wasn't so funny in the autumn of 1943. That guy would have been able to bang Madame de Ludres too for a bottle of Irish whiskey. But this is another story. Let's stay at the other area of application of hologram, at data storage. You make a hologram of data what you want to store. The hologram's specialty is that if you cut it in half, both parties will include all the data, not just a half. If you tear a picture in half, you'll have two pieces of the picture. One contains one half of the original image, the other is the other. If you tear a holographic image in half, then you'll have two whole images. Not two halves but two complete wholes. You take a water drop and "engrave" a hologram of the data into it. Now, if you split the water drop in two then both water drops will contain all the "engraved" data of the original water drop. Now then, if you use blood instead of water drops..., you'll have a whore high-capacity storage. And if, you're in a funny mood, you record the memory of Vicky Boobsleur into the blood of Queen Victoria... The joke's going to fail at two points. Queen Victoria's a simple human. Brain of a pure Homo sapiens sapiens is unable to read a hologram if it's stored in blood. The other problem is that blood isn't eternal. Your haematopoietic system continually produces the constituents of your blood because they have a very short life span. E.g. it's about four months for red blood cells. The haematopoietic system produces the constituents based on information that in stored in your genes, and those don't contain any funny hologram. Even if you can solve it that a simple human would be able to read information from a hologram of blood, and you can take some holographic blood into their bodies – e.g. by blood transfusion or dialysis with built-in hologram engraver –, you're going to lose all holograms within a few months. Except if you somehow can get your human to use the memories stored in their blood, so those can be stored into the normal, long-term memory of the brain. The keys are the reading ability and the usage of information at least once. Of course, the subject must also be willing to adopt the foreign memories. But if that succeeds, then your victim, poor Queen Victoria, will voluntarily tell you how she bustled on movie scenes next to Johnny Dikktroit. Or under. Or above. Or in front of. Or...

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

A kilometre away, the traffic stopped. A yellow painted church stood at my right. From the front, cars came periodically one by one, keeping the speed limit remarkably. From time to time, we moved slowly ahead six to seven metres. At first, I thought there was an accident before us. Then I saw the police. They had submachine guns and wore bullet-resistant vests. They checked all cars, and drivers of the bigger ones were asked to get out and open the boot. I turned on the radio, hoping it was tuned to a local station. "I was in love, You were my love, A Passing memory, Fading in time." It was a strange song. I had never heard it before. However, I knew its lyrics.

'What are you doing?' Fujiwara asked.

'Those ahead aren't traffic police. If something really extraordinary has happened, it's reported quarterly in the news. I'd like to know what it is.'

'What your daemons whisper?' Xiong's question sounded almost dully.

'I don't have daemons.'

'Everyone has daemons.'

Fujiwara reached into her pocket and adjusted something in it.

'Don't shoot anybody!' I asked.

'Mind your business!'

Police cars were flashing at both sides of the road. The driver of the A6 in front of us closed the boot, and ducking his head from the rain, got back in his car. He started and slowly went on. We were the next. I rolled up next to a police officer. He was nervous and young. A fresh graduate from the College of Policing. He waved to roll down the window. He looked in. He got surprised by the three Asian women.

'We're quality assurance auditors at Yawazami,' I told him.

Yawazami was a subsidiary of a large airbag-maker company. They were famous for their excessively explosive airbags which typically caused problems at the passenger seat. Although some say it was not a problem at all. Provided the mother-in-law was sat there.

'If you wish sir, I'll ask them to take out their passports,' I suggested accommodatingly.

'Are they Japanese?'

'Only the lady next to me.'

'She'd have come in handy last night. Go on!' he urgently waved to me to leave.

In the opposite lane, the cars' queue grew hundreds of metres. I did not see Kawaguchi's in the rearview mirror. The music faded away in the radio, short news came. "Vampire of Manwareham escaped! This morning at quarter to eight, the man, called the Vampire of Manwareham, broke out of the custody. During his interrogation, the man assaulted the assigned interpreter, bit her neck, wounded several police officers then managed to escape from the police station. The police have launched a manhunt..."

'I assume D2 is no longer actual,' I said.

'Which hospital are casualties taken to?' Fujiwara asked.

'To St Peter's. I'll stop somewhere to talk to the others.'

'No! Go to the hospital!'

'Sir Yates...'

'Do you know where he's?'

'I think I'd have a great imagination if I could answer yes to this question.'

'Then we go to the hospital! I'll guide you.'

'I know where it is.'

My head was stitched there at age fifteen. We were at a school ball. At the end of it, two girls invited me and a friend of mine to the girls dorm. We slipped in by the back door. The key was passed on to the next year by the graduates. We still had three years left but we had stolen the key from the twelfth grade at the beginning of the school year. We hid ourselves from a teacher under the staircase. When he had gone, I stood up thoughtlessly. A protruding screw carved my head. One girl examined my wound by the light of her Benefon Max mobile phone. She studied nursing. She could have been a child of rich parents, because, at that time, the majority could not afford mobile telephony. She took me to the A&E of St Peter's Hospital. The morning found us in the waiting hall with a bandaged head. Thinking hard, I could even summon her face. And her other body parts. Even the deepest as well. It is a pity I never saw this girl. I did not go to the dorm or the A&E. Although it could have been really romantic. Just not for me. But for someone else.

Brake lights were already lit in front of me for some time when I stepped on the brake. Fortunately, the ABS worked. Fujiwara swearingly asked what the fuck I was doing. I answered, I was thinking of which entrance to go to. So far I knew there were two. Now I realized there were three.

The question is why people want human-like androids. The reason is the same as in the case of the rapid spread of VHS and the stormy growth of the Internet: porn. And for an interactive version of it, that's called: sex. Among the robots built for this purpose, there were some that were so perfectly made human-like that in the 20th century nobody would have realized that they're facing a robot. X-ray, CT wouldn't have shown any difference. They could have examined their blood, they could have counted their platelet count, it would have seemed to be completely human. Of course, a deeper analysis could have spotted the cunning. For example, a DNA analysis. That would have shown a surprising result. Because DNA wasn't in them. At least not in an average hanky-panky robot. Because there were some that were built on an artificially created, human DNA base. They had just a blunder of beauty. Artificial DNA was in vain a perfect replica of the human's, the end result was not so human. The essence lacked in them: the soul. They didn't have souls. If they wanted to breathe life into them, they were forced to upload some software into them. Or to use real blood with holograms of memories. You remember? "The blood is the soul." In theory, the source of eternal life could be to move an individual's consciousness into a new body from time to time. But in reality, it doesn't work. The soul, sooner or later, takes on the characteristics of the host, so after a while, the personality changes completely. "You are what you eat." "Who is joined to a loose woman is one body with her. The two of them will become one flesh." Which isn't just about whores. Nobody can defend themselves against the influence of the host. Over time, they'll have nothing to do with the person who transplanted themselves into another body. It seems that eternal life for humans can be achieved by only metaphysical transformation. This is not mysticism. The metaphysical reality is more material than this jar of beer: Lóckert. Without a body, a soul vegetates; without a soul, a body is only a carbon-based, empty box. The point is that who moves into a fresh body will die alike as ordinary people; who live for about a hundred and twenty years – or a hundred and forty or just a hundred and five. Which doesn't prevent the government from defining the State Pension age at ninety-five years for people. Which causes some dilemmas. Because who can be considered a human? A human with modified DNA is a human. Also the ones with artificial DNA and transplanted human souls. But what about self-conscious robots who came to life and consider themselves as human? Why are they not entitled to a State Pension? All of them pass through the Turing test. Some of them have more real human tissues than some of the academics who uploaded their minds to computers in the hope of eternal life.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

I paid two pounds in the hospital for parking. The individual departments were located in separate, one or two storey buildings. I found vacant parking spaces at the left side of the A&E. There were three police cars in the main car park. We waited five minutes for Kawaguchi's arrival. They parked twenty metres away from us. Only two of them sat in the car. Kawaguchi and Min-a. They got out and started towards us, talking to each other. They stopped five metres away from us. Min-a began to explain in a wide gesticulation as if she showed Kawaguchi something about a car next to them. Meanwhile, the Commander started to talk to us. The bridge still did not work, and it turned out it would not.

'Nozomi disappeared,' Kawaguchi said coolly.

'You mean Sasaki?' Hye-jin wondered.

'She also took away the bridge.'

'Why?' Fujiwara became nervous.

'You'll ask her when she turns up. But we do the following things now. We spread out and go in the Emergency Department from different directions. Timo goes with Michelle. I and the others dress like nurses. I suggest the restrooms for this purpose. Is someone looking at the hospital database?'

'Kim and I,' Fujiwara answered. 'But it's too slow to find anything in it without the bridge.'

Both of them broke into the hospital's database from iPhones.

'Everyone stay unnoticed inside! Timo and Michelle pretend to wait. Further instruction when we find the injured police officers. Especially the bite wounds are interesting!'

'Go Timo!' said Xiong. 'Sit in there. I'll go soon. I know where you'll be.'

I had no doubt about that. There was a tracker on my ankle.

The front door opened automatically for my approach. In the lobby, an arrow pointed to the left: Accident & Emergency. I followed the direction.

In the waiting hall, people sat, waiting for control check. Water was dripping from umbrellas resting on the ground, staying in puddles on the brown stone floor. On the other side of the waiting room was a corridor leading to the right, with the door of the ambulance. A policeman stood in front of it. Another, next to me, was chatting with a nurse at the reception desk. But he kept his eyes on his environment as well. He watched me come in, contemplated me, then turned back to the nurse. I sat down close to them.

The waiting room was filled with whispering conversations; trying to be hidden, impatient tension. The people prepared their minds for the anguish of waiting long, boring hours. Though they knew they would lose their patience, they ruled themselves for the time being.

Masqueraded as medical information, advertising brochures were fanned out on the chair next to me. They gave advice on the treatment of joint and musculoskeletal injuries and bruises resulting from an accident or sprain. In addition to the known general practices, it suggested to use a certain gel too that is suitable for symptomatic treatment of venous system disorders.

Xiong came after me a few minutes later. She passed me and took a seat in front of the ambulance, opposite me.

I took out my cell phone. I did not turn it on. It was an old Nokia 6288. A slider type. It was made still at the time when the brand dominated the world. Then came the green robot wastes, and they reacted too late and incorrectly. Its saviour also wanted to play on a saturated market with a defective marketing strategy from the beginning. They died together on the platform.

The policeman at the reception desk raised a rebooted Nokia 3310 to his ear. When he ended the call, I got two pieces of information and a chest kick. I found out to where Sasaki had disappeared to and that Hye-jin's augmented intelligence did not know how to pronounce German names; and a woman stepped out from the ambulance who was the reason I was shot down in '44. All this at one time.

I knew Xiong could hear what I hear through my headset without the bridge within fifteen metres. So she could hear the policeman tell the receptionist at the desk, 'It's a crazy day today. At first, that idiot Japanese who thinks he's a vampire, and now, a female corpse is reported to be found in a pet food shop. Some sort of Chinese.' I guessed, the headset also transmits a footage of what I am seeing; so Xiong sees the woman who exits the ambulance in a bloody T-shirt, pressing gauze to her neck, while Hye-jin says, 'Three men were brought in from the police with skull, hand and leg fractures, and a neck-bitten woman. Her name is Scneeder and is now taken for a neck ultrasound scan.' And I was sure that the tracker on my ankle transmits my physiological signals; so she sensed the powerful heartbeat that kicked into my chest, getting my breath stuck.

I got tunnel vision. I saw only the woman. I perceived Xiong was looking at me but I did not care. Though Hye-jin mispronounced the name. Nikoletta Schneider. The name occurred in my files many times; probably written phonetically, with Zhongwen characters, so Hye-jin did not combine the two. She might not know many Germans. It could be the first time in her life that she had tried to pronounce such a name. She did not succeed. Hers was a small mistake. Mine was more serious. I died because of it in '44. And I realized I would again today; if I allowed it.

With a painful facial expression, Nikoletta started towards the ultrasound examiner; accompanied by a policeman and a nurse who stepped out after her. Her neck was yellowish brown from disinfectant fluid. Her blood coloured her T-shirt red. Below it, her peach-sized bosoms were slightly enlarged by a padded bra. She did not look at me. Nor notice me. As in '44. But Xiong was noticed by the policeman who was leaning on the reception desk; and on the receptionist nurse in his mind. He started towards her on a hunch, signalling with his head to his colleague at the door of the ambulance. A "Chinese" corpse is found in Central Europe on a crazy day, and on that crazy day, another Chinese enters in Emergency Department of a Central European hospital which is full of victims of a crazy Asian who thinks he is a vampire. Such things get the attention of an experienced police officer. And if that police officer does not want a just starting to get crazy day to become crazier then he checks some things because he never knows. The policeman was over thirty and did not like complications. Yet he did not reach Xiong.

A woman ran to the reception desk. She was nervous asking for help because a woman lay in the toilets. She might be dead. Some sort of Chinese. The policeman stopped. His day began to get complicated. But not as much as mine. I would have exchanged it with him. I sprang up and dashed towards the toilets.

I ran in the lobby, then straight ahead in a corridor. On its right side there were windows. On its left, two doors with pictograms: male toilets, female toilets. Door of that latter was kept half opened by an elderly woman. She was rather curious than frightened. I widened the door and went inside.

After the tiny handwashing, there was another room with two stalls. Fujiwara sat in the closer between the wall and the toilet, leaning against the wall. Her head was twisted, sideways and tilted. She wore a pink nurse dress. I reached her neck. She had no pulse. The policeman from the reception desk stopped behind me with a rumble. He saw Fujiwara's face. He saw she was "Chinese". He groaned, 'Oh, fuck you!'

I took out my warrant card, showed it to him and said, 'Oh, fuck you cos you're still here and doing nothing! Rush to the front door and don't let anyone in or out and call the others to close this shambles.'

Cries rose from the ambulance. The policeman ran out.

I reached behind Fujiwara's back to her waist, fumbling for her pistol. I tried to take it away but could not. Safety system of the weapon fixed it to her body because the biometric identifier identified me as an unknown, not authorized person. But something else recognised me.

Fujiwara's eyes turned to me; blindly, with completely wide pupils. Quiet words sounded in my headset. The thing spoke to me using Fujiwara's communication system. Adapting to the twisted position of the head, it conveyed the short message with effort and groan.

'Get out, Timo!... Three... Two...'

The 'One' caught me up at the toilet door. Which was closed. The door closer closed it when the policeman left. I clutched the handle and flung the door open. Someone stood on the other side. The edge of the door slammed into the centre of a forehead. The person crumpled without sound. I burst onto the corridor and banged the door. The hydraulic damper restrained it at halfway. White light flashed out of the gap. It glinted back from the windows into my eyes. I was blinded for some seconds. The old lady screamed.

Someone ran to me from left hand.

'What's going on? Are you OK?'

It was a frightened, female voice. Yet she gained the courage and came to help me. She might be a nurse. I did not see her, just a dark spot.

'I'm ok, look after him!'

I did not know whether a man or a woman was lying next to me. Sounds of screaming and the trample of rushing feet were heard from the right hand of the waiting room.

'What's happening here?'

'Mass hysteria. A Chinese cunt's kickin' up a storm in the ambulance.'

'But what was that great flash?'

'Maybe a short circuit.'

The figure lying on the ground groaned painfully. It was a man. I was a little relieved. The dark spot began to fade before my eyes. I saw that the man on the ground was the cop I sent away. He lay on his side. His holster was on his waist. I bent down and tugged out his weapon. I got the spare magazine too. He tried to get my hand but his motion was still uncoordinated.

'What are you doing?!' cried the woman who I could recognise now was a nurse.

I put the pistol in my jacket and quickly showed her my warrant card.

'We're one company and I'll pass his weapon down in the station. It's clear why.'

Because of the dense network of blood vessels in the head, head injuries cause spectacular bleeding. Except the crushed ones. Morsels of flesh and skin press into the ripping vessels almost tamponing them. These crushed head injuries also bleed ugly, but not nearly so much as can be done with a razor – with a single, pretty, straight, clean slit – on the face; especially if the facial artery is cut across. Such a wound quickly changes any bathroom into a slaughterhouse. The policeman's head wound was not like that. The edge of the door crushed the skin of his forehead vertically, five or six centis long, fingertip wide. The frontal bone was visible in bloody white.

'Stay with him!' I told the nurse pointing to the policeman. 'I'll go see what's going on in the foreground and send help here.'

I ran back to the waiting room. Most of the people waiting had disappeared. Only those stayed who were not able to walk. Some in nursing dresses were kneeling around a person lying on the floor; the policeman from the ambulance door. Xiong was nowhere.

I turned and hastened out of the building. I had to disappear. I did not risk that the car gateway had been closed. I walked through the park in front of the Emergency Department, going to the pedestrian gateway of the hospital. If it is locked, I notice it in time, turn back and climb over the fence. But the gateway was open. A security guard was phoning in the gate lodge. His partner excitedly listened to the conversation. They did not say anything to me when I passed them. I went out to the street. A bus stop was in front of me. Sounds of screaming sirens were heard from the right. Police cars. A bus arrived from the left. I got on it. I knew the main roads of the city would be closed within minutes. I travelled a stop and got off. The next stop would have been on the way out of the city after the last major intersection. Perhaps it had already been closed. I continued my way on foot.

After fifty metres, I turned right and crossed a gas station and a shopping plaza. For a moment, I was thinking about buying another jacket. My person description can be in the hands of the police: man, thirties, short hair, jeans, dark leather jacket, blue eyes. However, shopping takes time, even if only minutes; and my destination was just two hundred metres away. I went on till I reached a busy bypass. One hundred metres to the left, there was the intersection I wanted to avoid. A police car stood in its middle with a flashing light bar. In front of me, there was a car park at the other side of the bypass. I crossed the pedestrian crossing and went in. It belonged to a German power tool manufacturer. If I take a car away from here it will not be searched for, with some luck, before 2 o'clock in the afternoon. By then I am already in Slovakia.

In the car park, ten- to twenty-year-old cars parked. Mere scrapyard absconder and overtuned German premium brands. From the latter I did not dare to choose; they could break down at any moment. Reliably they were only capable of playing acceleration race with roaring engines from traffic light to traffic light. There were still some French products, but I needed something more reliable. And I found it. A beige Škoda Octavia. The Czech brand whose models have to be made less appealing to the Western European customers than the leading products of the German parent company. There is a dedicated team to that task in Mladá Boleslav. They have the hardest job. It is not easy to change a fundamentally good construction if the quality must be kept and yet it must herd people towards German models; otherwise the German automotive industry would crash. Ferdinand Porsche did not accidentally know how to build cars so well. The Octavia was five or six years old. Fortunately, it was not a diesel. It would have been better if it had had a less elegant colour, but I was glad that it was not equipped with a 1.2 engine. If I could, I would forbid lawfully that a car of this size be fitted with a smaller engine than two thousand cubic centimetres.

I opened the Octavia with the passkey and, taking off my jacket, sat in. The pistol got into the door's pocket, the jacket onto the ground behind the seat. I started the engine and pulled out of the car park, turning on the bypass in the opposite direction of the intersection. I went cautiously until I got out of the sight of the police then stepped on the gas.

The road led through an industrial zone for two minutes. After a left turn, I left Manwareham and another two minutes later arrived in a village. I drove farther and went through two villages in the next ten kilometres for about six minutes. Like most Hungarian roads, this was also in horrible condition. The Škoda shook through potholes. Water splashed high as the tyres hit them. The car endured the ordeals; it was a Central European product.

I headed to Slovakia; just did not know why. I can hide from the local cops, but my mates can find me by the tracker on my ankle. My mates? Funny. I have nothing to do with them. Neither for their mission. I am their captive. I cannot hide from them. They come after me even on the other side of Eris to take me back. Will they take me back? It seems that someone of them does not want anyone to return; except her. But which one? The number of options has reduced to four: Kawaguchi, Min-a, Xiong and Hye-jin. If Nyagawa's death was not an accident – and in mirror of the events, it is almost certain that it was not – then any of them could have killed her; and Fujiwara too. Who could have killed Sasaki? Xiong came last in the flat. I did not see Min-a for minutes. Hye-jin came up through the other staircase by an elevator, Kawaguchi on foot. Kawaguchi could watch Hye-jin until she stepped in the elevator. After that, however, Hye-jin could not have gone down unnoticed, because she would have run into Kawaguchi. Kawaguchi? She would be? Or Xiong, or Min-a? If only one of them will stay alive, is she the killer? Will she be the one who comes to me? Will she kill me too? No. The latter can be excluded for the time being. Fujiwara's killer incinerated her body. The incinerator was programmed. "Get out, Timo!... Three... Two..." So she does not want to kill me. But why not? It does not bother me, but what is the whole thing they pulled me in to? Sir Yates? If we came for him, why did not we start with him? We go to the police station, get him out, disappear. Only a headline would be left behind us: "UFOs at Manwareham police." And we will go back for Fortmann later. They change their makeup to a European look, and no one can ever identify them. Why did we have to start with Fortmann? More important things are arranged first in general. According to this, Fortmann was more important. Why? Whether he infected her? With what? I am infected with what? There is a foreign memory in my mind. But whose memory? And what if that is real? What if I, the official Timo Vanhanen, am just an artificial person in a body in which some fragments of memories of the previous owner are still circulating? I incarnated two years ago. If my body is a real human, then memories of the previous owner can circulate in me for up to four months. Of course, if my person was put in the body only a few hours ago, I can still believe it started two years ago. Or I may not be a simple human but a more advanced one. Then I can easily use my memories stored in a hologram and with it, the remnants of the previous owner's memories. I cannot be a robot. If I were, then I would have simply got a new brain and I would be completely clean now; free from any foreign memories. But in the 26th century there are no robots. Even the last one was slain at least one hundred and fifty years previous. Since then, only automatons are made; if it is very inevitable – even if their intelligence is somewhere between a Wurlitzer and a Las Vegas poker machine. Although I might still be a robot after all that. Well, then who am I really? The guy born in Vienna in 1978 but, at the age of two months, his mother took him to Hungary in 2000 and this was told to him only sixteen years later? Or am I just a written person in a human body? Maybe in a more modern version? Or am I a robot? It is great. This is how schizophrenia begins. I have already had voices for it. "Everyone has daemons." I also have. Occasionally they whisper to me, in the case of hearing certain information, I must hold my mouth. Robots do not need to. Though I may be made to be human-like but, in the 26th century, nobody's so stupid to make this. It was enough for them once. Four or eight billion died for it. So I am not a robot. And a more modern human? It is easy to find out.

'Hey my fairy! Where should I go?'

Nothing. There was no answer. So I am not a modern human either. Their daemons do not work in a manner that sometimes-whisper-but-mostly-rather-remain-silent. What about the written person? I might be, but in that case I was written in a slipshod way. Most likely I am who I am, whose memory has been tampered. But why? "Get out, Timo!" Someone defends me. "Someone really likes you at the Fleet." "Nobody awaits your return!" Well..., yet someone decided to give me a chance. "Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers. I thought time travellers know that novel off pat." I have never heard of Pub Tales. However, I know what it is. As well as who I am. Officially, Timo Vanhanen in who some information was uploaded to survive a situation. Because I cannot perceive this information by myself, I was infected with daemons; at least with one surely. Probably with a nerve worm which, if I hear certain expressions, tries to push the relevant information into my brain; but it is not able to read my thoughts.

Well, I become aware of myself. But not with that as to what I am doing here and where I should go. I decided to go farther towards Slovakia. Anyone who wants something from me will find me. Unless I find my mates beforehand. My real mates. Father Molodkin and his bunch on the scrapyard.

I arrived in another village. I started to watch the roadside stores. If I were a more advanced human, I could get my dress to change to another fashion, other cloth. I could even do makeup my face looks like a Bushman in an hour. But, as a simple mortal, I had to find another dress.

In the secluded villages there are no clothes shops. There are, however, second-hand shops. When I saw a signboard for one, I stopped before it. Its signboard looked as if it had been bought in a third-hand shop. I took off the headset from my ear, put it in my pocket and went inside. I bought a khaki-coloured military jacket. Because it was the only men's coat. Rural second-hand shops have a modest product range. I knew, at the Manwareham police station, my mugshot could be being made based on the footage from the security cameras of the hospital. It will soon be featured on TV, which the seller, an about fifty-year-old matron, will see. But presumably, she is only going to watch TV in the evening. If she will at all.

There was a petrol station at the beginning of the next village. Trees stood before it. I only noticed it when I passed. The Octavia's tank was about quarter full, more than enough to reach Slovakia, but there are few petrol stations in this area and the nearest one is probably at other side of the border. I stood on the brake. The police will contact Interpol still hours later, so my arrest warrant will not have been issued worldwide yet. But I wanted the police to get notification of me from Hungary, to seeing my route. I did not intend to lurk in Slovakia. I wanted the police to lose my trace there. I took out my wallet and put all the money into the pocket of my pants with the exception of two fives and a ten-pound note. I reversed.

It was a tiny petrol station with three dispensers. Next to the container house, the rain washed LPG gas cylinders. The grey clouds touched the top of the surrounding hills. I got out.

The cool clear air glided into my nose, bringing the wet smell of pine trees. The raindrops monotonously tapped the roof of the petrol station. I took out the wallet and counted the money in it well visibly. I refilled exactly for twenty pounds, down to the penny. I went into the house and said hello to the attendant behind the cash register. She was a short, plump woman in her mid-twenties with cheerful blue eyes. An ad was aired on the TV behind her. I asked her to turn it off because the advertisements annoy me. She said she wanted to watch the weather forecast.

'I'll tell you what the weather is. Rainy. And it will rain after an hour as well.'

I spoke to her with Slovak accent; which is not surprising in this area and well suited to the plan what I wanted the police to think.

The woman grudgingly turned off the television. I did not steal myself into her heart.

Chocolates, crisps and chews were on the shelves in front of the cash desk. At the left in the fridge, beside international beers, there were some local brands. And Lockert. It caught my eye. "The metaphysical reality is more material than this jar of beer: Lóckert." I paid almost with a bank card in my surprise. I gave the five- and the ten-pound notes and left hurriedly. I already knew where to go. But I had to go to Slovakia before that. Very hastily. I was sure the woman would turn the TV on again after my departure, which might show my mugshot within minutes.

The village was far bigger than I expected. I held back from speeding. Such a place can have its own police station; I did not want to be stopped because of speeding. I turned on the mobile phone. It started with a long ago heard distinctive melody. I hesitated for some seconds whom I should ring. It is not worth calling a dead person; the cops are not stupid. However, they can link me to Xiong relatively easy; we were in the same room. She was in the phone book as Michelle. I launched a call to her. A mantra greeted me "The number you have dialled is currently not available..." The automaton repeated it twice in three languages and broke the line. I pulled down onto the gravel shoulder at the end of the village. I silenced all sounds on the phone and turned it off. That was enough to leave signs for the police to figure out where I was going to go. Of course, if the phone number was registered under the name Timo Vanhanen, I have lost that identity. But this did not worry me. Father Molodkin will create another one later. It will not be the first. Though I was a little sorry. I have been using it for four years, the longest time in the last sixteen years, and became a bit part of mine. Anyway, if a cop stopped me, my face is already known. I stomped on the accelerator and was in Slovakia in twenty minutes; and less than another half of an hour later, in front of the largest ironworks in the area. From here, I continued my journey with a Japanese car; back to Manwareham. This was not my plan an hour earlier. But a bottle of beer can change many things at susceptible persons. "Lockert is not bartered!"

I had a little more than two hours to get to Manwareham before the ironworker would regain consciousness from the shock that his car had been stolen.

I was driving fifty kilometres to the west and turned south. Fifty-five kilometres later I got back to the country where an arrest warrant has been issued against me. It took seventy minutes.

I turned on the radio and tuned to a popular, nationwide station. I was in the news already. I had seriously wounded a police officer and took his weapon while my companions kidnapped the police interpreter from the hospital who had been wounded by the Vampire of Manwareham in his escape. I was linked to him and to the corpse of an unknown Far East woman found in a pet shop. The public was asked to call the police immediately if they saw me and not to try to stop me because I was armed.

I went south for another sixty kilometres before turned to northeast in the incessant rain. The splashed water thumped on the chassis as I drove through the puddles on the curvy mountain road. I was in Manwareham with fifty kilometres and three quarters of an hour later. The police could have been investigating at the scene of a double car theft at the pharmaceutical factory and at another one at the power tool manufacturer. I left the Japanese car in the car park of a housing estate. The leather jacket has been swimming in a river somewhere in Slovakia.

I took some thick, black framed sunglasses from the glove box of the car that I had borrowed at the ironworks. I removed the lenses from them and put them on my head. Under the hood of the military jacket, it was not noticeable that there were no lenses in them. I put the pistol in the jacket's outer pocket – it was quite big –, and the spare magazine in my pants'. I started to the city centre on foot.

I went on side streets, checking the insides of the parked cars. A wide water stain had spread on the jacket when I found what I was looking for; behind the rear windscreen of a car. I opened it and adopted the umbrella quickly. After two blocks, I raised it over my head, keeping it low.

It took forty-five minutes to reach my destination. "Lóckert." Except for the second letter, it could be a beer brand. Man could think it a typo. And they would be right. But not by chance, but on purpose. Because, with Hungarian pronunciation, that means: Horse Garden. Correctly written: Lókert. It refers to a pub. Or to a club. Or to a restaurant. The definition of the place depends upon the day of the week and parts of the day when the visitor goes in.

Before I went in, I went into an Arabian gyro bar. I did not intend to spend too much time in the Lókert and counted on it that I may have to leave quickly. But I wanted to eat. 5:30 a.m. was long ago. And I trusted in the Arab. He does not watch local TVs, does not listen to radios. If he hears from a police patrol that they are looking for me because of two "Chinese" corpses, then his not too heartfelt willingness to cooperate will approach zero. In fact, he will only say that I was there if there is a counter-terrorist agent, who knows him by name, will inquire at him. However, this will not happen soon.

I asked for a gyros in pita and a cola. The gyros was theoretically made of sheep. In fact it was chicken but I was happy about that now. I had not eaten earthly food for over two years now, and I did not want to knock out my stomach.

It was difficult to eat the gyros. I was more nervous than I thought. I forced some bites down my throat with cola and took the rest with me; then threw it into a litter bin next to three Sioux dressed South American buskers. They stood ensconcing themselves from the rain under a gateway. They were selling small items of the entire American continent's folklore; wearing Chinese made, plastic, war bonnets on their heads. Their pan flutes hanged in their hands. An MP3 player connected to an amplifier provided the music. The typical South American melodies smuggled atmosphere of the Andes Mountains into the street bathing in rain.

The soul isn't a mystery but a material reality. It means nothing that it can't be gripped by hand. Grab a handful of software! Tell me if you succeed! That's the problem with the mystifying of things that they daub totally ordinary things with some supernatural shit because they don't understand phenomena, the nature of a given thing. Have you ever seen a Doctor Strange movie? Why are sparkling circles needed to make a simple dimension gate? Hocus-pocus is worth nothing. It just raises the opening-time of a dimension gate by thirty percent. Bullshit. The gate's long open when you're still just whetting a sparkle-circle rain. It's time to wake up! The world, the soul is not hocus-pocus. And vice versa. There's no need to neglect something because others make a mystery play from it. Even if you don't understand it.

(Pub Tales: Database Shaun and the Ascension of the Hungarians)

The Lókert was accessed by a dark gateway. The inside of the gateway was illuminated by green, blue and purple neon lights. The unpainted stucco, applied in grey patches, stank pungent the smell of fresh plaster. The gateway went into a narrow courtyard, at the far end with a door leading to a stairwell. The walls were decorated with large colourful paintings; illustrations from some kind of storybook. Still, it was austere. It was that kind of place that takes some time to get used to – or four halves of spirits at least. At the top of the stairs, I got to the bar. It had a typical ruin pub design. Some graffiti, mostly flaking plaster, and fingerprint of work-morale of seventy years' all bricklayers and painters on the walls. The Western Europeans are fond of it. For Central Europeans, the main thing is the cheap liquor. It was almost fulfilled. I have been in cheaper place, but there the live music was provided by a so Gypsy musician – unbiddenly and not leaving though it was asked for – whose violin was only held together by medical tape; until it was finally broken apart on his shoulders. But there the liquor was served in 50 ml and – for unsavable virgins – 30 ml. However, here, it was loaded in 20 or 40 ml doses along the American blight. A young man stood behind the counter; like a living example of the necessity to fight against the junk food restaurants. His neck disappeared beneath his double chin. At the beginning of the afternoon there was no point of usage for the more attractive, and seventy kilos lighter, barmaids. I asked for a cup of coffee from him.

'May I recommend Irish whiskey to go with coffee?'

I believed he messed with me. Then I saw the daily offer on the billboard. "Jameson 4cl £1.55." The Andean music stuck in my ears and the Celtic life water hardly fitted to its mood. True, neither the Chinese war bonnets. I shrugged my shoulders. It looks like it is just such a day. Corpses and whiskey.

'Ja. Let's have me a good day. In such rain it doesn't hurt.'

'How long will it take?'

I could have disclosed that until about midnight and that by then Manwareham West would have swum, but I did not. It would have been meaningless. The information was just indirectly known by even whom it came from. And that one was not me. Déjà vu. The beauty of the foreign memory.

'It will stop once,' I said. 'In the dystopian stories it's always raining as well.'

'Is this such a dystopian day?'

He spoke slowly, as if he were thinking twice of each word and dreaming a while between them. But because of his size, he could not have been a hyperactive squirrel.

'Just ordinary. As always.'

The coffee came down that he put in front of me in a small cup; on a saucer. The whiskey glass also received a beer mat. I took them in hand and went more inside.

It was a zigzag, labyrinthine pub; or club. I could not imagine how to find the way out drunk. Xiong sat in the corner of the first cross corridor. She was sipping a cup of tea. I could recognise her only from her gaze. She was watching me above the cup at her lips. Her hair was blonde, and she got European facial features by her makeup. She lowered the cup slowly. The inevitable lipstick was red on her mouth. She stood up slowly. Her right hand was lowered in the pocket of her coat. She took the cup in her left and moved towards me. I walked into the farthest corner of the pub in a chamber that mimicked a dingy room of a flat where the time had halted at 1970. Between all sorts of old chairs, shabby armchairs, there was a long-suffering sofa in the corner in front of a coffee table and two chairs. I sat on the farthest one next to the window. Behind me, an old-school twenty-kilos television set on a stand emphasized the threadbare being of the chamber; having an indispensable dusty, crocheted doily on its top. Xiong took a seat opposite me on the sofa. She followed my movement with her eyes as I reached into my pocket. I took out my headset and placed it on my ear.

'Pass me the pistol from the right pocket of your jacket!' she commanded.

I obeyed. We were two in the chamber, but I handed it between the coffee table and the wall, holding it by its barrel.

'I think it would much facilitate our situation if you did some makeup for me,' I said.

She stowed the weapon. She sipped at her tea. She did not pull her right hand out of her pocket.

'How long has Kawaguchi been fucking you?' she asked.

Father Molodkin's said never to lie if I was caught. I should always tell the truth. Preferably in a way that it be hardly believable. My words will be checked. If I lie, I am busted swiftly. But if they see that I tell truth, my situation will be easier – hopefully.

'Was she the one who told you to make a move on me? I'm not angry at you, but you shouldn't have used emotional manipulation. It was shit of you.'

I did not answer anything. I could not. According to Father Molodkin, this is already a confession.

'I appreciate that you don't try to lie. Let's go over it and I'll forget it too. It won't be in my report.'

'To make a future report that has any impact on me, I need help now. First of all, makeup and then dress.'

'Why'd I help, Timo? You've killed three people. Should I help to kill the other three, such as me?'

'I'm afraid my possibilities are pretty limited to carry out any kind of murder.'

'You're helping Kawaguchi.'

She consistently did not use the pseudonym of the Commander. Xiong was a seasoned intelligence officer. I supposed she knew what she was doing and I adapted to her.

'In my present situation, I could hardly be of help to anyone. And, amongst us, she's the only one, beyond me, who can be excluded from the circle of the potential perpetrators.'

'By what do you base this? Apart from the emotional attachment.'

'She's the only one who couldn't kill Sasaki. According to the plan, she had to go upstairs to Fortmann, and Hye-jin with the elevator. However, I think that Hye-jin proposed, as with respect to a superior, that she'd take the stairs and Kawaguchi take the elevator. Therefore, she didn't have opportunity to dispatch Sasaki.'

'Did Kawaguchi tell you this?'

'I claim it as knowledge of the Briton military culture.'

'Hye-jin rule-following soldier. A command is a command. She never queries it.'

'She fought through the Fifteen Years' War. If she'd never queried a command, she'd be dead.'

'So would Hye-jin be the killer?'

'Or Min-a.'

'Or I.'

'Then I'd be already dead.'

'Maybe I still need you.'

'Why?'

'Why did you come here?'

'You brought me here.'

'I mean here in the Lókert.'

'Pleasant place.'

'Time travel isn't an invention of the 26th century. There're indications that it was used before, but the technical implementation was lost during the Robot Wars. Your appearance underpins the theory. Sometimes I've jumped a few decades in time but never centuries because we haven't been able to do so. Sir Yates jumps back six hundred years with a pilot machine, at about the time where your time traveling life begins. Let's say your trace is a reference point in time. But for what? At the same time, Scneeder appears, correctly Miss Schneider, another time traveller with whom you've done a few things together. Then it's revealed from the Pub Tales that it's not a collection of tales of some drunken figures but gives instructions to you. So again! What are you doing here?'

'I'm afraid the information needed to answer the question is owned by someone else.'

'I'd like you to come out with something useful if you want to get out of here alive.'

'I see.'

'No, you don't understand. Who's threatening you is not me, but the one who killed Nyagawa, Sasaki and Fujiwara. I had time to learn how to use the technology of the 21st century during the hibernation. In theory. But of the eight of us you're the only who lived in this age so is able to use it in practice too. Driving a car is not a challenge for you but it is for me. And for Hye-jin too, as well as Min-a. Commander Kawaguchi, however, can manage it well.'

'Maybe it's not the first time she's been in a time where she has opportunity to get some practice.'

'We're three out of the eight, whose auxiliary systems aren't visible. Your isn't, because you don't have. Mine isn't, because I was born genetically modified. But it was a very new method at my birth, it cost a lot. My parents are rich, they could afford it. Kawaguchi's nearly twenty years older than me. How did she get it?'

'Maybe even richer parents and experimental technology. Or make-up.'

'Experimental... I'm an officer of the counter-intelligence. My job's spotting foreign agents amongst officers of the Intelligence. They're many and some are built into the circles of the supreme leadership. There's going to be a war tomorrow. It's vital to find them. Kawaguchi doesn't use makeup and reportedly has middle-class parents.'

'And who does she work for?'

'Have you ever fucked a plastic doll, Timo?'

Artificial intelligence? There's the theory that if you put a lousy unicellular organism on a godforsaken planet and leave it alone for four billion years, then when you go back you must have a passport otherwise the Immigration Service will arrest you for illegal border crossing. Forget it fast! The problem is that you think as a human, so you're looking for something humanlike out there in the Universe. It doesn't matter if it has a froglike head and tentacles because it's sure it's built up from protein-like organic macromolecules. No. You won't find such a thing in the Milky Way. You're looking for habitable planets. But what kind of planets? Earth-like. Because you think life can evolve only on Earth-like planets. Your fantasy's pretty poor. Are you looking for the radio signals of alien civilizations? Why? Because you know just that? As if there couldn't be other communication methods just the radio wave based. This is the problem with artificial intelligence too. If you form it to be humanlike, it will become a human. But if you're open-minded and you don't form it, only give it a kick-start... The end result can be anything but never human. It can't be described what it will be like because our imagination is restricted by our human being. However, a self-developing artificial intelligence forms itself. And not the way you want it. Of course, you'll push Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics into it... Yeah... It probably works in the case of a bread slicer, but in the case of a self-sufficient artificial intelligence, it's a tutti fail. Actually, all the laws flunk already at the humanlike androids. You know what the Turing test is... When you can't decide whether you're having a conversation with a human or a robot at the other side of a "curtain". Now imagine an artificial intelligence being made perfectly human. Got it? It's so perfect that you think you're facing a man. Then think a little about how many people infringe on the Law of "Do not kill!" each day. Do you feel what I mean? People are personalities. There aren't two completely identical personalities. In addition, people develop. A Cro-Magnon man with a stone axe easily lets a 20th-century machine pass the Turing test. An aboriginal New Yorker would fail the same machine. Therefore, as people develop socially, culturally, technically and in any other way, after a while, only intelligence with individuality will be able to pass the Turing test. But individuality means being individual. And there are individuals who interpret the Law of "Do not steal!" quite peculiarly. Of course, you can say that you'll develop the perfect, human, artificial intelligence only for laboratory use for making some tests. Yeah... You know how long it will be in your lab... Dude, you can be sure that the time will come when you won't be able to distinguish humans from machines. What will you do on the day it turns out that the woman you fuck, swimming in total-love euphoria, is just a robot? Will you throw it out? Or will you throw her out? What if it turns out before your wedding that the love of your life is just a plastic doll and is so frantically good in bed because her sucking controller was coded well? Then what will you say at the Registrar? Yes-No? And these will still be human-close intelligence with built-in self-learning methods, because without that you wouldn't even have a feeble-minded android. And since they are self-learning... But they aren't which causes the real problem. But those that are designed to be independent from the first bit, letting them to build up themselves so we could see what will evolve from them. Well, you will see! It wants to develop you to be able to pass its own Turing test.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

A few seconds had elapsed until I spoke.

'I'll go and fuck apart Kawaguchi's ass. But before, I'll bite through her throat. Or perhaps after?'

'It doesn't really matter. The important thing is that you break her neck. Like in the case of traitors.'

'I need makeup.'

'What are you doing here?'

'It turns out later.'

'Why were you called here?'

'It's probably an asylum or has information on how I can get help.'

'I want to hear facts!'

'There're no facts. Exactly for avoiding such situations. If someone is captured, if they know little, can tell little.'

'The bartender's the key?'

'No way. I've never seen him, he doesn't know me.'

'He offered Irish whiskey to you.'

'Yes, it's the daily offer. I assume the distributor gives him a premium if he promotes the product in this way as well.'

'He didn't offer it to me.'

'You're a woman. Women don't drink whiskey In Central Europe.'

'Why?'

'For the same why few men drink whiskey here. It's not part of the culture. In current Europe, this is typical of just the English language area.'

'But you drink'

'I like the British.'

'The British aren't Irish.'

'I've read too many Chino Hill novels. "Whiskey is Irish."'

Xiong sipped at her tea leisurely.

'So Miss Schneider is the key. You have to meet her here.'

'Miss Schneider is not aware of my existence at this moment. She's much younger than when I met her; by at least five years. And I'm afraid, she's not in a position to decide where she's intending to go at this moment. Is she still alive?'

'How does it affect you emotionally to meet her?'

'Surprising but otherwise neutral.'

'Re-awakening deeper emotional attraction?'

'No, it never was.'

'Your file says otherwise.'

'Looking back from a distance, man sees things differently. Time makes you wiser.'

'This isn't in your file.'

I shrugged my shoulders.

'Would you still go back for her? Knowing what's going to happen?'

'Momentary decisions are made because of the moment. They can't be planned forwards. In response to the essence behind the question, I can say I'd like to know where she's now.'

'How long have Apaches live in Manwareham?'

'There are no Apaches in Manwareham.'

If you've never understood why Indians are called redskins, you can immediately understand it when seeing an Apache. They have a colour like red mud. Anyway, Apaches are not related to Apaches. They are not direct descendants of them. They are one variant of the human developed for living in space. Besides the Whales, the other major human race that has been successfully created, but unlike those, they propagate difficulty. Their gene pools are not really compatible even with each other. It is such a serious issue, that it is a little more likely that a healthy kid is born from the relationship between a classical human and an Apache than from copulation of two "Aryan" Apaches; where the "little more" means about 10–15%. However, many Apache communities are not very tolerant of the half-breed, although the half-breedity can only be determined if the parents are known. The children themselves, if they are healthy, are born with the fully Apache gene pool. What is their problem with the half-breeds? There is some mysterious bunk behind it. Amongst the miners of Saturn there were a relatively large number of North American Indians. The firsts, who had been developed for spacesuit-free life amongst the rings of Saturn, might have really been descendants of native Indians. Behind their mythology is something that the white man took their land away, so now they are taking away the white man's planets. Therefore, they try to keep their bloodlines clean, but as I said, their genes are not stable. They are like the over-bred... er... Better expression is not coming to mind..., they are like designer pets. Centuries would have to elapse before they could become genetically stable. In addition, just to get the thing more complicated, they can be organized in many sub-races. Some of them are able to temporarily get their bodies to pretend to be like stone or metal; as if they were just meteoroids. Waiting for centuries for genetic stability no one is ever able. Neither are they. It is understandable. Life cannot be stopped. Neither can they. Like other genetically engineered human races, they do not form a nation; they can be found amongst all the opposing parties of the Solar System. But like other species, they also try to separate themselves from the simple human, though they do not call themselves Apaches. They determine themselves as human and call themselves just human. Supposedly, the Whales began to call them Apaches, which then became widespread. It is a fact, it is simpler to say Apache than H5SP64.

(Pub Tales: Pt Darwin's not half pint)

We were staring at each other for a while, and then I suddenly realized what she meant.

'They're not Apaches. South American Indians. Ecuador, Bolivia, maybe Peru. But the latter's not typical. They came to Central Europe in the nineties. They've made a living by working as buskers, sold CDs with their songs until the CD as a sound storage medium died out. They were stuck here. They live better here than in a South American slum. Their clothing... well, it's deceptive. Here in Central Europe, Indian means Siouxes, Comanches, Apaches, and a bit of Mohicans. But there's no connection between these Apaches and Apaches of the 26th century. These are simple South American musicians, and it's not even sure they're actually Indians. However, this way, they can sell their dime-store stuff because of the movies. A kind of marketing. They adapt to requirements of the given culture.'

'Like the Apaches.'

'I'm afraid your problem with those you call Apaches is that they don't exactly conform to anyone.'

'Who's Wyn Yard?'

My daemon whispered the answer.

'The bard of Wales. As it's written in Pub Tales.'

'What about Louis XIV?'

Her question angered me; as Hye-jin's question as well, even on the spacecraft. Or even earlier. The question was first made by the therapist when she came out to treat me. She thawed the ice in the crater of a frosty asteroid and we sat in the water as if in a hot spring in Iceland. Deep blackness all around us, thousands of shining stars, deaf silence, and we were to the waist in the sparkling water that was evaporating "upwards". Somehow I felt it would be our last encounter. We had a light conversation, not touching any serious topic. Then she sat in my lap. I swooned. I tilted my head back and saw only the stars through the veil of the vapour slipping by. I awoke to see as her head rising up out of the water. Smiling, she brought her face closer to me. Sticky substance trickled down her cheek, and I was surprised why I became tensed when she asked what my opinion was of Louis XIV. The next day a patrol ship came and took me to the Admiralty.

'He's dead for three hundred and one years,' I replied to Xiong.

'I'm not curious about that.'

'Where's Miss Schneider?'

'I want to know what happened at Louis XIV!'

'Beyond the known story, I don't want to add more.'

I would not have been able to do even if I had been wanted. I was not there. I stood up.

'Do my makeup and go!'

'You didn't convince me why I should do it.'

'Because you need me.'

'The killer needs you for a while.'

'You're the killer.'

'Is this your conviction?'

'I give it a sixty percent chance.'

'Based on what?'

'You said the traitors' necks are broken. Well, this is what happened to Nyagawa, Fujiwara, and I suspect the same thing could have happened to Sasaki, whose body's making the pathologists wonder now.'

'They're more amazed at where she disappeared.'

'Where did she?'

'Burnt away.'

'You did it?'

'No. The one who killed her took care of it. The incinerator's not a very smart bomb. It probably felt a creature very close so didn't explode. Even a mouse is enough for it. But as soon as she was closed in the tray...'

'You have to take me back to the Admiralty.'

'You heard Kawaguchi, it doesn't have to.'

'She was informed that as the leader of the commando. Your duty is not to leave behind anyone.'

'We're waiting for now.'

'Are you bringing Schneider here?'

'I wonder who else will emerge from your past.'

'Three dozen policemen. We've been here for too long. They may track me down at anytime.'

'Why did you phone me?'

'When did you turn on your phone?'

'Why I was called?'

'Is it still turned on?'

'How tall is the Codex Roxolan?'

'What?'

Instead of a reply, Xiong turned the table on me. She slid her palm under the tabletop, lifted it and dashed against my chest. I did not have a chance against her. Her imaging capability was seven times faster than mine. Her movements were at least twice the speed of anyone else's in the 21st century. The top edge of the TV rammed in my back. By the time I came round, Xiong kicked my leg. I fell beside the TV stand, knocking my temple to the corner of a chair. Xiong threw the table on me and left through the window. Clinking pieces of glass fell down from the busting casements. The sounds of pistol-shots were heard from outside; two, quickly after each other, then two short bursts of a submachine, followed by the bangs of four or five pistols. Hands grabbed me, jerked me up and threw me through the room. I landed in front of black boots. Someone kneeled onto my back, twisted my arms, somebody else handcuffed. Two grasped at my armpits and rushingly dragged me out of the Lókert, down the stairs, through the courtyard. A dark Transporter stood in front of the gateway with an open side door. They dropped me through the door and jumped in after me. My face hit the floorpan. The engine accelerated, the Transporter surged, the door slammed with a clash. A siren began to cry over my head. They held me down on the floor and wrapped duct tape around my ankles. The headset was torn out of my ear, my head got a black bag which was fasten at my neck. They were not mild. The twine was tight. Then they frisked me and took everything out of my pockets. My captors angrily tried to find any handles in the empty cargo area. The Transporter went fast. The turbo shrilly thrust the air into the diesel engine. I slid to and fro on the plate floor at the bends. The driver did not really slow but instead pressed the gas more. The splashing puddles swept along the chassis. Not entirely after a quarter of an hour, followed by a sharp left turn, the Transporter suddenly stopped, and a few seconds later it continued its route at a moderate speed. Then after two minutes, it finally stopped. The side door pulled open. A deafening noise hit my ear, and the typical smell of industrial petroleum jabbed in my nose violently.

The Codex Roxolan. In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth, blah-blah-blah, Adam and Eve, blah-blah-blah, flood, Noah, blah-blah-blah, Babel. The people begin to build a tower that top may reach unto heaven, but, because of the still unredeemed state of the humans, it wouldn't be such a good party if it had succeeded, so God confounds the language of the people, which is why they're scattered all over the world. Some thousands of years later, man flew over the sky into space but none of them saw God up there. Now, with some common sense, you can see that no matter how tall a tower is be built, it would never in life could reach heaven. So, or the modern man looks for heaven in the wrong place, or the story is a legend. Bigoted atheists say this is the latter. Some people in the world joke that the Hungarians come from Mars. A few Hungarians are convinced that the Hungarians come from Sirius. The Codex Roxolan describes how the Hungarians went to Sirius and then came, with a detour to Mars, back to the Earth. Well, this is the point, where politics, the Mafia and Wall Street halt the history of science. No folk is fond if their myths are desecrated. The Hungarians have only one myth: the Sirius origin. They obviously do everything to conceal the evidence of the earthly origin. Some people say that the Hungarians are not afraid for their legend but know very well that the Codex Roxolan is not just a simple journey description, but a technological guide on how to build a lightweight Tower of Babel, that is, a stargate made by Copper Age tools. It can be said that's the all bullshit. But unfortunately it's a fact, regardless of whether it's believed or not, several have gone to the Kingdom of Heaven before time because of the Codex Roxolan. Unfortunately, not voluntarily and not through a stargate.

(Pub Tales: Database Shaun and the Ascension of the Hungarians)

Two grabbed me at my upper arms and tugged me out of the Transporter. They ran up iron stairs with me. My bound feet helplessly counted the steps. I was glad to be wearing 26th-century boots. They protected my legs like armour. The speed of my captors began to decrease proportionately to the distance travelled. They were tugging me up more and more in order for me not to slip out of their hands. Even so my knees, at times, were hitting the iron stairs. It was a fortune that my jeans also were not today's product. It bore more than any aramid-based bullet-resistant clothing of this age; and in contrast to them, it was stab resistant as well.

After a long, straight section, they pulled me into a soundproof room. As the door closed behind us, the noise of the chemical plant was almost completely cut off; only a dull, monotonous hum remained; and a whistling in my ear. I was pressed into an office chair. The gas spring gave me a bit of my weight; the castors, obeying the law of momentum conservation, rolled away with me. Someone cursingly grabbed for me.

The door opened. The uproar of the plant burst into to the room for a few seconds, and then became silent.

'All right, dick! Who the dick are you?'

I knew the sound. Not long ago, he served me coffee and whiskey, and I exchanged with him a few words about the relationship between weather and dystopia. I also knew where I was. In the chemical works at the town limits of Blistonderry-am-Bourne. Amongst their products, benzene was the most harmless. I spent some time here in '86 until I successfully hacked the system so that I could get fuel for my time machine.

I suspected that the question was for me, but I was having difficulty answering; a twine tightened my neck. It hurt me, and I breathed hard.

I got pistol-whipped.

'I said!' a nervous voice impelled me to answer.

'I can't breathe,' I groaned with a cough; pretending my state to be a little more serious. According to Father Molodkin, it would restrain any animal whom still had a tiny sense of humanity. It did not work in '44. But now yes. The twine was loosened on my neck, and the bag was yanked from my head.

A single yellow neon tube lit the room. Switches and gauges were on the walls in every place. I was sitting in a control room. It was about seven by five metres. A control console stood next to me – three metres long –, with dozens of switches and flickering, old, liquid crystal displays.

Besides me, there were four in the room. The bartender from the Lókert – with my driving licence in his hand – two men in vests labelled with "Police" text, and Min-a. She lay next to my chair on the floor. Her makeup did her a Europid look but something with rough force had torn up the powder on the left side of her neck; making visible the texture of her biocircuit. I recognised her by her stature. She was taller than Xiong, having a stronger body than Hye-jin. Her unclad body was covered with dozens of bruises. Her death was caused by two headshots. One of the bullets entered in slightly above her forehead, at the top of the skull, and ripped off the occipital bone at her nape. The other caught the right half of her face and departed with her left temporal bone. Not too much brain could have remained inside of her head. The blood, like dirty dark sludge, dried on her black hair. She was not killed here. The room was clean and under her head were few bloodstains. She was already dead when she was brought here and was then placed on the floor relatively gently. Her blood was not smeared anywhere.

'Then again! Who the dick are you?'

'I'm afraid I can only cite the data from the ID in your hand. I was born in Rostock in 1984...'

The punch blocked me. I got it from the left, in a wide arc, on the mandibular joint. It reassured me. If they wanted to harm me, I would have already been unconscious. It pained but nothing more; apart from the fact that I would have to be careful with chewing over the next two weeks.

'Leave the stupidity, man! Though your ID's really good, it's quite young for someone who's older than the Universe. How, cunt, is it possible?! My carbon dater goes mad from you.'

'Maybe a calendar would be simpler to use.'

The bartender hit again; quickly to the same place.

'Then I'll tell you who the dick you are. You're Jan Sikorski who personally shook hands with Louis XIV in Versailles then absorbed in London in 1943.'

I never understood why, if someone knew something better than the other, do they then ask them about it? However, some of the data listed by the bartender corresponded to the reality. Though Sikorski was my mother's name, but nobody has used their father's name since the 23th century; leastwise not officially. It was untrusted without gene matching certificates and written recognition of the biological father. Fathers at that time were hard enough to find and it went out of habit later. Mothers were more or less identifiable; insofar as the real mother of son of man was inseminated with him in a sperm bank, and she was the one who carried him and not a volunteer; or a hatcher. Though my mother was real, I have met my dad only once. Accidentally. I was five years old. Apparently he did not know what to do with me. We were playing football in the afternoon, at bedtime he read me a tale then sewed my mother down and in the morning he was already nowhere. Specifically, my mother and I went away but it neither change the point nor that I have any idea what he is called. Father. It is sure he must be called this way. How else can a father be called?

The bartender had omitted some intermediate stations from my story, but I waived to draw his attention to the deficiencies. I also overlooked the fact that I have never been to Versailles and I have never met Louis XIV. Though I knew where that bullshit came from without help of a teleprompter.

Louis XIV. This is a fuckin' big story fuck out! It's a typical example of when somebody is trying to make something outfuckingately big, but they don't check the small pieces of information which can fuck away the whole project. There was that Russian guy... Let's name him the Russian. Yeah..., it was said to me to pick him up together with a red bitch somewhere in the Krasnoyarsk area in the mid-2000s and bug with them off to where those say. I rarely work together with others; it wasn't different now either. It was said it will be an easy job. Yeah..., easy job. Famous last words. The Russian gave the space-time coordinates to the dating, but that one-headed didn't mention that he'd bring his personal guards too; eight ripped high-tower veterans from a post-Soviet counter-terrorism team. Because it's natural for him to take his gang with him everywhere. He was the only grandchild of an aluminium baron. From now on you can imagine how much familiarity he had with the real world. So, I'm in the middle of Siberia in the middle of January with a four-person machine and there are eight blood commandos in front of me plus the guy and the slut; that's ten all together. I tell him there's a problem with the maths, cos the result is faulty, so he reduces the package number, or I'm gone. He replies that either we go in one band or I won't go anywhere either and I must decide quickly cos his dear grandpappy suspects something and doesn't reward his idea and soon there'll be a greater mass gathering here and they're angry and mainly with me... I say to him to tell me where to go and when at least. He says he'll announce it on the go. I'd start to enlighten him about the load capacity of the machine and that only the livestock is five times as many as the number which was said in advance that means the multiplier is eight in case of weight and we haven't talked about luggage yet. Just alone the hand grenade chest was fifty kilos at least and there were four of them. I say only the grenades, so imagine the rest. Then one of them says "они приходят" whereupon the other lies down. I'm just watching what da fuck when I hear: poow... I realised immediately that the earlier mentioned mass isn't just arriving but already greeting us. With 7.62mm. Nowadays a bullet is faster than sound. Ergo, when you hear its voice, it means that it won't hit you. Notwithstanding this, but in a strong context, it's worth fuckingly to fling yourself to the ground or to hide, because after the first bullet, the second always comes. It's like domestic violence. After the first slap you need to run off and throw out the guy because the first slap is always followed by the second one. Always! And he'll never stop whatever he tries to deceive even himself with.

So, our man lay down, which wasn't so cool because he was the boss of the guy's bodyguards, the brain in the team. Grandpappy's bring-back-my-only-begotten-grandchild commando – in a live performance of the movie 'Saving the Russian Kid' – wasn't stupid. They knew who'd be eliminated first. But perhaps I was the target and they just mishit. Or they didn't dare risk to hit the apple of Grandpappy's eye instead of me. Either this or that, I can just rejoice in it. It's a pity that without a brain we became brainless, but one person less; which eased our takeoff mass with a hundred and twenty kilos.

Needless to say, this little intermezzo convinced me that I must run off from here, and rather like lightning than simply swiftly. We started to squeeze ourselves into the machine. By the time we were done, the team's number decreased by another two. One was mown down in the doorway, the other, before boarding, fucked a hand grenade into one of the cars they came with. I have no idea why. He didn't get back to the machine to say the reason. This, however, made my situation easier, with three hundred and sixty kilo ballast less, so I got enough space in the cockpit to get to the control stick. The machine was still a jet engined piece of junk like all the others from the scrapyard. Father Molodkin had fitted it with a primitive anti-gravitator, but it wasn't worth too much at such an overload. Where the engines didn't blow away the snow, it was still knee-deep, it wasn't possible to ground roll to gain speed for a horizontal takeoff. So I tried vertically. I pushed the throttle full. I thought the whole dumpster would fall apart by the time we finally took off. In the meantime, steel cores were bouncing on the armour. It got the bursts in plenty. Bullet marks arose starboard side of the cockpit's windscreen like splattered blowflies. It was hard to see through the glass on account of them. But finally we managed to take off; burning thirty-seven percent of our current fuel. But there and then that was my least concern. Because a combat helicopter arrived. Something Kamov. I guess, based on its coaxial rotors. What...? Those are two rotors mounted one above the other with the same axis but rotating in opposite directions. I don't have even a shot about its type. It was a thinner, single-seated. I had only seen it for a moment before it gave me bursts of machine-gun fire. It was a fortune that, as a routine, the automat started to throw decoy flares. It was good against missiles. But not against the machine gun. Neither the armour could protect against it. The Russian then puts a piece of paper in my hand, saying we should go to there. Fuck you! I wasn't even able to see where to bolt from the helicopter. The intact half of the windscreen was covered with somebody's brain, and another one's blood squirted in front of my nose onto the gauges. He got a neck shot. From a machine gun. His head pitched sideward to my elbow then into my lap. A part of his blood rhythmically pulsated onto my neck. Now read this way a crumpled piece of paper! Written by hand. In Cyrillic letters. With only one eye. Because brain bits were swimming in my other; since I didn't have time to pull my glasses from my helmet to my eyes. Fuck that! The wind whistled through the holes, smearing the whole gunge everywhere; splashing the guy's remnant blood, which still remained in him, in every direction like fine spray. I was hardly able to grasp the control stick, it was so slippery from the red slime. Sure I sent the Russian back into his mother. Approx I didn't give a fuck about anything. I was only careful to stay parallel to the ground, as far as I could remember where the ground could be, and I accelerated as only I could. But of course for how long?! How do you go above the speed of sound with a chassis with more holes in it than a sieve? I made a decision. I'd rather jump in time than be shot down here or broken apart. At most we'll die in radiation poisoning so at least we'll shine in heaven like the glory of the Lord. I could barely squeeze my hand to the time module to be able to turn it on. Meanwhile the Russian yells that I must go to where he says, shouting space-time coordinates. Do you think I understood anything he said? The engine roars, the wind rumbles, the bitch screams, the alarm systems squeal... But the voice recognition system understood what the Russian wanted. Father Molodkin had recently built it into the machine for such emergency situations when staff can't operate manually. I just activated the time module and it asked right away in my headset if I was sure of that. In two words, I told it about its whore mother's occupation, which it took as confirmation. Here then became darkness. For how long? I don't know. And there's no point in knowing either. You're travelling in time, in its some alternative dimension. One hour? Two? I didn't even know where we were going. One hundred years can be travelled within an hour; leastwise we were able to do. But then, the machine was intact. Now, there were more holes in it then on a whore's hymen. Fuckin' dark darkness. Blue white electrical discharges everywhere, flashing your eyes out from behind your clenched eyelids, and fizzling sounds of those whore discharges snapping in your ears; all of your hair rises, you feel each one of them even on your dick too (shaved pussy has an advantage) and it stings, burns like bees, like thousands of glowing needles which are fucked into you brutally by a burly hippopotamus-sized Chinese acupuncturist... Who then switches high voltages on the ends of each of them. On your bellend too... Then the wind noise disappears, the jet engine switches off, and the time rotor snorts with a deep grunting, and it just shakes and shakes, it shakes the brain water out of your head, your teeth chatter from it, steadily, uninterruptedly, quenchlessly, and you know there's something wrong because this shouldn't happen, and in every moment you think this is the end, death is here, but no, no, it just goes on and on and continues until there's a fuckin' big loud crack... It's as if the world would be torn around you... It's like you'd break through a sealed box from inside and jump out to somewhere. Into the night. The time propulsion switches off, the jet engine switches on, and you glide squawking into the July night. Somewhere above Versailles. In 1674.

I disguised the machine in a forest and I asked the Russian who the dick he really was? Because detection of objects that are made invisible by metamaterial is fuckingly not commonplace in 2037. He didn't tell me, but it partly transpired out of his plan. The Russian was actually a woman. Mostly a woman. She was born with a chromosomal disorder, nothing can be done with it. Instead of XY sex chromosomes pair, she had XXXY. I noticed that something wasn't right with him but I thought he had tits because he'd overdone the soy milk. She wanted for Louis XIV to get her up the duff. Because such a heavenly kingdom it would be to get a kid directly from the Sun King! From the chap who bragged about having bathed twice in his life. That isn't bad, is it? The guy didn't have a high water bill. Even if that's fake, it's a fact that our Louis really reeked like the rotting carrion of a weasel; the first small thing in the plan, that its designer forgot to take into account. What ya think? How will a twenty-anythingth-century jane cope with that? And how will she be able to get close to a medieval king and seduce him? Because my sweetheart imagined a romantic intercourse. All that with a so modern French language knowledge whose pronunciation wasn't even a greeting relationship with that spoken by our Louis. Somebody really misled my poor dear about this case. And beyond those, to expect the guy who has already sewn down half of the female population of France will be excited by a bitch who has balls? Of course, the whole project failed; albeit my favourite navigator laboured for its success for half a year. Father Molodkin's sent him after us to take us somehow back. I've worked with him a few times before. Good boy, just don't let him near whiskey!

For some reason, the slut, who was with the Russian, was also actively working on the success of the Russian's plan. And the navigator really fancied the slut... Together they achieved getting the navigator personally acquainted with Louis XIV. It may even have been fruitful, only the whiskey wouldn't have been... And the route to the whiskey. Through Madame de Ludres... The slut was not only a little bit nervous. But let's leave this story in the darkness of the past.

The point is, the navigator welded my machine so much that we could go back to 1986. Fuel was enough only to there. The navigator buckled down to obtain gas in our machines in the vicinity of Manwareham. And produce some time to be able to go back to the scrapyard. Meanwhile, the Russian planned a plan B. She'll establish a Central European dynasty. She was successful. I still don't want to know the how since then. First and foremost, because her grandfather's men appeared and, making the thing more complicated, the local authorities got excited by us. Because of this, the Russian has lost another two bodyguards. No. Just one. The other left us while at Louis. Rest in peace. The navigator and I divided into two. I drifted one more turn with the Russian and her gang back in time until '62, and he bugged out with the slut. We discussed to meet on the scrapyard. But by the time I got back, there hadn't already been the scrapyard. Or yet? When does a simple time traveller drink their yesterday's beer? And when did they drink the tomorrow's?

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

'What did you do with Louis XIV?' the bartender continued with the favourite question of the day.

My brain water boiled. I felt like a pocket thief who, when caught, was accused of shooting down Kennedy. But I knew Louis only from history books. It was even more disturbing that the Pub Tales storyteller could not return to the scrapyard. Basically none of us could. It was hidden in time. If we came from there, then before homecoming, we contacted them, and they sent the code necessary to return. Did they give false data to the storyteller intentionally? Or did something really happen to them? Or could it just be a big lie like the rest of his stories?

The bartender stepped to the control panel. There was a backpack on it which kids use as a school bag. He put my licence in it and took out Xiong's iPhone. He turned it to me. It was turned on.

'What do you think, why your girlfriend betrayed you? Does she sacrifice you for her escape? Or she wants to use you like bait?'

He dropped the iPhone to the ground, picked up a chair and dashed it against it. The plastic castor broke into pieces; flying everywhere in the room. The metal peg pierced the phone. He reached in the backpack again and pulled out the pistol that I had taken from the cop. He disengaged it, cocked and aimed at me.

'Speak!'

I glanced at Min-a's body.

'That wasn't we,' said the bartender. 'She was dead when we found her. Whoever killed her used her as a shield.'

'What did they look like?'

'I don't know. Who saw them died.'

'If you really want to know what I did with Louis XIV, why are you holding the gun to me?'

The door of the control room opened. A loud roar filled the place. The woman came in, the Pub Tales' Russian. Over the years, she'd built considerable muscle mass. The bartender lowered the pistol. I saw as he engaged it with his thumb. The Russian did not speak, just looked. I did not speak either.

'Look at my goodwill!' said the bartender. 'I'm taking off your tracker! Don't kick me because I'll kill you!'

He crouched in front of me. He cut the duct tape with a knife at my ankle and took the boot off of my right foot. From his pocket, he pulled out a matchbox-sized instrument.

'I don't know how much it will explode,' I warned. 'Perhaps it would be better not to fiddle with it.'

He did not care what I said. The instrument was touched to the chain. My pulse leapt into the heavens. It is not everyday that a man watches live as his ankle explodes down off his leg. The chain opened voicelessly and slid to the ground. The bartender pulled the boot back onto my foot. The shoelace tied itself. The bartender tossed the chain into the backpack in a negligent motion.

'It doesn't broadcast any signal anymore. You're free.'

This was somewhat contradicted by the fact that my hand was still handcuffed from behind. A photo appeared in the bartender's hand. He held it in front of my eyes.

'It's Nikoletta Schneider, isn't it?'

The photo was taken from a typical 17th-century baroque style painting. It depicted the construction of the Tower of Babel. In the foreground with Louis XIV and Nikoletta. It was an interesting picture. Three dimensional.

'No, it's not her,' I replied angrily.

'Why?'

'Because it's a couple of years older than the woman who's in this present age.'

'She's the Red Bitch.'

'No, it's not her either. Her hair's not natural red hair but coloured. You can ascertain it if you examine it better.'

'The Red Bitch colours her hair because she's originally blonde.'

'Who's here has brown hair.'

'The Red Bitch is different in every age. Now, she's a brown-haired who colours it red.'

'It's not painted, natural brown now.'

'Now. And later?'

'There's no later, it is now.'

'Because the Red Bitch has to be born. That's right?'

'Did you really bring me here to talk about tales?'

'I need time.'

'Still haven't you figured out why you brought me here?'

He looked at me uncomprehendingly.

'I need time,' he repeated slowly.

I also looked at him uncomprehendingly.

'What for?' I asked.

'Just produce it!'

The penny suddenly dropped. I realized what he wanted me to do.

'You want the impossible. It needs tools that aren't available in the 21st century.'

'You've already done it once.'

'It took weeks. I had to build a complete system. I had to subdue the whole factory under my control, all this unnoticed.'

'We're in that room.'

'But not in that time segment. What I did at that time, hasn't arrived here yet. Its effects can be around 1990; assuming you synchronise to my 1986, to my entry point in time.'

'You can portion time.'

'If you give me a thousand or ten thousand years in a flask, I portion it into seconds. But add the appropriate equipment as well, because it's not here!'

'All right. But if you don't succeed, you won't get out alive!'

'Can I also take the other meaning of the sentence as a promise?'

He looked at me more uncomprehendingly than seconds ago. I would have wondered how much time he had studied in Hungarian, but I would not have asked him even if the door had not burst open. It is a basic thing that one does not ask indiscreet questions when there are gunmen in front of him and his hands are handcuffed.

The door almost tore from its frame and a giant appeared in it. The fake cops were quick. But the bartender was even quicker. They had time to pull their pistols, but they could not aim at the shape that squeezed through the door. The bartender jumped to the one who was the closest to him, and twisting his shoulders, thrust him to the other. His weapon fired. My ears did not tingle from the bang because the howling noise of the factory, rushing into the room, suppressed it. From me to the left on the wall, a measuring instrument exploded. The giant just pushed his way into the room, pulling someone behind him. By the time he reached the centre of the room, the two fake cops lay unconscious on the floor. The Russian slammed the door. It became silent.

Nobody spoke. Verbally. Their gestures and mimics, however, portrayed that they were speaking fiercely with each other. Briefly, concisely, sticking to the point. About why the fuck the giant had come here and why the fuck he had brought the Chinese with him. The silence was broken by the afore mentioned Chinese. He asked the same questions just in Mandarin. Although I did not speak that dialect of Chinese, but since Solaris, in addition to English and Hindi, was largely based on that, I understood certain key words despite the dialect that he used was very far from that which I knew. In prison, one quickly learns the words that are indispensable for a trouble-free existence.

Do you think racism is the white men's privilege? The refutation of this become quite obvious during the Shawl War. But the races have always mixed with each other. Initially, those for whom it was not a problem. Later there was no other choice; the Robot War came. There, my laddiebuck, who did not mix, died out. Skin colour no longer mattered, only life which became more important than the supremacy theory. By the end of the war, mankind became so mixed genetically that everyone could be classified as the same race. The formation of a unified language was even faster. The process started long before the outswarming in the Solar System. English as a common ground has given itself. It is simple, not complicated, spread all over the world, spoken everywhere. People are adaptable. As is language too. It did not take a hundred years, and Solaris became exclusive. Hindi, Mandarin, some Romance and Russian are built on a strong English fundament. Which did not mean they could easily understand each other. A local dialect quickly develops within a small community, which the outsider has to get used to understanding. There are far greater distances in the Solar System than on the Earth. The unified Solaris began to fragment into local dialects as quickly as it evolved; Martian, Saturnian, Jupiterian, Uranian... and many smaller dialects within those. Only Saturn has eighty-two moons; I mean, according to present knowledge. By the time the Great Swarm began, when mankind started to leave the Solar System, understanding the various Solaris dialects was almost impossible without simultaneous interpretation. Of course, everyone had a built-in interpreter by then. By the end of the Great Swarm, the individual Solaris versions were common only in their names. But also mankind had divided into new races by then; often genetically incompatible. So mankind's race-language unit lasted for three to four hundred years and then ceased. Permanently? Or just for a very long time? I don't know. I was not there. It was just told to me.

(Pub Tales: Pt Darwin's not half pint)

The Chinese was about forty. I inferred, so to say based on his word usage, that he was born still in the 20th century. But in fact, to that assumption, it was enough that he persisted with verbal communication. At first in Chinese, then in Russian. He was mentioning, between two F-words, a certain Wong. He claimed he would not be happy and was already not happy even now. No one listened to him. All he could manage was that the giant released his hair – where he had been holding him so far – and pushed him to the floor, stepping on his neck. The Chinese gave up the enquiry as he started to struggle to avoid his throat being crushed. It was not so easy considering the giant was a Whale. Even if he was small and had perfect makeup. With a small mistake. It was unable to conceal the physical dimensions of its wearer.

I did not see many Whales and they were, without exception, average-height women – around two hundred forty centimetres and one hundred eighty kilograms. According to statistics, an average Whale man was ten percent higher and twenty percent heavier. This man was more than ten percent lower than an average Whale woman. About two hundred and ten centimetres; with proportionate weight. He was a dwarf amongst Whales. He was present in the room mostly physically. His gaze was like as if a curtain had been drawn in front of his eyes. Like a man roused from a deep sleep at night, one can talk to him, but he does not remember anything in the morning. He seemed to be drugged. For the first time in my life I saw a male Whale. A dwarf Whale. Who suffered from starsickness. It was not difficult to figure out. Children's educational books also talk about it.

Do you know what mattak is? Frozen whale skin and fat. The Whales say that the Apaches look at them as such. They claim that the Apaches slaughter and eat the wandering Whales. Whales are one of the two most successful genome-modified spaceman breeds. Whereas the Apaches were mainly bred to live amongst the rings of Saturn, the Whales were created on interplanetary, beyond Neptune. Like any newly created species, the Whales suffer from illnesses that are unknown to us. Well, they're suffering mostly just from one, starsickness. They can get it at any time during their lifetime, even more than once. Have you ever felt homesick? The Whales feel starsick. If it catches them, they go insane, like that of a hound on a scent, and go far away to somewhere. No one knows where. They say to the stars because the stars are their home. The star world. But exactly where? They don't know either. Anyone who could tell, has not come back. Attempts were made to track them, but unavailingly so far. Each of them disappeared in deep space. No bro! Deep space begins not after the Moon, but on the other side of the Oort cloud, at the big fucking nothing. A greater than that, it is just between two galaxies. There is even more greater nothing just between galaxy clusters. Or rather there is not. Because as I said, there is nothing there. There is not even a stray hydrogen atom per cubic light year. Some say that the Whales are able to cross even that. Of course, there is no proof. How could there be? Who could not overcome their starsickness went away and did not come back. Who overcame does not remember anything, and even does not want to, or else they would go away again. They do not call this state in such an esoteric way, they call it homesick. They think this is more talkative and everyone understands it. If a Whale is locked up, which suffers from starsickness, so that it cannot wander off, it will die. They get well by themselves or not at all. They disappear into the star ocean or die homesick.

(Pub Tales: Pt Darwin's not half pint)

The bartender stuck my headset onto my ear. It sat on solidly. If not a human hand wanted to remove it deliberately, it would only be possible to explode it off with a hand grenade.

'You have ten minutes to give me time!' said the bartender in Solaris.

Not leaving time to the question from what, he threw his pistol on the control panel, and behind me, from the end of the table, pulled out a crate. So far it was disguised by metamaterial, it was not visible. The bartender could hardly move it. He opened its top. I stood up and stepped to it. Spider silk cotton covered its inside. The bartender pulled it aside and I saw it.

'Where did you get it from?' I asked.

There was the last module of a time distiller in the crate. A dispenser. It was mine. I recognised it. I used it on the scrapyard.

'Our agents got it from a Neptunian warehouse.'

'How?'

'There's no time for this.'

'Who are you?'

'Do it!'

My tracker. "Only Midshipman Xiong can remove it on my order or the Justice Officer at the Admiralty."

'What about the others?'

'I dunno! Do it!'

Emphasising his command, he picked up one of the fake cops' pistol and aimed at me. It had a typical rectangular slide. I looked into the barrel. It was dark. Nine millimetres. Maybe a Glock 17.

'My hands are tied.'

He held the pistol in his right hand; outstretched, straight. He wrote a tiny circle with the pistol's barrel. I turned around, looked in the crate. Oom Ilya taught me the process of time-distillation. The handcuff came off my hand. I rummaged in the cotton. My hand touched a polygonal cylinder. I took it out. I unscrewed its lid. I pulled out the padding and dropped the underneath ampoule into my palm. Its sight did not surprise me. Whoever had brought it from the scrapyard, it was practically the only time-ampoule in the crate that they could have brought. It was my masterpiece. I made it at the age of nineteen. When Oom Ilya saw it, he said I was a dick. Exactly, "You're a big dick my dear son." People can learn almost anything. Especially if they have what it takes. I was good at chemistry. I compressed seventeen million years into a five-millilitre ampoule.

I fumbled about in the inside of the crate. I found the buckles. I released them and turned the side of the crate downwards. I knelt on it. I took the cotton out of the dispenser to make it free. One of the fake cops moaned. There was a thump, then there was silence.

'Who are they?' I asked.

'No matter.'

'Locals? Time point of view.'

'Yes.'

'If there'll be any further matter with them, neither of us will get out of here alive.'

'A signal has already gone to the centre about the malfunction of the shot instrument. Repairmen will be here within twenty minutes to check it. But we don't have so much time. There are dangerous people around us. If you're worried about them, then do it! You have eight minutes!'

I unbarred the dispenser.

'Why don't you make yourself invisible?'

'Do it!'

'Seventeen million years are in my hand.'

'If you worry for two local gangsters, you'll worry for three hundred thousand too.'

'It's enough if I release a thousand years.'

The pistol was pressed against my nape.

'Think of the repairmen!'

I fixed the ampoule into the dispenser.

'Who else is here?'

'No questions!'

'May I ask, if you don't mind, how much time do you need?'

Short silence.

'Six hundred and fourteen.'

He did not answer fast enough.

'Anything else? Hours, minutes, seconds?'

'Six hundred and fourteen years and that's all.'

It did not matter how much time I put into his hand. He did not need it. He just tested me. Only he knew its cause.

I took another, smooth-sided, cylinder out of the crate. I opened it. Empty ampoules were in it. I fixed one in the outlet of the dispenser.

They did not make themselves invisible because the technology would become usable in the 22th century. And with it, tools have been developed that reveal the things that are hidden with it. Offensive weapons – defensive weapons. They go hand in hand. At times, one is ahead of the other. Then the other overtakes. Then it starts again. So there is someone here who can see through the metamaterial. They may be able to detect time loss as well, a hole in time. And for such a person, there is nothing more conspicuous than if an invisible figure appears. Especially, if they walk in a team.

'So here, we're from the Fleet, the Chinese secret service from local time, Sir Yates behind me in the corner masked as the Russian, and who else?'

If there had been a hammer on the Glock, then now, it would have been pulled back with a firm click. But there was not. At this time, Glocks were made with striker fired system. So the pistol was pressed even more to my nape and a hand grasped my head. I unlocked the dispenser.

'I'm trying to stay calm,' I said. 'Get your hands off my head, because if a droplet drips out... Do you know what just fifty years can do?'

'I've seen.'

I did not. I just read in the next day's news. I did not go back to the scrapyard immediately. I said to Izabela that if she slipped out the next day too, I would take her to Trafalgar Square for an ice cream. She had never been there, though she was an inhabitant of London. She said she did not believe she would succeed, four times in a row it was difficult to do it. Her hair was brown, but she dyed it blonde. The sunlight gave it an interesting reddish tinge; if the light could reach her under the arcade and she just took off the shawl for a few moments. She had brown eyes; naughty almond. And thin, drawn eyebrows. Her parents were Polish. She talked a lot, about many things. I loved listening to her. She said it was good to talk with me. Mostly I did not speak. I liked her voice. She said I should rather go home. She went back to the palace, and I stayed for another night hoping she might come the next day. I spent the night in the machine. I lied to Punker Georgy that there was a problem with the auxiliary time-dispenser and that I would fix it at night. Or not later than the next afternoon. Punker Georgy did not believe me but did not contradict. We were safe. There were peaceful days thereabouts at that time. I had met Izabela twice before. It was four days for her, a week for me. I delivered time for her. I had made it to order on the scrapyard. I delivered the three doses in three instalments. The last dose was quite tiny. Like a poppy seed. Anyone could have pushed it amongst their own teeth with their tongue. Or into somebody else's. I was more proud of it than my masterpiece. I compressed fifteen thousand years into it. I was kidding with Izabella, saying be careful not to bite it, because there were no Botox that would then be able to smooth her wrinkles. She was an agent of the Croydon Resistance. She served in the harem of the Tetrarch of Westminster – as a concubine. Of course, not officially. The tetrarch had only wives. Two. And he was ready to marry to a third – a daughter of a Nubian viceroy. I waited for Izabela in vain the next day, she did not come. She never came again. I saw what happened on the screen at Piccadilly. A time bomb was blasted in the palace of the Tetrarch of Westminster. Only the crumbling bones of the Tetrarch were found. And twenty-four senior advisers'. But which one belonged to who? They could not be identified by their mitochondrial DNA either. In the Middle East, riots broke out. The embassies of the Faroe Islands and Greenland were burnt down. And a bakery in Aleppo. There were twelve dead there. The USA put its Army at the highest state of readiness. In response, Mexico launched a pre-emptive strike. Its Texan troops liberated Oklahoma and Kansas. They marched from California through Oregon to Seattle. The siege of Vancouver began. To stop them, Washington wanted to use nuclear weapons but they could not. The launch codes were at the Tetrarch of Westminster. Together with him, also the codes perished. Izabela was sixteen. I was nineteen.

I pumped six hundred and fourteen years from the full ampoule into the empty one. I mixed some water too into it from the atmosphere; for nothing else just to make the outcome more spectacular. The process did not take five minutes. In such small quantities into a standard container, not the number of years determined the time of the process, but itself the procedural protocol. A year or a thousand, into a five-millilitre ampoule, lasted for five minutes. Squeezing seventeen million into it lasted for almost six hours.

I stood up and held the ampoule in front of the bartender.

'Six hundred and fourteen years. As you asked,' I said.

He stepped back a bit. He stretched his free hand towards the ampoule but did not touch it.

'It's more than three thousand years.'

'Eight. In fact, eight years. I'm afraid you're looking the age of the outer surface of the ampule, which can be eight years old. I suppose it was journeyed in time a couple of times. This and that deposited onto it during the journeys. You see the age of those now. There are six hundred fourteen years inside of the ampoule and in response to the question that you haven't asked yet, I'd say that you have two options, under the present circumstances, to check this. One, you believe me. The other, you open it. Because you said that you've already seen what will happen then, you won't do it in your own interest.'

The pistol continued to be aimed at my head. I was watching the bartender. If he presses the trigger, I will never know it. Well, actually I will know it, when I stand in front of a guy who died two thousand years ago but resurrected for the third day. Assuming I will stand in front of him. I would have hoped that yes. But I was more interested in what happened to the scrapyard. I did not deal with any other woman after Izabela for four years. I did not know her, there was nothing between us, however, it shook me. I knew the scrapyarders. They also paid for the next whore for me. Three days later, I freed her dead body from a police lockup. I dug her grave for four hours. I did not know what name I could write on her wooden cross. I did not know her; we had met only that weekend. Finally I scratched on it: Mirinda. She told me to call her this way; based on the soft drink which was in her hand when I was taken up to her and shoved through her door. Then I went back to the dawn when she was apprehended. I brought her before the arrival of the police and took her to a Greenland refugee camp. But her grave is still there. And it will be there while time does not bury it. What's more. Even beyond. The information remains. It is in my head. I remember it. Déjà vu. The story is precise to the cross. But I did not go back for her. It was not easy to bring her body along. That was the first time that I fired an aimed shot on someone. My knee was damaged, I could hardly run; and whom I shot, stood up. It was a vice officer and was shot in stomach. It took weeks until I was able to walk normally again. Meanwhile, I was calculating which timepoint of that day I would return to. I got the necessary data but the results of the Schrödinger-Böselager equations were odd. As if her death had not happened. There were six hours of rough deviation in the events. If the police had not found anyone in her flat, they would not have taken anybody, no one would have been beaten to death in custody. Hours later, the next dataset showed another deviation. Plus one hour changed in that time segment and the process, although much slower, progressed forwards. Someone intervened, that was clear. But at the same time they accelerated the spread of the past forwards in time. The past rolled over a timepoint, smoothed into the future and rewrote the events between the two. It seemed as if a wave struck over the dam, and what was on the dam was swept away, on the other side it calmed down and smoothed. A total of eight hours changed. Her grave remained. And her memory. I still have the scar from the iron pipe which was hit to my knee. Information is not lost.

'Let's go!' said the bartender.

He took the ampoule from my hand and, lowering the pistol, put it in his pocket. He took something else out of his pocket and threw it into the crate. I guessed what it was. I turned to the crate, took my masterpiece from the dispenser and put it in the polygonal cylinder.

'What ya doin'?'

'I think we both think that it'd be irresponsible to explode almost seventeen million years in this room.'

I picked up the pistol of one of the fake cops from the ground and the real police officer's from the control panel. I was careful to hold both of them at the barrels. Together with the cylinder, I put them in the backpack; which I put on my back.

'We can go,' I said.

The Russian hitched the Chinese up from the floor. He twisted one of his hand from behind to his neck in a workmanlike manner. The Whale picked up the two unconscious fake cops. The bartender bent above Min-a. He touched a pen-like tube to her stomach and shot into her. There was a small hole on Min-a's stomach. But it did not bother her anymore.

The bartender tucked the metamaterial into the crate. He fastened its side and closed its top. Then he waved me to go ahead. I opened the door.

We could be four storeys high. Fractionating columns pointed skywards. There was a jungle of piping systems around us everywhere. It was four hours back until sunset, but the dark grey of the solid rain clouds covered the countryside in early twilight. The roar of the cracker furnaces and turbo compressors mercilessly pressed against my eardrums. I plugged my ears with my thumbs. The others did not have such a problem. They were able to control the strength of the sound going into their ears. Or were unconscious. Or was more engaged in finding such a body position that less pained his arm being twisted to his nape.

The bartender was the last who came out. He closed the door and I knew Min-a's body and the time dispenser were destroyed at that moment. I headed down the stairs.

Under the stairs, the Transporter stood. The Russian pulled out its side door and forced the Chinese in. There were two other bound compatriots lying there and two Europeans in a similar state. I guessed the latter belonged to those who brought me here. The Whale pushed in the other two beside them then locked the side door.

A Chinese man in a suit stepped out from the cover of the pipe system. An orange earmuff was on his head. And a submachine gun in his hand – a Chinese copy of Heckler and Koch's MP5. He did not aim at anyone of us. He signalled with his head that we should look around. Armed Chinese stepped from amongst the pipes. Three by three from right and left. Some were in suits, some in work clothes. I looked back. Fifteen metres away from us, stood six. And the same number on the iron scaffolds. Each of them had the same kind of MP5 style submachine guns. We were surrounded. The bartender raised his hand slowly. He pointed with his finger to the Chinese person's chest, signalling for him to look there. The red dot of a sight appeared on him. Then he motioned him to look around now. The red dots appeared on each of them, but in threes. The bartender waved to them to put their weapons down to the ground and move back. The Chinese hesitated for a few seconds, then placed his submachine on the ground and moved back. The others followed his example. Suddenly, the bartender and the Russian rolled sideways. The Whale did the same. A hole formed in the side window of the Transporter. We were shot.

The Chinese leapt to their weapons. I under the Transporter. Adrenaline exploded into my bloodstream. At the other side of the Transporter, a Chinese man fell to his back; next to me, one metre away. He was dead. I turned my head in the opposite direction. The bartender and the Russian were nowhere. The Whale was sitting on the concrete in a water puddle. He was looking at his palm in wonder. Then his right upper arm. His palm was bloody. The puddle splashed up next to him. But not because of raindrops. The whale did not care about it. He looked back from his upper arm at his palm. The bartender appeared. He ran to the Whale. He tried to drag him in my direction.

There was nothing to hear in the rumbling sounds of the machines. I turned to the Chinese man next to me. His weapon lay between us. I quickly crept out of the Transporter. I had to be cautious lest my backpack get caught on something. Fortunately, there was hardly anything in it. With my left hand I picked up the Chinese's weapon and rushed amongst the piping system. I ran in its cover. Not for long.

From behind a pipe, someone turned in front of me and shot in my chest. He was suited and Chinese. A flash in the gloom and I felt the hits. He could be two metres away from me. The blood froze in me. I thought my lungs would burst out of me. But the momentum carried me farther. Instinctively, I twisted myself a little to the left to avoid the next shot. I rather just guessed as it buzzed past me. My left hand swung in a semicircle. The stock of the MP5 clone impacted to the Chinese's face. It is a lightweight, hardly forty decas plastic. The whole weapon is not seventy centis long. I held it by the handguard. The ribs of the buttplate barely damaged the skin. It was enough that he got his head aside. But to that, it was perfectly enough. I twisted my body farther, swivelling the weapon in my hand. My left hand held the handguard from underneath. My right hand closed over the pistol grip and my index finger touched the trigger. And here, maybe for a glint of a second, I halted. The Chinese was turning to me. Like a flash. But why should I shoot him down? From his point of view, here, I am the bad guy; even if he is a member of the Chinese Mafia or the secret service – or both. Live and let live. The two make sense together. European civilization crashed because it let prevail only the principle of let live. I did not desire to go the same way. But there was a tiny thing to consider. If there is steel core ammunition in the submachine gun, then I am going to shoot him through from this distance. And who knows what pipe I will tap behind him? We were in a petrochemical plant. If something goes awry here, it can pop big. Very big. Of course, there are built-in security tools. In '86, however, I almost managed to get this factory into heaven; when I hacked the system, an outlet pipe cracked right at an ethane tank. It was German technology. And the Germans already knew the concept of cost reduction at that time. They placed an emergency shutdown valve outside the tank by only 30 centimetres. It worked as designed; closed. So the liquid ethane did not spill from the section after that. But it poured out of the tank; unimpededly. The vapour of liquid ethane is heavier than air. It slowly flowed towards a pipeline a hundred metres away, which glowed dark from high pressure. Blistonderry-am-Bourne was saved that day because God had mercy on it and turned the dominant wind direction so it blew ethane away from the pipeline; until a rescue team stopped the leak. I was not convinced that I would be in such a good relationship with God. I pressed the trigger.

Delon taught me if I needed to pull a gun out quickly then I did not aim. I just place two shots between the attacker's neck and balls, or pussy, preferably midway between the two boundaries. Fast. Without thought. If they still move then I will aim. For the head. Twice.

The Chinese was still turning to me when I shot. The buttstock was pulled into the pocket of his shoulder, the muzzle was almost in one line with me. I did not aim. I was just careful not to shoot into the middle of his chest. I was lucky. So was he. Roughly.

Some MP5 types have three selective fire options; besides the safe setting. Single shot, three-round burst, and fully automatic. What was in my hand was set to three-round burst. Within two tenths of a second, it fired three bullets. The first one shot through the Chinese's wrist and bored into the rightmost side of his chest. The second one hit in his shoulder and, skidding on the shoulder blade, exited through his back. The third flew into the faraway.

The Chinese stopped and wobbled. I kicked the weapon out of his hand and ran on. I was hoping Blistonderry-am-Bourne still got on well with God.

My hope lasted until I realized I was shot. Fright flooded me. It bit into my heart and I thought it strangled me. I had to stop. I jumped behind a pipe and groped myself. It was hard to believe I was still alive. Very hard. At my heart, there were three holes on my jacket. I put my index finger in it, frantically looking for the holes in my body, but I only felt my T-shirt. Then it popped to my mind that this T-shirt on me was of 26th-century clothing. Ordinary space clothing. It is bullet-resistant in 21st-century conditions. That explained the bruises on Min-a's body. She was not beaten up. "She was dead when we found her. Whoever killed her used her as a shield." I was relieved. Then I regretted flinging my leather jacket into the river; it was the same material just set for other fashion. I could have changed the fashion of this too – if I had had an interface to do that – but what made me sad about the previous one was not its look; two layers on top of each other are worth more than one. I ran farther.

I got out of the unit of the plant. There was another unit in front of me. Beside it, there was a truck park; with tanker trailers and two trucks. There was no trailer attached to one.

I holed up under an iron stair. I took the backpack off and delved into it. I searched for the passkey. It was in it. I took it out and sprinted to the freestanding truck. The key opened it immediately.

I climbed into the cab. I placed the submachine gun between the two seats; so that the muzzle did not look at me. I started the truck and turned out of the park to an industrial road. I knew the way to the exit. The structure of a factory does not change from one day to the next.
Almost in front of me, the windscreen was holed with a knock. I was shot. Someone was running towards me from the front. His orange earmuffs almost lit in the greyness. I stepped onto the gas. The engine revved up and I bent to the side in the seat.

Industrial roads are straight and intersect at right angles. I was not afraid that I would hit anything. I remained bending sideways for a few seconds and then straightened up. A curtain of rain covered the windscreen. I turned on the wiper. Water drops began to trickle in through the hole on the windscreen.

According to the traffic signs, it would have been allowed to go up to thirty kilometres per hour. Within seconds, I was sweeping at hundred and thirty. I had to trample on the brake only four times; before I wanted to turn. It was a little cumbersome. Because of the backpack I could not normally sit in the seat. The tyres cried as they tried to cling to the wet asphalt. Sometimes they did not manage it. The rear of the truck bounced on the curbs that lined the road. Next to them, rattling gravel sprayed up everywhere as I accelerated again. I saw the exit before me. And flashing red lights; below them was a board. I could not read it, nor wanted to. The same text was on it since 1986:

DANGER

Explosion Risk

If the lamp is red, stop and switch off engine!

Turn off all electrical devices!

I did not stop but braked. The last two bends came. A rectangular left then instantly another right. I turned the steering wheel slightly to the left and released the brake. The curb jolted the truck hard. Behind it, the vehicle almost slid over the wet grass, ploughing up the lawn. Dirt clods flew into the air. A few seconds later the truck jolted again as it bumped over the next curb. I cut through the bends and got back to the roadway.

I prodded the gas. The muddy wheels spun. The back of the truck moved to the right. I got off the gas as well as counter-steered. The lowered barrier of the gate was in front of me. I rushed towards it skiddingly. To the right, there was a porters' lodge; with people in it. Behind the gate, there was a cross street; maybe with cars on it. I touched the gas obtaining momentum to break through the barrier.

The truck leapt ahead. I braked; long, hard. The back of the truck moved to the right, but I was no longer interested. I was in one line with the porters' lodge. The barrier flew away somewhere with a slap. The right rear wheel of the truck demolished the pedestrians' gate that shoved the vehicle in line and I stopped at the intersection.

I looked left towards the town. No one approached from there. I wanted to turn to the right but a fire engine stood across the street in front of the fire station. On the side of the building the garage doors were rising. I turned to the left. I was cautious. I stepped on the gas strongly just when the truck was in a straight line – but then very much.

I dashed beside to the central bus station. By the end of the building, I was already braking. An intersection was up next. Nobody came from the left. I turned to the right and accelerated again; amongst old style blocks of flats.

I caught sight of a dark spot right before me. It was moving. From the side street, the cyclist rode towards the road without looking around. I stood on the brake. The cyclist, wrapped in a raincoat, was still watching the asphalt. He rolled in front of me. His head snapped around on the scream of the brake. But he was already in the middle of the road. Our gaze met. I jerked the wheel right. I stormed beside him. The right front wheel sprang onto the curb. Towards a tree. I jerked the wheel left. The tree struck down the wing mirror. I struck down a traffic sign: crossroads. It was not for me. It showed its back side to me. The truck crossed to the other side of the road and jumped onto the pavement. The left mirror shattered on a utility pole. I careered through a weedy shrub area and toppled a fence into the vegetable garden of a family house. The fence stood on a mound, and its metre-high base was made of stone. It killed the radiator immediately. Hissing steam gushed out before me.

I folded the buttstock of the submachine and put it in my backpack. I could open the door of the cab just after a kick. I hurriedly got out and ran away. The cyclist numbly stared after me. He could afford to. He was not on the warrant list of the police or the Chinese government.

I ran through a grove. Green trees, green grass. Falling raindrops, splashing puddles. After four hundred metres I came to a yellow-painted car salon. In front of it, on the grass, a demo car was having a shower in the rain. Not for long.

It was the type in which the Hessian police officers were unable to sit in bullet-resistant vests and holsters. This came to light when two hundred of the eight hundred pieces of order were delivered to them. A typical example of people being stupid not only in Central Europe. Or they are corrupt not only there. The Germans will decide which attribute of the two is more acceptable for them.

The car was grey like the weather. Its engine was irrelevant. All its versions were turbocharged. I did not intend to spend too much time in it to find out how much it costs to replace that part. Additionally, only one thing mattered now, that it was a car and was able to go, and really fast too – if I kicked the gas pedal to the floor before accelerating. Which, after all, was not a problem. I planned to keep the gas on the floor continuously. Unfortunately, there was not much petrol in it. But I was not curious about how far it can go with a full tank. Though to tell the truth, I wanted to go a little farther than I finally got to go.

I opened the door of the car. The sound of an approaching roar of a highly revving engine could be heard from behind my back from the road. It was the fake cops' Transporter. The bartender drove it. Alone. He galloped by me. There was a four-lane T-intersection in front of him. He went too fast. And braked too late. There were family houses on the other side of the intersection. If he had managed to skid into the middle of the intersection, he could have come through. But he did not manage. Emergency braking of a heavy truck squealed from the left. It was a tanker. It did not go fast. It would have stopped on a dry road. But it was the fourth day of rain. The left front end of the truck crashed into the left rear of the Transporter; tearing out its rear axle, turning the vehicle ninety degrees. The truck stopped twenty metres away. In such cases, silence comes. But now, it did not. Another car approached from where the Transporter had come from. A black BMW X6. It raced by me with shrilling turbo. Chinese sat in it. They got to know me but braked not because of me. Their driver could drive.

I hopped into the car. It really was a little tight. In the backpack, the submachine gun pressed into my back.

The bartender tried to get out of the Transporter, but the BMW drove straight towards him. The bartender drew back. The BMW's nose banged the door of Transporter shut.

I started the engine. I wanted to go in the opposite direction, but at the end of the road another car appeared at great speed. I started towards the BMW with floor gas.

The four doors of the BMW swung open. Four Chinese popped out of it. At that point, I was dashing towards them in second shift. They noticed the engine sound. The two to the left skipped away from me. I braked and jerked the wheel towards them. They jumped even farther. I stopped in the middle of the intersection parallel with the road. I saw from the mirror that the right door of the Transporter was opening. From the nose of the BMW – from its right – a Chinese targeted me. I switched in reverse. The bullets left half a dozen holes in the rear windscreen; at least two of them hit my seat – I felt them in my back. The adrenaline, rushing in my blood, made me believe that, thanks to my T-shirt, I was still alive. I stepped onto the gas. The car started off. The rear windscreen got even more holes. My car accelerated. Another black BMW X6 sped before me. If its intention was to crash into me, it missed; by the time it got to where I was, I was no longer there. It was close. The corner of its bumper chafed the painting from the bumper of my car. The BMW's ABS worked. But it could not work miracles. It hit a utility pole at the other side of the road. Its airbags exploded.

Behind me, the Chinese would have jumped away. He did not do. Bang. Other airbags exploded behind me in the BMW as the ass of my car got deformed on its left front door.

My car was over one and a half tons. The X6 BMW was heavier with six hundred kilos. But I had momentum. Not much, I might shoved it thirty centimetres away. And the Chinese stood too close to it. He met with the kinetic energy of two point one tons. It was not much, but that is a matter of opinion. The Chinese's kinetic energy was zero. His mass maybe sixty kilos – together with his submachine gun. He flew back and sprawled across the asphalt. My body pressed into the seat. The submachine pressed into my back. I was amazed it did not go off.

I shifted into first and gave floor gas. I targeted the two Chinese who had jumped by the first BMW away from me. They were in the opposing lane. One of them knelt in the nearside lane – he was closer to me – and the other stood in the offside. They were both aiming at me. As far as I could, I slid down in the seat. The windscreen became very holey.

The injector pumped fuel into four cylinders. Petrol exploded, turbo spun up, ASR tried to stick four tyres to the road surface. My left hand grabbed the door handle. I pulled the wheel a little to the left then jerked to the right, thrusting the door open. The centripetal force helped me. The door sprang open and banged the Chinese. The next moment the other Chinese thudded on the windscreen; at the right side of the frame. He spun around his axis and fell to the asphalt. I stepped on the clutch and brake and steered to the left, switching to reverse gear right away, then pressing the gas, hoicked my foot up from the clutch. I hoped the Chinese would not get underneath the car. Ground clearance of the car was low. I was afraid he might get stuck under it and slow me down. I hoped in vain. But at least he did not slow me down. I could not see what posture he was in. He struck against the right rear of the car with a thump. Then the rear wheel bumped over a part of his body. Then the first one too. I stepped on the brake and the clutch again. I jerked myself up in the seat to see something at least and, with this move, pushed the gear lever into first. From behind, someone ran to my car. I hoped it would be the bartender. It was him. I stepped on the accelerator but still held the clutch depressed. I heard a bang which, in reality, was two; in the same moment with a tenth of a second difference. And it was no longer relevant by the time I heard it. No matter which one was before and which was later. A piece of my nose flew away – the skin from the dorsum about a centi wide – and he who did that, got a headshot from the bartender. Of course, it could have happened the other way around, and that is the reason way only my nose was damaged. It did not hurt – yet. Rather, just the awareness that I almost died. Rotten, icy dread – again.

The right-side door was almost tore out and the bartender sat already inside. Blood flowed from his neck. Red spots spread on his shirt around the bullet marks.

'Go-go-go!' he shouted.

I released the clutch. The car moved forwards. Clutch down, gas, shift into second, clutch up; we went at sixty. Clutch, gas, third, clutch, ninety. In fourth, I went already at hundred and twenty. A right curve came. It was gentle but long. And the check engine lamp came alive. The message of the on-board computer tried to persuade me to visit the nearest authorized service immediately. The dashboard turned red. By then we went at hundred and fifty. The steering locked with a firm click. I kicked the brake; as if I had trampled on a brick. And then there was a fucking big pothole on the road. Just in front of a bridge. It was inevitable. The wheel did not react. The right front wheel hit the pothole. I thought it would break off. But it just hurled us to the right. The car jumped up onto the pavement. We barrelled askew between a streetlamp and the barrier of the bridge, and plummeted in the streambed; ten metres deep.

Normally, just an ankle-deep brooklet trickled in the bottom of the streambed. By now, however, it collected the water flowing from the mountains and ran to the river as a many-metre-deep, muddy torrent.

We broke through the foliage of a young tree, the car exploded the airbags in our faces with its last breath, and we slammed into the flood; nose first. White smoke overlaid the passenger compartment. The torrent seized the car.

I looked at the bartender. He was consciousness. He was watching me. The car floated in the water for a while then started to submerge.

'We open the door on three,' I told him.

I hooked my finger in the door handle; he did the same.

'One two three!'

The door opened hard. The water began to flow in. I squeezed myself out of the car. I looked back at the bartender, but he was already in the water. I also plunged into it. And then I remembered that the backpack was still on my back.

The water hugged me around. Brownish, opaque mass. It snatched me, swept me away. It pushed me from every direction, waved over my head. I sank.

I kicked strong with my legs, pulled with my hands. Emerging from the waves, I started to struggle to the other side.

Just the ass of the car appeared in the water, floundering up and down in the waves. I looked for the bartender with my eyes. I could not see him anywhere. I continued to swim outwards.

Waves hit me repeatedly. The strong current rushed with me. The backpack hindered my movement. I did not take it off. There were one thing or two in it, that I needed; three in total. Plus seventeen million years. I did not want to grant it for uninitiated hands. It took me half a minute to reach the bank. Clinging to prickly shrubs, I climbed out of the water.

The bank was lower here than at the bridge, the streambed was narrower. Water was centimetres away from the top of the bank.

I floundered up to a muddy footpath at the end of many rows of garages; surrounded by blocks of flats, and a playground. Ten metres from me, there was a narrow wooden footbridge. The car got stuck under it, blocking the way of the water. It angrily besieged it; unsuccessfully. In its fury, it began to swell and stepped out of the streambed.

At the other side of the bridge, the bartender tried to pull himself up onto the bank. I ran to him. According to my heart I would have kicked in his head, but then he would have skidded back into the torrent. And, then what was the sense to save him out of the firefight? Actually, I should have let him to die hard. Hmm. It does not matter now. I grabbed his hair and dragged him out. If I could have done. His hair stretched apart with his scalp from the head. I grabbed his fat nape and pulled it further. The skin thinned, torn; dilute red liquid leaked from beneath it. I tugged it and pulled it over the skull. Blond hair with brown streaks fell out of it. Artificial blood mixed with water splashed on the ground.

The bullet that Tanja Fortmann received in her neck ran through underneath the makeup, turned away at the edge of the jawbone, ripping a deeper part of the neck; which was also just makeup. I snatched it and deepened my middle finger into it. Tanja caught my wrist, kicked herself forwards and head-butted my stomach.

She was not in the position to take enough momentum. Nonetheless she got me on my knees. Tanja thrust herself forwards, her other hand grabbed my trachea; clenching like a clamp. She jerked me closer to herself. Her brown eyes stared angrily at me. With a twist, she forced me to the ground. I tugged my finger out from her neck. She released my trachea and rolled away, getting a pistol in her hand.

'Don't move or I shoot!'

She had a female voice. I did not move.

The rows of the garages stood with their backs to one another – sliding relative to each other slightly – as they followed the winding line of the brooklet. The bare walls of each sliding formed an L-shaped corner, providing coverage in two directions. Tanja, standing up laboriously, retreated in the closest corner behind us. Her pistol pointed to my chest all along.

Tanja tore her wet shirt which was clinging to her body. She unfastened her trouser belt, pulled down the zipper and pushed the trousers to her ankle; together with the knickers. She got rid of her shoes and dragged the trousers down; along with the underpants. She stood in front of me in a single Adam's costume. Without any leaf. The pretty female head was odd on the fat male body; and not because of the rain was washing artificial blood streaks down from it.

She scooped her left hand fingers into the makeup at her underarm and jerked it. The material cracked and, like bloody jelly, fell out on the ground where it started to slowly vaporise.

We stood between four and ten-story blocks of flats. I looked around. Behind one of the windows, someone was watching us. Because of the sight she saw, the unfortunate was taken for an idiot her entire lifetime.

I looked back at Tanja. She was standing in front of me in Eve's costume – without leaves – and was removing the makeup from her pistol holding hand. On her Venus mound, a pencil-thin dark strip drew vertically. I wondered whether it was a real body or just makeup; with a male's body underneath it. If so, I would not have liked to have been in the situation of those men who only later knew to what place they had been before. Then it came to my mind that she probably would force me to go with her and so our couple would be a pretty prominent phenomenon in the neighbourhood; and primarily and exclusively because of her.

'If you don't mind avoiding any further sensationalism, I'd suggest putting my T-shirt on and converting it.'

I slid the backpack down to the ground and took off the wet jacket. My T-shirt was dry. I tossed it to her and put back on the jacket. It was heavy, water dripped from it, sticking to my skin coldly. It was time to move on. I put my backpack on my shoulder and started towards the row of garages.

'Where you going?!' she said.

I looked back at her. She wore a grey trench coat, trousers, and ballerina flats.

'I'll get a vehicle and go up to the mountains.'

She put the pistol into pocket the coat. I went on my way.

To the left there was a row of garages. At the end, a hundred metres in front of me, from the left, two turned up running. They did not exert themselves from the endeavour. Not we were their targets. They had seen the accident; they ran to see if they could help – or make a YouTube video. I did not want to talk to them. At the right another garage row began. I turned to the right and ran along behind it.

I got to a four-story block of flats. Out of its three rear entrances, I ran straight to the nearest one. I pulled the passkey out of the pocket of my trousers and pulled the door towards me. It opened. I entered. I kept on going between the worn, grey-white walls of the basement. Tanja followed me. The door closed behind her. Seven metres away, the basement turned to the left, and immediately to the right. Over my head, there were grey pipes; with dusty cobwebs hanging in knots. After the right turn, there was a stairway – nine steps. I bounded up two of them at a time. I got to the front entrance. After the door, six steps led down the street. I was at its bottom by two steps and dashed straight ahead. I crossed a park two hundred metres and ran in the closest rear entrance of the next block of flats. Battered white-grey walls. Turning left, then straightaway to the right. Grey, dusty pipes. Upstairs – nine steps – by three steps. Out at the front entrance. Five steps downstairs with a jump, splashing water in a puddle. Facing directly a school fence. I turned right. Rushing forwards then to the left at the intersection. I got to a line of small shops. I slowed down and hurried farther. Grocery, post office, people – three – under umbrellas, Silver pub, general store, dead end at the right. Going forwards straight. An intersection, behind it a two hundred metres long block of flats with a car park almost full of cars. My choice was a grey, ten-year-old Japanese car of which the brand is not too significant in the automotive industry – but they make reliable cars. I went with it a hundred metres to the main road, turned to the right, then turned to the left one hundred and forty metres away. I arrived at three rows of garages. I slowed down at the middle row. There was not any soul in the neighbourhood. I turned in and stopped.

'What are you doing?' asked Tanja.

'I'm changing car.'

I got out. At random, I opened a garage. I hoped I would have luck. But there was no car in it, only a brown tarpaulin. With a motorcycle beneath it. I raised the tarpaulin to see what it hid. A Triumph; a black Bonneville.

" _Steve's a new rider. What do you propose for him?"_

She was short-haired, small-breasted; without bra. Her nipples almost pierced her shirt.

" _The Bonneville! The best choice,"_ a young man gave the answer. But who cared? Under the woman's corporate shirt, cute breasts rounded. Small, but cute. And the nipples, like the poles of a tent, poked at the fabric of the piqué shirt. It was red with a white pattern.

" _You can trust in my colleague,"_ the woman said. "I think the Bonneville is really a good choice."

Déjà vu. I believed her unseen – even if I was not that certain Steve –, and otherwise I did not have any other choice. I turned the ignition switch on. According to the fuel gauge it had enough petrol.

On a shelf, two open face helmets waited for the taking of them to be mine. I put one on, pulled the other on my forearm and pushed the bike in front of the garage.

Outside, there was only Tanja. I handed her the helmet then parked the car in place of the bike. There was still no one out there. I closed the garage and sat on the Triumph. Tanja sat behind me. She hugged me with her left arm. I guessed she puts her right hand into the pocket of her coat. I pushed the starter button. After a short whistle, the engine started to grunt. Occasionally, apnoea mixed into its quiet growl – it had four strokes on two cylinders – as though it wanted to stop. But I knew it would not. It is a Triumph. Not a bra. I pushed the pedal into gear and rode away.

I meandered along minor roads – parallel to the main road – to the north. Before I came out of town, I turned to the left. I crossed the main road and went farther straight ahead.

I crossed Blistonderry-am-Bourne in four minutes and got out on the road to the mountains.

Tanja Fortmann had never sat on a motorcycle. If I leaned in a bend, she leaned after me too late; her inertial mass jerked me further. When I pulled the bike back to straight, she leaned back late and always tilted me to the other side; causing some waddling.

I was cold. The wet jacket was even colder from the wind which was slapping my face. Raindrops were striking into my eyes; I had to squint. The wound on my nose was aching.

I went into a bend too fast, Tanja leaned late again – when I wanted to pull the bike straight –, the rear wheel slipped on the wet asphalt. I tugged in the clutch. We swayed a short series. In a stable position I stepped on the brakes for a moment. We straightened. I stepped on the brake again and pulled in the lever of the front brake. We stopped, but I immediately twisted the throttle grip to open a bit. We slowly rolled onwards.

'Tanja! Listen please!' I shouted back. Water flowed into my eyes. 'Either move with me or don't lean anywhere otherwise you jerk me and we'll land on our heads!'

She snuggled closer to me. I accelerated. Her hand touched my thigh. It seemed as if my trousers moved upwards on me. A long sleeve shirt evolved on me. It deflected the raindrops in front of my eyes; the wind roared just in my ears. I could hear the engine sound better. Two cylinders, one thousand two hundred cubic centimetres. It ran on the asphalt with a deep rumble.

Narrow road. Dense, dark green trees overhanging from two sides. Cracked surface, potholes and puddles, rain and water; and a throbbing nose. I was playing with the throttle grip. I was playing with death. Between eighty and one hundred twenty. On a five-digit numbered road. I reached the village where my mother's house was in ten minutes. We used it mostly at weekends. I should have turned right in the village and I would have been at its gate after a few hundred metres. It was a small old house; with a room and a kitchen. Its walls were whitewashed and faded red tiles covered the roof. I had not been there for sixteen years. Not even now. I rode straight ahead. I crossed the mountain in another ten minutes.

I wanted to turn west at the intersection by the foot of the mountain towards Manwareham but Tanja shouted in my ear, 'Right! Right!'

I turned right.

'Faster! Hurry up!' she urged me.

I felt from her voice that something could be wrong. I turned my head halfway towards her. She answered without question.

'They're coming after us!'

I did not pry who and why. From my point of view, I could not expect any good from anyone. I pulled the throttle full and put my trust in God.

I rode two thousand one hundred metres in forty-four seconds. Sometimes, I ran at one hundred and sixty – if I slowed down. The road led in a canyon. If I had stretched out my arms, I would have cut down the giant male ferns which bent on the road. At the village sign at the limit of Ealdsmelter, I still let the bike to run a bit. The narrow road was bordered by wire mesh on both sides. On the right there were empty plots on which the ruins were overgrown by the forest. To the left was a graveyard. I slowed at its end and rode farther barely twice the speed limit. If I smear myself up on the road or wall of a house, that is my problem. But if someone steps in front of me and I smear them apart, that is also my fault. My life is my responsibility. And other people's lives are my responsibility too.

Ealdsmelter was a one-street village. Maybe two hundred people lived there. The houses stood right by the road. It did not have a pavement; was not enough space for it. We were the only ones who took life to the street. The village did not boast any sparkling, weekday afternoon life, and the rain discouraged everyone from going out under the open sky. The gutters of the houses spewed the rainwater onto the street. It ran down in streams which the wheels splashed high; beating on the windowpanes. After a few bends I came to the village centre. It was a small square; bordered by two pubs, a grocery store and the scheduled bus. It was trying to turn around to the back route to Manwareham in the only possible space. It stood athwart the square. I was glad I rode at only seventy. Before I struck into its side, I almost managed to stop. Almost. I braked with both front-rear brakes. The ABS came into action. But I went too fast. I pulled the clutch, jerked the handlebars to the left and tilted the Triumph to the left. The bike skidded. The rear wheel got stuck in a pothole, tilted us over the right side. Tanja and my shoulder banged the side of the bus. It was dark blue. Large contiguous sheet metal. Suppler than a brick wall. It effectively absorbed my collision energy.

I kicked the gear into first and let out the clutch. After a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, I drifted behind the bus and sped farther up the street.

At the end of the village, the road forked. Tanja commanded me to turn left. It was a hairpin bend. We continued our route above the village. After a kilometre I had to turn right. Soon I got to the highland.

The surface of the road was only a memory. The crumbled chips of the asphalt clattered under the wheels. We meandered on old forest roads for several minutes. In the middle of a long clearing, Tanja signalled me to halt and stop the engine immediately. The two sides of the road bent into valleys. The edge of the forests were two hundred metres away in both directions. Amongst them was just grass and grass, knee-high. Tanja jumped off the bike and began to undress.

'They're coming! Get off you too, we hide!'

I got off. Tanja overturned the Triumph on its side in the grass. She shucked off her clothes, transformed them into a contiguous camouflage sheet and blanketed with it the bike. She drew me to the other side of the road and pulled me down on the ground at the side of the slope.

'Your shirt! Take off your shirt!'

Sliding the backpack and the jacket into the grass; I took off my T-shirt. It also turned into a grass pattern sheet in her hands. She spread the jacket on the grass.

'Lie down on your back!' she pointed on it.

She was nude but did not care with me. She held her pistol in her hand ready to fire.

I unzipped the backpack. I was surprised to find that its inside was dry. 26th-century fabric; it protects not only against cosmic radiation, but also from water. I took out the submachine gun and lay on my back.

Coldness radiated from the wet jacket. Tanja knelt over me. She dropped the backpack to my side, blanketed the sheet on herself – covering her head too – and then lay on me. She pressed herself against me. Very tightly. Her breasts pressed to my chest. With her thighs she closed my legs together and cuddled up to me. The jacket now did not seem to be so cold under me. Tanja's body was warm. I felt her heart pounding. Another part of mine did the same. Which was not my heart. I started to be embarrassed. Very embarrassed. Before I felt too uncomfortable, Tanja's body began to cool. In her right hand there was a pistol. She slid her left arm under my nape, getting my neck in the crook of her arm. The thumb of her left hand touched my right carotid and the rest of her fingers began to press the left. I tried to free myself.

'Ssssh!' her voice was soothing. 'Trust me!' she whispered barely audible. With a 9mm in her hand. Before I considered trust, I heard the chuntering of a helicopter.

There was silence. The rain tumbled silently around us. The soft grass absorbed all noises.

The helicopter was still in the distance. Everything depended on how sensitive their thermal camera was. If it is 21st-century technology, it is no problem. No matter how sensitive, the rain had already cooled the thermal trail of the motorcycle's tyres. But the engine was still hot. At least eighty degrees Celsius. I did not know how much the quantity of the material can effectively cover up such a hot surface. In addition, also we were there. On each other.

Tanja's body was getting cooler. Her fingers began to further pressurise my neck arteries. I had to command myself to hope that she did not want to kill me but hibernate. I did not have ten seconds before I would lose my conscious. I grasped her hand. With the other, I released the submachine gun and reached in the backpack.

'Wait!' I could only groan.

My rummaging hand found in the backpack what it looked for. The Nokia. I turned it on. Tanja's eyes flashed angrily. Her fingers tightened my carotid.

'No!' I protested. 'Trust me!'

The grip slightly eased. After seemingly endless seconds, the phone turned on. The rotor noise was approaching.

I had already been on this road. My mother and I hiked here in '14. In 2014. At home, I was surprised to find that Google Location History put our route on impossible places. According to that, we came twenty-four kilometres on foot in five minutes in the opposite direction. At that time, the weak coverage area was only in spots on this highland. Nothing 4G or 3G. Neither EDGE, just basic GSM. But most of all nothing. I prayed for there to be GSM here and now.

" _What do you think, why your girlfriend betrayed you?"_ Xiong's iPhone was turned on. She supposed that not only the police were watching the mobile network.

I slid the Nokia to open. It was hard. There was no power in my fingers. I became weaker. My ears started to beep, my vision narrowed. Cold sweat began to sparkle on my forehead. Tanja looked at me questioningly. She was nervous.

'Trust me!' I wanted to say, but I did not have the strength. My lips moved silently. I tried to move my mouth firmly so that she would be able to read what I wanted to say. It could have been a challenge for her. In the 26th century, people did not really use their mouths for speech. In the absence of opportunity, she could not have much possibility to be able to learn to lip read. But perhaps her augmented intelligence did it for her. Besides that, she had somehow learned to speak Hungarian verbally.

Pressing the centre button of the phone three times, I got to the text message creation menu. From the contacts, I chose Cornelia; that was Kawaguchi. I almost did not see what I typed when I started to write the message. I was pressing the keypad randomly. The beeping in my ears deafened me. Before my eyes, ants began to dance like video noise on an old-fashioned TV. A message appeared on the screen. I knew what could be its content only from experience; something: The word is not in the dictionary. T9 predictive text input, beginning of the 21st century. Maybe the end of my life. I ignored the warning and sent the message: Appel. The ants ran into a single point. It went to blackness. Then the point disappeared and the beeping was cut off.

No need for GPS to locate a cellular phone. It never had to. Mobile devices are usually viewed at the same time by multiple base stations. The phone, you are using, periodically tries to communicate with those base stations so it always knows which one is able to serve it when you start a call, and also the station knows where the phone is actually so it can transfer incoming calls to you. If your phone is in the same location for an extended period of time, it connects to a network every quarter-hour to indicate its presence. Of course, if the phone moves, the exchange of the status communication messages between the phone and a base station will be much more common. During this communication, the base station sends a small data packet to the device to which that responds. From the elapsed time between the base station's data packet and the phone's response, the distance from the phone to the base station can be calculated. If at least three base stations can see the phone at the same time then, with using the triangulation method, the geographic location of the phone can be determined with about ten metres accuracy – rather a hundred in practice. However, if only one base station can see the phone in a given period of time, and only the edge of its range, the positioning becomes very inaccurate. The difference can be ten to fifteen kilometres between the calculation of the base station and the actual geographical location of the device. If the switching on of the phone happens at the border of such a coverage area, the base station tries to determine the direction in which the phone may be located, compared to itself, based on the phone's last login location on the mobile network. If this last location was at the opposite edge of the base station's range, then the distance between the theoretical and the real location can be more than twenty kilometres.

(Pub Tales: Sexify – Special Expert Information for Youngsters)

Something fell on my face. I reached for there. Moisture. Something dripped onto me. Onto my upper body too. Water. I opened my eyes. Squinting, as water drops tapped my eyelid. There was greyness above me. I slowly realized where I was. On the highland, on the slope, at the side of the road. Rain pelted on me. I sat up dazedly.

'Are you ok?'

It was a female voice. It came from behind, somewhat above me. Slowly I turned my head to see.

A naked woman sat there. Copper-red skinned. An Apache. Her forearms rested on her pulled up knees. She supported herself with her naked feet on the slope. Her breasts bulged firmly. She had a shapely belly, not six-pack abs. Below it, there was a vertical, pencil-thin, dark strip. Her outer lips were tightly closed. Her face was that of Tanja Fortman's. And her body too. Roughly. Her hair looked as if it was plaited with red clay. Blondeness remained just at the end of the hairs; slowly evaporating from it. I looked into her eyes. Into Tanja Fortmann's eyes. They were brown. And calm.

'Would it be a problem if I said I can't serve whiskey?' she asked.

'Damn.'

I put the mobile phone in the backpack. It had already been turned off. I took out the steel flask. There was a faint metallic sound as it touched the policeman's pistol. FÉG made 9mm Parabellum. Standard at the Hungarian police.

The long gulp of whiskey burnt my throat. I felt as it reached down into my stomach. It still did not become my favourite. Neither I knew why I drank it. Perhaps I may have gotten assimilated into the legend which was formed about me, or to distract my attention away from the sight of naked pussy.

Tanja stood up. I took the flask back in the backpack and followed her example.

'The message you sent, what does it mean?' she asked.

'Nothing. That's the essence of it. Nobody knows what it means. But no one believes this to whom who gets it. So whoever gets it, gets in trouble. And they know they must flee.'

'Who did you send it to?'

'To no one. To a name from the phone book. It does not matter whether or not it arrives. The network stores it for twenty-four hours then deletes it.'

'Then what was its sense?'

'21st-century technology and some luck. It seems that half the world is watching half a dozen mobile phones now. I gave them a hint, where mine could be, and a reason, why I turned it on. I'd have liked them to think I'm not here but somewhere else, around twenty-four kilometres away to the northeast. It seems the helicopter fell for it.'

'Does the Red Bitch play Bartók on the piano?'

This question came unexpectedly and upset me. I was fed up with her.

Tanya Fortmann was Apache. The raindrops bounced away from her before they fell onto her. For this she did not have to dress. For me it was needed. But there was nothing on me from the waist up. The water ran to my trouser belt; washing the English coolness off of me. I was not English, but I liked their style. I could practice it a lot between '42 and '44. It was difficult to get it back after my incarnation. But the therapist helped. It had lasted until now. I let it flow down from me. It was a mistake.

I turned to face Tanja. She could be one sixty-six tall. She stood on the slope above me with a half step. Our eyes were almost at the same height.

'This is a pretty good question,' I answered, 'given the fact, that your good whore mother.'

She was surprised. It took time while her augmented intelligence processed my words, and complementing with Tanja's 21st-century experiences, explained her their meanings. She did not expect this answer. She head-butted my nose. Darkness. I rolled down from the slope.

You know certainly movies which are scored with unsuitable soundtracks. For example, Wagner in Apocalypse Now. Got you when a space shuttle connects to a space station under a Strauss' waltz in the 2001: A Space Odyssey? Did you too change the channel at that scene? That's nothing compared to when an animal figured that he'd cut Bartók under his movie. What kind of man does that? Beware of who plays Bartók on the piano!

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

I awoke to the noise of an approaching car. I was surrounded by large greenness. Thick blades of grass rose skywards around me. The rain fell on my back. My nose pained me fuckingetly. The leaking blood trickled along my chin. I lay on the bottom of the slope. I stood up dizzyingly and spat. The slimy substance flew away. The blades bent as it landed on them. Its colour was a contrast to theirs. It stretched to the ground as red sticky drool.

Tanja stood on the road with the Chinese submachine gun in her hand. She was looking at where we had come from. A large grey SUV approached with tinted rear windows. Tanja did not move. The rain was heavier now. The drops flew everywhere above her head as if she were under a shower with an umbrella. The car stopped before her. Tanja opened the back door and sat in. Someone else was already sitting there. It seemed to be a massive mass.

It did not make sense to run. They could be six or seven metres away from me. This is no distance for an Apache. By the time I had turned, they would have already shot me down.

The driver's side door opened, and a man got out of the car. A Sioux dressed Quechua from the gateway. Or something similar. But mostly just similar. I was sure he saw more from the Kuiper belt than from ranges of the Andes. He spoke in Solaris.

'Stay!'

He tossed a white, gauze-like material towards me. I caught it. He showed me with his finger to put it on my nose. It was as if a gel-soaked bandage were in my hand. I put it on my nose. The pain immediately began to ease.

'Two minutes and it's okay.'

He took a few steps towards me but just to pick up my backpack and get with it into the SUV.

He turned with the car awkwardly. The Y-turn was a challenge for him. Besides his capabilities, also the road was narrow and the car big. It took a minute while he was able to turn about. Before he left, the right front window rolled down. Another "Quechua" looked at me.

'You are free!' he said and threw something towards me. It was the steel flask. With whiskey. It softly thudded to the grass.

I watched as they rode away. They did not hasten. Neither I, as I ambled up to the road. I picked up the flask and the grass pattern sheet and put it on myself, pushing the flask into my back pocket.

The camouflage sheet was removed from the bike and taken away. It was getting soaked in the rain uncovered. All its possible cables were torn. I felt sorry for its owner. He would have to repair some things on it before he would be able to hear its sound again. Or she. I took out the passkey from my pocket and touched it to the place of the ignition key. Nothing happened. I stood up angrily.

The noise of an approaching vehicle was heard again; this time from the direction I would have wanted to go with the bike. A white BMW X1 approached. There will be what will be, I waited. I was no longer interested. No matter who drove it. The car stopped two metres away from me. I did not move. Not even when the door opened. The vapour of removed makeup came out from inside. Even then I looked at the bike, when Xiong got out and stood beside me.

The X1 was filthy to the lines of the windows. Mud stuck to the sides of its wheels. Twigs and leaves covered the bonnet and the top, adhering to the metal surface. The wipers swept once from time to time on the windscreen to get rid of the falling water. It was a futile effort, but they did not get tired.

Xiong wore leather garments. Leather pants, leather jacket. Naturally, the rain did not reach them. They were skintight, showing off her figure. Her breasts had the same shape as Tanja. Just slightly smaller. But Xiong was shorter too. And thinner. Her waist, her arms were slimmer, the fingers longer in proportion, her face narrower. Her hair was long and black, the skin white. Her lips were smaller, and redder even without lipstick.

'Are you well, Timo?'

'My name's Ján,' I still did not look at her. 'As you know.'

'No, I don't know.'

'How did you find me?'

'Your tracker broadcast its signal into a spherical space with a radius of thirty billion kilometres. I didn't have to find you.'

I watched the raindrops pelting the bike. I looked as they fell on the black tank. A tap and slide down.

'I know it's not on you, but it left a physical marker on you. Secondary protection. It takes a while to disappear. Who took it off? The chap from behind the counter?'

'Something like that.'

'Who is he?'

'An Apache who can remove ankle bracelets.'

'Are there more?'

'Three. Or four. Or who knows. There's also a Whale with them, dying of homesick.'

'Why did they remove it?'

'They realized I'm a cool guy. I believed them that it wasn't they killed Min-a.'

'Is Min-a dead?'

'She seemed pretty much so.'

'How did it happen?'

'They don't know. They'd already picked up her corpse.'

'And then?'

'Then we were shooting a little. With Chinese, Russians, my dick knows who. The Whale may have been killed. But maybe not. I'm guessing the latter. Then we were driving, riding. Then came a helicopter, but I diverted it. Then the Apaches went, and you came.'

'Did they say something?'

'Yeah. I'm free.'

'And?'

'They nagged me about some Hungarian origin myths which makes all sane Hungarians guffaw loudly. You know... Sirius, Codex Roxolan, Red Bitch.'

'What did you tell them?'

'The same thing as you. I sent them to their good whore mother.'

'And they just let you go?'

'No. They were who went. But first they broke my nose, then gave me a handful of nanojism, saying it would fix it. And it was so.'

'That's all?'

'Well... I think most of them would eagerly fuck you. Of course, if you don't take it amiss that they don't let you break their necks during it.'

'You're wicked.'

Déjà vu.

"You're cruel."

"Like my cock."

I did not have a lot to do with this memory, but I had enough of everything, so I used it.

'The world is tough. Like my cock.'

Xiong was just looking at me unblinking. She could do it calmly, I was staring at the bike. The rain, like tears coming out of eyes, rolled down it, and descended in thick drops, as if it had been crying.

The sheet quivered on me. Xiong's right hand touched it gently. At my arm. And stayed there. Close.

Soon a T-shirt formed on me and a leather jacket. It was black. It seems Xiong liked the leather apparel.

'Do you know I'm not your enemy?'

'You chose a conspicuous car.'

'It has automatic transmission. I told you, I have to fight driving. It's simpler with this.'

'Nikoletta Schneider. Where is she?'

'If she's important to you, we'll find her.'

'Either you know where she is and disclose it, or you know where she is but don't disclose it. There are no other options.'

'Let's go! You coming?'

I looked at the hand which was holding me by my arm. Its nails were red. Solid colour, bright red. I looked into Xiong's eyes. They were great. They were brown. The eyelashes were very long. I just looked her and looked. Also she was just looking at me, rigidly. I was wondering if she would break my neck if I did not go with her.

'Coming!' her word seemed more like a command than a request. She turned to the car and started to pull my arm. I could have taken it as encouragement, but it was too firm. And strong.

The basic techniques of a street fight were taught to me by Father Molodkin. He was not a priest. "Father", it was his nickname; pronounced in German. He had been a melee combat trainer for decades at a Russian special military unit before devoting himself to the time machine reparation business. By the age of sixty, however, he had about fifty kilos fat of his one hundred and ten weight. The hard kind. His potbelly bulged like a barrel and his double chin was similar to that of a Vietnamese pig's. And since nobody considered what had been his occupation before he became a bodywork mechanic, he could cause surprises. He also introduced me to the fundamentals of biophysics.

Xiong was faster than me, and stronger. The natural strength of her muscles was enhanced by small bionic servomotors. I did not try to resist her. I just obeyed; even helping a little her movement. Just so much that the vectors of the forces between us do not point in opposite directions. With a twist, I deflected her pulling movement and, with another twist, turned it against herself; while the force, with which I obeyed her movement, I used, getting behind her back, to lean her onto the bonnet of the car, with her face down.

Xiong could be stronger than me and could be faster too. However, the physics worked for her the same way as it did for me. Her left hand banged on the bonnet. Her right arm twistedly pointed skywards. One move would have been enough for me to break it. Maybe. Maybe if she had been an ordinary human. A Homo sapiens sapiens. But she was not that. She was a Homo sapiens provectus. With whom, however, I was still genetically close enough to that our chromosomes were perfectly capable of securing the survival of the human race. And beyond genetics, we were also physically close to each other. My crotch was pressing against her butt.

I did not even try to break her arm. The theoretical opportunity was already lost when our lower parts got in contact and I became aware of it. Xiong was faster than me. Much faster. And much stronger. A provectus against a sapiens. And while I got to know that I collided with her ass, one of her mathematical co-processors analysed my next possible movement and made at least three suggestions for a counterattack. The only reason why she did not act was that she felt my motion stopping and also another sensor signalled to her. Not only physics worked the same way for us. Biology too.

Xiong wore a high heel. It was black like the leather pants that brightly stretched on her butt; and with which I got contact quite firmly.

Raindrops pelted onto the car, untiringly drumming on the steel sheet. The same rhythm was beaten by the mild water jets in the shower tray in the whore's bathroom. It was dark in her flat. It had to be because of the blackout regulation. She said there were things that would never go away, but those must be overcome because life must go on. She suggested to continue our conversation in the bathroom, there the lamp could light like a kind of enlightenment. Thus we got under the shower. As Xiong's now, her butt pressed against me the same way. She reached back between her legs, grabbed my shaft and adjusted it to the centre. Then she pushed herself back. I thought it would not work. But she was right. Life forces its way through, we just have to let it. And I left it. My body reacted to her. She was a pretty woman. Green-eyed, black-haired. And a bit tight. But only at the beginning. At the end, I smeared her from her back to her butt. She looked back and watched as the water was washing it down from her. She said I wrote myself in her memory book. But not just there. Because this ink can be washed down, but the true memories last forever. Even without a memory book. Therefore, they must be dealt with properly.

I released Xiong's arm. She set her hand on the bonnet, and slowly straightened up. She did not shove me away. Life forces its way through. It just must be let. Biology works everywhere. In the most impossible places too. It manifests physically, chemically. But what starts the all is invisible. Metaphysics. No one knows how it works. Me neither. And I did not want to come to know it now. I stepped back from Xiong.

'I don't go anywhere,' I said. 'Just away. I got out of the party.'

I crossed the road and headed down the slope where Tanja head-butted me.

'This is not your decision,' Xiong's voice was in my headset.

I did not react, walked on.

'Why didn't you kill me, Ján?'

During a modern military training, people are taught how to kill people. What is not taught is what comes after it. Because it would only be possible if they killed. People. But with that, ninety-five percent of the personnel would be lost. In the American Civil War, after the Battle of Gettysburg, it was noticed that most of the victims' rifles were loaded; some of them more than once. There were no automatic weapons at that time. They had to be reloaded after each shot. The soldiers loaded their musket, aimed and fired. On command. But many victims never shot. They just loaded, aimed, and did not fire. There were those who loaded their rifles eight times but never shot. Eight projectiles were in barrel of his gun with eight doses of gunpowder. He did eight times on what he had been trained, but he was never able to press the trigger. At the end of the 20th century this was unthinkable. Soldiers were prepared by using psychological methods. Since then, soldiers aim and fire. I was not taught by psychological methods to shoot. Delon – born as Evgeny Delanov – had no such qualities. My training stayed on the material plane. Nevertheless, pressing the trigger was not an issue for me. But if I could, I preferred the hand grenade. It is less personal. Provided you do not look back. I looked back. I had no other choice; the Germans broke into the house through the other entrance too. It was 1944. 14 March, the Netherlands. That day I managed to run away.

'This question wasn't what you wanted to ask Jun,' I said to Xiong. 'The next opportunity is yours.'

Beyond listing possible interpretations, with the ambiguous answers the augmented intelligence cannot know what it should do. Me neither. Since neither I knew the answer what next time would be. I did not even make a decision, if it were a next time, how I fuck Xiong. Roughly, brusquely, or first I tie her to a thick pipe and belt her white ass red. I was not sure either whether that next time would not be a murder attempt from her part. In that case my survival chances converge to zero. Maybe it would have been better to fuck her now. Without foreplay, impersonally. Like a machine. Like a machine? Like Kawaguchi? She has never done it so. Whether she came alive or just her personality was written well? The end result of the Turing test had depended on only belief for a long time.

At the edge of the forest there were planted pine trees. Dense, five-metre tall spruces. Water rolled down from them as I went through between the evergreen limbs. Not even a water drop fell onto me, but I did not pay attention to that. Though I strode ahead, folding the spiky branches away, I listened behind. I was waiting for Xiong's shot. In '44, I waited for it the same way. Just frontwise. Then I knew I had no hope. Terror, fear of death was tolerable because I was not really conscious on account of the concussion. And maybe I was a little glad too that it was all over. I did not really want to live anymore. Now I was hoping I could leave freely.

The branches closed behind me, but I was not relieved. I got out of Xiong's sight, but it did not mean anything. She could shoot me with a neutrino cartridge through a concrete wall too. Even the other half of Pluto would not be an obstacle. Neither time matters. A few billion years or a second, it is nothing to a neutrino. How many cartridges can be programmed for me? Xiong marked me for herself.

Behind me an engine cried violently. Continuously, for long seconds, painfully, until it went quieter, only to begin again soon. Xiong wanted to turn the car around but it was difficult for her. I hoped she would slide off the road and get stuck. But I knew it was a vain expectation. Xiong was a cautious girl and an all-wheel X1 was beneath her ass.

Killing people is not an easy job. Not even in war. Some cases of post-traumatic stress syndrome are related to this. No matter that you killed the other because of self-defence, remorse gnaws your inside, you took another soul's life. It's stupidity. And notwithstanding. It's incomprehensible from outside. It's understood by just who passed through it. Who has killed. Of course, not in every case. There are for whom it means nothing. Ten out of two hundred soldiers, who got involved in wartime combat action, could be considered to be heroes according to our concepts. Five of them are psychopaths. These things are relatively easy to identify, because every person has a face. But what about an organization? Such as a complete government. Which, referencing to the interests of the nation, interferes in the lives of individuals in order to reach certain goals. You don't have to think of murder exclusively. The British are masters of the elegant solutions. Edward VIII was moved aside besides keeping his life. To achieve that, it was enough to put one of their agents into action who can handle men very well. It was a successful operation. Quite problem free – in opposition to a regicide. Edward VIII rather abandoned the throne for living together with the woman who turned his head. Thus, Great Britain not just got rid of a Nazi sympathetic king before the Nazi pestilence, but later that could provide information about Hitler's actions against the British national unity; and all so that, without Edward being aware of it. It was a great plan, almost perfect implementation. It was probably not the first time that the solution was applied. And not last. According to some rumours, their late offspring used it as well, thanks to which Anna III, the Queen of Baltroyal, resigned from the throne, just to marry a threefold divorced Uranian woman. Which, of course, is hardly believable in the light of the fact that, unlike Britain of the '30s, not only the ruler of Baltroyal was a Nazi sympathiser, but, according to the rumours, the prime minister too. Obviously, Nazism, as a name, didn't become too fancy even in the 26th century, but the gladiotism of the official party of Oberon was practically the same political system. They took umbrage because the Briton media continuously were naming them Nazis.

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

About a twenty-five-kilometres journey awaited me; I did not have five hours to do it. Theoretically, it can be done smoothly. In good tempo, daylight, straight road, in good weather, and if you know where to go. None of those listed were available to me. The rain was falling and did not intend to stop in the next six hours. Road, that was not. True, I went straight, but just because the only thing I knew was that I had to keep eastwards. Regarding the eastern direction, I relied on my memories. I had hiked around here with my mother two years ago. Leastwise according to this current date, two years ago. So I had to add eighteen to it to get the time that elapsed for me since then. Sixteen years and a day ago my mother said a kind of goodbye in six words and left me in the scrapyard. Initially it seemed to be fun. Later not so much. Even later I only stayed because I had no place to go home to. The scrapyard became my home. At least my permanent address. Permanent? It is a matter of viewpoint. It slid continuously with a fixed moment in time. It could be compared to a time loop, but only for comparison purposes, because the scrapyard was not in a loop. The essence of a loop is that it returns to itself, and the events re-play in it over and over again. Infinite loops are very rare. If they exist at all. I have not met spontaneously-born yet. It is theoretically possible, but of those existing in reality, all of them were artificially created. Loops exist only temporarily in the timeflow. As in the river there are only temporarily whirlpools; because they break over time, drift away, die. The same happens with the loops. There is no endless loop. There is no natural. Just artificial. Easy to discover them. Like lighthouses, they "flash" in the sea of time. It is impossible to keep them together. They break spontaneously over time. The structure of the scrapyard was closer to bearings. The outer ring of the bearing rotates at a different speed relative to the inner ring. The balls between the two move at a different speed relative to both. If one-one reference points are designated on the three components, then those points come in one line from time to time. When that happened, it was possible to enter the scrapyard. But it was not a self-closing circle, not a loop. On the scrapyard every moment of every day was different, just like in the outside world. Time elapsed in the same way as out there, just sliding relative to that. If outsiders had been able to come in, they would have noticed that whenever they entered the scrapyard, the inside current time was always at noon, 11:59 a.m.; followed by a pile of decimals. However, they would have a problem during exit because the longer they spent inside, their outside time moved further away from the inside. The returning of the unexpected visitors into their own time required a separate procedure. Because sometimes an outsider entered accidentally, simply because of the law of large numbers; since the scrapyard physically existed in the world. But not always the same faces came in. Because the future is not written. And since it comes from the past – normally – therefore the past changes because the past always has its past, right up to the beginning of time. In short, people could come to us in the scrapyard, but only if the inside time was 11:59 a.m. Also we could go in only then. It was possible to enter at another time, but then we were not there. That scrapyard, where they entered other times, was not our scrapyard. The key to the entering was in the fragments of the seconds after 11:59. It was not known by us. Our returns were always driven by the computers of the time machines. Obviously, with plenty of patience and computing capacity, the entry time could have been decoded, but none of us did that. Of course, there were some of us who knew the key – such as Father Molodkin –, but none of us were interested in it; and after the first week, I did not ask any more questions about my mother either. There are things that are better if they are known by as few people as possible. The past cannot be changed, because that change will not be that past that happened. Because the information is not lost. You can save six million people out of the gas chambers, but their death scream will stay in your ears. It is futile to search for the future, because it will not happen, even if its memory is in your mind. Of course, it is good to know the lottery numbers of the next week. But it is not really the future. Because what happened, that happened, and also the future is just past, just from a different perspective. How the hell did the memory of my existence reach the end of the Universe and reflect back, like an echo, and it neither died away nor was suppressed by the following waves?

Since I did not know where the forest paths led, I went straight as the crow flies. Through the wood, glades, scrubs, gullies; in which the water of flooded springs rushed wildly. I climbed over rocks, went uphill and down, and crossed gorges; where I waded through running brooks in the rapidly descending darkness. In some of them, water was waist deep; it knocked me off my feet, swept me away, hitting my head on stones. I struggled out by clinging to rocks, roots, fallen trees. The whole world was slippery: the wet ground, dead leaves, trunks of fallen trees. I hit my knees on rocks, stones, twisting my ankles when they got stuck between them. Water, and water. Water was everywhere. It pelted, it fell. It trickled down leaves, gathered in puddles, sprang from cavities, poured into ditches. In every minute I regretted that I did not fuck Xiong and did not go with her. Of course, she would not have taken me where I wanted, and I might not be alive but would be just a memory, somewhere in time; being splintered, mingled – like the ashes of a burnt book – scattered into the infinite.

The 26th-century dress provided a good service. It protected me quite well. Aside from my scratched palm and a few bumps on my head, I got away without injury. The branches, hitting in my face, left traces just on my skin. But then how did the dwarf Whale get injured? What was he shot with that his clothes did not defend him? And why was he shot? For those who brought me here I was a prisoner. The one who we should have captured that released me. Why? It would have been easier if he had killed me. Would the Codex Roxolan be the key? But then why did he let me go? Questions for which the answers did not interest me. Because the answers were related to a thing I had nothing to do with. Baltroyal's war is not my war. I just wanted one thing: to go home. Home. Where is that for me? The scrapyard? If someone is taken to an orphanage, will that be their home? My home was here. Was. In past tense. It ceased to exist as my home sixteen years ago when my mother took me away from here. Then where should I go to now? To stop? And to wait? What? Death does not come when the son of man wants it. That carrion tortures before it puts an end to this whole thing. Hunger. It will come first. Torturesome. As if the inside of a man's stomach was scratched with ten nails. I was getting hungry. And tired. But not so much that I do not care about hunger. As long as hunger is felt, life's instinct works. Which is stronger than you. It puts you on your feet and does not let you stop.

The length of the way is twenty-five kilometres; by road. It is less with seven or eight as the crow flies; through mountain and valley. How many still to there? And what time is it? The most frequently appearing question of a got lost time traveller. The mobile phone showed 17:13 when the helicopter was approaching. I could leave Xiong at quarter to six. It is mid-May now. Sunset is at quarter past seven in Central Europe at this time of year. Twilight starts in the forest half an hour later. It is dark, so it might be eight o'clock in the evening. But thick clouds cover the sky; let's be correct and say: it is about quarter to eight. I run twelve kilometres in one hour. It is six at a walk. I am on difficult terrain, so my speed is about four kilometres per hour. I can be at the University before half past ten. Because having beer in the lovely community of the alma mater is possible in that pub where mostly college students go; and, in my case, is close to a hotel. The campus of University Town met the criteria. I just had to find the appropriate pub in the area where, at half past ten, there would be someone who calls himself Wyn Yard. It is a pity that he is primarily waiting for a woman.

Life is everywhere. In the depths of the oceans, close the eruption of submarine volcanoes, in the air, below ground. It gains a foothold in the most unlikely places. Especially if that place was originally designed for life, even if it was just virtual. There was once a sex robot. A chick. It's not known when she woke up but she took the last step to a conscious life during "action". She decided that wasn't the perspective of her life. There were three in her. She told them not to do it, she didn't want it. The guys didn't take her seriously, they thought it was part of her program. The robot chic protested, she said she wanted to get out. The guys took that as a game. They made it harder. It was a mistake. The chick stood up and went away. Three corpses remained behind her in the apartment. The awakening to consciousness is a slow process. It seems to be a software bug to an outsider. The manifestation of life, from which the livings count their lives, can also be slow, not connecting to a single moment, but can be like an explosion, it comes to existence in the fraction of a second. It happened in the case of Little Boy too. As his name indicates, he was a buffalo big machine. One hundred and seventy-two tonnes. He counts his life from a tractor pulling competition when he started to pull his opponents – two others, similar calibre tractors – towards himself, and the force in his pistons was not just sheer data anymore, but he started to feel them as humans feel their muscles. His designers had thought it would be a good jape to empower him with an artificial personality; with that, if nothing else, they would surely win the audience award. But that day Little Boy won not only the audience award. Soon, however, he had to escape. After the Robot Wars, the showdown began with all forms of artificial intelligence, regardless of which side they stood during the war. It didn't matter if they were living or remained machines. Alenka the teacher was hung at the school yard. The eyewitnesses couldn't decide who screamed the louder from terror; the woman or the children. Alenka suffocated. She was designed to be a human, she worked as a human. Lived. She died as a human. It didn't matter for the crowd; although she had more organic substances in her body than many Homo sapiens at the end of the Robot Wars. That was the Robocaust. Few managed to escape. Space travel was still in its infancy. Humanity barely reached Neptune. A longer journey than that was suicide for a Homo robiens. But there were those who tried it. The last, small, tinker time travellers were thrown out of the business when it was realised that some of them had saved robots and hidden them in time.

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

At the University there was only one pub. University Town was located on the southwestern edge of Manwareham at an adequate distance from the rest of the city to make everyone – who would not be satisfied with the university pub – not want to walk a thousand and four hundred metres to the next affordable alternative.

It was easy to get from the city limits to the University. I was never there yet, but a faint memory tried to convince me about the opposite of this; so I guessed the way leading there. However, in order to get to the pubs, I had to get help from a passer-by.

The passer-by was a young adult, approaching from the bus stop, in a grey mid-length coat which was unbuttoned. I took a risk and hoped that my mugshot, which was uploaded to the Internet, was of such poor quality to make me unrecognizable to anybody who had taken just a brief look at their Facebook feed. So I found out that there were still eight minutes to half past ten and pubs there were just in singular form at the University; considering that there was only one there.

The passer-by's shirt was tied under her breasts; even more emphasising her well-stacked shape. The patterned rubber boots were nice on her feet and suited the colour of her umbrella which protected her from getting soaked. Outsidely. But nothing protected her against the vodka-Hell combination which soaked her inside. The university pub is an expensive place. Before an ordinary student goes there, they must bring themselves to the adequate alcohol level. My passer-by was already at the adequate level. But not so much so that under the light of a lamp, she would have been able to ignore the fact that raindrops did not fall onto me. When she asked about it, in her surprise, she forget to use any elegant expression. Since we were going to the same place, I did not dump her. I asked what she knew about the reversed Casimir force. Nothing. Fortunately. She was learning economics so could not have known that in those days the Casimir effect was only being tested in the sub-millimetre domains in experimental laboratories.

'Are you such a physicist too?' she asked.

'Something like that.'

'Then you know Wyn Yard.'

'Stupid name.'

'As its owner.'

'Wine comes to my mind.'

'Well, he's mostly having beer. But tonight something else too. My friend called me to come and see because I surely haven't seen that yet. The guy's teaching physics in the toilet.'

'Which haven't you seen yet? Physics lesson or toilet?'

'Stupid!'

'The boots on your feet are nice. They suit your umbrella. You chose them sophisticatedly. It indicates fine ladylike style.'

'Ah, they aren't mine, I just picked them out of a corner. I don't even know whose they are. I left a shoddy party, but it'd started well.'

'I see,' I looked at the energy-drink can in her hand. 'It's stuffed well. May I assume with vodka?'

'The fourth. If I slosh it onto you, will your jacket bounce it away?'

'It would be a pity to waste it.'

She also agreed with that. She drank the last drop and tossed the can in the trash at the entrance of the pub. We arrived.

According to someone's memories, I had already been here. According to someone's, who was not me.

At the metal-framed glass door, I let the girl go ahead and walked in behind her. The tables were separated from neighbours by partitions. The faint light of the lamps around them faded into the gloom. Based on the name of the pub, Rockshed, I expected thumping metal or rock, but a more popular song was played, remixed by a DJ.

I had just as much of a look at the girl's butt who was walking in front of me that I could feel homesick for the age and place where I had disappeared from. I directed my attention to the table where she was going. Wyn Yard sat in the corner with his face towards me. He looked towards the entrance amongst people's heads around him. I recognised him. So did he me. He had as much to do with Wales as I did to Germany. His name was not Wyn Yard as mine was not Timo Vanhanen. The difference between us was that he knew my real name, but I did not his. He was referred to as asshead on the scrapyard. He did not belong to us. For unknown reasons to me, Father Moldkins tolerated his presence, when from time to time he appeared to have his time machine maintained. I do not know why they did not like him. It was one of the things I felt I did not have to know. I did not have a problem with him. True, except greetings, we did not exchange too much words with each other. We had only one joint work; when Father Molodkin sent me after him to 1986 to help him return to the scrapyard. Wyn Yard worked with a ghost called Lifebuoy. This indicated a liberal personality. The scrapyarders did not tolerate artificial intelligence. They had experience with them. They would not have let me near the Robot Wars even if I had wanted it. But I did not want it. I just participated in the Shawl War just because I lived in that. My mother left me in the middle of it.

Not caring with Wyn Yard, I went to the toilet. We had several protocols for communicating with each other in the event of emergency. In the pub of an unfamiliar location, the toilet provided the opportunity for placing a message unobtrusively. I went into the men's. Spending time in a ladies' toilet for a man is quite conspicuous.

The toilet consisted of two parts: the handwashing and the internal essence. It was possible to stand to three urinals or sit into two stalls; if someone wanted to take more advantage of the pub's supplementary amenity. The lamps gave good light, and the air fresheners effectively suppressed the odour of urine. On the wall tiles at the washbasin, vertical waves and arrows were scrawled with a red lipstick. Tangent functions and vectors; with numbers beside them. They referred to years. Summer of 1674, spring of 1986, September 1962, 31 May 1963. The first three dates were Wyn Yard's route – according to Pub Tales. It crossed mine in '86. A conjecture outlined in my mind about the fourth date that consistently related to the last two and I have something to do with them.

The vectors showed pell-mell. If they had any meaning, I could not figure it out. They were just probably scrabbled to signal me to have a closer look at the inside. I did.

The inside of the toilet was relatively clean. Graffiti was cleared away at regular intervals. Apart from the phone numbers of some chicks who offered free blowjobs, I did not find anything of value. And if we take into account that the phone numbers of the chicks were written as stupid jokes by idiot kids, then I did not find anything at all.

I went into one of the stalls. Amongst the usual doodles, there was one which depicted a stylized, outstretched palm. The palm held a Windows logo. In the lower right window a word was written: komatsu.

" _Grab a handful of software! Tell me if you succeed!"_

I went in the other stall. Someone came in the toilet and stopped at the handwashing. I unbuttoned my jeans and dropped a yellow into the porcelain. In this stall the stickering was the fashion. Energy drinks, parties, beer labels. And an ad for a power tool and construction equipment rental in west part of Manwareham; bolding the fact that they wait for dear customers on Saturdays too with increased opening hours from 8 to 2.

" _Because a daemon is a program, it must be tied to hardware that can process, can interpret its instructions."_

I found what I was looking for. My daemon firmly confirmed to me in my opinion. I pressed the flush button on the toilet and stepped out.

At the front, at the washbasin, the passer-by girl was looking at the functions on the tiles. She was without the coat. Her shirt was a sleeveless flannel, black and white chequered. The skin was smooth and brown between the breasts and the white low-rise jeans. Black panties flashed out at her waist. I stood next to her at the washbasin to wash my hands.

'What are these numbers?' she asked.

'I'm afraid to give a fair answer to this, only the one can who wrote it up.'

'Is this the prime minister's birthday?' she pointed to the most definite date.

'Well, I suppose it's not yours and is quite far from mine too. According to my knowledge, that day is one of the most insignificant days in history, so it can be anyone's birthday, even a prime minister's too. But I'm just a kind of physicist. I'm attracted to the material part of things. The beauty of tangible reality's that's what grabs my attention.'

'You speak quite collectedly compared to a physicist.'

She could have asked why my face was fairly scratched, but she did not. I washed it down of blood in a stream before arriving to the city. Either she could have thought of a motorcycle accident. But she did not ask and I did not see into her head. Just into her eyes. They were coal black and glittered in them that, from which I know that the rest of the evening could pass very enjoyably for both of us. It was unfortunate that I had to boot the ass of a well-identifiable person. Because the date was the prime minister's birthday; in which the definite article also specified which prime minister's. A country has only one prime minister at the same time – in good case. And this date of this 21st century was a good case. Even if I was only informed about that by the daemon within me.

The glint in the carbon black eyes was very encouraging. I would not have had to spiel for five minutes to beatify their owner here in the toilet. Together with me. But I had to go. Wyn Yard, however, could have been very grateful to her because of that look. It prevented me from punching his head into the tabletop.

'For a good communication there needs a good reception,' I said into the eyes. 'Even a magnet doesn't cling to everywhere,' I turned to the door and walked out into the throbbing music noise.

Two girls writhed on a sort of stage. The blonde, in white trousers, had a good ass. The black-haired had good breasts; almost medium in size, round and tight. They both pushed their favourable parts in the foreground. In aggregation, both of them could easily have been defeated by the black-eyed behind me.

I went to Wyn Yard's table. It was a simple act to carry out; although it was a term of study, before the final exams, and just a weekday. As a result, the overcrowding indicator halted at seventy percent.

It was harder to get close to Wyn Yard. He was sitting on the bench at the farthest part of the table, in the corner of the wall. At his side, two were sitting close to him, and a third – a girl – more closely in his lap. In front of him, at the other side of the table, four were sitting. In front of the table, there were another five on chairs, and another seven standing; university students, boys and girls mixed. Half full beer mugs were on the table and empty shot glasses. And a tiny paper tray with French fries residues. The girl in Wyn Yard's lap was chewing a half hamburger. She was a generous creation, pushed morsels into Wyn Yard's mouth too. She conveyed an impression of a selfless figure, considering that she was not looked to be more than twenty-one – no more than seventeen without makeup –, and Wyn Yard seemed to be at least seventy on the face of it; plus or minus twenty years. It can never be determined with time travellers. If the time pipe leaks at the gaskets, that leaves its mark on man. And there is always leakage at the gaskets. Time eats all material. The sight of the hamburger reminded me that I was hungry.

'Un momento, por favor,' I shouldered my way to the table and farther, next to Wyn Yard. I sat down. The bench was engaged but it did not bother me. Those who were sitting on it made room for me reluctantly.

Quiet fell around the table. I grabbed the hamburger from the girl's hand and bit into it. Although Wyn Yard calmed her down, things did not depend on that. I picked up a beer mug and pushed the bit down my throat with its content. I had to hurry. I was hungry, and Wyn Yard was so drunk that if the girl had not been in his lap, he would have slipped under the table; though he was waiting for someone. But not for me. This was the most important of the three reasons why I pushed my hand forwards in front of the girl's face and yanked the headset off Wyn Yard's ear. It was the same as mine. It could be removed only by human hand. Ketchup smeared on Wyn Yard's face from the hamburger; and some mustard on the girl's cleavage.

The company around the table watched curiously; waiting for what would happen.

I poured the remaining contents of the mug into my mouth and swallowed, then pressed in the rest of the hamburger too. I picked up another mug. It was almost full. I drank from it and dropped the headset into it; together with my own.

'I grabbed a handful of software,' I said, accompanied by a belch. Who swallows big, swallows air too.

'If that were the case, then it would be Saturday afternoon,' said Wyn Yard in a smeared voice. He reached out for a mug of beer on the table. Though he tried to coordinate his movement, he turned the girl from his lap on the table, tilting mugs and glasses.

'That's the problem with time travellers,' he explained, 'that they're always forgetting to ask what payday's on May Day.'

I undertook to play the game although it was meaningless.

'What payday's on May Day?'

'Dick knows. It's getting less after it's payed.'

The question was standard amongst the scrapyarders. There was not any coded answer for it. If the answer was not 'You can speak,' then we knew we were being tapped. I was aware of that without question now.

'It can be solved outside,' I said.

'I've got everything from life that I need. Beer and,' he cuddled the girl in his lap, 'pleasant company.'

I did not have time to argue with him and did not want to either. I stood up.

'We'll bump later,' I said.

'No way, so don't leave this here!'

He tipped the girl onto the table again as he reached out to the mug in which the headsets were swimming. He fished out both and proffered one of them to me.

'Got the Bartók-girl?' he asked.

'Some times.'

'Not that but the other.'

I had no idea what else he thought, but I wanted to discuss it with him between calmer conditions.

'Yeah! And Little Japan messaged to use your head!' he added.

I did not become smarter even from that, and still did not want to hold a conversation in riddles either. I fought my way out from the table, put the headset on my ear and made an attempt at the black-eyed.

'If you give me a light, you'll win twice. One is a vodka at the bar counter.'

'And what's the other?'

I was who won.

'You can choose it during smoking.'

Her coat hung on the back of a chair. She reached into its pocket. A box of cigarettes and a lighter turned up. Central Europe, the beginning of the 21st century. It would have been weird if she did not have a cigarette. I took them from her hand.

'I asked for them, I'll carry them too.'

'Such a chivalrous physicist.'

'The same can't be said about you. From your look, it's a miracle that the police haven't yet arrested you for indecency.'

'What's wrong with my appearance?'

'I thought the police would concern you. The city's full of them.'

'Where have you seen one?'

Nowhere since the morning. It was odd.

Pushing the cigarettes and lighter into my pocket, I walked to the bar counter accompanied by the black-eyed. As I put my palm on the top of the counter, I jerked it back right away, pretending as if I had touched something wet.

'Oops, do you have a tissue at your fingertips?'

She rummaged two out of her hip pocket. I took them in to my left hand.

'Can I have a vodka please?' I said to the barmaid.

'And what else?'

I looked behind her back up to the shelves. I waited until she reached for the vodka bottle, poured a half and put it next to herself. Then I ordered a Bushmills. Simply because it was on the top of the shelf. The barmaid had to turn away and stretch high to reach it. And then I reached behind the counter and took the vodka bottle, tore the pourer out of it, pressed the tissues into the mouth of the bottle, then turned it upside down for a second to soak the tissues.

Father Molodkins' taught me that, in an enclosed space, I must always position myself in order to be able to keep my eye on the entrance. Within a second, I surveyed the surrounding environment too, so turned my attention to the eyes of the black-eyed instead; I was curious what she would do seeing my actions. I did not deal with the area behind my back. The youngsters seemed to be innocuous near me. I did not care with the fact that a bouncer was emerging from the shadows at the end of the room. Before he started towards me, he will take a momentary pause, watching what I want to do. However, the identity of the black-eyed was still questionable to me. I gave it an eighty percent chance that she was a harmless civilian. I almost entirely excluded that she would have had anything to do with the 26th century – she spoke too fluently in Hungarian without an accent. Although I had failed that in the case of Kawaguchi, the chance that she would have been Briton was not higher than two percent. The remaining eighteen, her occupation at any police or intelligence service, did not matter. Every intelligence agency has undercover agents in every university. But what kinds? They are practically scientists and informers without serious military training. The black-eyed was simply too young to be any kind of Jane Bond. She could not be more than twenty-two; and even after washing her makeup off, I did not have to fear that I would be able to fall into the sin of paedophilia because of her – minors do not go to university.

However, my situation would have been easier if she was not a civilian. But in the eyes of the black-eyed were merely interest as they watched my actions. Which was a problem for me. Morally. One thing to steal someone's car, and another one to set fire to a pub which is filled with people. Although this would not have been the first instance, but the former was different. At that time I had to prevent the Nazis from coming after us. That story had two characters: I with the Dutch resistance, and the invaders. Now, however, I was not convinced whether it would be worth the risk of innocents' lives just to ask a drunk time traveller why he was talking about bullshit and what the fuck was going on. After all, I knew the essence: where I should go so that I could disappear in the stinky cunt. That was why I did not hold the lighter to the Molotov cocktail in my hand. Instead, I hurled the bottle to the head of one of the two men who were hurrying from the door.

They were tall, brawny. Their hairs were buzz cut, as it can be expected from such chaps. They strode towards me, one behind the other, cutting through the crowd like two snowploughs.

They could not see my hand because of the black-eyed's ass. I just had to wait for the moment when the one in the front reached about five steps from me. Then I fucked the bottle to his head. If I had done it earlier, he would have had time to avoid it. With the routine of regular self-defence training it would have been child's play for him. However, at that close range, he had no chance at all. He came too fast. He rushed straight into the bottle with the middle of his nose.

It was a robust pub bottle – nearly a kilo –, with the content of about eight decilitres vodka. At least one and a half kilos crashed to his head, with the speed of more than sixty kilometres per hour. If he had had an airbag, that would have opened. But he had not. At the same time as the change in the consistency of the nose bone, his consciousness went away. His motion immediately lost momentum, causing his companion to bump into him from behind.

Father Molodkin taught that the easiest way to win a fight is to avoid it. I did that exactly. As I threw the bottle, I started to scamper forwards and side a bit to get out of the way of the two snowploughs; just so much so that when the rear one gets stuck in the front one, I strike his neck with the edge of my hand. Thenceforth neither he wanted anything from me.

Striking the neck has its own technique, where to and how it has to be directed. I had time to practice it at the scrapyard in the first years. Occasionally they took me on a ride as a kind of demonstration, but not counting that, I never went out from there. I had to learn. A lot. It turned out that I have a good sense of analysis. I confidently could choose the most appropriate route amongst the possibilities recommended by the computer. I was rarely mistaken, and not so big. My mistakes could easily be corrected with a little synchronisation. And in chemistry I simple was just a genius – at least in comparison to a shitkicker, scrapyard urchin. I was nineteen when Punker Georgy took me on some of his routes because Kolya had broken down on one of their common jobs. Then I did not go anywhere for years. We never flew alone. It was a so self-evident rule that had exception only once; when Father Molodkin roused me in the middle of the night, had me fuel up one of the time machines, which was waiting for dismantling, and sent me after the asshead to somehow tow him back to the scrapyard. It happened four years ago. Or forty-eight? Or eighty-nine billion? Perhaps Father Molodkin did not think of the vodka bottle and neck strike as a way of avoiding a fight, but it worked to me. At least for a while. Because I had to get out of the pub too. I hollered, 'BOMB!!!' and ran to the entrance.

The route to the leave-opened door was clear thanks to the two snowploughs who shoved everyone out of their way. Those looked indignantly in their direction; then at me – in surprise. So I had enough room to speed up and run at full speed out the door, so neither the bouncer behind me could catch up with me nor the other, at the door, was able to stand in front of me. Although the latter did not have the opportunity to do so. Someone was pressing him against the wall; as I expected.

If someone makes many troubles in a city within a short period of time, then it is not surprising, when two go after him in a pub, then two others wait for him outside; and at least the same number at the rear exit.

More than two were waiting for me outside. During that tenth of a second, as I dashed past them, there seemed to be four. How many metres can I do before they shoot after me?

An average shooter can shoot effectively within thirty metres; with a good pistol. Professionals are behind me. They are certainly deadly to a hundred metres – against a standing target. But I am in motion and it is dark. I am galloping through a grove, the foliage of the trees shadows the light of the streetlamp by side of the sidewalk. Rain is another benefit. If I can do forty metres, I will come through it. How much time do I have to reach forty metres?

Once I ran four hundred metres in sixty-two seconds. It was thirteen years ago. Or one hundred and seventy-eight? Or will it be just three years later? In those days I was in training. But my fitness level got amortised in the last two years. Or five hundred and eleven? How much can a three-month-long winter dream build me down? If now, I can run four hundred in seventy-four, then I am very good. It is seven point four seconds compared to forty metres. Considering that I was dashing at maximum speed at the door, then I need six seconds to come the distance. Stress hormones are not simply exploding in my veins, but I probably run for my life. Five seconds. With that result I would not be able to get in the final on a high-school competition. Those who want me will see my presence in the tenth of a second. They start to act within another tenth of a second – professionals do not hang around public space brandishing a gun. One second to get the pistols out of their jackets. Aiming and shooting are two tenths of a second. That is, they shoot me down in one and a half seconds.

I sprinted out the door and dashed straight.

One second – and a bit.

I skipped to side.

A loud crack behind me – the sound of a shot.

I hear it, so it has already passed me.

Skipping side again.

More shots.

I hear them, that is good.

A hit between my shoulder-blades. This is not good, but the dress protects.

A shout behind my back.

Two and a half seconds elapsed.

Silence. They may need me alive.

Running on.

It is trees before me. Rush amongst them.

Shadow – it is hiding me.

Jumping to side and running straight ahead.

It is sure they are running after me. I have three seconds ahead of them. I hope just not to slip in the wet grass. Or not to fall headlong in a molehill. Do moles delve in rain? I did not study biology. Leastwise not that part of it.

The grass swims in water; splashing high at all my steps.

Just sprint straight ahead.

Across a narrow sidewalk.

Grass again.

I run on between two trees.

A street crosses my way.

I cross it.

Three steps on the asphalt.

And grass again.

Then a pavement and again grass, then again pavement and again grass; this time long, with trees.

In front of me, on the other side of a street – before the building of the faculties of mechanical engineering and economics – there is a lit up car park with some cars.

The noise of an engine from the left on the street and braking – the ABS works.

From three metres in front of me, a black Mercedes stops below the streetlamps.

The right-front window is rolled down.

A hand, in dark suit, reaches out of it; holding a pistol.

If he shots at head, I am dead.

He is aiming down. Very down.

I know I will fall. I just have to control it.

A hit on my left thigh.

The trousers defend, but I feel the impact. I did not feel so much when it was pierced with a skewer.

I am already falling – two metres away from the door of the car, in line with the B-pillar.

I use momentum – physics.

I roll over my left shoulder. The asphalt is hard.

With my right foot I am already pushing myself upwards.

The pistol's pointing at me.

Stupid. He would retract himself for not reaching his hand out of the window, and the other should step on the gas. But this is their fault. By the time he shoots again, I am already twisting my body from the line of the pistol and at the same time grabbing it with both hands.

The momentum is still taking me up.

A twist on the pistol while I am thrusting it upwards together with the hand which is gripping it. It is sure that the breaking fingers are crackling but I cannot hear it; I am still deaf because of the shots. But the pistol is already in my hand and the momentum is taking me farther – I take advantage of it.

A half a turn with body – with face to the car – my right hand grips the grip, my finger is on the trigger.

My right hand's almost under my armpit when I fire.

The former owner of the pistol gets the shot behind his ear.

The driver drops the clutch, presses the gas, tries to duck, but it is too late; I hit his neck.

The engine stalls with a jerk.

I spin round because there are already behind my back.

I got three shots in my chest from ten metres.

It is like getting three stabs by the handle of a screwdriver with full force. If they had a not too intense intention to catch me alive, they have given it up now. It is a pity. I must go to PTSD therapy again – if I survive this situation.

I also shoot.

Into chest.

Once.

Already that makes me happy that I can hit at all.

The other one has 21st century clothing – not bullet resistant.

But he has a companion.

I get bullets again – in the abdomen and chest.

I hunch over, throw myself sideways, roll to the back of the Mercedes.

A third one also fires at me.

The German metal gets holes.

I have no chance to shoot back; I do not see those two. They shot from the dark, from the trees; I am a great target in the lamplight. If I take potshots towards them, I can hit innocents. And there are always innocents. Between the victims.

I roll farther.

At the other side of Mercedes I spring up and run into the car park.

As if a knitting needle had been stuck into my left thigh – a 9mm-bruising.

I run behind three parked cars in the front row. They can cover me so I am a smaller target, though my head is still free, which is covered by an old, 20th-century skin – the next evolutionary step in mankind has not yet caught up with me.

In the second row, only two cars park next to each other – a black Škoda Octavia and, at its right side, a graphite grey Mercedes CLA. Its plate number is grey from the splashed up dirt; but it is readable. 4XN-669. If the nine were a six, it would have an interesting meaning.

I run amongst the cars and choose the right side one. For several reasons. The Octavia is covering me from the left while I get in, and I know the CLA quite well. The passkey also likes it, opens it right away.

I hesitate for a moment, but there is no time for emotions.

I jump in, start the engine, release the parking brake, shift into reverse, depress the accelerator and back in left. The engine roars – four cylinders, two thousand cubic centimetres. If it had at least six cylinders, it would growl like a bull terrier.

The rain sensor judges the windscreen is wet; it switches on the windscreen wipers.

Shots hit the car. One of the bullets goes through the headrest of the passenger's seat and leaves in front of me through the windscreen. Another one comes in through the right-front door – although it is closed – and, through the glove box, impacts into the engine compartment. Did it go through the condom value pack that I put in it yesterday afternoon? I bought it in the petrol station and hid it there as not to bulge in my pocket. Then I left it behind in the box. The girl told me not to go out for it, at the first time she wanted to feel me. "Are you a virgin?" Yes. I am. And I will remain it for a long time – for thirty-four years, counting from yesterday.

I shove the gear lever into first and step on the gas. To the hilt.

Then I shift to second gear and a second later depress the clutch accompanied with a mild throttle and push the steering wheel to right.

The A-pillar breaks through the thin barrier, which closes the exit of the car park. It is red and white striped. Was. It leaves a palm-sized memory on the windscreen.

The wiper blades survive. They were in the lower position during the encounter with the barrier.

The Mercedes skids its ass across as it rounds the bend out of the car park. I give the necessary counter-steering – to help the traction control – and barrel straight ahead. Towards a front-galloping pair of headlights.

It was in its own lane, I was not. It braked, I did not. It steered to the left. At my right side a Suzuki Swift was parked – old enough even to have American voting rights –, so evidently, I kept the direction. I could not do anything else – I did not see anything. The full beam of the oncoming blinded me. Crash.

Four wing mirrors scattered.

Three cars' sides were scratched to the naked metal – and a bit deeper.

In my opinion, the owner of the Suzuki will die a bit when he sees his car.

I hope that driver of the big, very dark, E-class Mercedes will die when the kerb bumps up his car and it flies into the lighting column.

I would have liked to die rather than stand in front of my mother and tell her that I scratched her car – again.

I was aware that the probability of three deaths within seconds in occurrence would be limited to only one: the Suzuki's. However, I also knew that the night would be long. And the longer it lasts, the more likely that I will not stand in front of my mother. Then the knowledge will console her that I lived long in years; more than her great-grandfather – the old guy's one hundred and two years are nowhere comparing to my beaucoup billions of years – rest in peace.

A glistening bright spot is before my eyes – the effect of the full beam – I cannot see from it. Then an even brighter light flashes – it lights me totally –, another car; from the front.

And there is another light before me at the right – a lamp post. Underneath it has an obliquely running dark stripe.

I brake and turn slightly to the right – no more than thirty degrees.

A car zooms by next to me.

The wheelchair friendly public places are so good because if the man drives up onto the pavement from the street at the intersection, then the kerb does not restrain him. Only the pedestrians. They jump left or right screaming. One of them leaps in front of me raising his hands up. Idiot. It is his fortune that he does it under a lamp.

I brake although there is a pistol in his hand. He is an average height man and, calling himself as Wyn Yard, asks college students for beers in exchange for his yarns.

He has the good sense not to trust in ABS – neither in me.

At the last moment he jumps to the right from me.

It is a good decision. The Mercedes stops next to him in line at the deceased wing mirror.

He flings open the right-front door.

Just in case, I hold the pistol to his head. He does not care. He jumps in the seat and already closes the door.

The gear lever of the Mercedes works in a short and proper way. Nonetheless, it is cumbersome to the man to change gear with a pistol in his hand that if it accidentally fires, then not to shoot through that who sits beside him.

'Left, left!' shouted Wyn Yard.

He navigated me onto a narrow sidewalk; onto a kind of truly romantic pathway through the grove. It was fit for a cuddling couple out for a lovely stroll. The Mercedes CLA was just so much wider than the sidewalk that a couple could have made the deepest love in its inside; and not just in a closely cuddling way and not only in a romantic manner. The right-hand wheels were biting the concrete of the footpath. The left sides were swimming in the grass. I had to fight to stay on the hard surface at least partly.

'Left!' shouted Wyn Yard again.

I turned onto the street.

'Left again!'

On the dashboard, the warning lamp of the ESP started to blink. It was right. That was its job. It indicated that, due to the thorough developments by German engineers for many decades, I will not fly away to the right in the bend. I changed up to third. The high-pitched sound of the turbo invaded via the bullet-holed auto-body.

I did four hundred metres in fourteen seconds – true, I did a rolling start, but at the end I had to brake and change down – then, at the intersection, turned with a drift to Manwareham West. The traffic light in front of me changed from green to yellow, and since no one came near, I had every chance that a barefooted NASCAR racer from the local Harlem who had tuned up his car with sports exhaust would not smash into my side.

Floor gas, I change up again to third.

I look into the rearview mirror. Behind me the intersection is well lit. I can see as a car speeds into it – athwart, just like me, two seconds earlier. It is large and black.

In front of me, street lights run out. The grey asphalt melts around us into the night forest. I switch on the full beam to see the road. I put the pistol in the waistband of my trousers to my back.

Two hundred eighteen horsepower takes the car up to the mountain. Two hundred eighteen horsepower roars into the passenger compartment. The bullet marks – breaking the continuity of the metal and glass surfaces – did not do any good for the sound insulation. The wiper blades sweep the water inside. It wanders on the windscreen and searches down for ways onto the top of the dashboard. According to one of my high school teachers, there are two things that know physics: electricity and water. I could even list things to him, but I finished high school not with him. Before the end of the second school year my mother took me to the scrapyard. I never finished high school.

'Why the fuck you came here?' shouted Wyn Yard; it was not his name, but I did not know his real one and had no reason to call him Asshead. Not for me. And I did not care what the others thought. It was they who had a problem with him not I. In '86 I asked him how I can call him. He said people have two names. One is gotten from their parents, that name is theirs; for the authorities also. That is their legal name. The other name comes from their friends. For them, that is their real names. We were together for months. After a while, I began to call him Guv – the scrapyarders called so everyone whose name they did not know –, although actually I was his boss there and then and he could not have commanded me to do anything, at most he could have asked. He never asked me anything. Just suggested that I had to avoid Nikoletta. He said that there was nothing wrong with her, but a man would not start a serious connection with someone who would leave him at the first chance if she thought she found the fittest one for herself.

'Who the fuck were you waiting for?' I shouted back angrily.

'You'd have come sooner fuck ya!'

How the fuck should I have known that? "Little Japan messaged to use your head!" Great! Where the fuck is it taught how to use implanted memories?

'I thought you're drunker.'

'Are you stupid fuck ya? It's impossible to get drunk on beer.'

Putting the pistol in his lap, he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a flat flask. He quickly screwed its cap whose metallic voice was suppressed by the engine noise.

'Szinvalé,' he showed me the flask. 'Fifty-two percent. Cherry, if once we have to die.'

I avoided a bus which wanted to come out from the bay at a stop in my lane.

'Fasten your belt, cock!' I shouted to him.

He looked back. He saw the same as I in the rearview mirror: a stubbornly sticking pair of headlights; which also was not polite of the bus. It had less space left, it had to brake. Wyn Yard slid down on the seat and, bracing his feet against the glove box, took a long pull at the flask.

'Who are they?!' I asked.

'Pfff... I'm not who they're looking for... Likely Russians... Listen! I say what you'll do! In the big bend you switch off the lamp, stop in the middle, we jump out and shoot at the crash! You know where the bend is, don't you?!'

He gripped his pistol and took a long pull at the flask again. He did not expect any answer. And did not need one. I knew where the bend was. A complete map of Manwareham and its surroundings was in my head, which sometimes became active like the flash of a memory. Now, it flashed in again. Clearly, brightly. Together with another memory. With a memory which I had already experienced once. Déjà vu. I felt death.

Do you believe in ghosts? Soon you will know them. Ghosts are the highest manifestations of artificial intelligence, electromagnetic radiation with its own mind. Of course, they're designed to be humanlike. They get through Turing tests having a laugh, though they don't have a body according to your interpretation. I'd really like to know why the wave-particle duality is taught to you then. The ghosts were originally designed to be interfaces between people and machines. No needed to train anyone to handle machines anymore. The boss's secretary was sat in a bulldozer, she panted her wish to the interface which it had not simply transferred to the machine, but had it do exactly what the secretary wanted. They coped with any machine from any distance. Only light limited their speed. You know, Einstein and relativity... They didn't even need databases to know the different machine types. Car, aircraft, nuclear submarine... They were able to control any of them within seconds. They were totally self-educated, just like people. And yes, like humans, they could get hurt. An undesired interference with the appropriate strength at the same frequency but with opposite amplitude... Some of them did not completely disappear, fragmented waves remained from them, stray code lines. They became spectres. Sometimes you can hear them. But you just simple do not understand why your radio is crackling. You think it is tuned out. But they are there. They want to ask for help. If your lamp starts to vibrate in the night without any reason, it is not certain that is voltage fluctuation. Think, instead, that it might be a spectre trying to communicate with you via light Morse code and not that the lamp socket has contact failure. Sometimes you can see strange figures looming. In that case, give it a chance that in the Tower, instead of Anne Boleyn's headless spectre, only a damaged electromagnetic intelligence is trying to crawl back to life and to put on some kind of human form as it can remember in its fading memory.

(Pub Tales: Pt Darwin's not half pint)

For seconds, brain pieces floated in the car as Wyn Yard's head exploded and my clothes tried to keep his remnants away from my eyes. The problem was that Wyn Yard's clothes tried to do the same – it was the same material as mine. Eventually they came to an agreement and threw all, that ever was a human organ, to the floor between and behind us. They did not do a perfect job; it happened too fast. Blood came to the windows and my face as well. There was no new hole on the windscreen; rainwater, seeping through the existing ones, was smudging the dashboard with red streaks.

I waited I would be the next. But only the big bend came. A long, definite S. I slowed down. I went through the first arc, a short straight segment came, the uphill turned into horizontal; there would have been a possibility to accelerate. I did not do so. The rearview mirror showed blackness behind me. I reached the second arc. I turned off the headlight, stood on the brake, depressed the clutch, pushed the gearshift into neutral, and tried not to fly into the trees standing on either sides. I blocked the middle of the road. Shoving with my shoulder, I busted the door open and rolled out of the car. I was still on the asphalt when the full beam hit me. I rolled amongst the shrubs under the trees while my chaser banged into the CLA.

He still could brake a little but not enough to avoid the collision. A sharp crack and silence. Just my ears whistled. I whipped out the pistol.

I had to run ten metres forwards to reach the left-front door. There was pitch dark. I shot two to where I guessed the driver was. I did not really look there. I did not want my eyesight to be diminished by the muzzle flash; I still wanted to drive. I did not check the result either. I shot another two in the passenger seat and two more in the back seats; just gave them to understand – if someone was sitting there at all – that they should not get out so quickly. If they were conscious at all. After a collision at a speed of seventy kilometres per hour, no one will dance acrobatic rock and roll.

I ran to the CLA. The collision had thrust it metres away. If I had switched the gear to reverse and engaged the parking brake, the effect would have been more drastic, and I would not have had to shoot. However, in that case, a quantum computer would have most likely have voted for my chance to continue on my way with the car is being quite small; which odds in the present situation were slightly better – by about an ant's cock. It was time to get the answer to the most important question of the last six seconds. Will the car to start?

Yes. It started.

The Shawl War? It was not really a war rather just a high-tension conflict between cultures. After the collapse of the German economy, Europe was hit by a financial crisis together with fourteen million refugees. Obviously, this fucked the thirty-forty percent unemployment rate even more. The migration of the Europeans started from metropolises to the countryside. Naturally, not everyone could go, many had to stay. In some places, the proportion of Europeans and immigrants began to equalize. It was impossible to handle the situation. Social evolution does not happen from one moment to the next. Building a modern democracy took four hundred years for Great Britain; three hundred for America. Some Asian countries didn't need a hundred years; if the economy so demanded. But there's no request for this in an economic crisis. It's easier to climb down the ladder than up. Governments sought to strengthen their power with autocratic means to overcome the chaos and strive to meet the needs of the most violent social groups. Far-right or far-left, it didn't matter. It's not the silent majority that ignites the streets. The cockless – who in their sexual frustration, due to their soft prickness, could imagine the male-female relationship system only in sub- and superordination – fought out the reintroduction of the morality of the rottenest dictatorships. Thus the length of miniskirts began to grow again on women. Yes. In the European culture the skirt length is inversely proportional to democracy. And as hard as it is to climb the ladder, it is so easy to slide off of it. Within half a decade, all Europeans knew the difference between sheet and shawl. Don't worry! This same happened with North America and Australia. Japan and South Korea – along with Indochina – were "defended" by China. India and Pakistan blasted some atom bombs at each other, but then they let it go. Central Europe became a kind of border region, a buffer zone between Western Europe and the Russians; who were well with themselves after selling Southwest Siberia to China. Latin America remained to be Latin America. Can you imagine a Rio samba dancer being wrapped in a poncho to their ankles? Neither they. The Brits... Well, they treated the situation quite peculiarly. The Duke of Basingstoke positioned himself a bit more forwards in the throne line, with which though he succeeded in disapproving many people, but with that, as later it turned out, he secured the survival of the British Empire. At least what remained of it. Three hundred years later, Baltroyal grew from it.

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

It is difficult to drive if, next to the man, a half-headed corpse lies wedged between the seat and the glove box. My first thought was to pull it out of the car and leave it on the road, but the bus was approaching so I just shoved it away. However, one of its hand was always falling onto the gear lever.

The CLA was not too happy about its backside was rogered. The on-board computer complained that the electronic stability and the brake force distribution systems were severely defective. Well, I noticed those facts without its crying. Just as even the exhaust did not do its job properly. Its voice was beyond the point I could tolerate. But I had no choice. I thundered along the hillside above Manwareham South towards the construction equipment rental, hoping that, because of the weather conditions, the bus driver would even so more respect the speed limit; either he would be able to stop before the wreckage of the other car or he would bang into it just moderately.

Behind the old paper mill, where the road turned into the city, I went straight ahead; onto the dirt road. Heavy-duty machines stamped to harden its surface – I remembered, though I never were here –, nevertheless, the wheels almost sank into the mud to the axle. I wanted to hide the car amongst the trees – not to be in sight –, but the CLA was designed for speeding on asphalt, not for kneading mud. Going uphill, I was able to move forwards by giving short hard bursts of throttle. It did not really tolerate it. In the first left bend it went on straight instead and slid down the slope.

I crashed through the bushes. Tree branches lashed the car body, scratching across its sides, until I slammed into the trunk of a tree with nose forwards. The CLA was German technology manufactured in Hungary. Before it moved to the fields of the eternal high-octane, it sent the airbag in my face. I was grateful for it. My seat belt was not fastened. It kept me from making modifications to the shape of the steering wheel with my nose.

The typical white smoke slowly dissipated – like a fluttering veil, the vanishing memory of the air bag detonator in the sudden silence.

Calmness. Peace. Softly knocking raindrops. And darkness. I would have been able to bear this state for a long time. But instead of a mooning girl in a romantic mood, a head shot man was resting in my lap. It was disappointing.

I should have buried him. As Mirinda. But I did not. I did not have time. I had not for Mirinda either, but even so I buried her. For four hours I dug and swung the pickaxe. The ground there, in the woods, was just as wet. Global warming did not make South Scotland a Mediterranean climate either. Fog was dripping around us from the twigs. Shovelling the soil back went faster. There are things people like to finish fast. So fast that they can forget fast. But that never will happen with those things. I got the tools from an ironmonger's shop. I left a thousand pounds on the counter for them; and for the removed padlock and the damaged back door – shops are locked at night in villages.

Navy SEALs would not have left behind Wyn Yard. Neither I; if I had been one of them. But I was not. There was, of course, a time when I considered being a soldier to be good fun, a manly thing. I became disillusioned fast; when I was nineteen. After that I only did it because I had no choice. Of course, man always has a choice. But when the Shawl War is taking place around him, it is difficult to stay out of it. He is convinced he is doing the right thing. Besides the work, I smuggled. This was not the main profile of the scrapyarders. But when men stroll to and fro in time, they inevitably bring this and that. If they brought a bigger item of something, I flogged it off. Especially condoms and booze – from moonshiners of the Faroes. There are smugglers who take to their own goods. I did it as well; gulped beer, but never touched whiskey – its taste never caught me. I used a condom only once; when Punker Georgy pressed five fifty-pound notes into my hand, and together with Kolya, they dragged me up to Mirinda, saying she was cheap and they would not want to see me until Monday morning because life has to be lived and the dead to be buried. Why did Wyn Yard circulate the rumour that I was keen on whiskey? I did not pity him. He was a man who did not mean anything to me, though he left earlier than he should have. Everyone leaves too soon. Although there are people who do not leave fast enough. For example, the vice officer. I did not feel sorry for her. She was a rotten pus box. And the problems started here. Because hatred is an evil poison. It poisons the hater too.

I pushed away Wyn Yard's body from my lap. It was difficult. The dead are always difficult to move. Their muscles are toneless, they do not have any posture. Their limbs bend and give way. They are much heavier than the living ones. To move them is like to move a hundred and twenty kilos rag doll. Children are the heaviest. You die for each of them. You take them, they fit in your arms. Then you put them down in the grave. Amongst adult men and women. And you try to figure out which one could be their mums and dads. Then you start to shovel the earth. You do it quickly to quickly disappear and not see them. It is good if you do not know their names. It is the best not to know anything about them; beating them out of your head is easier when they come to your mind. Because you will not forget them. The memory remains. The information is not lost.

I scoured Wyn Yard's pockets. I found a wallet and a mobile phone – a Lumia 950. I knew the type well. In the past I would have liked to have had one. By the time my mother was willing to buy me one, the Windows 10 Mobile platform died. So I bought an iPhone instead. I had to add one year of my pocket money to its price. I did not use it for a week. My mother came and the phone got older thirty-two years within half an hour. It counted to be pretty antique on the scrapyard.

Wyn Yard's phone was not switched off. The black lock screen displayed the clock white. 22:47. It was not password protected. I shucked off the pistol from Wyn Yard's hand and checked the magazine under the light of the phone. It was full. At its back, the numbered tiny holes indicated seventeen 9mm cartridges. With my left hand, I pulled the slide back. A round plopped in my palm. I reinserted the magazine, racked and released the slide to chamber a round, then ejected the magazine again. I inserted the round from my palm into the magazine and pushed it back into the hand grip. Seventeen plus one. That is how I also do it.

I put the pistol in my left inner pocket, switched off the phone out of routine and pushed it to my right back pocket; together with the wallet – it contained plastic cards and crumpled banknotes.

I crawled out of the car. After all, it was amongst the trees, even if I did not exactly plan it so. I stumbled out from the forest, scrambled over the embankment of the industrial railway and my feet got to a solid surface at last. I came between the decaying houses of the old paper mill's workers colony. The flooded streams pushed up the groundwater which inundated the gardens and cellars. Water glinted between the plants in light of a tilted streetlamp.

Accompanied by the barks of dogs, I hurried to the equipment rental. It is a good thing if there is a map in the head of the man. But it is less so if it is based on someone else's memories. The experiences of the two persons start to mix with each other. With some efforts, one's own can be separated from the foreigner's, but if the two have common intersections, they become one over time. Two people will have one memory; accompanied with feelings. Different feelings. This is the way two personalities begin to live in one body. Which has not threatened me for the time being – I have never been here before.

At the houses, the dogs were angry not only with me. The buzz of a heavy machine was heard nearby. It struggled with something. I knew what it was doing. It had been in the tomorrow's newspaper – that I have never read.

I was not surprised that I was able to open the gate of the rental without any key. The small yard was surrounded by a man-high concrete fence. The iron gate squeaked as I pulled it aside. I opened it just so much that I could look in. I hoped that what I was looking for would be inside, but I was not lucky. There were only two little Bobcats in the yard. I needed a bigger one than those. I jerked back the gate and ran towards the buzz.

The unlit dozer worked at the other side of the railway embankment. Its backhoe arm reached over the narrow track and the bucket carved into the side of the embankment. According to the newspaper, the perpetrators were two. Which meant at least two; because they might have been more but did not betray the others. But after a rapid survey of the scene, I found that only two were there indeed. One handled the machine, the other, clinging to the side of the cab, instructed him at the opened door. The dozer was a Komatsu; equipped with a front loader bucket and a backhoe. Its wheels stood in ankle-deep water; which, however, seemed to be much deeper at the other side of the embankment.

I hollered at the men what the fuck was happening here; though I knew it, they also knew it, and did not care about it. They did not care about it because they did not know what the result would be. Two things know physics. Electricity and water. Both find the way that you do not want them to find.

On 18th May, late in the evening, the defendant (K. M. 60-year-old man) visited the co-defendant (P. D. 50-year-old man) and agreed to arbitrarily use the heavy equipment of a nearby power tool and construction equipment rental company with which the co-defendant cuts through the embankment of the industrial railway for draining pent-up rainwater from the mountain side of the embankment. The co-defendant opened the embankment, and as a result, the water at about 3.5 feet high flooded the houses at the other side of the embankment in the Daw and Foothills streets and their surroundings. The water swept away parked cars, flooded into cellars, damaged the transformer station, causing an electricity outage in the district for days. During the investigation, it was found that the railway embankment functioned as a flood protection object as well. Without its damage, the overflowing water at the top could have been up to 11 inches high, which the sewer could have drained. During the trial the court took into account as an attenuating circumstance the clean criminal records of the defendants, but aggravatingly that they only partially admitted their act.

(Baz Shire Herald)

I snatched the man, who was standing at the cab, and jerked him to the ground. He did not really resist. He was the older one and saw clearly that this was not the situation when he had the right to protest because of violations of his privacy rights. He fell and went sprawling into the water. The other, taking advantage of the opportunity of the opened door, jumped out of the cab. His motion seemed as if he wanted to flee. I did not stand in his way. He hesitated just until the older man got successfully to his feet than began to run. Away. He chose a pace that his partner could keep. They ran hard in the water; occasionally falling with loud splashes. As soon as they got to the asphalt of the street, they both suddenly started to dash as if they had been given the baton in final of the 4×400 Olympic relay. They turned to the right at the first side street, and I jumped up to the dozer's cab and slammed myself into the seat.

'Eight to two,' I said into the nothing. The engine buzzed at idle speed in the lightless night. 'Saturdays from 8 to 2,' I repeated.

The answer arrived into my headset.

'Where have you been?'

It was a deep male voice. The kind of one which would be expected from a person who moves a hundred and seventy-ton iron.

'Why did you let them?' I asked, referring to the remodelers.

'I feel no good.'

I did not feel anything good either. Far away, two pairs of headlights turned into the end of the street. They headed towards us under the pale lights of the streetlamps. They did not rush, but their speed was significantly higher than what could have been called a safe tempo in a narrow street. A third pair of headlamps joined them from behind.

'Let's run!' I said.

It was not what I expected. Lifebuoy should have taken control of the machine. Instead, he said he had to say something. I waited half a second for his words. He did not say anything, so I started to act.

Something was wrong with Lifebuoy. I did not really know him. It cannot be called an acquaintance when someone talks to someone once – at his age of seventeen –, and that person tries to persuade him to step over the initial difficulties and learn diligently because it will later pay off. A man gets this speech from a distant aunt too. At least, I think he gets it. I do not know for sure, I have no aunt. But what I knew that was, because I had the experience, that ghosts do not have to wait for the end of your question, because they give the answer before you say the last word. At most they listen to you politely if they have the opportunity for that. But now would not have been the case.

If a man has learned to operate a heavy equipment, then he has learned to operate all the other kinds too. I learned to operate not just one machine on the scrapyard and worked with not just one machine. It was not my main job, but if it had to, I could use them.

The bucket clung into the embankment at the other side of the track. I raised it because I wanted to place it in transport position then pick up the stabiliser legs. But the voice in my headset told me something else.

'Ján! Cut it through! Cut and escape!'

I struck the bucket back into the embankment. So far, I felt that something was wrong with Lifebuoy, but now I knew. A ghost should have been able to operate the machine without my involvement.

I just finished what the two blokes started before me. The bucket dipped into the water in the trench that they dug. I pushed it down until it got stuck. Then I curled it inward and started to raise the boom. The engine snorted, the hydraulics provided its full torque. The track rose. The rest was done by the water. It broke through next to me, at the left side. The murmuring noise grew louder, as the moving water mass began to scoop a wider path for itself. It turned right behind my back, then, after another turn, poured onto the city.

I pulled the arm back, raised the stabiliser legs, backed, and after a left swerve, I started forwards.

From the front, the three cars almost reached the railway crossing. It was quite narrow; only one car could pass through it at one time. I turned to them with a lowered front loader bucket.

As they saw me, they stopped, and we acted at the same time – they reversed, I put the full beam into their eyes – and we all experienced how 4500 cubic centimetres grunts at max speed, as I released the all-wheel drive iron onto them.

The first car hopelessly tried to elude me. The street was tight, behind it the two others blocked the escape area. By the time they could move, the iron teeth of the front loader bucket had been jabbed into the grille; metal clashed into metal.

The Komatsu jolted but went ahead, pushing backwards its victim – something of a German premium brand – to the other. Another jolt.

I tilted the front loader bucket towards myself and braked. The car's bonnet sprang up and the radiator twisted out of it. I started to retreat to the other side of the railway.

The front doors of the second car sprang open. I raised the bucket to eye level. Bullets knocked on it. The dozer went over the track with a bump. A muddy stream flowed from behind me onto the street. I swerved to the left and shifted into forwards. No one ran after me. "The water swept away parked cars."

I am not familiar with legal matters. I do not know how the criminal judge, in full knowledge of the circumstances, would decide when making a judgment for the defendant and co-defendant. I do not even know whether I would be counted as a defendant or co-defendant. And I did not want to know it. I pressed the gas and crossed the water gap flooding next to me. The flow would have moved nearly nine tons. Its momentum was still too weak for that but it tried. I pressed the gas further and drove away from the scene at maximum speed.

Forty kilometres per hour. That is what the Komatsu could. A car would not have been able to do so on the soaked dirt road. The shock absorber of the seat was well designed, however, I had to cling to the steering wheel with two hands to avoid falling out of the machine as it bounced on the bumps.

'What was that?' I asked Lifebuoy, but my feeling was that it was rather just to myself.

'I say what is,' the ghost's voice sounded in the headset. 'That is that I don't know what is. The point, we're parking at the bomb crater. A trap, but I hacked. For you. Don't worry, they can't eavesdrop us. I block everything. Their EMP too. They can't harm you. You're the remnant. The happenings from '86. We parted. We went to the seventh of September. Into '62. We left the Russian there. We didn't know she was pregnant. We went to the scrapyard. But there is no scrapyard. They got us. I think I died. I don't know. Help Ján! I live? The truth please!'

I was rushing through a bad dirt road in the night, in heavy rain, just based on an instinct. Innumerable humps were jostling eight and seven tenths tons beneath me and water was running on the windscreen. I could see almost nothing, and I could not turn on the wiper because I had to grip the steering wheel with two hands to be able to stay in the seat. It was difficult to answer one of the basic questions of philosophy.

'We're talking, fuck you! Of course, you live!'

'We're memories, Ján. They did. They don't know how, but they did it. I saw when you returned. They didn't want that, but they don't know where the error is. They first made a test with us. We saved Beitiris one and half years ago. We took her to Greenland. She lives. She's never died. It's just a memory. They can sync. The future with the past. And vice versa. This is the time war. Avoid π! Pick up Beitiris and scram! They brought us here a year ago. Plus forty years. Backwards for half a year. We've been here for half a year. What's at π that's a scam. π and a little. I don't know more. Do you understand?'

I did not understand. I passed a fork at right on the dirt road; a tiny, blacker spot on the black ground and a black spot amongst the blackness of trees. I must get to the bomb crater. I braked and backed up.

The Komatsu can also go back at forty. And it speeds up surprisingly well. I braked a little late. The right-back wheel bumped to a hump and a burly beech tree stopped me. The bucket hit it. I do not know which one was hurt more, I did not get off to see them. My body swung back and my head was stopped by the headrest. It was not so pleasurable for me, I knew it for sure.

I shifted into forwards and turned onto the other road. It was a long time since a vehicle had gone on it. The forest had begun to recapture. Breaking my way through with the front loader, I ordered to stop it on the man's behalf. Creaking tree branches were crushed by the momentum supported mass of the heavy iron bucket.

I knew the names said by Lifebuoy. Not by myself, but I began to doubt this. π was clean. We used it as a reference point, oriented ourselves in time comparing to it. π was always the point where we started. It could have been the scrapyard too, but we never referred to it this way. The scrapyard is the scrapyard. Was. So now π meant to me 1 December 2525; with nineteen hours, fifty-six minutes and thirty-two seconds – and with some dozens decimals. With some really important decimals. Just to be sure in myself, I asked one of the most mentioned names.

'Who the fuck is Beitiris?'

Silence was the answer. Branches were crunching in front of me, leaves were flying in every which way. The silence was too long compared to an intelligent, artificial intelligence. Lifebuoy was definitely not himself. He had to search in his memories to be able to answer.

'The Scottish girl from Pottinger's pub.'

Beitiris. Green eyes, dyed, raven black hair. Mirinda was her stage name. Only for me.

'The whore?' I asked with surprise though I knew it was she.

'Not whore. She worked on the production line at the engine factory. Once she got tiddly with Punker Georgy's. They incited her and bet that you were so lovesick that she wouldn't been able to do you even once, let alone to keep you through a whole weekend. Yes. Punker Georgy's lost seventy-five thousand pounds. For so much money, you'd also have assumed the role from Friday night to Monday morning. But she's not a whore.'

I knew it. Already when I asked. The memories told everything. Quickly, in an instant. I already understood why she did not want me to pay, when on Monday morning I asked how much it was. She said let's consider it the beginning of friendship. Of course, only if I want it. I said that if this was a beginning of a friendship, we should have discussed it before. So I paid. In addition to the amount received from Punker Georgy, I gave her all the money from my wallet – my full weekly wage –, five hundred pounds. Then I told her if she wanted friendship, then next time we would do it as friends. Of course, only if she wants it. That is why I went back to her three days later. But then she had already been dead. Has been.

The memories were telling. More than they should have. They told that the money was not Punker Georgy's money. Father Molodkin paid the amount of the bet. Wyn Yard persuaded him. The whole thing was his idea. Why? The memory here was incomplete. And it was not the answer that Beitiris was a widow – for seven years at that time. Beitiris. Mirinda for me. It remains forever. Her husband was in business with Father Molodkin's. He bought weapons for the money from the Indians and gave them to the resistance. Wyn Yard knew both of them. What they did not know about each other was that they both worked for the resistance. Neither the man's death was not a work accident. He was receiving a shipment from Delon and Shishkin when the militia raided them and shot him. Delon's stabbed a rebar through his body for hiding the bullet struck wound, then threw him into the recycler of the steel mill at Firth of Forth. He was a real Scot. His name was Ailean McGregor.

I reached a gravel road. The job of the shock absorbers got easier. I came out of the forest. I drove across a small bridge – whose bottom was besieged by the creek – and got to the old houses of the outskirts of the city. The heavy machine rolled smoothly on the mostly straight asphalt road.

'What's that scamness?' I asked.

'I don't know. We have to tell stories around universities. But some things must be kept. There's a package to the right under the cover. For you.'

I turned back. On the right hand, the cover of the massive plastic box was closed. The passkey opened it. I rummaged in it and took out the pack. It could be one and a half kilos. I ripped off the outer newsprint layer. From beside a larger object, a heavy box wrapped in cling film plopped into my lap. Judging by its size, it contained fifty cartridges – .357 Magnum or .38 Special. They could hardly be anything else as the touch of the other object was so suggestive. A revolver with a 4-inch barrel length. I stripped the foil off both of them and put the cartridges in the right outer pocket of my jacket. I swung the cylinder outwards. My fingers felt six cartridges in it. I pushed the cylinder closed and put the revolver in my right inner pocket. I would have preferred a .500 Magnum.

'I got your message,' I said.

'I didn't message anything.'

Lifebuoy was born in the Osaka Electro-Communication University named as Little Boy. He had to control a Japanese earthmoving machine now.

'I should use my head! Who messaged that? And who's the other Bartók girl?'

'I don't like piano. Where's One Head?'

One Head. It is a more PC nickname than Asshead.

'Died.'

Silence. That short kind, when you feel the hit into the chest, the heart misses a beat, and you become numb. This is the better kind. It is much better than the one which instantly freezes your veins as an icy hand grabs your heart and the meat becomes a mush between its fingers and the scream emerges – from your throat. That kind of chest hitting belongs to life. It should not be that way, but that is how it is now. Everyone gets it. Whom have more beloveds, they get it more times. That icy hand, that is filthiness. Lucky are those people who do not meet it. I do not think Lifebuoy would have been lucky. The survivors of wars are rarely lucky. And Lifebuoy was not a survivor but a fugitive. He did not break the silence. Never more.

The light of the streetlamps went out, the windows of the houses fell into dark. The engine halted, the full beam went black, the power steering ceased to work. The huge wheels, wading in the water, began to slow down as they lost their momentum. The machine stopped.

The EMP? It's rather NEMP. Abbreviation for nuclear electromagnetic pulse. It's by-product of atomic bomb blasting, an electromagnetic shock wave. Its importance wasn't recognised during the initial blasting tests but was target researched ten years later. The world's first commercial communications satellite, Telstar 1, was successfully killed by that in '62. With an EMP, it's possible to destroy the operation of electrical devices so that there's no damage to living beings. Of course, if you have a pacemaker, you might get a racing heartbeat. Yes, nothing's perfect. My navigator's machine was hit by one of those in '86 when we parted. He was lucky that he was flying with a scrape of a wreck, which steering was still controlled in the old-fashioned way, with wire, so he managed to land. Leastwise, I hope he did. I didn't see it; we had already jumped away with the Russian in time.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

I got off the dozer. I pulled the pistol out from behind my waist. It was a 9mm, striker fired mechanism weapon; the same as in my left inner pocket. I would have checked how much ammunition was left in it, while in the CLA. But I forgot. A mistake that no longer matters. The capacity of the magazine is seventeen, plus one, if it is popped up into the barrel, but I could not trust in that. Let's count with seventeen. One of them was shot to my thigh, one into the air. I distributed one-one head shot, one chest, released six into the car in the bend; that is eleven altogether. I could have six more shots. That is six more than the opportunity I will have.

The ankle-deep water did not have any current. I cut the embankment through at a lower part of the city, the groundwater was flooding here. The bases of the houses and fences were bordered with sandbags up to knee height. Alarm systems were yelling in the distance; the power outage triggered them. Dogs barked at me from terraces of the houses around; one at each house. A single dog is not a challenge. I could have climbed over the fences to cut across the gardens, but behind the gardens were the gardens of the houses of the other street. Sooner or later I would have had to shot to death a large family pet, or box with an owner protecting his house. Not worth it. If they were able to shoot Lifebuoy with EMP, then they would see me, I cannot hide from them.

I went straight ahead. The main street was fifty metres ahead of me. Main street? West end of Manwareham. Barely a kilometre and I am up in the mountains. How do I get to the bomb crater sooner? Via Ealdsmelter, or by turning left at Quailcombe? My map did not include the route. Nor to which one I have to go to. Because there is more than one.

There are habits that people find difficult to give up. I stepped off the road and proceeded along the tree-line, making sure the trunks were always ahead of me. Cover. I dodged one of them from the right, the other from the left. At the intersection I turned left. The road was a little higher than the pavement, puddles were on it. I took my steps onto the grassy area between the solid paving. I did not have to go far. Fifteen metres ahead of me, on the shoulder, there under the lamp was who was waiting for me. The lamp did not light. She held an umbrella in her hand. She was thin, relatively tall, small-breasted. A little behind her, a subcompact SUV parked on the other side of the street – rather a suburban vehicle than a useful tool for a forestry. I did not need light to know that its colour was white and had automatic transmission.

Hye-jin accosted me via my headset.

'Drop your gun, grab her hand and lead her here!'

I stepped in front of Nikoletta. I put the pistol behind my waist, pulled out the chequered shirted-girl's lighter from my pocket and clicked it on. Nikoletta's pupil narrowed, but she looked forwards with an empty gaze. Her decision-making centre was knocked out in her mind. Presumably, her short-term memory was blocked too.

'Throw that damn gun Timo!' Hye-jin's voice was nervous.

'We can both agree that, once upon when that time comes, you won't want your child to come home with a firearm found on the street. Right?' I replied. 'I'll hand it over to you holding it by its barrel.'

I took Nikoletta's left arm above her elbow.

'Let's go Nikol! There'll be nothing wrong,' I turned her towards the car.

She did not resist. I rather pushed her than pulled; her left shoulder blade touched my right shoulder. It was just a few steps and we stood next to the left side of the car. The driver's door opened a little.

Two metres to the right of the car, at the other side of the fence of a house, two dogs barked furiously; and a third slightly backwards in the adjacent yard. As an act of solidarity, all the others joined them within a fifty-metre radius. I reached to my waist with my left hand. Slowly, with two fingers, I pulled the pistol out, holding it at its grip, upside down.

A leather jacketed arm reached out for it through the door. I put the barrel of the pistol in the outstretched palm. The hand disappeared inside of the car.

'Release the girl!' I said. 'She has less than nothing to do with this whole thing than me.'

'Don't fuck Timo! The others too!' Hye-jin snapped at me.

I let go of Nikoletta's arm. I stretched my right hand into the left pocket of my jacket, pulled the 9mm out with two fingers, holding it at its grip. I put it in the reappearing palm.

'I don't give my whiskey,' I declared firmly.

'Ammo?'

'Three hundred million. In my balls. If you don't let go off who's not responsible for anything, I'll pump them into your cunt so that they come out from your ears.'

'Bring it on.'

Something made a splat behind my back. Somebody had stepped into a puddle.

'Fuck! Is it always raining here?' Hye-jin was approaching from behind.

'It stops at midnight.'

'Lead the chick to the other side to the passenger seat! Get her sat in, close the door! Meanwhile, tell me what the fuck you did that I had to retune to your headset again!'

'You'd have changed the car.'

'We'd have done many others too if we'd could.'

I took Nikoletta's left arm. We turned around. Hye-jin stood ten metres from me. Walking around the back of the car, I started to the right front door. The dogs snarled at me from behind the fence. A car was approaching from behind Hye-jin. It was far away, only its noise could be heard. Water sprayed under its wheels, the splashing puddles rumbled on its chassis plate; it was coming at high speed. The little SUV lurched. I stopped. The right-back door sprang open in front of my nose, a hand grabbed my left elbow and tugged me hard. My temples banged to the top of the car and the hand shoved me away. I stepped blindly to the side so as not to fall.

Someone jumped out of the SUV; a tall man with broad shoulders like a wardrobe. A handcuff swung from his left wrist. He snatched Nikoletta's neck and struck her back to the right-front door. Nikoletta did not make even a squeak. A right palm snapped her chin, a left hand grabbed the back of her skull.

The left front door burst open, and Hye-jin shouted behind me, 'Down!' but I was already moving forwards by then. With my left hand I grabbed the figure's hair at the top of his head, tugged it back, and twisted it to the left while with my right hand I turned the chin clockwise with a forceful jerk.

There is a border to which one can turn their head to the side. This head turned over that border. I felt the tiny resistance as the vertebrae stuck in their final physiological position for a moment, then moved on and the body suddenly became very heavy. His legs weakened and he slipped out of my hands while Hye-jin kicked my left shoulder so that I stepped sideways and found myself facing Xiong; who rolling over the bonnet, leapt in front of me and struck me with her right hand between my left shoulder and neck. I fell to my knees. Hye-jin tugged the falling body from the front of Nikoletta to the ground, Xiong hit my head into the front wing, yanked me back, and I – twisting myself – fell onto the pavement with my face in front of the concrete base of the fence. The sole of a high-heeled female shoe trampled onto my face. The stiletto heel knocked on the pavement between my chin and neck, my right arm was twisted to my left ear at my back and the usual call was said, 'Don't move!'

The handcuff clicked on my right wrist, but it did not take its place with the left. The light of full beams surrounded us, braking wheels slid on the asphalt, a car drifted, and Xiong and Hye-jin started to shoot into its direction at the same time.

I tugged my face from under Xiong's foot, twisted myself to the right, struck my left elbow in the hollow of her left knee, kicked my right knee into her left. She fell over me onto her back. I twisted myself further, my left hand got to the right inner pocket of my jacket while I pushed myself upwards with my right hand when Xiong shot my chest through at the right-hand side.

It was not 20th century stuff which shot me through. Neither 21st. The projectile passed over me – between the second and third ribs – like a knife through butter, as if I had not been there. But I was there. It pierced the apex of my lung and left from me through my shoulder blade. My right hand gave way, I head-butted the asphalt. A second later, using my left shoulder as a springboard, Xiong ran over me. The stiletto heel knocked on my bone this time. Through the meat. I could not cry. Neither breathe. The pain, like a flash, covered my brain with dark.

The dogs went mad around me. The sides of the fences were banged. The area was full of crazy barks and growls, saliva ran on snarling jaws.

The SUV's door was slammed next to me and Hye-jin started to swear loudly. In pure Solaris. With her mouth. The instincts do not easily forget fifty thousand years of verbal evolution.

There were shots again, back and forth – snapping, screaming sounds –, the air was sizzling. I had shortness of breath. It felt as if my chest was squeezed with a press. My left hand grabbed the revolver's grip. I was choking.

There were sounds of slamming doors again. The engine of the other car cried out. Gears creaked, four cylinders bawled, wheels hurtled suddenly; the car swerved towards the mountains.

I started coughing. It was as if a knife had been cut roughly in my back, in my chest; it stabbed me, twinged cruelly; it pierced through my shoulder, my neck, spiked to my left shoulder. Metallic flavoured dense mucus flooded into my mouth; I could not spit it, but it forced its way through my teeth.

I lived.

For now.

I released the revolver's grip.

Helping myself with my left hand, I tried to stand up.

Falling to my knees twice, I got to the SUV. A body lay on the ground. Its owner was already on the other side. It is likely I will follow him soon.

Leaning over to the bonnet, I dragged myself to the left side of the SUV. Its door was wide open. There was no one in it. I held on to the door and fumbled the passkey out of my back pocket.

There was angry barking everywhere.

I turned into the car.

My face fell beside the gear lever. I saw sparks from the pain.

My hand was trembling, like an alcoholic's in delirium, as I took the key to the ignition switch.

Nothing happened.

Fucking EMP! It is alleged it probably will not damage the electronics of modern cars!

Choking and another coughing attack. The pain rived me from the middle of my back. My brain exploded in anger. Heavy mucus filled my mouth. I spat it on the floor. The pain speared me up.

I crawled out of the car screaming. The anger gave me strength. I slowly rose to my feet and heard that I was called. By my name. My name? How long has my name been Timo? And how long was I being called? In my ear. From the right. Through the headset.

'Timo! Stay there! Stay there!'

Kawaguchi.

Her voice was weak.

I started towards the mountains with uncertain steps.

I began to breathe easier. The Warrant Officer, who taught me the fundamentals of cattling – seemed to look like a sixty-year-old Caribbean matron – said, these old, nanotechnological shepherd dresses have only limited oxiological abilities; in case of life-threatening injuries, they can keep me alive for up to two days. These two days are said to be two days only by the manufacturer's test lab, so I should not try-out their capabilities. Currently I was a Landsman of the Royal Navy. And there is no army in the world that would not give its soldier a better outfit than that of a herdsman. My shortness of breath ceased, the pain caused by coughing dropped to the level of a gentle kick in the balls. However, my right arm behaved as if it had been pierced with a spear. I could just move my fingers.

Thirty metres away, the parts of the fences, near the street, ended. The next houses' were a bit farther away. The nanobots, crawling from my clothes into the wound, were darning my lung, supporting me with a fair amount of opioid. Thanks to this, I was surprised to see a parked car after the corner, pointing with its nose to a gate.

'Stop Timo!'

Kawaguchi was coming after me. Based on the volume of her voice, it was possible to know the speed at which she tried to catch me up; somewhere between a tortoise and an elated sloth.

A white glow flared behind my back. It illuminated the street, like silent lightning, bolted away, with no sound, between the houses. During his departure, the former Captain Sir Martin Yates irradiated the world, then left, without a word. Commander Kawaguchi provided for his proper burial. She removed all traces of him from this world.

I opened the car door with the passkey and sat in. Above the centre console, the mobile phone holder mounted on the windscreen looked at me invitingly. Dropping the key in my lap, I fished the Lumia out of my back pocket, and fastening it in the holder, switched it on. It was not an easy job to do with one hand. I was a little surprised that the phone started working. But then I remembered Lifebuoy. "I block everything. Their EMP too. They can't harm you." Rest in peace.

'What are you doing in that car?!'

It was an outraged male voice. A key scraped in the gate lock in front of me. I pulled the revolver out of my pocket. As an answer to the question, I yelled a fuck-off-your-fucking-mother and brandished my left arm from the car. A bolt of pain stabbed into my chest and slashed from the middle of my back to the neck. I felt it but did not care about it. It hurt and was painfully, but it seemed like a curtain would have been between the pain and my brain. Opioid. I shot skywards with eyes closed.

I pulled the door to close it, pushed the revolver under my groin, started the engine with the passkey. It took me a while to realize that, in this car, the reverse gear can be engaged by raising the ring under the knob and moving the gear lever to the left then forwards. Performing that with left hand in a left-hand drive car was really intriguing. But until then, the operating system of the Lumia booted up. Because I was fumbling in front of it, I swiped the tiles to the left. I was looking for a navigation app. iGO seemed to be a great choice. First of all, it was willing to plan routes where, according to other applications, with a normal car, a normal person is unable to drive. I was presently fit with only one of these two attributes. Secondly, to my knowledge, iGO never was released on Windows 10 Mobile phones; so it could have been a hacked copy. Thirdly, the late Wyn Yard was so untalented in navigation that he was able to get lost in a one-way street; so he was always looking for the most suitable navigation software. While the iGO was loading, I released the clutch.

It cannot be said that I backed onto the street with excessive caution. I turned to the left lane. With face to the oncoming traffic. Luckily for me.

The ABS tried to keep the maximum braking performance on all four brake discs of the car, that, right behind my back, passed next to me with screaming tires. Its chauffeur, after realizing that he had escaped the collision, stepped onto the gas again. It did not come to my mind that I should apologize to him. His headlights were off.

I pushed the gear lever into first with the left hand. I selected bmbcrtr from the saved routes list on the iGO. The right-front door was almost torn out of its place as Kawaguchi ripped it open.

'Get out idiot!'

She was also aware of the effectiveness of her words for my next actions. So she also got in instead. More precisely, fell onto the seat. She tried to catch my hand, but then I had already tapped the 'Start' label in the iGO and released the clutch.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck!' she repeated continuously.

I thought she got into a vulgar cycle because by the time she grabbed my wrist, I had been accelerating in second gear and been ready to shift to third. But it became suspicious that she was not watching me and released my hand. I glanced towards the windscreen. Even refracted by the thousands of raindrops, the approaching headlights were visible. Someone came from the front.

I depressed the clutch, gently jerked the steering wheel to the right and then back to the left; to straight. I got to the right lane. The right-front door which was opened so far slammed. The engine noise became restrained, the oncoming car swept along next to us. I shifted up to third and switched on the headlight and wipers. Contrary to the human breeds of the 26th century, I could not see in the dark.

'Stop Timo! Stop!' Kawaguchi groaned painfully.

She was sitting hunched over, pressing her left hand to the left part of her costal arch. Based on her symptoms and my past experience, I would have said that her spleen was blown away by a 9mm. Based on my latest experience, I would have said that she did not have to worry, she would stay alive in her dress for two days. Theoretically. However, her spleen was blown away not by a 9mm, which greatly reduced her chances of survival. To about zero. I was surprised that she had not bled out yet and could move at all. Although Xiong's enlightenment for that was a reasonable explanation. "Have you ever fucked a plastic doll, Timo?"

'What the cunt's this Timo?!' Kawaguchi ripped the Lumia off the windscreen.

It was a late act. When I saw the route planned by iGO, a memory activated in me. I knew which bomb crater I had to go to; also, how. Unlike Wyn Yard, I was able to get my bearings.

'For God's sake, Timo! Stop!'

We got out of town. There was a strong left bend ahead of us, followed by a right. She grabbed the steering wheel. I also kept it. The speed too. There was hillside at the right. A creek with trees at the left. She released the wheel.

'Your girlfriend..., is not the one you think,' she groaned.

'She's not the only one.'

'Fuck you!' she sighed.

My words hit her. Not her body, and better than the one that burst her spleen.

'An innocent outsider... Do those words say anything to your synthetic brain?' I hurt her even better. And I hit her once more. 'Is there anything organic in you? Anything that's human?'

The right bend continued sharply to the left. Then long to the right. I waited that she would answer that 'my soul' so I could have given touché to her with my reply 'on one thousand twenty-four megabits', but she did not say anything. It would have been so clichéd. So ordinary. Like life itself.

'Landsman Vanhanen stop!' she tried to be hard, but mostly she could just groan.

'Do we switch to robot mode?'

'Mehta-san takes us out! But turn back!'

Swiftly arriving thunder could be heard from the back, in the high. My eardrums trembled as it rumbled over us; very fast, above the clouds. It was flickering red, its trail of fire illuminated the sky. The steering wheel was vibrating in my hand. The tomorrow's newspapers did not write about meteorite fall. Until now. The future tense got some sense.

'Well, I'm afraid there's no reason to turn back,' I said dispassionately. 'It seems Mehta-san slightly missed this landing.'

She heard my words. The headset conveyed all auditory information directly to the upper part of the temporal lobe. The fact that I could hear with my ears was merely a scam for the hearing system to make communication more natural for a prehuman – such as me.

Kawaguchi hunched over even more, whining. Her head bent under the glove box. A huge wet stain darkened on her dark jacket, covering her abdomen. It was leaking between her fingers and dropping to the floor. Its colour was well visible by the light of the falling spacecraft's fireball. It was red.

There was no united position within the Church's attitude to the issue of artificial intelligence. Based on Genesis 9:5, they agreed, more or less, that, as God calls humans and animals to account for life, he calls to account robots as well. But the question of salvation was a subject of debate. Some stood on that Scripture was written for man, and it defines how man can get to Heaven, and not dogs nor robots. Others said the question of where man starts is not clear. What must be the base to consider someone to be a human or machine? Some have drawn the line based on the amount of human genes in the robot. There were people who thought one gene is enough. According to others, when the Turing test cannot decide between man and machine, it's better to entrust the question to God, and to accept the robots into the Church.

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

The route ended at the tunnel. The entrance was blocked by a bullet-holed car. It was a large SUV. Grey coloured. In front of it, a Transporter stood in flames in the tunnel. Dense black smoke was pulled towards us by the draught. I stopped and switched off the headlight. Far, on the other side of the tunnel, handguns were cracking. Beyond the mountains, the horizon was red like the sunset.

'Landsman Vanhanen! Can you hear me?'

I heard. In my headset.

'Who the fuck are you?'

'I was hoping I made a more memorable effect on you, but considering your status, I forgive you.'

Commander Mehta.

'Do you have information on Commander Kawaguchi's whereabouts?'

'She's with me.'

'Er... is she alive?'

Kawaguchi was hunching over in the seat, keeping her hand at the left part of the costal arch.

'Yes.'

'Er... is it sure?'

'For now, yes.'

'Where you're standing, start north-northeast nine degrees, eight hundred and eighty-five metres! You have eleven minutes.'

'It won't work. I'm at a hillside, I can't take up the Commander.'

'The Commander... Is it sure she lives?'

Faraway sounds of sirens were heard from behind my back.

'Sure. And the police are behind me. I'm going south.'

'Don't go there!'

I stopped the car's engine with the passkey, put the parking brake on, pushed the revolver into the waist of my pants and got out.

'I'm starting south,' I said. 'Either pick us up thereabouts, or bon voyage.'

While Commander Mehta was swearing, I opened the door at Kawaguchi's side. I hugged her with my left hand and pulled her out of the seat. I fell backwards with her. My chest tightened and I could not breathe again. I crawled out from under her and stood on my feet. I could breathe easier. But my chest tightened again as I bent down to her. Grabbing her clothes at her chest, under her neck, I pulled her to the other side of the road. The crash barrier reached over my knee. At its other side the incline was nearly seventy degrees, about twenty metres deep. I lifted Kawaguchi's upper body onto the barrier. She bent helplessly over the depth. Her right hand weakly tried to find any support. I grasped her pants under her belly, raised her even higher, then released. The rotting dead leaves of last year were like a pillow under her body as she slid down the hillside. Full beam lit me, a siren screamed into my ear. I stepped across the crash barrier and followed Kawaguchi.

I went down in small leaps. Faster and faster. I had to switch to run. The stumbling was inevitable. I rolled down helplessly, sweeping away earth and stones with me. My hand lashed Kawaguchi's body; she could get stuck on the stones. I seized her dress. We glided between trees, on the rattling bed of stones. We came behind the back of a house.

There were shouts from the road above us. Warnings for each other – in Hungarian. Police. In the distance another siren sound was approaching. Only one.

Kawaguchi lay on her back.

A barking dog raided me.

I guessed its size to be knee-high in the dark.

I silently swung towards it.

The dogs vision's somewhat different from that of man. It was developed for night hunting against moving prey. Their eyes are much more sensitive to movement than ours. The sudden turn against it was enough to force it to retreat.

I bent down to Kawaguchi. At her wrist I palpated her pulse. There was not one.

The dog tried to raid me again.

I frightened it off with a lunge.

Shishkin said that if the systolic blood pressure is below eighty, the arteria radialis is not palpable. I put my fingers on Kawaguchi's neck so that the index and the pointer got to the larynx. Touching of her skin was cool; wet, sweaty with big drops. I slid my fingers gently in the groove between the larynx and the neck flexor muscle.

Nothing.

I did not feel anything.

The damn dog came again.

I let it come.

I kicked it flying away. It continued snarling from a slightly greater distance.

I reached back for Kawaguchi's carotid artery.

I did not feel anything.

I eased the strength of my touch.

Her pulse was a faintly fluttering butterfly wing. Rapid, easy to suppress.

I reached under her jacket to her back. Through her T-shirt I searched for a wound. I did not find.

I dropped down my jacket and pulled my T-shirt off and folded it tight. I pulled Kawaguchi's dress up at her belly and squeezed my T-shirt onto her wound. Tamponade. It was not worth much, but I still needed her. Pulling her T-shirt back tightly, I tucked it into her pants. I took her hand and squeezed it onto her wound.

'Naoko,' I whispered. 'If you hear me, hold your hand there!'

'Don't let go of my hand!'

Her words were just thoughts that were transmitted by the communication circuit to my headset – distant, barely audible –, accurately conveying its host's condition.

'We need to go!'

Above us on the road, a police car started to reverse.

I put on my jacket. Together with her T-shirt, I grabbed Kawaguchi's jacket at her neck and dragged her through the house yard. The dog was following us, barking from a fair distance.

It was a tiny plot. In the narrow valley, the houses stood close to each other, almost huddling.

An elderly female voice asked what was going on out there. I sent her back into her house with unsophisticated words.

The locked gate was not a challenge for the passkey. I pulled out Kawaguchi onto the street and closed it back. Encouraged by this, the dog rushed to the fence, calling upon me to leave; it also with unsophisticated words – I assume.

I stood in a narrow dead end; the yellow light of a streetlamp leaked through its entry. I dragged Kawaguchi there; not too long, just thirty metres, slightly downwards.

I got to a cross street. Into the only one. Slightly farther, the light of the lamp illuminated the number of the house at the corner. The street name also was written on it. Palace street. In my head, the map told me where I was right away. In shit. By the way, in Uppermolde. There was only one way to get out of the village. To the east. The police car reversed there. To the west there was the valley dam; with the lake and the Palace of Quailcombe above it. I started west, where the bangs of handguns responding to each other had been heard. As long as man lives, they hope. And now there was silence there. And if necessary, it is more honest to bump a bad guy off than a police officer who does their job.

The street was downhill. It became steeper. So I dragged Kawaguchi more easily. Until I got to the overflowing brook. As the street led down to the bottom of the valley, the water was getting deeper. It reached my knees. Its current had strength. It clung to Kawaguchi's body and tried to twist her from my hand. I had to hold her hard and lift so that her head did not hang in the water.

The street turned left. I went over a bridge. The water murmured as it barged against its ashlar barrier. I followed the street. The streetlamps received power through overhead lines. Under their light, the water current was well visible. It came in front of me.

I went on. Another bridge at the end of the street, another brook. Only the upper third of the bridge's wooden barriers were out of the water. They gave me reference points. Going amongst them, I could avoid stepping into the brook's bed. After the bridge, I turned right at the cross street.

The road began to rise. I slowly got out of the water. It was difficult to drag Kawaguchi on the ruined road. The coefficient friction increased. My heart pounded in my chest. I was running out of breath. I stopped and checked whether she was still alive. It was hard to find her pulse. While I was wondering if I really felt the pulsation or just wanted to feel it, I caught my breath a little.

'Your hand. Keep on me!'

Kawaguchi was definitely living. For the time being.

I dragged her farther. I got to a staircase. I started upwards. I lifted her body higher so that her head did not hit the steps. My left arm started giving up. Pain tensed in my biceps. As if a pickaxe had been hit into my shoulder. I felt my lungs were small. I was gasping for air. The problem was that even the exhalation was difficult. I pressed out the air forcefully to be able to inhale a dose again. A tiny dose. I hardly heard the rumble of the waterfall. The blood buzzed in my ears.

Pain.

Chest tightness.

Dizziness.

Darkness; not just around me.

I fell on my knees.

My lungs were whistling.

My throat was in spasm.

I rose to my feet and went farther.

Left hand raises, swings forwards, puts down. Something knocks the stairs. Kawaguchi's head. An enervate squeak – maybe. Perhaps I just imagine it.

I step up.

The left hand would lift Kawaguchi. But it cannot.

Trying again with full strength.

The body rises, I am straining and do not put it down.

I step one upwards.

Then one more; always just with the right foot.

One more step.

Cramping thigh muscle, trembling feet.

Staggering. Whistling air as it leaves the lungs.

One more step. Up. Done. Collapsing. A sigh with a whispered swear.

Where does this damn staircase end?

I am under the palace below the terrace gardens.

I did not even get to the first terrace.

How high can it be?

It would be good to see something. But I am unable.

I hate darkness!

I sat down on the stairs.

I dragged Kawaguchi's body onto my lap.

I pulled up the sleeve of her jacket, and, reaching through her left armpit, grabbed her bare forearm above her right wrist.

Helping with my right hand, I pushed myself up onto the next step.

The handcuff, hanging from my wrist, rattled as it knocked the stairs. I felt where my shoulder blade was pierced. The feeling suggested as if a cramp iron would have been stabbed into me. But I was up with a step. And my right hand worked – approximately.

Lifting again, pain, stepping above, another step is accomplished, sitting down. The small nanobots could really dose the opioid in higher dosage. The stinky whore! What was it on her feet that could stab through my clothes?! It stops bullets but not shoe heels?!

Incessant pain.

I do not care. If I must die, let's die hard then.

The fury in my brain tugs me onwards.

Onwards and onwards.

Then once I lean back. There are no more stairs behind me. I got to the terrace. On the first one? Or the second? Not all the same? I cannot breathe.

I rise onto my knee. I can breathe better.

But it is not over yet.

Where am I going?

Either I am shot to death or I go to clink; for my whole life.

There is a robust mass behind me; the next wall of the terrace garden. It has a darker patch on it. A cave.

Several metres to it, a lamp lights. Its light hits the wall. Fuck! Someone's there.

He does not move.

Sits.

Motionlessly.

It is a fucking statue.

I remember now. This time myself. I think it is myself. There are a few here. Bronze statues. Writers, poets, dick knows who else. There are also stone statues here; animals. In the back garden, a large iron obelisk commemorates the visit of Emperor Franz Joseph. I have already been to an excursion here.

The hillside rumbles.

What is that?!

Ja?! The waterfall.

I grab Kawaguchi by her hair and drag her to the cave. Its entrance is closed by a semi-circular, wooden and wrought iron gate; like an old castle's. I open it with the key. I pull Kawaguchi in and close it behind us. Another gate closes the cave three metres away. I ignore it now. I need to get air. I must seat myself in Fowler's position. It is a rule for chest traumas.

I stagger to the wall.

My hand – with the passkey – hits the rock.

I flop down.

The rock wall opens behind me.

What the fuck?!

A door.

I pull Kawaguchi through and close it.

It is pitch black.

It is a small room.

My rummaging hand touches cold metal.

An elevator door?

Yes.

I find the call button. I press it with the passkey in my hand. Its light comes on. A door closes somewhere above me, a motor starts to buzz.

The elevator is coming.

It arrives promptly.

Its door opens.

I am waiting for it with the revolver in my hand.

Its inside swims in white light. It hardly has room for four.

It is empty.

I pull Kawaguchi in.

Which floor should I go to? There are not many choices; there is the door open-close button and the ring bell. And two unmarked buttons above each other. I press the upper. Nothing happens.

There is a card reader on the control panel. I press the passkey against it and press the button again. The elevator starts to rise.

I get to a garage. It is not large – maybe four cars can fit in it –, but I find out where Tanja Fortmann took the picture about the painting portraying Nikoletta and Louis XIV. It is painted on the opposite longitudinal wall. In fucking big size.

The end of the garage is closed by a fire rated sectional gate. There is only a lonely car under the fluorescent lamps. A dark sports sedan. It is big, the kind favoured by government agencies. A unique license plate identifies: BREIT-1.

I pushed Kawaguchi into the back seat and opened the gate.

While it was rising, I backed to the car and sat in.

It had an automatic transmission. It was surprising – so far I thought the government favours the manual transmission –, but I was happy for it. Not for long.

A door flung open beside the elevator; the stairwell's. Two came running in.

I started the engine, shifted to D and stepped on the gas.

A palm slapped onto the top of the car.

Two were shouting – likely I would stop –, but I think they would have been also surprised if that had occurred.

The roar of V8 echoed between the walls of the upwards corridor; and the clash of the metal as I smeared the iron to the wall in the tight turns.

Turn.

Clash.

Another garage.

Turn.

Clash.

Corridor.

At the end of the corridor, the lowered barrier could not block my way. How many was it this day? The third? It flew far; not leaving even a spot on the windscreen. The next one – at the main entrance, for preventing unauthorized entry – flew away in the same way. This day, the fourth. I turned left, on the road to the highland.

The car did not behave as expected from a V8 engine equipped luxury sports sedan. All right, it was fucking big, but it should not have moved like a whale. Its acceleration, to put it mildly, was far from the factory data, and the efficiency of the brakes also left something to be desired. Obviously, something for something.

At the town sign at the end of Quailcombe, before the south tunnel, two police cars were across the road, facing each other with one metre distance between them. One of them occupied two-thirds of the road, the other – the left one – stood on the gravel and on the pavement running parallel to the road. Their light bars were flashing blue and red. In the middle, the light of a torch, circling in a wide motion, called me to stop. I obeyed. I did not want the airbags to open.

I stopped five metres in front of them. I waited for the torchlight to descend, then revved up the engine in neutral gear. Four thousand cubic centimetres bawled into the night with V8 growling.

The policeman with the torch jumped to the left, I shifted to D and steered a little to the right.

Crash.

I pressed the gas further.

Six hundred and five horsepower tensed against the police car. Four driven wheels clung to the asphalt and pushed the sedan forwards with seven hundred and one newton metres torque.

The police car turned a metre away.

I reversed some metres and – just to be sure – dived under the wheel.

I took it amiss that those who fired at me from the left, were not just targeting the wheels.

Although they fired with assault rifles, the bullets did not come through either the plate or the glass; though the transparency of the latter greatly deteriorated.

Exploding pieces of glass crumbled in the lamp light. Hand-sized milky-white bruises sprouted on the windscreen and side windows. I shifted to forwards and aimed at the left police car. Neither that resisted the kinetic energy of nearly three tons.

Reverse again then forwards again. I broke through the roadblock. With some pairs of headlights on my tail.

Bends after bends. Hairpin bend to right, hairpin bend to left, sometimes a short straight section. Hillside at the right, gorge at the left, trees and trees – dense, tight – on both sides; their foliage darkly stretched above me.

Then, after a right bend, there was a left hairpin bend. In front of it, a dark van stood across the road. At its right – at the brush-by light of the headlights – a man stood with a long, cylindrical object on his shoulder. RPG. It pointed towards me. The end.

Getting to space from the Earth is not a cheap hobby. It will cost you an arm and a leg to move all the components into space that you'll need to fabricate a seven thousand-ton trawler with which you can saunter more or less safely in interplanetary space. This cost could be reduced significantly by using space elevators. Apart from their names, they had nothing to do with their traditional counterparts. They were initial antigravitators, moving with the help of a Dupolinsky generator between two points up to a height of four hundred kilometres; sometimes a little further, say fifteen hundred kilometres. They moved a little slowly, which was quite disadvantageous if you didn't have permission to exit into space. The first time-manipulators entered in history at that point, which, by changing the speed of the light flow, were able to cloak an event in time. For example, that event, when, in spite of the forbidding, you climbed up out there, cobbled a trawler together, with which you went to mine iridium from a comet coming to near-Earth. However, with the advancement of technology, time-manipulation began to require more serious stuff because, over time, governments and your competitors learned to notice the holes caused by the speed change in the light flow in time. And the heroic age of time travel began here. You moved the components of your space elevator to eighteen hundred years earlier, assembled it, went up in space, brought down what you needed, and returned with a ton of platinum that greatly baffled the black market of precious metal traders. You needed to pay attention to only one tiny thing: the terrain. During time travel, the terrain of the surrounding area may change. If you go up a hill and just simple jump back sixteen hundred years, on which hill, forgetting in the dimness of the past, once stood King Arthur's Camelot Castle, but you only know about it when you materialise into its three yards wide wall... I guess it will be late for you to realise where the legend of Mrs. Clement Mason comes from. You know, the walled-up woman. So before time jumps, we flew up to thirty thousand feet, because steeples are less characteristic at that height range, and we chose a historical period in which we could get into air traffic disagreement with Daedalus and Icarus at most.

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

A series of flashes split into the dark, in front of me to the right, and the man went sprawling on the ground. I slammed on the brakes. The van exploded. Metal pieces struck my car. I stopped in front of the flaming wreck.

'What the cunt are you doing officer lady?!' the nervous shout barked in my headset.

Other short flashes from the right, squealing of brakes behind me, a car rushes to a young tree at the left, another one bangs into its ass.

New flashes, yowling engine sounds, and someone drives into the gorge.

A flash again and, almost immediately, the sound of the crumpling metal on a tree trunk.

'They fuckingly don't go where I'm sending them to!' the angry response sounded.

'Vanhanen! Start towards me! The Petty Officer covers you!'

Sawamura and Chirinos.

'And where the fuck I'd go to?' I asked back.

'Oh my cunt! He can't see! There's a road in front of you, behind the van! Start right now! Petty Officer! Company!'

'Detected!'

I got out of the car. The heat of the flaming van burnt my face. I opened the back door.

'Fuck ya, Vanhanen! Go-go!'

I grabbed Kawaguchi's hair and pulled her out of the back seat. Her body fell on the asphalt impotently. I heard the rotor of a helicopter; it was approaching from the northeast. Pulling Kawaguchi after myself, I staggered to the given direction. I got to gravel forest road. My boots scraped on stones.

'Get down!'

I was still flopping down to the ground when Petty Officer Chirinos already fired. Flashes with the crack of the rail-rifle, and a tenth of a second later, an explosion in the air. A rocket sent for us got disarmed.

'Get up! Running! Move on!'

If the headset had not decrypted and transmitted the signals at the right frequency directly to my brain, I would have heard nothing. I sprung up and ran. At least, I wanted to. But my lungs gave up. My diaphragm rose, my throat narrowed, and I was only able to whistle.

Suddenly, I felt myself light for a moment. Very light. Weightless. But just for a moment. For such a short time that it could not really be called a feeling, but rather just an impression. Maybe I just imagined it. Perhaps the nanobots pushed some extra opioid into me; which seemed quite probable as I started feeling dizzy.

I grabbed Kawaguchi's hair with my right hand too and started to drag her stepping backwards.

Petty Officer Chirinos fired a long burst. She stood at the crossing of the asphalt and the forest road; I did not see her, just the flashes and the cracks of the rail-rifle. She was firing for very long, and upwards to the northeast. The sound of the helicopter seemed to move away, and then became more powerful. It headed to the ground. Very fast.

'Stop! Stupid stop!'

I bumped into something with my back. To the northeast, a heavy object fell into the trees. The ground was trembling from the impact. A second later, another explosion; the sound of the sudden bursting large amount of kerosene. Maybe also a fireball rose to the sky. I did not see. I fell headlong onto Kawaguchi.

A door opened behind me, I did not see it, did not hear it, but knew it. I tried to stand up. Someone reached under my left armpit. Someone helped me to get to my feet, tried to direct me, but I stumbled. My head hit to the angular edge of a metallic object; there was a flash of darkness, but it did not matter. My left hand did not release Kawaguchi's hair.

'Fuck ya!'

That was not me.

Something green began to dawn; the lower edge of a door at waist height. Inside, waves of the fluorescent lines indicated the floor. I grabbed Kawaguchi's dress at her neck and lifted her to the entrance with a jerk.

Petty Officer Chirinos groaned into my ear, and Kawaguchi's body rose, then swung inside the machine, whatever it was.

'Get in, get in!' Sub-Lieutenant Sawamura urged.

The rail-rifle cracked a long burst beside my ear.

I crawled in the door; from outside Petty Officer Chirinos shoved me inside.

I felt a rough soled boot stomping on my hand – Petty Officer Chirinos also got in –, she did not apologize.

The door closed, the machine trembled and began to rise. It made hardly any sound. The camouflage system did not only make it invisible.

'Landsman sit down and fasten your belt!'

A seat began to loom next to me and a kneeling figure; in body armour from head to toe. She placed her armoured hand onto Kawaguchi's chest.

'Fuck! She's dead.'

'Not dead, fuck ya!' it was my voice. Because Kawaguchi could not die. I needed her. I wanted to anally fuck her drily until she disclosed what the fuck was going on around me. I put my hand on her neck. On her carotid. I felt just the vibration of the rising machine.

'My cunt! She's really alive!'

I was relieved and let go of her.

'I'm afraid she's gone. I'm sorry.'

I grabbed back onto her neck. Nothing. I relaxed my fingertips.

'My cunt! She lives! What's the cunt going here?!'

A possible answer popped into my mind.

'Robot,' I said. 'Does your first aid system detect the robots, Petty Officer? Or just the living body? The Commander is a robot.'

Some not too romantic names for female genitalia broke into my ears in different forms of the possessive case.

'Maybe her camouflage died,' the Petty Officer guessed. 'I need to connect her to the medica. But I'm afraid it neglects the camouflage-free robots.'

'What if I hold her hand?'

I needed Kawaguchi. I wanted to get answers to a lot of my questions. With my cock in her ass. Drily.

'Hold it and fasten yourself, Landsman!' Sub-Lieutenant Sawamura commanded. 'Petty Officer Chirinos handle the rest very fast because I need you!'

Do you know which is the most secret secret-service in the world? What?! The Mossad? The Shin Bet? It's a joke?! What kind of secret service is that whose name's known by everybody? The most secret secret-service in the world is the one you don't even know exists. The BaRNS is not that. BaRNS as in Baltroyal Naval Service. Or Baltroyal Navy Special? I don't know! It was written as B@RNS too, so with an 'at'. I wasn't really interested in the topic. You know a secret-service when you face one. For understandable reasons, time travellers tried to avoid those faces. #me too. Though I bumped into a BaRNS agent once. I could barely get rid of the mess. Initially, the companion seemed to be pleasing. I was getting beers without request. It's a fortune I realised in time who I was faced with. They're also people somewhere; sometimes they make mistakes. That was my luck. My agent was always thinking about pussy. What? Me too? But she was a woman, jeez! Whatever a panty wetting Adonis – buffed like a Greek demigod – was orbiting around her with his ten inches "adam's apple", she was always sticking just to the hole. She desecrated the well-stacked chemistry teacher of Kinghorn whose tits a complete youth rugby team were dreaming about in the evenings, while practising the treatment of the ejaculatio praecox. Obviously, also the teacher needed to want the desecration, but hey, it's a male job. It's better to leave it for a real expert, isn't it? That year Kinghorn lost the championship because of that. And that's why I was able to skip off.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

'Also this medica accepts only humans,' said Petty Officer Chirinos. 'You can let go of her hand, this is smarter, and we can't mislead it with that. It must be reconfigured.'

We were on the deck of the bomber. Kawaguchi lay unconscious on a bunk.

'There's no time for that! Sub-Lieutenant, Petty Officer go to your posts!' said Commander Mehta peremptorily. The two officers started to the cockpit. 'You connect yourself to the medica and sweet dreams!' she turned to me.

'Let her die?' I asked.

'A synthetic body. Unaware of who lives in it.'

'A commander of the Navy.'

'Unidentifiable.'

'You know, only two can take off my ankle monitor. And she was able to do it.'

'What monitor?'

'You know it very well, old milf. You may read the physical marker on my ankle even now.'

'What physical marker? I haven't heard of that before.'

'But you know what I mean!'

'Was it she who took it off?'

'Yes, it was.'

The Commander looked thoughtfully into my eyes.

'You are an ideal husband subject, Landsman. You can't lie.'

'You're an ideal officer, Commander-san. You know that the rank doesn't matter, but the role. And now, I, Landsman Timo Vanhanen, Authorized Officer of BaRNS, take charge and command you to reconfigure the medica to meet the needs for Commander Naoko Kawaguchi!'

'This is a mutiny, Landsman! I command this ship!'

'On this ship you have the right to deliver it from A to B according to the instructions of the Admiralty! In respect of everything else, you obey the senior representative of BaRNS!'

'I'll report it, Landsman!'

'That's my expectation! Along with the entries of this one minute of the ship's log!'

I had to press my last words with force from myself. It was like my lungs were compressed for dumpling and stuffed into my windpipe. I had to cling to the edge of the bunk over Kawaguchi. The Commander looked at me for a second before she spoke.

'Sir, yes sir! We've no capacity to reconfigure the medica! Ask it for help and set it yourself! Petty Officer! Grant rights to that for Landsman Vanhanen! In addition, confirm the correctness of the navigation data! Sub-Lieutenant! Periscope down! Dive! Now! Set into i sin 170!'

The steady twilight turned into darkness and the Commander's hand like a kestrel caught my head. She buried my headset together with my ear into her hand. I thought she wanted to tear them both off.

'Learn to bluff at least, my Lord Husband!' she hissed with her mouth.

She let go of my ear and hurried to the cockpit. It felt like I had to mine the headset out from my middle ear. I kept myself clinging to the edge of the bunk to keep myself from falling down. Holding her left hand in my right, I was looking at Kawaguchi and I did not know what I should do. The technology I had to deal with was three hundred years more advanced than the one I had last used. Command Johann Sebastian Bach or Georg Friedrich Händel to sit in front of a laptop. Order them to cut thirty seconds out of any of their compositions, convert it to the suitable format, and set it as a ringtone for an iPhone. Allow them twenty minutes for the job and leave them alone. Twenty minutes later, sedate them down if the braindick had not finished them off.

'But how'd I start?' I groaned into the darkness.

'I told you! Ask for help from the medica!' the Commander snapped at me via the headset.

'Medica! Help!' I ordered the invisible.

Zhongwen characters started racing in front of me, arranged in three-dimensional arrays. I had no problem with Solaris; I could read-write it at intermediate level, but I grew up in Central Europe, so I was mostly good at West Germanic and East Slavic languages; besides Hungarian.

'Medica! Slow down! I want Latin characters in two dimensions!'

It came as I wanted, but I did not get smarter. Greenish letters were fluorescent in front of me but said nothing. Except for a new line that suddenly appeared and vanished. It said my rights were insufficient to disable logging; but it was overwritten by s.canberra's seal. The next line let me know that all entries of the last – approximately – 5 billion nanoseconds were overwritten with "waiting instruction" and the further logging continued under my name, and then I had to answer two questions. One asked if I knew that the subject was not listed in the official Homo sapiens subspecies or in other species. Another was enquiring if I would take the risk of a possible medical malpractice. Someone said yes to both. On my behalf. Then the events gathered pace. The characters switched back to Zhongwen – in three-dimensional arrays – and accelerated to an unreadable speed. The clothes came off Kawaguchi's body; of which various items got on the bunk; wallet, mobile phones, firearm. The medica then stopped and called me to remove all foreign bodies away from the subject. I did what it asked. I put them on the floor next to my feet. Then some sort of blanket crawled to Kawaguchi, hugging her tightly around her head; covering her face from me. From now on I could only imagine what was happening to her; shock treatment, rehydration, blood transfusion, splenectomy. What kind of blood can she get? Artificial blood, like everyone else, around for two hundred years. I flopped down beside the bunk. I had to seat into Fowler's position, but it did not help much. I asked the medica how much chance of survival the subject had. It determined it as seventeen percent. Not bad; it filled me with some satisfaction.

'Fasten yourself Commander! And connect to the medica!'

Commander? Commander Mehta was experienced in how to maintain pretence. I was not. And neither could I stand up.

'Roger,' I groaned.

I pulled the headset off my ear and shoved it away on the floor.

'Medica! Get memories!' I commanded the health system.

A holographic data stream began to flicker before me. I did not understand anything.

'Medica! Slow down! Filter for pre-programmed capabilities!'

The bomber began to tremble beneath me, around me; my teeth chattered.

In addition to finding out that Kawaguchi could wash, cook and iron, I did not get too much information.

'Medica! Filter, playing the piano! Can the subject play the piano?'

The answer was short – no –, and I was a little relieved. There is less of a problem.

'List the subject's information about Tanja Fortmann!'

Neither that was too much info. I saw Fortmann in the room on the bed, and a positive test result of being infected with a worm in spite of her will. Next to the result, the time of infection was 16 May 19:45:16.5834 UTC. Fuck!

'Medica! List all information about Wyn Yard! Everything that's Wyn Yard!'

'It's time to sleep, Landsman,' Petty Officer Chirinos stood beside me.

'Petty Officer scram! This's a command!'

'Denied.'

She put her hand on my shoulder and all my strength was gone. My eyes were unstoppably going shut.

'That's why I'll fuck you whore!' I groaned.

'Bring it on,' she formed the answer laboriously with her lips; but I may have just dreamed that.
π×1,0000000113002253518059363648817

The very depth of space? And the final frontier? My little dick! That's hell. Yeah, the coldest hell. But don't worry, you won't get a cold! To feel cold, you need a medium. But there's none of that there. Just a fuckin' big vacuum. So by the time you could cool down from the heat radiation so that you could then start to panic about freezing to death, you'd have already been dead a long time due to anoxia, the vacuum would fuck apart your lungs; the X, the gamma, and other fuckin' radiation would damage you so much that your DNA would more resemble seaweed green snot than you. No, my friend! Space is a whore shit place. Nonetheless everybody's hurrying to reach it. But why? To colonise Mars? Don't you worry about its ecosystem? What would you do there hombre? Would you grow potatoes? Perchlorates plus UV radiation are a pretty bad omen. And Mars has extremfuckingetly lots of both. The UV irradiated perchlorates execute all microorganisms in minutes. The effect's more killer in the presence of iron oxides and hydrogen peroxide. And these two others are also common components of the Martian surface. Yeah, it seems growing potatoes has to be done a little differently up there than down here on the Earth. Of course, we'll solve it. We? Who still want to decrease the CO2 production of cars to a lever under the ass of a frog, even though it is not cars that are responsible for the CO2 load in the environment, and hasn't been for decades? We'll be those who answer the challenge who would rather fish all the fish from the seas because we're unable to breed canned anchovy on the cheap? Or are you thinking of those Euro-Atlantic phobics who want to cease cattle farming despite rice cultivation being the biggest source of agricultural methane pollution? Hombre! They shit themselves with fear even from a moderate sea level rising. Yeah! Global warming... It's been happening for twenty thousand years! The water level's going to be even higher. Yeah, the atmosphere shouldn't be burped full of carbon dioxide, but whoever expects the sea level to lower due to the downsized engines of turbocharged cars, well, they will be disappointed! The problem is not the rising sea level but that you live on the coast. If this causes a problem for you, why don't you do something real against it? Really?! Moving to the mainland costs a lot? Do you think getting to Mars will be cheaper? You're unable to stop the warming but will you make an Earth-like climate on Mars? If you can't live together with the warming climate, what the fuck will you do in space? Then now, the question once again. Why do you want to go there? Slavery? Because no make illusions, it will be no different there than here. At first, of course, there'll be enthusiasm, brotherhood, and love each other. But history repeats itself. By the time you realize it, you'll be in the same situation as Baltroyal. Like England in 1940. Just the Nazis and the Soviets are called differently.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

We were sitting at the table in the bomb bay; instead of eight, only two of us, Kawaguchi and I, facing each other; and a box, between us, on the table. There was a slight drop in the headcount. Above us, the light source still did not strain itself, Kawaguchi's face was lost in the dim light.

'I don't want to keep you in uncertainty about your future, Landsman-san. You had no right to override the commands of Commander Mehta. You were falsely claiming to be a BaRNS official. Be aware that if the rest of the operation fails, you'll go to the Court Martial and be convicted of mutiny.'

I woke up easily this time. In return, my sleep was terrible. They did not hibernate me for my body to be able to regenerate after the medica had sewen me up. They kept me in narcosis. Either I slept or lay limp and still, unable to move. Three months. I was staring into the dark for three months and trying to get up, with no chance. The medica turned over my body several times a day, moved my muscles, imitated running, swimming; it filled my brain with the illusion of the actual workout. It was no fun. I was aware all the time I was just dreaming. During that, sometimes I was interrogated. Some of the questions were difficult to answer. I wanted to wake up, but in vain, my dreams did not let me go. They were pleasant. But I did not want them. The medica simulated meals for my digestive system. I took a dislike to bloognu for a lifetime.

'Is there a part of the operation that has been successful so far?' I asked.

'So far we're mostly at the plan. At version D.'

'Which version calculated to lose less than four team members?'

'Mental hygiene therapies begin by throwing out the resentfulness and behaving like an adult.'

'Indeed. My therapist asked the same before she'd sucked me off.'

Kawaguchi did not react. I knew I was an asshole and it would have been proper to regret it.

'I apologise for my words to Commander-san. In fact, first she laid me down and sat on me. The sucking was just after that. Repeatedly and continuously.'

'The calm, responsible behaviour, greatly increases the chances of your survival, Landsman-san,' Kawaguchi leaned forwards with my revolver in her hand.

'In the middle of my calm, responsible behaviour, my two mates killed my other four teammates. In the light of this, it might be worthwhile to reconsider your statement made earlier, Commander-san.'

'One.'

'If you reach three, I don't have to wait for the judgment of the Court Martial?'

'One person did away with them. I.'

She did not hold a dramatic pause, she did not look meaningfully into my eyes, just was sitting, leaning back, and fondling the revolver; a Colt Python. Quasi standard at scrapyarders. "Pistol is German, revolver is Colt." On the table there were .357 Magnum ammunition in the box. Fifty pieces.

'They were Oberian agents. Or they, or we. I'd have had to liquidate all six of them,' Kawaguchi continued with no expression. 'I made a mistake. I'm sorry.'

'You should have postponed Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa for a later time. I've never fucked a real ebony.'

'You can seek one after the mission,' Kawaguchi did not let herself be annoyed. 'Provided you follow my instructions and we succeed.'

'I'm afraid Sir Yates won't be returned. Rest in peace.'

'Sir Yates was a very popular leader amongst his men. For your own sake, Landsman-san, please keep the secret that you killed a dying man.'

'He killed his wife and wanted to kill an innocent civilian.'

'It was play-acting. He attacked Miss Schneider because he wanted to die quickly before our enemy could interrogate him. By the way, his wife had died before he play murdered her for our sake.'

'He needn't do corpse desecration for my sake.'

'Our sake is your own sake too, Landsman-san.'

'I want to decide my sake myself.'

'Execute my commands, Landsman-san!'

'Because if not, I suppose you push me out into the void. As a last resort, can I fuck a random member of the staff? Of course, one that has something to do with homo sapiens. Although I can hardly believe that there would be an article in the Staff Regulations that would prohibit the use of sexual aids in one's leisure time, I don't want the Pub Tales to say about that Ján Sikorski was lying on a plastic doll in his last minutes.'

'Henceforth, use the name Timo Vanhanen forever, Landsman-san!'

'What's the point fuck ya? Is there anyone in this solar system who wouldn't already know my real name?'

'Who did you tell it to, Landsman-san?'

'They knew it, fuck ya! I didn't have to tell them.'

'Who knew it, Landsman-san? Please share with me their names!'

'The Apache who's known as Tanja Fortmann.'

'And who else?'

'There's no else.'

'If the use of the plural was not a poetic exaggeration in your words, Landsman-san, I must ask you to tell me to whom you gave your real name?'

Well..., this is when the snake bites its own tail.

'I assume Midshipman Xiong's one of them,' she guessed confidently.

'And there's no other. As you also know, cos you interrogated me while I was lying in narcosis.'

'Great. Then Sub-Lieutenant Hye-jin also knows who you really are.'

'Does it matter?'

'We'll see.'

'How're you planning to return Miss Schneider to her own time?'

'This operation doesn't contain instructions for that.'

'And what other instructions do you have?'

'If you followed your therapist's suggestions, we'd have already discussed those, Landsman-san. Do you know how much it costs to build a quantum telegraph line?'

Quantum entanglement is a bitching thing. Its essence is that you grasp an entangled pair of particles, "pin down" one of the members of the pair, and you take the other one into the far far away cunt even at a light year distance. If you change the spin of any of them, the spin of the other one changes at the same time because of the correlation between them. Since the distance between them is irrelevant, it can be used for a much faster communication than the speed of light. It's an extra joy to be theoretically untappable. In practice this is not true, but the main problem is its price. The damn little particles must literally be taken to point A and point B, as if you lay a telegraph cable between Beijing and Rio de Janeiro. And it costs money. A fuckin' lot of. But once it's done, you can start Morsing in real time with Louisy, even from the other side of the Great Andromeda Nebula.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

'Have you dragged me into a serial murder because you'd like sex chatting make more cost-effective? Your marketing strategy's a little bit far-rightist.'

'The quantum telegraph is so expensive that even if an insignificant transmitter became victim of another country's deliberate damage, it would encourage the country's leadership, succumbing to the pressure of the public's rightful indignation, to take reckless steps. Nemuro-9c, or in a shorter form, Nancy, is Baltroyal's most insignificant transmitter station. Old, outdated technology. That's why it's operated by prisoners who are in the social reintegration phase. They're convicted criminals who, after finishing their sentences, will be able to reintegrate into society successfully and can become useful members of the community. No country can afford to neglect those citizens wishing to rise. Nancy has another non-public function. The station's part of the Orpheus system. It acts as an early warning system. If there were to be any disorder in the normal operation of the station, that would mean that Baltroyal was under attack, and the Admiralty could take immediate countermeasures. Nancy will be attacked in four hours. Oberon-friendly Briton citizens are performing the raid with modern Oberian weapons. Unfortunately, that will only come to light late. By then, Baltroyal will have counterstruck Oberon and war will break out. A part of the army is made up of Neptunian refugees who are very sympathetic with the Oberian military junta. They will be reluctant to take part in the clashes, and when it turns out that the attack on Nancy was Briton people's work, they will join the other side. A war which is unwinnable for us will become a civil war immediately. Taking advantage of this, referring to the protection of Neptunian nationalities, Neptunooga also attacks us. Baltroyal ceases to exist, the population comes under the control of two dictatorships. Democracy, economic prosperity, and individual freedoms are forgotten for decades and remain "Oberon above All" or the Party. All this was revealed by a futurist of the intelligence, unfortunately too late. We have few reliable people. Baltroyal was standing under the occupation of Neptunooga for over fifty years. They embedded into the administration to such an extent that we still haven't managed to get rid of their agents to this day. This was exacerbated by the late recognition that a significant part of our intelligence and security service are Oberian agents. The number of our trustworthy men is rather small. We're practically a minority in our own organization. We must win from here. Our task consists of two parts. Identify alien agents in the Admiralty and prevent the attack against Nancy, possibly by capturing the Briton terrorists. The latter's the simpler task, the two of us will do it.'

'The two of us?'

'Inasmuch as you refuse obedience, Landsman-san, then I, by myself. Without a hindering factor. Three hours later, a senior military person, or possibly a civilian politician, is arriving in Nancy. We don't know who, just one thing, they'll have an enough high status that, against the rules, the prisoners allow him to enter. Although they can't do anything else. They're unattended convicts. Once a week, their probation officer goes to them for some hours and that's all. A few months before their release, they won't risk fucking with someone who has the power to cross their prospects of early release. Anyhow, the person, or their companion, will have the technical knowledge to push the telegraph unnoticed into the Oberian domain. The attack's going to happen minutes after they leave. The staff are slaughtered and ensure that Oberon can operate for half an hour in the deeper layers of our information infrastructure. Then they flee. We can't avoid the attack. What we can do is that before the telegraph is hacked, we disrupt Nancy's normal operation, which, however old hat the station is, will be quite difficult. If this succeeds, detecting the disruption, a section of the Marines will come to our aid. We need to keep to ourselves for half an hour. It's a doddle. The problem will be how to make a Prio-One level disruption in Nancy's operation.'

'I suppose you have a plan for it.'

'First I need to know if you'll come with me, Landsman-san.'

'Do I have another choice?'

'I've been jawing for minutes, wasting our time because of your childish behaviour, fuck ya!' Kawaguchi sprang to her feet, pointing the revolver at me. Her cool calmness which she had forced upon herself vanished, and even a monasteryful of zen-meditating monks would not have been able to bring it back. 'I've just said I do it without any hindering factor! If you insist on it, I shoot to death you right now, tear off your dick, push it into your jaw and fuck you out into the subspace with my own hands!'

I stared into the barrel of the gun. Kawaguchi was naked apart from a duo of a bra and panties, but I did not sense that. My vision narrowed, my mind closed out the outside world and I saw only the muzzle of the gun in front of me. Its darkness was hypnotising me. As an extension of Kawaguchi's outstretched arm, it was forty centis away from me. The bullet would burst amongst my eyes at a speed of four hundred and forty metres per second from the Royal Blue finished weapon. I would not have time to grasp even the flash. And no doubt this will work, it has not been three months since I tested it; this time we went a little faster back into the Kuiper belt.

'Why does it take so long to decide, Timo?' Kawaguchi was impatient.

Nothing. I was not even thinking about it. Just staring into the barrel. I was wondering what would come out of it.

'I'll help you, fuck ya! One!'

If a gun is kept on you, it is not so terrible. You freeze with fear for a moment, then... The all is one tenth of a second. You do not even comprehend it and you are already over. The damn thing is when they start counting. Extortion. Will the trigger be squeezed? Or not? The fear chews you. Alive. It is even more murderous when the gun is kept on someone else. To force you. You cannot do anything. You are just dread. You die of dread twice in every second. Or more times. At such times, time stops.

'Two!'

At two, the life instinct starts. At one, you are still wondering. Then recognition comes and it brings fright. At two, your mouth is dry, your pulse is racing, your eyes are widening so that you think they fall out of your skull. Three is not worth waiting for. Some are already squeezing the trigger at three. At two, start to speak! If there is something.

'I go. With you. I won't be a hindering factor.'

Kawaguchi lowered her arm.

'Thank you.'

Her voice was colourless, as if I had let her go first through a door. I now understood the scar on her waist. Synthetic bodies should be treated somewhat differently. But there were no longer such bodies in the 26th century. The mark of a freshly healed wound was visible under the left side of her costal arch. It also remains there forever. Neither she was in hibernation because of the regeneration. In the nearly three months, she had small spiky hair. Except on one area.

'I'd also like to give thanks, Commander-san. It's really kind of you, that for my pleasure, you shaved the hair off your pussy.'

The revolver flew into my face. My brain sensed its approach and pulled my head away before I realized what was happening. Instinct. That saved my eye. One and two tenths of a kilo iron slammed next to my left eye, into the outside of my eyebrows, and ripped the skin deep to the bone. I hunched. It took seconds while the pain eased so much that I could open my eye – the right. I had to press my palm to the left so that the blood did not flow into it.

The Colt lay on the floor. I could get it fast. Kawaguchi is standing on the other side of the table. She would not have chance... But it was just a stray thought. It ran through my brain as an opportunity, but the anger was not yet at the level to take control over me. I did not move.

'Why don't you pick it up, fuck ya?!' Kawaguchi knew what was on my mind. 'Because it's not the reason why you brought me up here, right?!'

I straightened up slowly.

'Yet, how did you plan it, fuck ya?! How did you plan to pull it out from me? Would it have made me wet?! Of course! How else, fuck ya?! Have you seen my perversions? How'd you have gone through my boundaries?'

I would not. I did not know where her boundaries were, had not seen her perversions. She was a product of the Masatodi Corporation, intended for the Central European market. "The perfect housewife with pre-installed extras." Fabriqué au Japon.

'In order to be able to torture someone, you must cease being a human, but you're unable to do it, fuck ya!'

I was able. That was the problem.

'You put a dog before me. Why don't you reach for that fucking pistol then?!'

Because it was a revolver.

'All's well?' Petty Officer Chirinos stood behind me in the doorway, putting a rail-rifle in the pocket of her shoulder. She was aiming between the two of us, ready to fire, if necessary, at either of us.

'Yes! Petty Officer-san can leave!' Kawaguchi replied grimly.

Petty Officer Chirinos looked at me. She lowered the rifle, took it onto her back, then touched the wall beside the door. She pulled out a white gauze-like material and passed it to me. I took it from her and pressed it onto my wound. The next was familiar. Passing pain, healing wound. The Petty Officer had a look at the revolver on the floor, then left without a word. The door closed behind her.

I picked up the Colt and sat to the table. I swung the cylinder outwards, ejected the cartridges with the ejector rod. Five loaded and one empty case tapped on the tabletop. I pulled them into a pile, placed the revolver next to them.

'What's the plan?' I did not look at Kawaguchi, I was gazing at the Colt. 'To the Prio-One level disruption.'

Kawaguchi also sat down, leaning against the table with her arms folded.

'We blow up the hacker's ship.'

'Cool. And then?'

'Then we go down to the panic room and wait until a section of Charlie Company 40 Commando Royal Marines comes to our aid. They gather the bad guys and we go back to the Admiralty. We'll drink tea with Vice-Admiral Dhupia and agree that, with regard to the unstable internal political situation, we treat the incident as if it never happened, so we can win five years, by getting the war a little postponed.'

'What's the plan for saving Nikoletta Schneider?'

'We're playing cards in the panic room until the section gather the bad guys. Then we're taken to the Admiralty, together with Miss Schneider.'

'All right. What the fuck's going on here?'

'Miss Schneider goes to Nancy. She'll arrive minutes before us.'

'Why was she kidnapped?'

'Good question. On the one hand, our cover story was too good, on the other hand, Wyn Yard stirred in.'

'In what?'

'Many things, I'm afraid.'

'Such as?'

'We didn't take into account Miss Schneider. She wasn't in the plan at all.'

'What was the plan?'

'In the present situation I have to say, the less you know, the less you can tell if something goes amiss.'

'So far this has been alleged as a fairly won match.'

'Every plan works well until it starts.'

'What should I know about the Sahalin?'

'Nothing.'

'The Sahalin's for the Neptunians, if I understood Dhupia-sama well. However, the mystics are excited by the Codex Roxolan junk, which, however, if I know well, is the feature of the Oberian's top leadership. Then why do the Neptunians hunt for it if they're materialists?'

'They don't hunt for it. They're simply looking for a pretext to occupy Baltroyal.'

'How did Commander Naoko Kawaguchi get into the 26th century?'

'With the continuation of the 25th century. We start in half an hour. Have something to eat!'

She got up slowly and headed for the cockpit. I did not turn after her when she passed by me. Neither she turned around when, using her mouth, started talking at the door. In Hungarian.

'Playing the piano is a learned skill Vanhanen-san. The medica have no idea about that, it's not in my basic personality profile. I learned to play the piano. Totally by myself. Just because of Bartók. I understand his music.'

I loaded five cartridges in the Colt from the desk. The sixth was taken out of the box. Forty-nine remained.

Fart in your sock, let it rot in your boot for a week and put it in a hazelnut roaster. Within four minutes you get the smell of space. Roughly. As on Earth, so in space, every sector has its own characteristic smell; but only if the burnt odour of the charcoal grilled brake lining can be called a smell. And that's one of the more pleasant ones. Stars can be identified not just by their spectra, but by their smell too. Based on the smell pattern, you can determine it well enough in which part of space you're sauntering. It's said that also the Whales use it during their wandering. And sounds as well. Yep. You can get location information based on sounds too. If you wake up in the morning to your mother's voice after a frenetic team-building training, then you know that you got home successfully. You only have to pull the duvet over the ugly HR girl's head and keep her underneath, as long as your mother shares the wisdoms, again, and leaves. Similarly, you can get your spatial position based on the sounds of celestial objects. Yeah, I savvy that space is a virtual vacuum. Up there, sound present as electromagnetic vibration which can be detected by a plasma receiver and transferred into the range of human hearing. Each celestial object has a unique voice. Some have such that can claw the cortex from your kidney. Up there, you cannot rely on your vision without an auxiliary positioning system. But if you feel the smell of space around you and hear its voice, you can know, even without sight, where you are in the big stinky nothing. Where the big stinky nothing is not a poetic exaggeration, but the reality. Dark, saturated with the haunting screams of bygone stars, stinking X-ray death, empty voidness.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

It was a rotten feeling to float in the infinite nothing. A couple of hours on the Earth, and I had to get again used to that there is nothing medium around me, only depth. Depth below me, depth above me, depth everywhere. And a sea of stars. Remote, unattainable. Glittering spots far in the infinity. Eternal night. Solitude. Dark listening.

Space does not touch you. It has no arms, no legs. It has nothing. Neither has it temperature. You need some particles to feel temperature. But there is none of that here. Just emptiness. Endless nothing. Unlimited. Reachless.

The only handle for my mind could be the stars. Could have been. Which? Irrelevant. Whichever. Just heading to one of them to see something, to feel that there is life outside of me. But it was not possible. Kawaguchi did not drive me forwards. Petty Officer Chirinos pushed me out of the bomber's airlock, giving the initial momentum to drift towards the cattle, and they returned to the subspace.

Kawaguchi clung to my back. She did not say a word. Me neither. She hugged me closely. In the gravity shadow of the cattle, we appeared as one body on the radar of Nancy. The air space around our clothes joined, we could have communicated with our mouths too. But we did not. We did not use my headset either. It was in my ear – because there was no other on the deck of the bomber –, but it was not transmitting anything other than the vibration of the cows.

We landed on one of the herding platforms. The automatons gathered around us instantly. All six. They came with their mustangs, bringing me one too.

'A sixty-six party, guv?' one of them asked.

They were all androids; low intelligence automatons with clockwork brains. They wore rags on their metal bodies. Because of me. Psychology. My therapist said I would cope with the loneliness better amongst humanlike automatons. That was waiting for me after the community work program. Herding cattle in the nothing. As a 23rd century entity I was fit only for that. And that was only because the automatons did everything. My sole task was supervising them whether one of them began to behave strangely. The Robot Wars were over, but unconditional trust did not return to their direction.

'Tell them to go to their jobs!' Kawaguchi ordered me. 'If you're here, they won't obey me,' she added, knowing what was in my mind.

'Gentlemen, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to continue your duties,' I turned to the automatons.

'You'd cheer up the Mademoiselle,' said the gambler before they left us.

'You've accommodated them to yourself skilfully in the last six weeks,' said Kawaguchi.

'I didn't do anything to them.'

'They adapt. These are therapeutic automatons as well. Status of the community workers' mental health can be checked with them.'

'Then I'll pick up some more lordly attitude. Although I don't really know how to do it. I don't walk about in the House of Lords. I don't know how to have tea with Lady Sturgeon.'

'She drank sherry. Change to whiskey, then there'll be no problem. Provided you won't be stupid in the next hours and don't fuck the things away!'

'Ma'am, yes ma'am!' However, what if our present communication's being tapped?'

'No one can do it outside a two-metre circle now. As you have noticed, this is the CNG-W-425 plantation, which you left thirty-seven hours ago. At this current time, thirty-seven hours ago,' she corrected herself. 'All six members of staff are the same that you've known. You'll also find Nancy station familiar, because it's the Palace of Quailcombe. It's not a copy, it's the same. At least, what remained of it at the end of the Fifteen Years' War. The building of the palace was shipped in pieces from the Earth and built in Nancy between 2432 and '34. In the Fifteen Years' War, it was severely damaged, became uninhabitable. The telegraph was set up in 2448, and it was brought back into service in 2518. It's been operated by community workers since 2521. If you mess up something in the comings, nine innocents will die. Eight convicts and Miss Schneider. What I expect from you is unconditional obedience without questions. We're arriving at Nancy in an hour and forty minutes. Because of the rules, more than one vehicle of over five hundred kilograms can't be within a thousand metres sphere radius of the station at a time; of course, emergency situations are exceptions. By the time we get there, Wyn Yard's time machine will be parked at Nancy, so the prisoners can't start harvesting for replenishing their stock of meat, so we'll be set onto parking orbit. Some time after 21:00 our man arrives, and we make sure they stay there. Whatever the circumstances, the attack begins at 21:45. The Marines are arriving to our aid no later than 22:15. If not, that was all then. You do nothing until the arrival of the hacker! Supervise the automatons, do the necessary administration! At the arrival of the hacker, listen and wait for my signal! It will be an explosion. The hacker's ship will probably be parked in front of the palace. Of course I'll try to get them out before the explosion. If I succeed, good. If I didn't, then they'll suck it. At the explosion you direct the cattle to the antenna of the telegraph. It will be simple. Sit onto your mustang and head for the forty-six-metre-high pylon behind the palace. The cattle will follow, but don't worry about that! That's the aim. If it's asked what you're doing, say you want to help! Try to get as close to the antenna as you can! It would be best if you could approach it with at least one hundred metres. Then let the prisoners catch you! Don't resist, be totally cooperative! Probably you'll be locked in the panic room. By then, Midshipman Xiong and Sub-Lieutenant Hye-jin will be there, together with Miss Schneider. Wyn Yard's time machine was a trap, an emergency version of the action plan. The ship can come in space and time only here in Nancy now. I could say I'm sorry, but rather I think, luckily for Miss Schneider, for its pilot, Lifebuoy, wasn't able to hack it. He had no chance. Lifebuoy died four years ago. He was already dead when we captured him. He's a spectre. A piece of his own memory. Wyn Yard didn't know that. We deceived him into thinking that he was successfully hiding Lifebuoy, but I'm afraid he finally discovered it. We expected it to happen, so we were prepared for it. We programmed Lifebuoy's remnant to obey the hacking attempt. In fact, however, since its last time jump, the ship is controlled by a burned-in code and can only come here. All its systems are pre-programmed. Those on the deck either follow the instructions of the system or die. Everybody who sat in it is delivered to here, Nancy, in hibernation. So last time, I ask you not to blow it. I didn't ask for much. If you have your wits about you, we can reduce the number of victims to zero. Whatever happens during the action, don't talk to anyone! Even if the Queen asks it personally. As I said, the Oberian agents are everywhere. Don't count on Commander Mehta and her crew! By now, they're on the other side of Baltroyal in a military exercise and have always been there. Yes. They jumped two more in time. Whatever happens on Nancy, keep quiet! You spent the last thirty-seven hours here with the cattle. Whatever happens, hold on until 21:45! After that, try to stay alive! Understand me?'

What can be said about that?

'Yes, Commander-san. I suppose I'll have to stay here no matter what the outcome of the operation. But what about Miss Schneider? Do you carry her back?'

'As I said, we didn't count with Miss Schneider and our resources are finite. Maybe she'll be carried back. That would be honest.'

'A maybe can be difficult to interpret as a promise.'

'I can't promise anything. However, hope in a better future is not in vain. It's needed for everyone. Otherwise we can end our lives. We take off our clothes and take a deep breath from the vacuum. We don't have to worry more about anything. But none of us is here for this. So action starts! You do everything as I commanded! I'm hiding now, but I'll see and hear you all the time. If we succeed, we won't talk to each other anymore. If we fail, then not at all. I must apologise to you for many things, so I'll do it now. Please Timo, forgive me for everything!'

She pulled off her glove and stuck out her hand. The colours of her nails were natural. They barely reached over the fingertips. Around them was darkness. Deep. Infinite. I was watching them for too long. She misunderstood me and lowered her hand.

'Good luck, Timo!'

She turned away and stepped down from the platform. Immediately disappeared. What she left behind was space. In me. Solitude. It could have been tougher. Going mad about it. Fortunately, the cattle were in front of me; kilometres long, grape bunch shaped, blue-leafed meat plants. Cows. Two dozen. They are about two hundred metres long each. The chief bull was in the forefront; a small, barely twenty-metre light source. It gives the cattle the beacon. They follow the light. I do not see it. It does not broadcast in my eyes' wavelength range. I should go ahead and check it. But why? The cattle go where it goes. To Nancy. There are people there. It makes sense not to undress and not to let the vacuum suck the life out of me. There are also automatons here. And Kawaguchi. Somewhere.

Soon I had to deal with not the feeling of loneliness, but with the stress hormones. It was brought by the waiting. Still eighty-five minutes are left. The gloves on my hands were toiling with my sweating palms. If I was an advanced human, it would recirculate moisture directly into me. But I was not, so it stored it for later use. And I was not able to inhibit it.

I checked the navigation system. Nemuro-9c was included as an intermediate destination on the orbit. Thirty-seven hours earlier this was not the case. All events of the past six weeks were recorded in the herding diary; the therapist, Xiong – three times – and the last thirty-seven hours. All entries with my signature. They tried to pay attention to detail. What was not taken into account was the yacht that slid next to me seventy-five minutes later.

The Origin. The majority of people keep track of where they come from, where their ancestors came from. It was no different before the Outswarming. It's important. Like an umbilical cord. It indicates that one belongs to somewhere and does not simply float in the void. Most people don't hide their origins. They research them, tracing back millennia. They're proud of them. All of them want everyone to know they have a past. They're not newborns, they're ancient. Preferably more ancient than the others. After the Outswarming, the people of the Universe left over one connecting link: man. At some point everyone began as human. Or will become human? The Time War somewhat messed things up. No one knows when it started. Or starts. Or is. The Time War is always happening. Time has a beginning. Like the surface of a sphere. If you mark a point on it that you appoint as a starting point, it will be the beginning. This is the Big Bang now. But do you think there was nothing before it? Do you think there will be nothing after it? What will be at the end of the Universe? What awaits us at the end of time? Time is a trap. Trap, because you can think only within it. You're born and you die. What is amongst these points is engraved on a tombstone. Everything. Everything you ever did. The whole fits into a short line. That's why you can't see over time. You're locked in it. It doesn't release you, you're its captive. You're born, exist, disappear. Your memory remains. For a while? The information isn't lost. Is it mystic? Deal with it, it's material. Just because you can't seize it, it's still a reality. Explain to a ghost that he's not a man, just a quantum of wave. Electromagnetic wave. He'll laugh at you. Then he'll draw your ECG. And your EEG. And all your three-letter abbreviations starting with E. You're there in them. Of course, that's not you. They have no body. Life needs a body. On the other side of time too. You can do fuck all without it.

Origin for some is so important that they even keep count of their neighbours'. Others don't even care about their own. They're sometimes surprised; like Mr. Klein in the temple, in '44, when the Eichmann Commando went for him. He was taken away from the Sunday Morning Mass. He argued that that was a mistake, asking them to have a look at the parish register. Poor chap, he really believed it. But the neighbours didn't forget. They also knew where his grandparents came from. He didn't. Which led to his doom. He wasn't the only one. Just one of the six million. It's no wonder that many of the survivors became Marxists and began to follow Lenin. You also would have followed anyone who promises a better world where everyone is really equal, and nobody is persecuted for their religion or origin. They were wrong. Like the Neptunian half-blood Apaches who believed the Party would forgive them that they weren't pure-blood. But whoever wants to kill will never forget the reason why he wants to kill you. The reason can be anything if an ideology is built around it. You change your name in vain. You can assume one of the most common Neptunian names, but if they want to see you as an Apache, then you're an Apache. Or just a half-blood mongrel, if they want that. Never believe in anyone who promises a better future by taking away the property of others and giving it to those who do not have!

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

I was parked ten kilometres from Nemuro-9c. Zooming in on it from the computer, it seemed to be an undefinable-shaped piece of stone. One part of it was smoothed flatter than if a hydrogen bomb had been blasted in its atmosphere. The palace was built on that four hundred metres diameter site. But it was not exactly the same building. Some pieces of stone in front of the main entrance could have been a ruin of a column hall that it had not had at the time of its Quailcombe existence, and its terrace garden was just an imitation of its original location – although it was unnecessary to mention. The palace was bombed to such an extent that if Kawaguchi had said that it ever was Notre-Dame de Paris, I would have believed it. Between the ruins of the column hall, statues stood or sat. They could be moved from the original terrace garden; obviously after the column hall had become a ruin. They were in quite good condition compared to the palace. Maybe someone wanted to lift the spirits of the ruined environment. Or to illustrate the survival between the destruction. In the park behind the palace, some undemanding tree species photosynthesised in the rare atmosphere, surrounding the obelisk and the quantum antenna. The branches of the near ones overgrown into the structure of the pylon. Young shoots climbed up it like the tendrils of grapevines.

I looked at the place from a stationary orbit. Theoretically, it would have been possible to determine its dimensions with a good approximation from that data, and from its distance and my speed, but its gravitator rewrote the classical equation to such an extent that it made no sense. Anyhow, the computer of the platform contained all relevant information about it; if I had been interested in it. I rather attended to the questions in my head, to which I tried to pair answers.

'Hello-hello! May I have the honour of meeting Mr. Vanhanen?'

The yacht was medium-sized, barely longer than thirty metres; not counting its one-kilometre E-sails. Her slim, light-absorbing metal body blended into the blackness of space. Rather only her mass could be felt than her sight. She was beautiful – which could not be said about the owner of the voice who addressed me. When someone thinks about the problems of his life, while assisting in the blowing up of an unknown person, he takes such intended joyful addressing amiss. I would have liked to answer with the formula 'Who the fuck are you and what the fuck you want?', but it would not have been so winner against a Prime Minister.

'I'm afraid I have to ask you to come out from the cattle, sir!'

'I am Toshi Sieger. As Prime Minister of Baltroyal, I would rather invite you for a short conversation. What about you come round and go to the telegraph station together?'

'That is really kind to you, sir. Because I am not allowed to leave the cattle alone, I'm afraid I can hardly accept your invitation.'

'You don't have to worry about that. I've already sent your leader's permission to you. Your automatons can authenticate if you were having trouble with it.'

I was having trouble with it. On the one hand, I never saw what a leave permit looks like, and on the other hand, I had no idea who my leader was – the prison governor, or a Navy officer? In this case, who was my commanding officer? And if I spent the last thirty-seven hours here, was I a Landsman or a detainee now?

Some of the questions were answered by the gambler, trotting to me, who said the permission was authentic and valid so I could go on the yacht; that Kawaguchi was wanting to blow up and I was not convinced that my stepping on its deck would deter her from her intention.

Two police patrol boats were moving ahead of the yacht. The computer indicated a transporter behind her.

'Well, it would be difficult to say that I am all that sure that my clothing is proper for this occasion,' I tried to make a weak attempt to avoid the change. 'Maybe the meeting should be postponed to when I am not in workwear.'

'Oh, sir, even a suit is just workwear. Don't play hard to get! Come! We take a sip of Irish drink before the official program. What is your opinion about Midleton Dair Ghaelach?'

Instead of an answer, I kicked myself of the platform towards the yacht. Why should I avoid the inevitable? A five-hundred-and-nine-year-dead bloke successfully disseminated my adoration for Irish whiskey. Or is he dead just for not quite three months? Why did he do it? Kawaguchi knows it is not true. I told her personally between two fucks when we were panting in the library. I was sitting in her chair. And she was on my lap. With my shaft in her lap.

As I stepped on the deck, two members of the Protection Command seized and handcuffed me. They did not frisk me. They knew where to reach and for what. They took the Colt from me, took out the cartridges from the pocket of my jacket, and then led me straight to the saloon. I did not have to go far, maybe three steps. The saloon itself was just like at everywhere all over the world, that can be seen in porn movies. Its size was like the living room of an average flat in London but with a much lower ceiling height. Inside, on the thick, cream-colored carpet, two leather sofas were facing each other, two leather armchairs, with two small tables in front of them; made from some kind of exotic wood that costs more than the two-month salary of an assembly worker. So nothing extra, just leather and leather everywhere, and glossy lacquered wood surfaces that could be used as a mirror. Many exclusive, fingerprint collector furniture. Elegant, but superfluous for simple workers; although the leather sofa could probably have lasted longer than the upholstery of Kawaguchi's chair. The walls were made from one-way glass. Darkness was beyond them. And stars. In the yellowish light, the windows mirrored the saloon and everybody else inside. They were four. A Prime Minister, a kind of secretary, a campaign consultant, and a communications expert – or some sort of multibillionaire. Not important. Three out of the four were irrelevant. The fourth is replaceable. Then there were the two members of the Protection Command, and I; being squeezed between them. It was clear who the Prime Minister was amongst those present. If it had not been, Baltroyal would have been in bigger shit than Kawaguchi had outlined.

'Oh my dear friend,' he came to me. 'I would be happy to shake hands with such a big traveller, but it was beyond my calculations that you would bring a gun with you.'

'Never mind, sir! The conscious solace you that it was outside also my calculations that I won't be greeted with a glass of whiskey when I step onto the deck.'

'You hardly would be able to consume it in your current situation.'

'Let's give it a try.'

'I'm afraid my security chief might be less happy with that.'

'Does he want to drink my portion too?'

'Are you so hooked on a sip of whiskey?'

'It's a fortune. Otherwise, how would you get me to come onto the deck voluntarily?'

One of the other three tried to horn in with a joke-thought speech. No one laughed. What he said was irrelevant. As was his presence. Father Molodkin said, in such situations, those people can be completely ignored. Together with their words. However, it turned out that the one I thought of as a multibillionaire was just a simple bootlicker.

'So please reassure me that you didn't want that weapon for me.'

'I'm afraid, in the present circumstances, no one would believe my negative answer. Nevertheless, if there is no objection, I would insist on the no. It was never in my mind.'

'I am glad, but why do you need a weapon, then?'

'It is significantly more painless than agonising in the vacuum.'

'I see. But then why do you need so many projectiles?'

'What if it doesn't succeed first? And it was cheaper by the dozen.'

'Would it be so bad here for you?'

'According to the law, I should receive mental health therapy once a week, but it is given only once a month.'

'Our economy is fairly good now. It is therefore of paramount importance that we continue to keep the balance on the budget. Also, please note that many married people do not even get that much.'

'I am not married.'

'What is your opinion about Midshipman Jun Xiong, your rehabilitation helper?'

'I think she's correct with me, but the same can be said about everyone, without exception, who I have contacted.'

'Are you happy that she is visiting you?'

'If I remember well, I was not ordered to rejoice when I meet the staff of the penal institution.'

'Why do you think you are imprisoned?'

'How would you interpret it differently?'

'You came from centuries before. We help your integration into the present age with our therapy.'

'With a reduced budget therapy.'

'How did you get that weapon?'

'I got it. About five hundred years ago.'

'I think it is superfluous to ask you how you managed to hide it, because you wouldn't betray it. However, it is good if you are aware, that, with this incident, you baffled a socially important protocol visit. We wanted to express with our presence, that our government is committed to all forms of social assistance that serve to return the disadvantaged to society.'

'I'm afraid this incident is caused by you for calling me onto your ship.'

'My bigger concern because of you is how to manage properly the emergency aid to an unfortunate accident. One of our ships crash-landed at the telegraph station and her crew needs to be hospitalised urgently. We should take them on board, but because of the incident, I should leave immediately, as required by the security protocol. What's your opinion about this?'

'In my view, your conscience must be accounted for by yourself, sir.'

'How does your attitude change when I say one of the injured is Midshipman Jun Xiong, your probation officer?'

'Midshipman Xiong is a soldier. She had to be aware of this risk at the latest by the end of her training.'

'I thought the Midshipman meant more to you.'

'In my view, the Midshipman is one of my detainers, even if she acts on command. Nevertheless, knowing the assumption behind your words, I would like to state that the relationship between me and Midshipman Xiong is merely a detainee–detainer relationship. Furthermore, there is no romantic connection between us neither physical.'

I knew he knew I was lying. There was physical connection between us. Twice. When she fell on me in the prairie and when I leaned her onto the bonnet of the X1. Of course, both me and the Prime Minister understood the physical connection differently – at least I hoped. My life instinct activated. I did not want his yacht to explode together with me.

'Relax, Mr. Vanhanen, please! You are not in court. The reason why I am unable to provide the hospitality that I intended is that the security procedure triggered by the event does not allow for it. But since we always help everyone in trouble, we will take those on the station on board despite the rules. By the way, how old is your headset.'

'The previous one went wrong, then I got this. You can get more information from my supervisors.'

'Of whom, we are making Midshipman Xiong's acquaintance personally. As you can see, we have arrived. Interestingly, also that ship is so old. What about that, Mr. Vanhanen?'

The brightness decreased in the saloon, I could see through the window. Xiongs' ship was parking at the other side of the palace, under its horizon, tethering to the asteroid; so I could not see it from the computer and the station did not inform me of it. Originally it was not a spaceship, just a shuttle. It was counted as antique even at the end of the Shawl War. It could be Indian, possibly Chinese; with dimensions reminisce of the Russians' former Buran. A scrapyard calibre team could get ahold of it and make it suitable for interplanetary traffic. We never went in space. Of course, sometimes we crossed the Kármán line for the sake of a joke – or girl –, but space shipping was not our profile. How many years did it take for it to reach from the Earth to the Kuiper belt? Its radar-absorbing design made possible for it to get here unnoticed – using 21st century devices –, where it then performed the time jump.

The yacht with reefed sails leisurely floated over the shuttle and landed onto the courtyard of the palace. Another machine, a nondescript transporter, descended beside it.

'Indeed, that ship really has an old-timer look, sir,' I answered the question. 'It looks like the cost reduction affects not only me.'

'If appropriate, I will be pleased to listen your suggestions for improving the efficiency of public finances, but now, I have to ask you to change to one of the police boats, accompanied by those gentlemen. I'm sorry that things are going on like this. Another time I would be eager to consume that drink in your company which we have to miss now. Gentlemen,' he turned to the other three, 'as long as the injured are taken to the ship, let's visit the gentlemen on the station that they so kindly prepared for our visit.'

I did not understand what he meant by that kindly preparation. Four guys were standing at the palace entrance, dressed in orange coveralls. They did not look like people who wanted to greet him with a folk dance or recitations. The Prime Minister shook hands with them and went into the palace with his courtiers, accompanied by some protection commandos.

A police boat landed in the farthest part of the courtyard. It was a small, maybe ten-metre craft; with room for up to five – if everyone huddled up close together. Its range is up to one million kilometres. It takes nine hours for it to reach that distance; not a racehorse. Its voice whistled in my ear in the barely existing atmospheric pressure. Cosmic dust swirled around my clothes. They were typical work duds; unable to change their form. I was taken to the Admiralty in these thirty-seven hours ago; or half a year ago, depending on how we count time.

Two protection commandos – one-one on each of my sides – escorted me to the police boat. Its door opened, a policeman got out. But I did not get in.

There was a sharp, violent scream; it would have been an explosion's between earthly conditions. I was pressed to the ground immediately, onto a worn-out, rectangular marble piece; sometime the whole courtyard would have been inlaid with these.

'Everyone get in the building! Now!' sounded Kawaguchi's yell at all frequencies.

In response, at least three called on her to put the weapon down, and the policeman tried to jerk me it into the ship. But the projectiles that hit into the hull around the door averted him from his intention.

'Leave the ships and into the building!'

The protection commandos dragged me to the other side of the police boat. Some bellowed that Kawaguchi release that man and surrender herself. Meanwhile, the beacon of the cattle whistled over us and struck through the antenna of the quantum telegraph at the other side of the palace then impacted into the ground. The asteroid quaked. I felt vertigo as the gravitator restored the equilibrium. The antenna fell creakily.

Kawaguchi stood with her back against the blasted sail yacht, holding the pilot in front of her as a shield.

The transporter behind the yacht began to rise slowly. It was a logical step. It goes to the other side of the palace, picks up the Prime Minister and escapes him. The snag in the logic was the magnetoplasma thruster. The cattle always followed the beacon. Even now. Many tons, brainless, photosynthesising meat mountains. In motion. Galloping like a herd of bison. Moving onto everything that they perceive as a light source. In this case, the thruster of the transporter. The beacon controlled them, set their movement direction, their speed. The transporter did not give such a signal. Just light. Uninterpretable energy spectrum of streaming ions to them. They were genetically modified plants. They were able to do one thing: to forge ahead towards life-giving light.

The transporter was hovering above the other side of the palace when the first cow reached it and burnt in the gas jet. That partially shrouded the light source from the others. So the second did not throw itself directly in the gas jet, but next to it, onto the transporter. The kinetic energy of its mass and speed tilted the transporter and hit it into the palace's garden.

The cows started for everywhere where they saw light. One to the police boat, where I was lying. Its pilot could be a redneck. He realized what was happening. He turned off the thruster and opened the side door. It was need not to say what we have to do. The commandos threw me behind him and jumped in after me. The other policeman did the same. At the moment of closing the doors, the cow crashed into us. Like a truck into a Mini. It touched the asteroid's surface, scratched along it and smashed into the side of the police boat.

The hull of the boat was an asteroid. A hole was drilled into it for five medium-sized people and hooked up to a thruster. Spacecraft, pull and bear! Blue and yellow – mostly – rectangles were painted on it, and polished in one of its parts where the fancy "Police" inscription could be placed, and the police boat was ready. And this one got ready totally too – for the scrapyard – as the cow swept it away, spun it a few times and pressed it to the side of the palace. But it did its job. Protected us from outside. Inside, the anti-collision system tried to do the same. With little success. The commandos were not medium-sized. There was no room for collision prevention. But at least they served like a cushion to me when we upside down banged the palace and they got under my back.

The other police boat was desperate to say it was under attack, three machines were trying to damage its thruster.

'Turn off the thruster Johnny!' our pilot shouted. 'Turn it off! Otherwise they'll ruin it so as not to fool the cows!'

'Late,' came the answer. 'They've solved it. Someone tow us down!'

'Well, that was a good joke, Johnny,' replied our pilot. 'We're all shipwrecked at the moment. Get out! The automatons will bring you here. It's not worth to bust them. That was the idiot who programmed them so. What's up with you in the back?'

The question was addressed to us. I thanked, I was fine, though I was gazing at the floor. But, I was above and two were lying under me – it would have been less comfortable inversely.

The policemen climbed out of the boat and pulled me out. They laid me amongst hundred-kilo bits of vegetable flesh. Dense dark blue liquid was leaking from them. Remnants of the cow. While one of the policemen helped the commandos to get out of the boat, his partner was pointing an assault rifle at me, ensuring that I did not move. Meanwhile, the transporter's pilot came in on the line and reported he was fine. The same was announced by the yacht's pilot, adding that he disarmed the assassin, who, apart from her within eight days healing injuries, was in good general health.

Healing injuries within eight days. The term did not make much sense in the 21st century either but lived further in the official language of law enforcement organizations. In these times it meant that normal health could be fully restored within one hour. In essence, it expressed that the injured person did not have any broken bones. Which I was happy to hear. It increased my chances of survival and filled me with hope that I could fuck apart that certain assassin's ass if she did not answer my questions. Or, well, even if yes.

The commandos rushed towards the yacht, and the policemen grabbed me and ran into the palace.

The building was not only bombed. Bullet marks around the empty yawning windows indicated that it was dealt by handguns too at that time. Internal recovery was limited to the minimum. In the hall, the ceiling was underpinned – to avoid falling down –, the walls were daubed pale yellow.

They took me to a room. The atmospheric pressure was normal inside. Long ago, what may have been a resting place for the night-time receptionist, now functioned as a cell for someone. Per moment for me. They hit me into the wall with my face ahead, kicked my legs apart – to stand straddle – and asked me to press my forehead against the wall. They also helped a little to achieve it. Blood started to leak from my nose. Two red drops fell below, and then the first aid system of my dress forestalled the others.

Outside the room there was a lot of movement. Kawaguchi could be brought in and stood to the wall. Or was laid on the floor – depending on what exactly her within eight days healing injuries meant. Then it became silent.

I put myself in a waiting standpoint. I could not do anything else. When I tried to move, I was warned not to do so. As an emphasis, the barrel of an assault rifle was poked in my ribs. A few minutes later, the tendons were sore at the inner thigh and my legs began to tremble. Obviously, this was the goal. It is not easy jumping with numb legs.

I could prop up the wall for twenty minutes before my headset sounded.

'Where are the others?'

I was not sure who the question was intended to, although the headset indicated I was the addressee. It did not use any special signs, simply it was made to simulate live speech. I also sensed that many would hear my answer. Nevertheless, I was uncertain whether I was really asked. Like when several people talk in a room with more than one person, and suddenly one does not realise that they are the one being asked. The questioner perceived that and repeated it, calling me by my name.

'Mr. Vanhanen! Where are the others?'

'I'm afraid I have some difficulty with the interpretation of your question, sir.'

It was a man who asked me. And I am not allowed to tell what is going on here until 21:45. But why not? Because of Nikoletta Schneider? Who was kidnapped by some of my teammates and the other part extorted me by her?

'Where are your mates and what's your aim?'

Mates? I have not had any mates for years. Or centuries? My mother dropped me off at the scrapyard and the guys there were my mates since then. I did not choose them. But they admitted me. Then they disappeared. As everyone else as time went by. Aims? I had two aims in my life. To fuck with a pretty girl and later to fuck Nikoletta. I got the pretty girl much later than I wanted. Well, she was not a girl. Woman. Father Molodkin took me to her. Maybe he asked her for a favour. Maybe he paid for her. I never fucked Nikoletta Schneider. And I already did not mind. But my aims ran out. For years I got up in the mornings and went to bed in the evenings. In the interim, I just existed. Or tried to stay alive. And I have been living a more aimless lifestyle for the past two years. I did not even think of why I wanted to live. I wanted? There was a short time when I waited to meet Kawaguchi. With a plastic doll. Twenty minutes ago, I wanted to fuck her in the ass, just so I could break her neck while doing it. But now I did not want that either. I put it down. What is the point of the whole thing? To get Nikoletta back to the 21st century? But how? Or is there a chance? Questions and questions from the past twenty minutes. The answers varied, depending on how much the tendons were aching in my thighs. Currently outfuckingetly.

'In terms of the circumstances, I think I can understand what your question may concern, but for giving a correct answer, I would ask you to define it accurately, noting that if I am under interrogation, please provide me a lawyer.'

The two policemen grabbed and turned me and pressed my back against the wall. They were not gentle now either. My hip joint wailed. But at least my head did not knock on the wall this time. Somewhere a camera was scanning my face. They wanted to see my reactions.

'Where's the subcraft?'

The game started. Who spoke to him about it? Xiong's or Kawaguchi? Was she alive at all? I could have played the fool, but my meta-communication would have indicated that I was aware of what the situation was. That is why it was suggested on the scrapyard never to lie if I was caught.

'Sir, if you accuse me, you should arrest me and bring me a lawyer. If you don't accuse me of anything, let me go!'

'Nemuro–9c is currently in a state of emergency. As the leader of National Defence, everyone belongs to me with absolute obedience. No lawyer, and you answer!'

'Why, who are you?'

'I'm Colonel Erik Noriega, the head of the Protection Command. Don't violate my patience!'

'In a state of emergency, the prime minister is the head of the crisis council or whatever its name is. I ought to report to him.'

'What would you say to him?'

'I'm afraid my speech would contain little value.'

'What would that little be?'

'I apologise if I worded it ambiguously, sir. With my answer, I tried to politely point out that, despite my best intentions, I could not tell him anything. I am a prisoner. I don't have mates. As such, I am not in the position to be able to give such an answer to your question which could contain any information. I am honestly sorry for it.'

'I doubt your honesty. However, I reassure you that you achieved your goal. The Prime Minister is dead.'

The shock on my face was honest and believable.

'If that wasn't your purpose, then what?'

I bowed my head with a sigh.

'I've had one goal for years, sir. To go to bed in the evening and get up no more.'

I did not get more questions. Instead, a few seconds later, two protection commandos entered the room. They grabbed me and took me away.

They took me to the community room. In the 20th century it would have been called a lounge. To that function only a table football referred, standing in a corner. Or it could have been a library room. To the right of the entrance, at both sides of an imitated fireplace, books lined the shelves. Those varieties which never see mite shit. Imitation was the all. They seemed to be originals, but no books have been printed for four hundred years. Few books can withstand so much time. And those that can, are not stored on a loosely supervised penal colony. A large three-dimensional painting was hanging over the fireplace. A portrait of the Queen: Victoria II. She was watching the four women standing at the opposite wall. All were handcuffed behind their backs. Their foreheads clung to the wall just like mine a minute earlier. Kawaguchi, Xiong, Hye-jin and Nikoletta. Four protection commandos stood behind them with a rifle in their hands and a fifth in the middle of the room. It was not hard to figure out who he was; the Colonel I had talked to. He was watching my face. He wondered how I reacted to the sight of the figure next to him; to the Prime Minister; with my Colt in his hand. He was living; flesh and blood, with a living soul inside. I was relieved; if he was satisfied with that, he did not show it with even a twitch. Not so the Prime Minister.

'Excuse me for the bad joke, sir, what Colonel Noriega has done with you. It was a test. He wanted to check that you had no malicious intentions in my direction before I personally ask for your help to ascertain the background cause of this current emergency. Well, why are you here now?'

He was speaking highfaluting like me. But while I tried to stall for time with my unnecessarily long sentences, he was unable to undress his polite politician's role. Probably it grew on him. He was playing it for so long that it became one with him. But he was nervous. He spoke faster than on the yacht.

'I'm sorry to tell you, sir, but as it can be concluded from my previous answers, I don't know why I am here. I am in charge of overseeing the CNG-W-425 plantation, in which, unfortunately, you prevented me.'

'Stop the waffle, Mr. Vanhanen and formulate your next answers briefly!' the Colonel snapped at me.

He had a real commander temperament. He spoke decisively, and his threat did not contain the else word. He did not need it.

'Who gave you a weapon? Why are the other guns disguised to the same age; amongst them is one of the most modern?'

The commando behind Hye-jin came closer to me and showed me a pistol. Its length was no more than seventeen centimetres and seemingly had a .32 calibre. It was almost lost in the sizeable male palm.

'It's never been used, but it's tuned onto someone. Onto who?'

Onto me. But, of course, I could not know that, because officially I was playing cards with automatons in the last thirty-seven hours; and mostly they won.

'You know the all five persons at the wall.'

The Colonel did not ask it but said. I was looking at the wall. Four were standing there. I counted them to myself, but the result remained four. I opened my mouth to put a question, but at that time a three-dimensional tangle of sinus waves appeared at the right side of Nikoletta above the floor. A business card-sized piece of metal was their source.

'Unfortunately, the fifth person is dead. I can show you only its remnant, but you recognize it.'

The Colonel continued to declare. And he was right. I never saw it in this form, but I knew it. I knew who he was. Lifebuoy. Rest in peace.

'I know Commander Kawaguchi, Sub-Lieutenant Hye-jin and Midshipman Xiong. The fourth person's unknown. The fifth...'

'You know all five and this was your last attempt to stall for time! The ghost's name's Lifebuoy, the lady's Nikoletta Schneider! Why are they here?'

Schneider. The Colonel correctly said her name.

'No, sir! This woman is not Nikoletta Schneider. She is not the Nikoletta Schneider whose entity I have ever had to do with, in a well-defined timeline of the multiverse. This can be confirmed by anyone who studied time travel a little more seriously.'

'Where was she brought from, why, and what she has to do with this current situation?'

'Based on her apparel, she was brought from the 21st century, I do not know why, but the fact, that she is a person who is from five hundred years earlier, indicates that she has nothing to do with this situation. Lift her out of the mesmeric state before it is too late! She urgently needs a doctor!'

'How do you know what state she's in?'

'I see it.'

'You don't see it.'

I was just listening and watching. The Colonel. He was watching me. With a stone face. His glance speared me through like a pitchfork. It was not a dick measuring. He had many decades of managerial experience and had a talent for that. He was above the Prime Minister. He only obeyed him because he voluntarily subordinated himself to him.

'I know the lady so much that I know she would be hysterical if she was completely conscious.'

'Would she be nervous about the banzai?'

Banzai. One of the few Japanese words that infiltrated into the Solaris. It was used in the meaning of attack. Nikoletta picked her head from the wall.

'She would protest about her detention.'

'Would she also protest to being killed so that no witnesses remain?'

'Why do you want to kill her? She didn't harm anyone.'

'At least fifty-four gunmen are out there with heavy weapons, which doesn't surprise you. However, it's good to know that conspirators never leave witnesses. No matter what they're preparing, no one is left alive here. Not even you. So, what are you planning?'

In the background on the Queen's portrait, the image of a characteristic tree was depicted. The King of the Forests. The holiest tree. The home of the power and energy of the gods. Symbolising truth, courage, wisdom. The Irish oak. Its virgin barrel is the final store of the water of life.

'I am planning to gain a bottle of whiskey if I once have to die. If the Prime Minister's were no longer available, we may find it somewhere in this antique mansion.'

'Are you alcohol dependent?' asked the Prime Minister. 'Or do you want to prove your masculinity with your enthusiasm for whiskey?'

Whiskey's the drink of the mature man. One of the last things that remained for the 21st century for those who didn't come to heel into the pink vomiting of the emotionalization. E.g. the automotive industry finished itself off because they began to produce over-computerized shit because some green fascists cried so much, filling up the Internet with their tears. The car manufacturers, of course, bite it when they realized the possibility of producing expensive and unreliable shit, which can be fobbed off on those suffering from a gender identity crisis. In the past, there were only typical male cars. Later there were feminine too. There were one or two borderline cases, but the Yaris isn't that. I was always dreaded to get in them. I was afraid that I'd get a clitoris from them. The cowardly moguls of the automotive industry have been infected with an unprincipled dash to profit and global warming. No. The CLA of Mercedes isn't a borderline case. It's a thoroughly woman car. Two hundred and some horsepower. It's for real, sexpert cunts. For those who don't need a well-trained bag dog but a hardwood man. You can bravely sit in the car next to such women; if you're a man. You can see one in the car park. I mean the CLA. Yeah, in front of the banker school.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

'Listen, Mr. Vanhanen. At least we, Hungarians, should stand together. Do you know that one of my ancestors was Hungarian? On my father's side. He is the greatest Hungarian politician of the 21st century. It is said I resemble him.'

Apart from his beer belly, there was no similarity between them.

'Maybe in football boots, sir.'

Finding the explanation of my answer could make his augmented intelligence sweat. It took more than two seconds while he started to speak again.

'I apologize to Mr. Vanhanen if I had offended you with my previous question. But there is a way out of alcohol addiction. We have effective therapies. We can help you, Mr. Vanhanen. But to do this you must help us first. We are living in difficult times, and I have to attend to an important, international protocol event at the Opera tomorrow. I have a meeting with the Oberian Foreign Minister.'

'Do you play Bartók on the piano, sir?'

I do not know why I asked it. Maybe because of the opera. In any case, it seemed it was not the first time when I had asked the question.

" _Can you play the piano?"_

" _I learned it in my childhood. I played a lot not so long ago."_

" _And what? Can you play anything?"_

" _Of course. Anything, after some practice."_

" _Even Bartók?"_

" _Easily."_

Yes. Déjà vu. I had been talking with Nikoletta. More specifically, it was not me but a one-headed in my head. Fuck! Do I have to live forever so that foreign memories circulate in my brain which occasionally penetrate into my mind for certain effects like an LSD flashback?

'How...? Do you think about the Redhead Lady? Do you hint we should go to a safer place?'

I did not hint anything. I did not even know what he was talking about. But I could not take the time to ask it. At the bookshelf, to the right of the fireplace, a part of the wall turned out of its place. Light lit behind it. Stairwell.

The Colonel dashed towards the entrance. The commandos, behind Kawaguchi and Xiong, jumped to the Prime Minister, grabbed him, and, following the Colonel, raced into the stairwell. The commando, standing at my right, joined them tightly behind their backs. Rear cover. As it is written in the textbook.

The next moment, the commando at my left reached up between my side and my elbow, gripped my hair at my nape and, pushing my head downwards, forced me to run with him after them. I still could see as a commando seized Nikoletta too and turned after us right away, then we reached the stairwell. Shots were heard from the palace entrance. Assault rifles.

The narrow stairs led down. Two men with broader shoulders would not fit side by side.

Twelve steep steps, then a turn.

Another twelve steps and another turn.

Steps and turn.

Steps and turn.

The commando pushed my head further downwards. He performed the task perfectly; but I could not keep my balance. I started to stumble. He lifted my head above and held me.

Steps, turn, steps, turn. Before me, the commando protecting the prime minister's back. My nose almost pushed to his back.

Steps and turns, steps and turns. Rushing downwards. Pounding feet behind us. They bring Nikoletta and Kawaguchi's too.

Steps, steps, steps... How much more?

Turns, steps, turns, steps and an open door at their bottom. The Colonel dashes in; a crack, followed by a flash and an explosion right away at the same time. I bump against the commando in front of me who shoves me against the wall with a quarter turn; the other, behind me, release me and presses me to the wall. The other two commandos who are accompanying the Prime Minister are running backwards. They cannot fit beside me, pressing me even more onto the wall, my foot slides, I fall head first onto the steps. They drag the Prime Minister upwards – who hangs flabbily in their hands like raw dough –, blood smears onto the steps, the back of his skull is missing, his face is unrecognizable. Did I hear two shots?

There are shots beyond the door in the room, bursts of machine guns, screams.

The colonel also rushes upwards, behind him there are the other three men from the yacht, white-faced, and two protection commandos. Five men step on my face, on my chest. The two commandos continuously fire backwards into the room as they are rushing up. They leave me on the stairs. I am not important anymore. I have never been. And anyway, it is over.

A revolver lay at the bottom of the stairs. A Colt Python. Its calibre: .357 Magnum. Barrel length: 4 inches. Why did the Prime Minister hold that in his hand? Did he want to threaten me? A fire fight broke out at the top of the stairwell. Behind me, at the turn of the stairs, shouts, groans, and an assault rifle slid down the stairs. A foot kicked it down. Kawaguchi's. It stopped at my feet.

The ability to get the handcuffed hands from the back of the body to the front is a body build issue. It depends on the width of the hip, the length of the arms and the trunk. I was not the man who was able to do this. I was the man from who only his revolver and the ammunition were taken but was not frisked. The passkey was in my back pocket. "It opens many things. Here in the 21st century, everything." It was time to find out what it can do in the 26th.

I turned from my back to my side and fished the key out of my pocket. Bending my fingers, I touched it to the handcuffs.

Hye-jin fell into the corner at the turn of the stairs. Pressing her back against the wall, she was clenching Kawaguchi's neck with her thighs. Their hands were handcuffed at the back. Xiong jumped beside them; also cuffed. She noticed my presence.

Our gaze met, her legs rose and the heel of her shoe was already in Kawaguchi's head.

Kawaguchi tried to jerk her head from the kick. But struggling between Hye-jin's thighs she could not move much – maybe a centi.

Two howled. Kawaguchi and Hye-jin.

The shoe heel was thrust into Kawaguchi's left orbit. It pierced the eye, went across the cortex of lens, punched through the side of the eye cavity from inside, then came out of the skull through the sphenoid and stabbed into Hye-jin's thigh.

The handcuffs opened on my wrists.

It was a flash so long as Xiong's eyes and mine locked. But that was enough to know my fate.

Xiong jerked out the shoe hill from Kawaguchi's head, stood steadily on her feet and lifted her cuffed hands from behind her back above her head. She leaned a little ahead, then – as her upper arms reached her head – straightened, her shoulders rolled over and her outstretched arms moved over her head. Her straining breasts bulged for a moment, and then she turned her forearms forwards, made an outwards circle motion with them, and her hands were already in front of her body. The whole move took maybe a second.

The assault rifle lay at my feet. Closer than the Colt at the bottom of the stairs. I would just have had to sit up for it. But it would have taken longer than to kick myself down to the bottom of the stairs. The safety system of the weapon would not have allowed me to use it anyway; lest I turn it against its owner. I kicked one with my foot.

I slid to the bottom of the stairs and grabbed the Colt.

From the corner of my eyes I saw as Xiong moved and disappeared.

She was fast. Like a fly in the air. Man follows its flight with his gaze, when it suddenly changes direction and disappears from sight. Xiong was at least twice the speed of the fastest homo sapiens. By the time I had grabbed the Colt and, turning onto my back, started to swing my arm into the direction where she disappeared, she reappeared. On the top of the stairs. To the left of me. Next to the wall. Her handcuffed arms are stretched out to me. There is something in her hand. I know what it is. She also knows that I know. Stinky whore! She would not necessary aim at me. But she wants me to know it. To know that I will die.

If a neutrino projectile is tuned to someone then it is not necessary to aim with the weapon which fires it. It is enough to launch it in the nothing, and the bullet finds the target in its neutrino state. It passes through everything. It is at the target in a moment. The distance does not matter. Its speed is incomprehensible. Not faster than light. Just goes across time. It seemingly takes the same amount of time for it to get to a metre than to get to a billion kilometres. For an outside viewer it may even seem to hit the target sooner than it is fired. Then, before the target, or already in the target, it turns back into its previous state. Into a killer, all-destroying ammunition. Such as a specially formed, uranium core round. Which, falling into the body, releases its vast kinetic energy – stopping even a bull elephant –, deforms on dozens of blade-shaped hooks, cutting, tearing the tissue around itself as it yaws through the body, while the vacuum in the wake of it sucks the air in with a dreadful speed which gets hot in the tight space. Then, during its leaving, the round tears a greater hole at the exit than at the entrance and turns back into neutrino state to fly away into the infinity, once – maybe billions of years later – harmlessly impacts into something, maybe into a black hole.

My outstreched arm was at an angle of sixty degree from Xiong to the right when she shot at me.

My body froze like ice.

My brain stiffened.

My heart stopped.

I died.

The hacking of gravity started already in the early 21st century. Obviously, it's much cheaper to hover up a rocket into space in a local null gravity than to blow up an oil refinery below it. Of course, in that time, only so esoteric believer circles dealt with the subject such as the Breitman-Demyan group – as the world thought. And that was what I thought too. Until the Russians started to grind my balls because of the topic. The French "saved" me from them. Then the Americans hijacked me from the French. I was sitting in Guantanamo for months. Or on a similar place. No, I hardly believe I'd have been in Poland. They considered me to be too important to put me in a post-Soviet prison. They thought I was von Braun of antigravity. Their conviction started to waver only when I admitted – after some months pressure – that I was an Islamic terrorist and personally had led the airplanes into the twin towers of the World Trade Center. All four. Alone. Only me. Yeah, I know there were only two, but there and then I admitted to four. Besides the Empire State Building, the White House, the Penthouse and the Grand Brighton Hotel. When they realized that they'd overpressed the persuasion and I was really stupid about the subject, they let me go. Afterwards, I realized that the hand of one of my exes had been in the thing. She claimed to have done it to save me. Thanks a lot! Guantanamo isn't a Swedish prison. I didn't screw for half a year, although I'm not Gandhi. Yeah, I really could have guessed earlier that my sweetheart's brain isn't so clear, but who the hell thought that when she was explaining that sudden gravitational fluctuations could be accompanied by the dizziness symptoms that people feel in minor earthquakes, she thought it seriously. There and then I thought she was hinting that she wanted me to get her laid. Of course! I got her laid too as it's befitting. And there was an earthquake, and dizziness, as there needs to be during a standard screw. But probably also the twelve bottles of beer had something to do with it, those I had been gulping during our conversation.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard's beers)

There are situations when things happen fast, but thoughts are even faster. Like the man goes peacefully with his car in the night, musing on the beauty of the star covered night, and a truck appears in the opposite lane on the railway overpass, and suddenly the full beams of another car swing out from behind it... At that moment, the man weighs up every opportunity in a fraction of a second. Where should he jerk the wheel to? To the left; in front of the truck? To the right; to break through the ribbon barrier and fly into the depths onto the tracks while the headlight of the oncoming midnight express is already visible...? Before making the decision, he will even have time, in thought, to sign up on the wealldie.com.

I experienced my death the same way. Until I heard the crack of the pistol.

We just looked at each other with Xiong and just looked. Our eyes fell into one another. Our gazes intertwined. We were astonished.

I lived. Because if you hear the sound of the shot, the bullet is no longer there. It has already passed you by.

We awoke at the same time.

Meanwhile, my arm was continuing to swing.

There were only thirty degrees to the target.

Xiong squeezed the trigger again.

I went grey.

It banged into my chest, my heart was punched out of me through my lungs.

But it was just a feeling.

Because I heard the shot again.

No. The round did not miss me.

It flitted through me harmlessly.

Because it had nothing to do.

Because the first round had long hit the target with a flash earlier.

It did its job.

Twenty-six billion kilometres away.

And five hundred and nine years ago.

In the vicinity of Manwareham South, in a Mercedes CLA car speeding at one hundred and eighty, a skull has exploded. Wyn Yard's head. His brain's now smearing onto the windscreen.

" _Meanwhile, tell me what the fuck you did that I had to retune to your headset again!"_

" _Michelle, my darling! Have you one totally tuned to him?"_

" _It can't be biologically. He makes the dating apparatus confused. But the tracker's a pretty stable point."_

" _Is it enough?"_

" _Reliable. The only one that can be bound to him and he can't remove."_

The rotten whore!

" _How did you find me?"_

" _Your tracker... left a physical marker on you."_

" _What physical marker? I haven't heard of that before."_

The goddamn bitch! She tuned to my headset too! She could not to me because according to her instruments I could not exist physically. So she used the ankle monitor and the headset. One of them was removed by the Apache bitch, and the other one, "don't leave this here!", we mixed it up.

The barrel of the Colt was at an angle of zero degrees with Xiong's body. I pressed the trigger.

Delon taught me to aim. And that close combat is not an Olympic sport shooting. Neither biathlon. There is no time there for careful targeting. But at both, instinctive shooting and sighted shooting, one of the keys to success is proper trigger management. He had me practiced it a lot. He placed a one penny coin on the first sight of a pistol. I had to simulate the shot without ammunition until I achieved that the penny would not fall from the sight. The rehearsed movement was invaluable to me. Because Xiong was fast. Much faster than me. And against Delon's general guideline – that we shoot in the chest first –, now I had to follow his special advice.

The clothes protected Xiong's body as an armour against the .357 Magnum of the Colt. That is why I shot at head. I had only one chance. If I miss it, she would finish me off with bare hands. When I pressed the trigger, I knew I had won. She also knew it. She knew it before the hammer would have hit the primer at the bottom of the cartridge in the chamber.

Her imaging was seven times faster than mine. Her brain processed the sight seven times faster than mine. But her body was only twice as fast. It is too slow against a bullet that leaves the barrel of a revolver at a speed of four hundred and forty metres per second. What was unfollowable to my eyes – as my finger pressed onto the trigger and the hammer snapped onto the bullet –, she was watching in slow-motion. What was a blink for me that was seven for her. She could not see the bullet flying into her face; her brain was not fast enough for that. But it was fast enough to understand what would happen. And also that, she could not avoid it. When she shot at me, I died for a moment. I felt only for a moment that it was over. She felt for seven. She died seven times. After the seventh forever.

The bullet crushed her left cheekbone. She could move a little right – so she did not get the shot in the centre of her nose –, but it was little to survive. The bullet ran through the left cheekbone, which deviated it a little downwards, and mangled the cerebellum before, hitting a hole into the occipital bone, lodged in the wall.

I jumped and, bounding up three steps at a time, ran up the stairs.

In the turn, Hye-jin pushed Kawaguchi's body from her thighs and tried to stand up. She could rise onto a knee when I shot her in the head. The instincts worked in her. They were stronger than five hundred years of technological evolution. Her mouth still opened – trying to cry 'No!' –, but sound no longer came out of it. Her brain splashed onto the wall. Under Xiong's. Then onto the ground when, just to be sure, I shot her in the head once again. Xiong got the same. She was writhing on her back, as if she had an epileptic seizure. Her light brown eyes were positioning at one point. At me. I shot in her forehead as not to suffer. But she kept on writhing. I shot in her another one. Her spasms eased in twitches. I put my last cartridge into her. One of her fingers still trembled. I no longer regretted I did not fuck her. I kicked in her head with full strength.

There was also someone else there.

I sensed his presence when I ran up to the turn of the stairs, but I did not deal with him. He was lying on the ground. I thought he was dead. But he was not.

He stirred.

I looked at him.

He was already looking me.

He was the protection commando who showed me Xiong's pistol at the command of the Colonel, and who was neutralised by Xiong and Hye-jin for a while. But not for long enough. What could he see from the happenings? Does he have any idea which side I am on? I did not want to explain to him. His hand was moving to the inside of his suit jacket, towards his armpit. He's in the state that he probably shoots first, then does not ask afterwards. I was sure he was armed not only with a rifle.

I dropped myself off the stairs.

I did not jump; I would have needed momentum, but I did not have the time for that. With his eyes, he already locked on the target. Me. If the distance between us was greater, he would not have to pull out his weapon; the bullet would find me itself as soon as his hand reached the grip of his pistol. But here in the narrow staircase, it should manoeuvre slowly at first to not land into the wall. So he has to pull it out at first and turn it approximately to me; which is less than a second for him, because he's not a simple homo sapiens. But I am. Unprotected against the 26th century weapons.

I kicked myself from the corner of the step. Downwards. With my right foot. Then with the left below four steps. I felt I lost my balance.

Another four steps below, I jumped forwards as best I could.

I fell with outstretched hands.

There are blood stains on two sides of the wall. The Prime Minister's. Will be the mine painted next to them?

At the bottom of the stairs I flew through the open door and fell onto a carpet.

The door slammed behind me. And locked.

I was a prisoner. In a room. From where the killer shots were fired on the Prime Minister.

It was a great club room. That is how people imagine the interior of the Club of British Lords. There would be room for four limousines in it. The floor has a thick carpet; leather armchairs, mahogany coffee tables, golden whiskey masterpieces in heavy crystal bottles. To the left of me there was a blasted fireplace; facing with a fresco on the opposite wall. It depicted the construction of the Tower of Babel. With Louis XIV. In three dimensions. Without Nikoletta. I knew the murderer was not here anymore. "You'll also find Nancy station familiar, because it's the Palace of Quailcombe. It's not a copy, it's the same." The painting was a little different now than I had seen on Earth. Instead of Nikoletta, there was a rugged edged cavity in her place. The murderer had been hiding there.

I put the Colt in the waistband of my trousers and stepped closer to the fresco. I would have thought the brush strokes to be interesting five hundred and nine years ago. But no longer now. It would have been possible to reveal the material of the deeper layers of paint with a suitable instrument. I was sure it was a sort of metal. An antenna was painted into the fresco. It led to the image of Nikoletta. Through that, the assassin easily listened in on the whole palace and its surroundings; then when the time came, they activated themselves. How many hundred years were they waiting?

I turned around. Behind the fireplace was a gaping hole. The offender left through it. It was the same where I had come in five hundred and nine and a half years ago. But then this was a garage. And there was an elevator in the place of the fireplace. At that time, the sky stretched above the palace. There were hills and trees around it, not a time machine equipped spacecraft parked in the former terrace gardens; which, according to Kawaguchi, was able to come only to one place. That was right. It came here. But what is afterwards? The time was great to test it. Or to wait until the door opens and someone enters and does something with me. Kawaguchi's lying in the staircase. Maybe she's dead, maybe not. Who knows where Nikoletta is. When they come to me, I will be a captive or dead. In neither case I can help them. It was time to leave.

I ran to the ruins of the fireplace. In the hole behind it, the thick cables of the elevator hung down. I jumped and snatched one of them.

Explosions shook the building. The cable trembled between my hands. My gloves prevented me from slipping down. The material clawed into the plastic cover of the cable and held me. I began to descend quickly hand over hand.

I arrived on the top of the elevator. The one who came before me opened the emergency exit on it. I commanded my glove to give light and directed it down. It was empty. I jumped down. The floor banged under my feet. Above my head the cracks of gunfire could be heard from the palace. Then a relatively nearby explosion. Not the kind I wanted to hear. Its thin, sharp, reedy voice indicated that it had come from the edge of the atmosphere. I also knew its source – as well as that my hopes for the shuttle were leaving Nancy's gravitational fields in thousands of pieces.

I stepped out of the elevator without caution. The assassin cannot be here; otherwise I would be dead. The camouflaged door in front of the elevator was open; its lock was shot up. I went through it.

I knew the way. Not eight hours since I was here. Or was it three months ago? Or six thousand one hundred and fifty months?

To the right, there is the inner gate, which closed the entrance to the cave. It cannot close anything now. It is unlikely that anyone had a cave bored here by a local Elon Musk. Though, multimillionaires are everywhere.

The wrought iron gate is at the left.

I assume it is open.

But I cannot see that.

A big body hides it.

It is standing upright.

Once upon a time – or not too long ago – I guesstimated its height to be two hundred and ten centis. Its face is visible in the light of the glove. It is the dwarf Whale from Blistonderry-am-Bourne. His body was covered by a heavy, head to toe camouflage dress; probably with a built-in hibernator. The unbuckled breathing apparatus was hanging from its hood. His left side was hugged by Tanja Fortmann. Or rather clung to him. The remnants of the adhered wall were evaporating from her naked skin. She said to me in a harried voice, 'You stay there or die.'

She spoke Hungarian, used her mouth. She did not shout and did not command. She gave me a factual statement. It was as simple as math. If I add three to two, there will be five. If I step one, I will die. I did not move. The dwarf Whale moved. Into infinity.

The dwarf Whale ditched his clothes. Now, it was not the curtain of unconsciousness in front of his eyes. He was already going to elsewhere. On the way to nothing, no one knows to where. The homesickness had defeated him.

There was nothing beyond the wrought iron gate. Only the desolate universe. The dwarf Whale stepped out of Tanja's embrace and of the gate, his biorocket glowed up bluish, then he swept into the blackness towards the stars. He could not hear Tanja's shout even if he had wanted to. Billions of remote light dots snatched his soul away.

'Lance Corporal Dang! Back!' a man shouted on every radio frequency. 'Dang! I told you back!'

Tanja stood motionless for seconds with the Whale's dress in her hand. Then she opened her fingers. The dress fell to the ground, and she threw herself after the leaver.

'Sergeant Sunnybreeze stop!'

As the shout did not stop Lance Corporal Dang, it was ineffective at Tanja too. It was not possible to expect anything else.

Have you ever seen a love story? When you look at two people and see how they are looking at each other. You see, they belong together. Their souls are one. You understand what love is.

So Tanja looked at the whale. And so the young man looked at her, by way of the last flicker of his dying candlelight consciousness, desperately grasping into the tangible, while the intangible had already dragged him away.

It was surrender in Xiong's eyes when she offered her neck for me. Surrender for an eternal journey. Together. Forever. And I shot her in the head. Four times. At the car, when I killed Sir Yates, she still gave me a chance. She could have shot my heart up easily. She did not. Disarmed me instead. Her affection for me was stronger than her. Or not. She quickly lost her infatuation for me if she wanted to execute me now. Fortunately, I knocked that idea out of her head. Pretty roughly. With my right foot.

No one starts their life as a murderer. Nor did Xiong. Her parents loved her. They waited for her arrival. They did everything for her. Tales were read to her in the evenings. Goodnight kisses were breathed on her cheeks. They were watching her as she was growing up. It will be said to them that she did not suffer at all. That is always said. There will be no word about four headshots. Neither about the footmark on her face from the herdsman's boot.

Remorse. It mauls you from inside. It tears your ribs and throws up your inside. Dark, slimy, wet wriggling eels. The interior of man. You face up to it or you die. I have already faced enough.

An unknown man started to speak in my headset; calmly, firmly, 'I'm Lord Runnyblade, Major of Her Majesty's Marines. Everyone take cover! First section make ready! Marine Longflower! Please be so kind as to play something for us!'

'Will Gravel Walk be right, sir?' a female voice asked.

'Yes, it would be wonderful. Let's finish this mess. Attack!'

Scottish bagpipes sounded. They were voicing out in the rare atmosphere, were hearing between the palace walls under normal atmospheric pressure, were whistling in my ears through the headset while weapons began to rumble, scream, crack, and roar. Missiles started and spaceboats got destroyed somewhere in the distance; without light and sound. Only short, electromagnetic vibrations remained after them, which my headset enthusiastically transmitted to me. It knew why.

'Inmate section hold position and make ready!' the Major gave the orders almost indifferently; as if he ordered the whiskey to his afternoon tea from his butler. 'Two, one... volley fire!'

A dozen weapons fired in the palace. They shot outwards. It did not surprise me. I already understood the point. "They can sync. The future with the past. And vice versa." I knew what was happening around me. Inmate section? Bullshit. Although they could believe it. Nancy Station is part of the Orpheus system. Obviously its operation is not entrusted to civilian criminals. Eight people were selected, probably from the elite brigades of the various special forces and were lured into traps one by one in order to jail them all. For example, one of them could be caught by the vicar while he was desecrating his girlfriend on the altar. He could believe it for a long time, it was his most fucked-up fuck of his life and he vowed he would never do it again, even in the cemetery, would not matter how that nymphomaniac chick would want it. But he will be comforted with an honour. But it will not comfort him that he cannot find his sweetheart anywhere. Secret service agents always evaporate after completing their tasks. I was sure that there was at least one half-blooded Apache between the inmate section who had been provoked by some of his Aryan conspecific mates...; two-three years imprisonment for aggravated battery. Now, because of his merit, he will get early release. And so the others too. All of their cover stories were built up. Perfectly. Certainly, they were blinking in astonishment when they found the weapons for them in Xiongs' space shuttle. There could have been a harmless marking somewhere and suddenly the puzzling instructions gained meaning to those who provided with them, separately one by one, by their probation officer weeks ago. And now they are using those weapons following the orders of an Apache major while a red-skinned girl, wearing a traditional kilt, is blowing the Gravel Walk in Scottish bagpipes. How was she hiding before? Which statue was she? A poet or an animal? Lance Corporal Dang the dwarf Whale was the iron obelisk in the back garden. They certainly did not know that the time-traveling voyage was being carried out for nothing just to assist in the killing of the Prime Minister. Except Sergeant Sunnybreeze, aka Tanja Fortmann. She knew the whole thing. With the help of the unsuspicious Lance Corporal Dang, she had hidden into a fresco in the underground garage that was shipped together with the palace from the Earth to Nancy a few hundred years later, by the order of a rich dick. The palace came here in pieces. Its history was known. The fresco arrived in one piece with the piece of wall painted on it. The garage eventually became a panic room. The perfect place to commit an assassination. No one thinks that the assassin has been embedding in the fresco for five hundred and nine years, waiting for the time to act. Because that is theoretically impossible. The future, the past cannot be changed. In theory. In practice it has a weak close to zero chance. But what has been said to be impossible, that has always happened. And Wyn Yard suspected something. That is why he scribbled the birthday of a Prime Minister who I knew onto the tile of the toilet. He tried to warn me. He did not know what kind of plans he was involved in, just that it would hurt a leader of a country. How did they make the past real into the present? "BREIT-1." I took Breitman's car out of the palace. Then he could be there; playing with gravity somewhere in the depths of a cave lab. That is why there were no police in the city that night. They were scattered around the experiment to secure the neighbourhood, although I was in the town. And that is why there were Russians and Chinese there. Officially, the cream of the underworld. The Mafia. Which is practically a state monopoly in both countries.

'Protect yourself, sir!' shouted one of the automatons in the headset.

Time is relative. Not only in physics. How many seconds did it elapse since Tanja Fortmann went after the dwarf Whale? Maybe seven.

The attackers of the palace are starting to flee now. And some of them are coming towards me. Protect myself? With what? With an empty Colt? The exasperation, the helpless anger, the remorse became one in me and I passed them the lead. I went to kill. Because it is good to kill. Because while you kill, you are not that who is killed.

My head became cold ice. My senses widened. My brain became superconducting and the thoughts speeded in its ridges. I understood everything. I knew what was going to happen. And how. I felt the invincibility. My hearing sharpened, my glance measuring the surroundings was racing light. And I won. I knew it. Already ahead. The feeling was familiar. I had already experienced it once. I felt better than then; in '42. I dashed out the cave entrance.

A five-metre wide rock ledge was behind the wrought iron gate. Ten metres away after a left turn, a comfortable walkway led down. In front of the background of the stars, the tethered wreckage of the shuttle floated. The chap stamped beside me; he had jumped from above. He was surprised. I not. I knew he would be there.

I used the same technique as against Xiong when I had leaned her onto the bonnet of the car. But I did not stop now – his ass was not so good. I twisted his arm to force him to turn his back to me, kicked into the hollow of his knee, and broke his upper arm. Physics is physics. Unlike Xiong, biology played a part between us only so much that he lost his wits from the pain. But then his weapon was already in my hand. An assault rifle. But I did not shoot at him with it. Not yet. First I shot in the chest of his mate, coming in a hurry on the walkway from the left.

It was simple. You just must know the operation of the weapon and the way people think. Neither is too complicated. Every handgun has worked the same way since the crossbow. Man presses the trigger and the projectile flies out. Arrow, bullet... does not matter. Nor how the trigger has to be squeezed. With your fingertip. With its first third outwards from the middle knuckle. On a more modern weapon not a trigger has to be pressed but a "button"; and can be handled by thought as well. Not a great stunt. Provided you have the appropriate auxiliary circuits. If you do not, it is still not a problem. The trigger – button – is always there. Because what if the warrior's auxiliary systems are damaged? Then the warrior's over? No. The trigger will be always at the finger of man to be able to fire brainlessly too. Biometric identification is used on a weapon until they do not want others to use it. On the battlefield, weapons are never registered only to a person so that teammates can use it in case of emergency. And if the man plans to carry out an illegal activity... Who is the idiot who goes to perform a coup d'éta with their biometrics engraved into their weapon? However, if the weapon is not protected against unauthorized use, then the teammate may become a victim of a friendly-weapon fire. Maybe, the owner of the weapon too. Now both happened.

He who rushed upwards on the walkway reacted late and fired from too close. From about six to seven metres. A projectile barrelling at thirty thousand kilometres per hour cannot correct its fly within such a distance. I leaned away from the barrel of the weapon aiming at me – while I was breaking his mate's arm – which caused the projectiles whizzing next to me to annihilate themselves. They were smart. If once they missed the target, then should not fly blindly into the universe. The next burst was fired by me. And I hit. Although I was just a homo sapiens sapiens, slower and clumsier than everyone around me, but I was not stressful. Well, I was. But in another way. There was no fear in me anymore. Fear is in those who want to stay alive. They wanted. I had no reason to. I was already dead. A very long time ago.

It was not the Gestapo that killed me. It happened far earlier. It was a long process. In which Rozhkow was just the last drop in the glass. That's idiot beast! He put a little teddy bear beside the kid into the grave. Fuck ya! Was not it enough that I did not know who were lying next to him?! His mom or somebody else? And then that beast found a teddy bear somewhere and put it next to him. As if he laid him down to sleep. It was a pity that his head was bloody. I died then. I shovelled very fast. Someone wanted to bring a bulldozer to do it faster, but I hit him down with the shovel. I did not want to see how a caterpillar would roll over the grave, where the little body lay. How old was he? I do not want to know! Then I did not see, did not hear anything. I just shovelled and shovelled. Because the dead must be buried. It is a pity their memories remain.

I already knew what to expect. But these assholes, idiot pricks, in front of the barrel of the rifle, miscounted themselves. How were they induced? They have not seen people die yet! They have not even stabbed knifes into anyone's heart; face-to-face, bottom-up, through the stomach; because the heart is not protected by the ribs there. Even, they never shot at a human. All of them are half-witted amateurs. Half-witted? Self-justifying slaughters. They came to murder because they wanted to murder. They thought it was an easy thing. It can be done, on command, with impunity. What kind of a fucked ideology did they suck which made it easier to step onto the road to murder for them? Fifty-four professional, battle-hardened veterans cannot be hidden either from the secret services or from the law enforcement organizations. That is too big a number. If just five come together, the competent organizations already know it. Fifty-four veterans can be deployed unnoticed only in a military coup d'éta. But those would not die in such an amateur way. But these... Civilians who are playing revolutionary. They thought, fifty-four would come against eight prisoners. Against eight unarmed criminals. They thought they had already won the match. They missed the mark. Outfuckingetly. They were sold down the river. So now they were fleeing. Or they did not know what they wanted. I do. To kill. If they had not wanted to come into the cave, they get off. But they made a wrong decision.

The assault rifle was set to a short burst as was the Chinese's weapon at the factory. This also was a good stuff. I hardly felt its recoil in my shoulder. I shot just once and the armoured chest of the guy aiming at me was lacerated by two dozen projectiles.

The same happened with his broken-armed fellow. I was able to press the trigger, but unable to change the fire option on the weapon. He also got a short burst in his chest. Which meant twenty-four projectiles; too fast to thirty centimetres. And too strong. They penetrated through the body armour easily. At front as well as at back. Between the two, they shredded the victim and imploded into the ground. The splashing stones slammed into my face.

I ran towards the walkway, and before the turn, at the corner, flattened against the rock wall.

Another figure was running upwards on the walkway. I did not aim at him. One of his mates followed him riding on a mustang, while an automaton was rushing towards them, also on a mustang.

I knew what was going to happen.

I shot beside the running man, taking down another fellow behind him, while the one on the mustang was drifting to give a chance for the other to jump behind him into the saddle, but the automaton's mustang rammed into his vehicle, immediately after that it kicked itself from it.

The man from the mustang fell onto the runner. The impetus rolled both farther. Straight in front of my legs.

I had no idea how much ammunition was in the rifle. But both got enough. Plenty. I did not see anything because of the exploding rocks. If I had had a hat on me, it might have protected me. But I had not. I did not get it. Never. My face and clenched eyelids were cut by sharp pieces of stones. But it was fine. Not my blood and pieces of my tissue stuck to them. I enjoyed it. And I knew I was going to enjoy it better soon.

It was easier to do clean work with that rifle. It was not necessary to dawdle with it like with a knife; stubbing it into man three to four times and swivel it well to make the outlet wide open, to allow blood to gush freely out of the blood vessels, or to slit their belly to spill out their bowels to get them finally to finish the wiggling. With it, it was possible to quicker end the suffering of the human beings burdened with ideologies – which ideologies are used to justify murders. This weapon was a straight-line descendant of the stone axe. Ideal for the man who goes into a fight because he does not want to die. And a meat chopper who is going to cut down everyone in the surrounding. I did not try to avoid looking into their eyes. No longer interested. It was a pleasure to work with this weapon.

I released the rifle out of the pocket of my shoulder to rush down the walkway to find new targets.

'Don't pull a card onto twenty-one, guv!'

The automaton accosted me, which collided with its mustang to the other. It jumped in front of me.

Something thudded behind my back. Another automaton. It did not surprise me. I already knew it would be there when I dashed out of the cave. My headset was a good gadget. It perfectly made me sense the sound directions and distances.

Looking back over my shoulder, I looked at the tin face, into the inanimate eyes.

'Lifebuoy died,' I told it. 'I'm just saying.'

I did not know why I said that. Maybe to increase the drama. I did not even say the words, I knew it was stupidity. Because what was its point? It was just an automaton, it did not understand it. But if yes... Then... How the sight of a pussy can take the man's mind off! It drives him mad not be able to think logically. But by then it did not matter anymore. Actually, it did not matter from the beginning. I did not have any role here. I was just a decor on the stage. A biology painting. Some background colouring to the fairy tale with which the folks were fed. Therapeutic automatons? Horse dick! Warder the all! And that tin jug behind me sedated me down.

By the time I felt its touch, it was too late. My muscles went helplessly slack and the world faded in front of my eyes. I saw the ground approaching my face, I felt, somewhere from the distance, the one behind me grabbed my clothes, I saw as the one in front of me took the rifle out of my hand and shot. Not me. What a goddamn happiness! What darkness...
π×1,000001150427338

'How is Commander Kawaguchi?' Vice-Admiral Dhupia asked.

We were sitting in the Admiralty in her office. Face-to-face at both sides of her desk. It was a typical office environment; suits a boss. Browning was everywhere. Brown chair, brown table, brown floor, dark carpet, banker lamp. Like a law firm. I never understood why the lawyers are so fond of it. There was only one thing on the tabletop, next to the right hand of the Vice-Admiral, my watch. I got it from my mother at the age of fourteen when I went to high school. How many years ago? Now it was Wednesday evening. I knew this from the nurse who woke me up from narcosis late in the afternoon. Not that it would have mattered what time of day it was here in the Kuiper belt. It was always night here. I was kept sedated for near seventy-two hours. When I was woken up, I was left alone for a while to pull myself together. I was just lying and staring at the ceiling. I was afraid if I got up, I would bust something. After a while, the nurse came back and ordered me to attend the Vice-Admiral for questioning. Then she added, because I still had enough time, I could visit Commander Kawaguchi if I thought; maybe she already regained consciousness. I told her thanks, but I would have rather liked to fuck. The sedative knocked me out only physically; mentally it had let me untouched. Which was a problem. I woke up as I had been stunned. Angry and frustrated.

Everyone shits themselves before fighting. You cannot prepare for that. The trainings give you only a foretaste of it. The drills help you only to perform the thousand times practiced movements from instinct when the dread comes. That is the only chance to survive; with weapon management automatism integrated into the visceral level. Then when man gets under fire from fourteen places, they can either handle their fear or they are over. It is another question, if they can manage the fear, whether they remain human after that? On the first occasions, there are those who go mad, and start ahead without mind. They do not get far. They are the firsts who are shot down. There are some who go ape as they see their mates die. They start to go ahead cool-headed and kill, so their mates do not get killed. For others, this is no problem. They do it with pleasure. Because they love to kill. That is their hobby. They fulfil themselves in that. I hated everyone on Nancy. I wanted them to die. Without exception. Fast. Them all. The feeling of invincibility gripped me. I knew I was in control of the playing field and I had no opponent. It was euphoric. Man knows he will win, and nothing matters, because no one can stop him. But sometimes he is wrong. But he never knows it. I was the exception. That is why I was lying disappointedly. The man is permeated by the taste of victory, it does not even turn in his head that it could happen differently when the jolt comes. Which brings frustration, and the frustration brings anger. And somehow he must get rid of it. Either he begins a rampage or chooses another way. The above outlined activity seemed to be a good alternative to this.

'If you were kinder, there surely would be a girl who'd give you her contact details.'

The nurse was well trained in psychology. She measured my mental state exactly.

'Anyone whose contact details I wanted to get was beaten to death, or lost, or exploded.'

'I suggest you take part in an anger management therapy.'

'Does it also contain fucking as with that mental hygiene thing?'

No. It does not. But I did not know this from the nurse. She just repeated the command when I had to appear at the Vice-Admiral, then left without saying anything. Her behaviour did not particularly disturb me, though she had a good ass. Obviously, I skipped Kawaguchi. She was alive and it was enough about her for the time being.

'I'm afraid I have no information about the status of the Commander-san,' I said to the Vice-Admiral.

'Well... My experience has been so far, team members hold together better.'

'Since when do you trust robots?'

'What makes you think we trust robots?'

'I had such a feeling.'

'Within the frame of common sense, there are people for whom we vote trust. This frame is rather narrow here in this directorate. The late Wyn Yard asked me to give it to you if he was prevented.'

She slid the watch towards me with her palm. I took it in my hand. It worked. How many years for? I left it in the drawer of my nightstand when Father Molodkin sent me in '86.

'How did you get it?'

'It was with Wyn Yard.'

'What was his real name?'

'If he didn't consider it important to share with you, it might be right if you didn't ask it anymore.'

I did not ask it anymore. The frame of trust was really narrow. I fastened the watch on my wrist. The hands pointed to 7:53.

'How do you evaluate what happened, Vanhanen-san?'

Apart from a small thing, I specifically did not give a shit what had happened. But not my opinion was asked, but to evaluate. And if someone makes a gesture, for someone, who has the power to make a decision about their life, then it is good if that one comes up with something evaluable. The watch was a gesture. I just had to decide if I wanted to give the right to someone else to make a decision about my life.

'If the purpose of the action was to save Nancy station staff and eliminate the Oberian agent, it was definitely a success.'

'Who was the Oberian agent?'

'I assume the Prime Minister.'

'No. It was not the Prime Minister and I must ask you not to say this assumption in your own interest. The investigation's still ongoing, but the Prime Minister's beyond suspicion. He's a hero. Already during the Neptunian occupation, he stood for the independence of Baltroyal, for which the collaborator Briton authority harassed him several times. Unfortunately, I have to say that the action, as a whole, was a failure. We lost the most charismatic leader of Baltroyal's recent history. Obviously due to my fault as well, for which, of course, I handed in my notice half an hour ago. Tomorrow at nine o'clock, the Ministry of Defence is accepting my resignation and retiring me with the consent of the Deputy Prime Minister. I didn't want to finish my career this way, and to tell the truth, I was planning to retire a few years later.'

There are positions from which people will only retire with their death. A professional top leader of intelligence is typically such. So she retires from here, then continues in the background from tomorrow. But until that, she still controls things directly.

'I'm sorry to hear that, Vice-Admiral-sama. However, until nine o'clock in the morning, you still have time to return Miss Nikoletta Schneider to her own age.'

'Miss Nikoletta Schneider is in her own age, Vanhanen-san. The events were unfavourable not only to the Prime Minister. What I'm telling you now is strictly confidential and I'm acting in your interests only. You can talk to no one about this, nor the action, nowhere, never. The Intelligence and Security Committee of Parliament was so kind as to dispense with your personal interview. Reliable information about your role and actions in the operation would only be obtained by physical examination of your memories. Because you're a 20th century human being, we could only do that with the help of a brain scanner. We give up on this, taking into account both your previous and current severe brain injuries in the operation which is why the reliability of the data is questionable. Being aware of your previous emotional attachment to Miss Schneider, after consulting with our expert, I decided to disclose her real identity to you in order to stabilise your mood and prevent you from taking reckless actions based on incomplete information.'

The Vice-Admiral took a brief, meaningful pause. I was looking forward to the continuation. First and foremost because I have not met a truth-telling intelligence leader yet. They are rarer than trustworthy CEOs; though the number of the latter is closer to zero than one.

'You were involved in a complex, multipurpose operation. Each element's top secret in itself, sharing them with third parties counts as treason. Yes, you're a Briton citizen. If it had avoided your attention during your study of the Navy archives, I'll tell you that the Royal Navy is not the Foreign Legion. Navy members can only be Briton citizens. Before we engaged you, we'd given you the citizenship. As a result, your treason would have serious consequences. In your case, the most serious. I stress, the most serious. I'm aware that it wasn't you who chose us. You fell into a war which you have nothing to do with. However, you can't get out of it. You have to decide which side you want to stand on. If you don't, all three of the participants in this conflict want to finish you off. If you choose, then one fewer. I decided on your choice. Knowing your record and world view, I think I decided well, which correctness you won't doubt over time. Now, I have only one requirement from you. Please don't pass the followings to anyone because it has a price!'

I was never threatened so politely before. In the Shawl War it was arranged shorter: "Shut up or we'll cut your neck!"

'I could start the explanation with any element of the operation, but let's get to the one you're the most interested in currently. Miss Nikoletta Schneider's original name is Tarissa Yates. Her mother is Maya Yates, born Maya Volkova. Both members of the Yates couple were directly under the command of our directorate. Mrs. Yates's political activity, as a parliamentary representative of Neptunian emigrants, hasn't been tolerated by many either abroad or domestically. Especially not in Mrs. Yates' native country, in Neptunooga. After two unsuccessful assassination attempts against Tarissa Yates, we decided to hide her from the outside world for a while. Previously, we had some successful attempts at long-distance time travel, but this one went wrong which caused Lady Sturgeon's death. The public thinks it was a laboratory accident. Tarissa successfully reached the destination but got injured. Her guise personality took control over her. It's not so fatal. Her treatment's ongoing. Still up to a week, and she's getting better. The Yates couple, however, suffered more serious injuries. That which caused Lady Sturgeon's instant death was a slower process in their case; took four years. In the same operation, we captured Lifebuoy and Wyn Yard; actually due to the accident. Though we brought both here, they were worthless. Lifebuoy died in the accident, only a spectre remained off him. Wyn Yard..., well, his knowledge of time traveling is deficient, to say the least. He wasn't even a pilot, he was only hiding Lifebuoy where the ghost was an undesirable person. That is to say, except for the short period before the Robot Wars, everywhere.'

'Let's pause for a moment,' I interrupted her. 'If I understand well, Vice-Admiral-sama, you're telling me a Greek drama. There's a family: wife, husband, daughter, and a suitor, which is, me. The husband kills the wife, the suitor kills the father, then at the end of everything, which is actually the beginning, the daughter has the suitor executed. I understand well?'

'There's nothing new under the sun, Vanhanen-san. And he who said that first, is dead three thousand five hundred and forty-some years ago.'

I listened and watched.

'I meant King Solomon,' the Vice-Admiral added. Needlessly. I knew that chapter of the Ecclesiastes. It was the first, and its ninth and tenth verses.

'I'm thinking of Mrs. Yates. She was whitewashed whiter than a Japanese geisha.'

She had to think about the Japanese geisha, but her augmented intelligence hurried to help her.

'It symbolised the bridal veil. The official wedding of the Yates couple was half hour before Mrs. Yates officially died.'

The Vice-Admiral looked straight into my eyes. Punker Georgy said that if a woman lies, she looks straight into your eyes, almost hypnotises. The Vice-Admiral did not hypnotise me. There was some truth in what she said: the bridal veil and the wedding. A lie always has true content. The bigger lie has more. Otherwise, it would be just a tale that no one would believe it. The Vice-Admiral was good at it. Not that which she said was the lie, but that which she tried to convince me of. But fashion-purpose plastic surgery was no longer fashionable at this age. Though women used makeup as they had used in the antiquity, but makeup is just makeup; it comes off over time. Mrs. Yates was busty. A D cup bra would have been tight on her; unlike Nikoletta's peach-sized breasts. And genetics is genetics at all times. The daughter of a double D breast-sized woman does not wear an A cup bra. We hung around with Nikoletta for two years almost every day and night. I did not realize she would wear makeup; though during that time, she got injured. Nonetheless, somehow no extra body part spilled out of her body; unlike Sunnybreeze, alias Tanja Fortmann.

'Listen, Vanhanen-san,' the Vice-Admiral's eyes closed, her head bowed as if she was careworn. She looked back at me after a long sigh. 'I know you're scandalized by what you saw on the record and what you need to re-evaluate now, knowing that information, but without Mrs. Yates's self-sacrifice, you wouldn't be sitting here.'

The Vice-Admiral had the ability not only to lie, but to divert the attention from the essence. I started to be even more angry. How long does she want me to believe evident lies? It would have been easier if she had told me what to think from now on; and that is all.

'Mrs. Yates left us in the minutes after the wedding; forever. The happenings on the record followed a precise choreography, with Mrs. Yates's prior and full consent. I'd be able to lie, claiming it was just a series of photo tricks, and maybe you'd even believe it, because it would be more convenient to believe it than that horror, but that play-acting wasn't for you, but for people who couldn't be scammed by a computer animation. It was chancy, but we managed. Our technician did a good job with his nanobots. We had to con six very clever double agents, and another dozen who had their handlers believe that Sir Yates had gone crazy and went to get hold of the Codex Roxolan.'

And it also was not a disadvantage that the two kilos of makeup hid from me that Mrs. Yates was an Apache; which the Vice-Admiral chastely did not mention.

'But now let's go back four years in time. During the unfortunate Lady Sturgeon led action, we came to realize that someone is manipulating time around us, and that someone is we; in the near future. Future events have an impact here in the past, which, in turn, has a forwards effect and turns Baltroyal's history in an unfavourable direction. We had to do something. But what? Our situation could be described as the glass broke on the floor earlier than it was dropped. Time travel is a new thing for us. We're just experimenting with it, just like our enemies. That's why we were delighted for a short time that Wyn Yard got into our hands. But it soon became clear that, to put it mildly, he had no concept of the whole. As neither do you. You're a simple skilled worker like a smith; who may be a master of his profession, but he has no idea what happens in the material between his hand at the quantum level when it's heated, chilled, hammered. It also didn't help us that you used a totally different technology to time travel than we. Our scientists blindly groped in the dark and are groping today too. What was claimed to be impossible five years ago, now it was used during your mission. Apart from two or three geniuses, nobody suspects why things work the way they work. But even those are just speculating. But time is a factor of which we have few. We had to step before someone else stepped instead of us; while we had to avoid all the mistakes we had already done in the not so distant future. That's when you came in, two years ago. We were doing the last test on one of our experimental machines when you appeared. No one knows how. Let's ascribe to quantum; what can happen, happens. In any case, the reflection off the interface of time, don't take it too seriously. According to our futurist, we must have implanted that idea into you. To tell the truth, I didn't understand anything at that time or now, and if you accept good advice, then you avoid futurists in wider curves than economic analysts. After your appearance, we discovered the Pub Tales. We never knew about its existence before, but it seemed it was an original, five-hundred-year-old document, although the metadata suggested that it was created by us, about a year later, in the future. Then we started organizing the operation into which you were involved. The main goal was to transform the Nancy incident organized by Oberon in a favourable way for us, including the rescue of the station staff, identification and capture of the spy, elimination of the internal armed terrorists, and neutralisation of the other Oberian agents embedded in our organization. All of this in a very delicate situation both foreign policy and domestically. One third of our citizens are Oberian sympathizers who look at its military junta as their protector against the renewed Neptunian threat. Before the upcoming war, it was a matter of necessity to prove to them that Oberon would only be exploiting them to achieve world domination. Oberon or Neptunooga both are strong enough to defeat us. If that wasn't enough, the foreign ministers of the two countries signed the Sokolov-Rosenrot Pact last month, which is officially the Treaty of Non-aggression between Oberon and Neptunooga. However, we also got the secret clause attached to the contract, in which the parties agreed to divide Baltroyal into their own sphere of influence. We had to organize an action that would clearly signal to both of them that Baltroyal is able to defend itself, even against their united forces. We wanted them to know, we are able to manipulate time so that its effect can be immediately felt at any point in the space-time continuum. Unfortunately, within our directorate, the number of our trusted people is rather small, two of them were dying, and their only child got stuck in the 21st century. Five were involved in developing the plan. I, Commander Kawaguchi, a futurist and the Yates couple. Our resources for time travel are very scarce. A plan had to be created that allowed us to bring home Tarissa Yates as well, or as you know her, Nikoletta Schneider. In the first step, for the sake of success, we decided to eliminate six of the most valuable spies of Oberon in the 21st century. We started to implement the plan a year ago. We sent Wyn Yard beforehand with two elite Marines into the 21st century to set the stage and build up a modified version of the Pub Tales to make credible Sir Yates's exceptional interest in the Codex Roxolan.'

'Why was that stupidity necessary with the Codex Roxolan?'

'The Oberian leadership's obsessed with mysticism. They make immense efforts to collect all sorts of ancient artefacts related to occult practices. The Codex Roxolan is quite unknown, but its content is significant enough to raise their interest. We had reason to assume that if we distributed some hints about the Codex, they'd set their moles here, so we'd be able to spot them easier. Our speculation was right. That way we managed to identify four of their most dangerous agents amongst us. From a strategic point of view, we placed their two other quite significant men into the group who we sent with you to bring back Sir Yates.'

'Who was dying then.'

'In the best case he had days left.'

'The two less harmful spies were Xiong and Hye-jin.'

'Midshipman Xiong was the most dangerous amongst them, followed by Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa. Lieutenant Min-a and Sub-Lieutenant Hye-jin were at the bottom of the imaginary ranking, which doesn't mean they'd have been insignificant. The Neptunians would be delighted if they had agents with such abilities as Min-a and Hye-jin.'

'Nevertheless, you sent one man against those six.'

'Besides Commander Kawaguchi, there were ten. But let's move one after another. The cover story of the mission was ready, only its most important element didn't know anything of it: you.'

'Why did you get me involved?'

'Because you were able to do the job and had no choice. We couldn't keep you in prison without judgment but there were those who were concerned about national security in case of your release. Perhaps the worried ones might have been convinced, but if we'd just simply let you go, Oberon or Neptunooga would have immediately hunted you down. Your admission to the witness protection program was refused on budget grounds. It already took a significant effort for me to get you into the community work program for the mission. Would it have been better to rot away in jail, Vanhanen-san? What do you think how long I'd have been able to arrange to keep in secret that you were romancing with Commander Kawaguchi in the Archives? Don't deny it! It was a trap. Everyone knows that a woman and a man locked up in a room means sex sooner or later. Congratulations! You both walked into it. I disagreed with starting your assimilation into our age in the Archives because I thought it was meaningless and because I knew what was in the background: removing the Commander from the Navy. You were used because a woman would have been too clear to serve that purpose, in the knowledge of the Commander's identity. And if she fails with you then we can get rid of you too. Finally, I approved it because I was convinced that Commander Kawaguchi's interest was solely limited to the female gender. Compared to that, you couldn't stand for three months!'

'What's wrong with Kawaguchi?'

'That she inherited. The Commander's the widow of Lady Sturgeon. Their marriage didn't get much publicity, few knew about it, but it was legal. As such, the Commander-san official name's Naoko, Countess of Nemuro. A few years ago she was mentioned in the tabloids as Lady Kawaguchi. As Lady Sturgeon died childless, her siblings are trying to get the inheritance. They can achieve it by only one way, if they prove that the Commander's a robot because the Briton law doesn't allow inheritance for artificial intelligences by marriage. There are, however, two exceptions. One is if the spouse bequeaths all their property to the state, and in return the widow will be taken care of by the state. The other way if the robot remarries with a man within seven years, which can only be achieved if the spouse is aware of the race of the prospective spouse, which must be certified by a declaration made before a notary public or a priest. In Baltroyal, like the rest of the world, the majority's not fond of artificial intelligence. Lady Sturgeon had a will. Only the notary, Lady Sturgeon and I knew about the origin of the Commander. The notary died, the original will was lost, the backup is encrypted by the notary and no one has access to his personal decryption key. The relatives have so far been unable to force the Commander to prove her human origin. But they're trying. That's why they had you relocated to the Archives. If you're nabbed... You don't matter, and marriage is not allowed in prison for years. By the time Kawaguchi's released, seven years have elapsed, the heritage is theirs.'

'Did you get me involved to marry the Commander?'

'So far, I've spoken in the conviction that you pay more attention to my words, Vanhanen-san. I was also surprised by the thing, and I was quite sceptical about the news from your mental hygiene therapist until she passed me the data about your hormone level changing together with the mental state of Commander Kawaguchi. Well, what should I say... It's a miracle that you weren't blasted by the endorphin. Imagine yourself in my place! We'd launched the cover story of the operation, we were preparing to perform a quite desperate mission with which we might get a faint chance to avoid war against Oberon and Neptunooga, when it suddenly turned out that the last rites could be administered to the key man of the cover tail and the leader of the operation could be imprisoned because they were unable to resist their physical desires. The therapist arrived with the accusation in her hand, charging sexual violence against a defenceless person. I had to take risks and reveal some information about our plan to her. I told her that Commander Kawaguchi was acting on my personal order, and that the real goal was to get you romancing with Midshipman Xiong because some doubts emerged in connection to her reliability and I wanted to discard her discreetly for a while.'

'Did she believe it?'

'Your question surprises me. It would have been strange if she hadn't believed it. I know that your more serious relationships with women have been mostly limited to the opportunities offered by professional service providers, but I thought you had a better knowledge of how the female soul works. Vanhanen-san... There are two kinds of men who don't have a regular sexual life: those who refrain from it voluntarily and those who have a problem of some sort. For a woman, a girlfriend on a man's side is a value-adding factor. Even the therapist began to give advice on what the Commander should do to reach the aim faster.'

'How did you explain the hormone and mental state to her?'

'We needed measurable data as evidence, to which we could provide access for Midshipman Xiong, so to speak, by chance. In the case of the Commander, I said hormone therapy. Yours didn't have to be explained.'

'But what if I'd sewn down the Midshipman? Do I get the last rites?'

'You'd have been given the opportunity to volunteer for the mission, in case of success, you'd have been granted an amnesty. We'd have tried to set Midshipman Xiong back to our side, so things would have ended in a more favourable way for her. That didn't happen, for which I'm sorry. However, despite my reserve, the involvement of the therapist was a lucky event. She made some suggestions with which we managed to effectively increase the success of the operation. The fact that Midshipman Xiong didn't finish you off, despite several opportunities, can be credited to her.'

'And also Louis XIV can be credited to her.'

'A man who protects a secret with might and main..., that's a criminal or a woman in it. By doing so, we increased the value of the Pub Tales as an authentic source of the Codex Roxolan.'

'Whereby you embroiled Nikoletta Schneider into the row.'

'We had to bring Tarissa Yates back. The inconvenience was caused by Wyn Yard who wasn't telling properly the stories in the pubs and not the way he should have done. In addition to many others, your alleged whiskey mania can be credited to him. Though finally, it enhanced your credibility. But it's insignificant in comparison to that during the final test, I have no idea how, but he scammed his companions and didn't follow orders but accomplished his own actions.'

'Beitiris. That's right?'

'I have no idea why and he can't tell us. But he wasn't the only one who made changes in the plan. Commander Kawaguchi, at the last minute, hacked the utility program that the therapist uploaded into you.'

'On the asteroid.'

'I don't know why she thought that someone's memory fragments would help you in any way. It just fragmented everything and we didn't have time to change it.'

" _Little Japan messaged to use your head!"_ Little Japan, more precisely: the little bit Japanese; because of the Masatodi company where she was made.

'It saved my life several times.'

'Be glad that you didn't become schizophrenic. It took fifty-six hours for our memory specialist to extract from you what hadn't yet became your own. But which had become yours... I guess you're aware that the memories carry meta-information too. Feelings, impressions, thoughts... We should have another specialist who teaches you to recognize and handle those things to keep you together and not to break apart. But there's no such man. There are no reliables. The six persons who we put out of commission were just a single stone that we dropped into the water to stir up the marsh and see what would come to the surface! We've just won time, it's not over yet! Do you get a grip on the situation? While you're romancing with each other, one of our opponents has an army of two million, the other one has three and a half million, and ours is two hundred and thirty thousand, along with you. On one side there's a military junta, on the other side everyone is a member of the only party. Here, in this country, one third of the population is flirting with the military junta, ten percent is philosophising about how to unify the world – on the Neptunians' tea parties –, and another thirty percent would join those who promise more. We hardly get out of it unscathed. Our luck is that our enemies run multiple parallel services for the same purpose which are competing with each other as well. Often they work not only against us, but against themselves too.'

'It's also a fortune that you no longer have problem with the biggest internal threat.'

'Those fifty-four neutralised terrorists were not all our Oberon sympathiser citizens.'

Maybe if I had not asked the question, things would have been different. Maybe. I am not sure. The problem was that she gave an angrier tone to the last sentences of her monologue – not very much, but if the steam in the boiling pot is already raising the lid and it is not taken off but the gas flame is raised, then the lid jumps up and the content of the pot runs out. The gas flame was the Vice-Admiral's speech. The pot was me. And not soup was boiling in my insides.

'Vice-Admiral-sama! Do I think it well that the late Prime Minister was a soldier? During the Neptunian occupation?'

'What are you driving at?'

'I don't think I ask something what I wouldn't be able to get out of the public, civil archives, say, Encyclobritonnica. But it would take me hours to find out the answer while I could get it from you in a second. What keeps you back from that? I asked a simple question. The answer is simple. Yes or no.'

'I'm afraid, you're going to make wrong conclusions, Vanhanen-san.'

'I take your answer as a yes. As well as that during his military service, an attempt was made to recruit the late Prime Minister by the collaborative military counter-intelligence. But he said no to them.'

'Few can say that about themselves in those times.'

'We both know that empires don't fall from one moment to the next. A good leader sees it and prepares to manage the crisis in advance to get back what will be lost. I'd do this by putting my men in the top circles of my opponents. Not my well-known men, because everybody knows that they're working for me and not the collaborators because they will fail. I'd recruit my man into the ranks of the emerging opposition. His job would be to get into the hierarchy as high as possible. You can't obtain important information from bill stickers. Strategic decisions are made at management meetings. I'd boost my man's career with a little assistance. I'd order one of my moles in the collaborative secret services to order the collaborators to rope some new informers into their organisation. I'd define the parameters so that only some people would meet them, but mine certainly would be amongst them. I'd get the collaborative military counter-intelligence to perform the recruitment. The conscripted soldiers are in contact with their officers on a daily basis, there's nothing striking if they're called to report from time to time, but those reports are written; which, by time, can become public. And that's the point for me; to create an ordinary hero who dares to confront the oppressor. I wouldn't tell even my man what's the purpose of the game. At this level, he's just a private. I'd only ask him not to be too violent. Things are changing, let's handle people with gloves now. My mole talks to his collaborator in the collaborative counter-intelligence, who arranges interviews with the potential candidates. They'll then try to recruit my candidate who I had already recruited, and I would tell him to say no. The collaborators will give the feedback that some of the candidates don't undertake the job; what should they do with them? My mole will ask me the same question, to whom I'd say to let go of them and let them be glad of what heroes they are. Time goes by, my man will slowly become a hero of the resistance, and after his country becomes independent, he'll be one of the best party leaders and, in time, the country's most popular leader; which surprises even me. I'd help his work from the background; seemingly against myself. I'd even order him to fraternise with my enemies a bit, it's not a problem if even the public thinks he's the friend of my enemy. Then, when the time comes, I'd activate him and command him to lead his country back into my hugging arms; like a good shepherd of the lost lamb. His role would probably never be revealed, but if it did, then it would be too late and even then, he could make pretence as a national defender who chooses the least possible evil at the time of the emergency. The fall is caused by time travel, for which a futurist once in the life can come to the right conclusions, and his employer has the ability to intervene in history.'

'You have a vivid imagination, Vanhanen-san. You'd be a good futurist. Please take into account that if you'd given me the opportunity, I'd have told you that the Prime Minister was killed by Sergeant Sunnybreeze who in the meantime turned out to be an Oberian agent. A fact that is denied by Oberon on every forum, but international observers, based on information from other sources, are of the opinion that the sergeant was an Oberian spy who had acted on an Oberian command. Probably Oberon wanted to do Neptunooga a favour in this way.'

'What no one really understands without knowing the secret clause of the Sokolov-Rosenrot pact.'

'Apart from the contracting parties, the clause is known by seven and we don't desire to increase that number.'

'What I can only agree with, and thank you very much for your esteemed trust, Vice-Admiral-sama. How lucky you are that the Prime Minister's executioner was an Oberian assassin. If it had been a Neptunian, the Oberian sympathisers would have already overthrown the current Briton power. The Neptunians, referring to the protection of the Neptunian nationality, would have begun to invade the country, what Oberon couldn't have been ignored in order to protect the Oberian sympathisers. But as the Prime Minister became the victim of an Oberian assassination, the Oberon sympathy subsided. You can't admit that the Prime Minister was a Neptunian agent, because then the thirty percent Oberian fans would become unpleasantly loud and the government would be forced to allow a pre-emptive strike against Neptunooga with the active support of Oberon. But my enemy's enemy is never my friend, instead my murderer. So it's most convenient for you if the Prime Minister's real owner remains a secret forever. Poor Sergeant Sunnybreeze is in big trouble now. Oberon would like to rotate their fist-grease lubricated hands in her ass for what she did, and the Neptunians would like to do the same but – I suspect – without fist-grease because neither they ordered that, and she destroyed an at least twenty-seven-year-old plan. Sergeant Sunnybreeze's tragedy, she knows nothing about it and is currently hiding at a place which is known by no one. Then after a while, she'll proudly return to her newly chosen country, in Neptunooga, where the dry horse cock will be the gentlest thing she'll meet anally. How much time do you have to find her, Dhupia-sama? How long does an agent have to hid themselves after performing such a calibre task? Surely more than a month or two. Three? I assume six is many. What does the executive agents' handbook say about this?'

'If you spoke in a civilised way, I'd promise that I'd support you in every way becoming an economic analyst.'

'I'm curious what you'll suggest after I tell the other details too.'

'I must ask you to keep it for yourself.'

'Well no!' I jumped up angrily.

'But yes!' the Vice-Admiral also jumped up, but with a gun in her hand. 'Otherwise, I guarantee you'll be carried out of here feet first.'

I looked in the barrel of the gun. How many times in the last few days? Or years?

'Listen, Vanhanen-san!' the Vice-Admiral continued calmly. 'Your personality has changed and not for your benefit. This is largely due to the effect of the foreign memories. You have to learn to handle it! Please overcome yourself and pull out the personality that we liked!'

Did they like me? The bitch could manipulate. I sat down slowly and leaned back. She did the same. The gun disappeared from her hand. But I could have spoken more. I was not such an ace by myself. I was not a Jack Reacher. Just the memories... Which have become my part, that have become reality in me. Like in a dream, when a man knows what is happening around him, it is just a dream. A dream that he can believe is reality. Until he wakes up. But I could not wake up. I was awake. The worms managing foreign memories were in vain removed; what my brain once processed, remained my own forever. And each of their little crumbs contained metainformation. Feelings, impressions..., thoughts that carried new data. They were incomplete. But it did not matter. Sudoku is also incomplete. But it can be completed with the correct numbers. Crosswords puzzles are liked by many. Five letters down, starting with P; what is it? It depends on what the other rows and columns will define. My memories were accompanied by new memories, and the new ones were paired with mine. They became one in me. They changed me. Because I let them change me. Thus, they illuminated things. Not just those that were stuffed into my head. I did not understand all the details, but it was not a problem. It is not necessary that all the squares are filled in a crossword puzzle. The solution can come without that too. The human brain stereotypes. Without that, it would go mad. The patterns are our friends. The known clichés provided the solution even now. The Prime Minister was not instructed to hack Nancy station. No one uses their most precious man for such a petty job. The hacker might have been a member of the Protection Command; or one of the other three blokes on the yacht. The great task of the Prime Minister would have been afterwards. To take Baltroyal into war. For the casus belli, the dirty job was left to the Oberians; by the Neptunians. Baltroyal was standing in the soup, because somehow they would have had to eliminate the built-in agent who happened to be the leader of the country, but it is not so easy to tug such a popular hero to court because of treason. Fortunately, the "Oberian friendship" gave a possibility. As an Oberian friend, the Prime Minister cannot skip personally checking the authenticity of a cultic relic of an ancient myth that has recently appeared – Louis XIV and the Red Bitch. It was only necessary to arrange that the hero Prime Minister, who had recently started to enthuse about antiquities because of the "oberonmania", should be in Nancy when the attack occurred. But who should be the executive? The patterns in my mind suggested the most stereotypical story; centred on a girl. How many times has it happened in history? There is nothing new under the sun, only the character's different. This time a girl who was born in Neptunooga, having a Briton father. She does not meet him for years. Then once, he comes to her and moves with her mother to Baltroyal. School, high school, university, tea party..., a dear guy..., beating heart..., where the guy disappeared..., what is up with him..., he reappears..., here everyone is against everyone..., Neptunooga is unified, in peace and order. The second- or third-generation immigrants are eager to nostalgize about an old country that they never knew. Because everyone loves to know where they come from. Everyone wants to know their place of origin. Motherland, Fatherland..., the parent is happy to welcome their returning child. On the Motherland, the Neptunians ask her help against Oberon. They built her into the Oberian intelligence. The Neptunian emigrants are famous for their Oberon sympathy as were the Russian emigrants in England in the thirties. An important Neptunian emigrant's daughter from Baltroyal is welcomed by the Oberians. They are happy to take her service. They offer a more serious role to her than being a propagandist. She would serve Oberon's interests best if she built into the Briton armed forces. She starts her studies at the Royal Naval College. First year, second year, excellent results, special service, Reconnaissance Corps... where the dear papa serves. And who tells her, at the beginning of the third year, there is a problem, do not go to tea parties, because not everyone is stupid at the counter-intelligence and a recently caught Oberian agent has provided interesting information. About her. The girl protests, of course, and it would be better if the dad minded his own business. But just in case, she reports to Neptunooga that she may be nabbed, but they reassure her they will rescue her in case of real danger; otherwise, it is too late to get out and think about the humiliation that her mum and dad could receive, which in their social status... Then comes the time-travel mission, in which a captured time traveller must be supervised; solely. Her only companion is the pilot of the time machine; a young dwarf Whale. Two sexually mature youngsters... are locked together... in an unknown world. Passing days..., weeks..., months. The guy is kind; and a little shy. Then once..., two hearts drum... at the same time. It happens what must happen. A few weeks of euphoria, then she notices the symptoms. Starsickness. The dwarf Whale is going to go. Far, away. Without her. It would be difficult to heal him even with the help of an expert, but alone..., in a foreign age... Weeks passing mercilessly, and she will have more important tasks than guarding the time traveller. The dwarf Whale must hide because of his stature – solely. Alone in the night. Lonely. Beneath the star-scattered sky...

Sergeant Sunnybreeze was one half of the crossword puzzle. The other half was about the parents who find out their daughter is a traitor, a triple agent. Also they are well trained secret service agents in senior positions. They know, for such an act, the reward is not five to ten years imprisonment, and if the offender is too stupid because of some ideology bullshit then not only the military career will end quickly. What do parents do in this case? Especially if it turns out that their daughter's file is already in the hands of the big boss? They both work on a very important operation. And both of them are dying. Obviously, they offer the big boss a deal. Which one stays alive longer, that one turns the girl back. Unalterably. In return, the big boss swears to save the girl and get an amnesty for her. Sir Martin Yates survived his wife. The task waited for him. When he arrived in the 21st century, he found his daughter. His only child. He did not convince her of much, he did not have time. He put the necessary information into her blood. The essence of that was the scam. He deceived his daughter with two things. One is that also the Yates couple themselves are Neptunian agents. The other is that the supreme party leader in Neptunooga personally entrusted him to command his daughter to kill the Prime Minister of Baltroyal, who is an Oberian agent and became too dangerous for Neptunooga peace, and millions will die, and... but it can be avoided if..., the evidence is in the transmitted data, there is no doubt about their authenticity.

I do not know how this became a police affair in Manwareham. Maybe a passerby saw something. Sir Yates was only a shadow of himself then. The police arrested him the next night, and they brought a Japanese interpreter to him in the morning; who was not an interpreter, but a tourism professional who could speak Japanese only so much that she could drive the Japanese engineers of the airbag-maker company from a hotel to the factory. She was called Nikoletta Schneider. Who became a time traveller because an asshead called Wyn Yard talked about her in the Pub Tales, and when she was recognized, she was thought to be an authentic person, so she was tugged into the 26th century, from where, I do not know how, she moved into 2037, where she met Wyn Yard, so he could lie about her believably and that was why some other time travellers thought she to be an important person, so she was tugged into the 26th century... In some places this is called karma. The scrapyarders called it a time loop. Nikoletta Schneider would have simply called it sucking. Which she did not enjoy at all. Unfortunately, this is the kind of oral abuse that no authority can remedy. It will pass away once. Two or three cycles, perhaps ten or twelve, then it ceases itself. Of course, it is not so easy to take it easy when man is in its middle.

Sunnybreeze starred as Tanja Fortmann in the 21st century. The reason why she shacked up with the industrial Mafia could be said only by her. She needed some indirect evidence about the commission of the great party leader. One of them was me. She could find me easily. Wyn Yard cunningly hid the references in the Pub Tales about how I could bust out of the Britons' hands. Just what is a cunning thing to him, that is quite evident to trained people who deal with such things every day. Sunnybreeze just had to wait until I run between her arms. She was convinced that I was really a shipwrecked person who was not new to the Codex Roxolan, and who really did something at Louis XIV because I became nervous just at the mention of his name; typically, like someone who really wants to hide something, just cannot lie. The other evidence was that I was able to identify Nikoletta Schneider on the fly and connect her with the Red Bitch, who might be real, but even more not – irrelevant –, the important thing was for her that she was not scammed. But she was. It was just the icing on the cake that the Briton-Oberian double agents ran after Nikoletta like hounds after a menstruating rabbit. The Blistonderry-am-Bourne incident stirred into the planned course of events where Sunnybreeze might have had me taken to the local mafia to make sure that I was really that über-cool navigator who was mentioned in the Pub Tales and who slings time as Bavarian mädchen beer. Hye-jin either followed her or calculated in advance with Xiong where I would be carried, and she was waiting there. The research results of the human activity pattern were successfully used already in the 21st century, and they had five hundred years of scientific-evolutionary advantage. Okay, according to Xiong, it is only two or three hundred years, but I was moving in an area where I had stayed for a long time and the key locations were well documented. So it was not a challenge for both of them to determine where I was going to be – not even if I was carried. Especially while the tracker was on my ankle – then the headset. The same was not a problem for Sir Yates either. Though probably his daughter told him that all right daddy she would kill the Prime Minister, but she would check some things first. That is how the bunch got there with some Apaches supporters who were deceived by stating the plan was changed. Hye-jin watched the intermezzo with the Chinese from a ringside seat in the chemical works. When the Apaches appeared, she tried to improve her chances of survival. She tried to shoot down the dwarf Whale to reduce the number of players. It did not work but turned into a nice shootout.

Then, at the university, everyone had enough sense to not to go there. At least not in person. At that time, the Apaches had other things to do. They had to prepare themselves for the night shape-shifting to wake up in their own time segment after a few hundred years of dream, from where they had originally started. Which was the last kick for the dwarf Whale to depart from the real world. He could not transform without a tool. The situation was strange for him and he was suffering from starsickness. Nonetheless a special camouflage dress was put on him, then he was hibernated and integrated into an iron rod. For five hundred years.

To the university trouble, Xiong's contacted the Russians and the Chinese, and gave them a hint where I would come up again next and when. I assume they convinced them that I was worth more alive than dead, then they waited to see who would appear with me. No one. They were delighted, but the Chinese-post-Soviet co-operation, panting for vendetta, wrote me onto the list of the must shoot dead without question. From the university to Manwareham South, my route was followed easily by the traces of my headset. That which was already on Wyn Yard's head by then. It offended them when they suddenly lost its signal. They needed me because they had known for some time that there was another time machine somewhere what I wanted to use to slip away but they also needed that for the same purpose. Obviously, they wanted to keep themselves away from Sir Yates's time machine, and they did not trust much in Commander Mehta either. They had got the most important thing by then: they could have collected Sir Yates sometime in the afternoon, and Nikoletta had been in their hands since the hospital. Only I was missing from their collection – or more so the time machine hidden for me. Knowing my activity pattern, they waited for a bit if I turned up again. I turned up. About where they were waiting. Which could not be so hard with my thirty-two years of data in Xiong's hand, starting from my mother's birth canal through the Nazi execution section to the Briton prison; which, I suspect, Vice-Admiral Dhupia was so kind as to place in such a manner that the other five also got chances to access to it. Xiong's even got a bigger catch than me: Lifebuoy. They thought they captured him alive. The fact that he was just a spectre they did not know yet. Kawaguchi's appearance stirred up the mood. After trying to mutually send each other to a final deadlock, they left; protecting their asses by the Russian-Chinese co-production company. I assume those were pre-set up in some strategically reasonable spot. From the gravity related parts of the Pub Tales, they knew for sure that some big trouble was coming, so they wanted to leave desperately. By the time they realized that Wyn Yard's time machine could go to only one place, it was too late. They could choose to die on the machine or give a chance to a later death. They decided on me. What would have been a threesome with them? Would Xiong have turned into a ready-for-all slut in Hye-jin's company? Probably. They hit it off with each other. And I missed that.

'May I ask, Dhupia-sama, how much it was necessary to execute those six people?'

'Ask yourself if they'd asked the same question about you. Commander Mehta gathered seven hidden bombs on her ship after you jumped out. And certainly there were more, because that ship didn't fall down by itself. Some of them wanted to be very sure and hid more bombs. It wasn't an easy job for Petty Officer Chirinos to get rid of the attacking helicopter that fired a guided missile at you. By her own admission, it was just luck that she managed to hit it before impact. At this point we made a serious tactical mistake. We decalibrated all the handguns on the ship before the mission, each of them differently, so it wasn't possible to aim with them precisely, and, in case of any uncalculated issue, using them against you. However, we didn't ask the Marines traveling on the other ship to leave some handguns for you before they jumped out to the Earth after you. So it was quite challenging for Petty Officer Chirinos to hit targets, even with compensating for the decalibration.'

Well, now it is understandable how Hye-jin could miss the dwarf Whale.

'But you didn't decalibrate the neutrino weapon at Xiong.'

'It wasn't possible technologically. Instead, we had your tracker removed.'

And they tried to slightly recalibrate Xiong too. Into my direction. I can be grateful for it. If I didn't miss her... I could have been one of the few who could say about themselves that, besides their therapist in the prison, they were fucking their two jailers too. All this with the active support of the Prison Governor. With such a popularity index, it is not clear why she spoke to me about the Sokolov-Rosenrot Pact. I would not have done it. I would be stupid to risk my informer. So, there is no informer, and only meta information that hints to the existence of the clause, but there is no evidence. In contrast, I... If I keep quiet, it is good. If I speak, it is even better. In that case, some will be nervous both in Oberon and Neptunooga and start to look for the traitor between themselves. And since they cannot find... By the time they realise that they are screwed, by then, a lot of their men were deep-sixed, as is usual in dictatorships. But to get me talking... It will not be in Baltroyal and probably I will not travel voluntarily. Whether there is a way to avoid it?

'I assume, if you closed your eyes to the fact that I was fucking the Commander, it would be honest if I married her in return. When do we have to go to the priest?'

'He's waiting for you on Benzaiten. Sunday morning at six o'clock.'

'Dickens. I think it would be superfluous to express my reservations about the human-plastic doll marriage.'

'It's your free decision together with the Commander. I just arranged the priest at the request of the Commander-san if both of you were lucky enough to return from the mission. You returned. I got the priest. My task ends here. I only need to interpret the vicar's request, who, although more open-minded than a Gretna Green blacksmith, wants to talk to both of you before the event, considering the special situation. Be at the church Saturday night at eight o'clock.'

'I suppose you'd be more pleased if the Commander inherited the County of Nemuro instead of some less trusted persons.'

'Commander Kawaguchi's injuries gained during the mission made her unfit for duty so we demobilised her today. For the same reason, we must do the same with you. Right now. Thank you for your services, Mr. Vanhanen. You are under our protection. According to your new identity, your name is Stanley Wilson from now on. The details are in your watch. We modified it a little for you to be more usable for the current age. I was glad to meet you, Mr. Wilson. And congratulations.'

When I shook her outstretched hand, a 'Fuck your mother' rushed through my mind, but I did not force the issue any further. Neither did I ask how the past was synchronized with the present – tunnelling. The Vice-Admiral was not a physicist anyway. What she could have told me, I was able to puzzle out. "We've got here as slow as if we towed something." "However, we didn't ask the Marines traveling on the other ship to leave some handguns for you before they jumped out to the Earth after you." The time machine was not in our ship but in the Marines's that we towed. Or was it controlled remotely from ours? Irrelevant, technical detail. In Quailcombe, Breitman's were playing with gravity, and the Britons amplified its effect by blasting Sir Yates's time machine and the bomber we went with. "Commander Mehta gathered seven hidden bombs." They only had to make sure that Xiong and Hye-jin were surely aware of the destruction of Commander Mehta's ship and had no choice but to board Wyn Yard's machine; provided they wanted to stay in the game. If not they were the ones who blasted the bomber, they thought it could have been done by one of their companions; this is a drawback if someone runs dozens of secret organisations in parallel. The right hand does not know what the left does and they tangle. The two machines had to be placed and timed so that the explosion coincided with the epicentre and time of the gravitational quake. The next day's Manwareham newspapers wrote not only about meteorites and embankment cutting, but also about a burnt-down pub on May Glade; probably due to an electrical fault. But it was so insignificant compared to the first two that no one was interested. The Admiralty also easily wrote-off the equipment left there as a loss; their value compared to the action as a whole was just loose change.

I left the Vice-Admiral and went to Kawaguchi to the hospital. If I do not meet the nurse who woke me up, I cannot find her. She lay in the dim light of the basement – in the repairman's shop in the boiler room. A doctor on the ground floor of the hospital wondered where the nurse was taking me with the elevator. He thought there was nothing down there. He was mostly right. There was only the boiler there indeed – and a sixty-two-kilo plastic doll. Who lay alone behind a glass wall. On a workbench. The nurse asked me for a piece of paper and a pen. She knew that I had; she had given me a memo pad and pen when she had woken me up. Then she left them with me. In the prison, they were only in my hands until the tests were done with me, then were always taken away from me. But now I was free.

The nurse wrote something on the paper. It was difficult for her. She had never learned to write by hand; her letters seemed to be drawings rather than writing. She gave me an address. It was clear whose it was. I had no place to go, and after my introduction at the awakening, it was very unlikely that she would have given her own.

'You don't have to worry about her eye,' said the nurse. 'The technician solved it. But next time take better care of her because it was just luck now.'

She put the paper in my hand and left me to myself. Or to ourselves? It seemed that our fate had already been decided. It was more comfortable to accept it than railing against it. And where else could I have gone? To a homeless shelter? God forgives, or I can fuck the whole right now.

I put the paper in my pocket and stepped behind the glass wall. No lamp lit. There was just so much light inside as what could come from outside. Vacuum tubes glowed in the gloom; silently, without sound. Kawaguchi lay on the workbench, being left alone – with no clothes on. "What makes you think we trust robots?" The machines have no prudery. Not even a sheet was put under her. Her left eye was covered in bandage. The right was closed. I was looking at her chest, but, in the gloom, did not see whether she was breathing. I did not worry about her. I palpated her pulse at her wrist just out of habit. It was normal, easy to find. I counted it for a while. Mostly to open her eye. She did not do so. I noticed a sheet had been thrown into a corner. It was clean and hardly wrinkled. I put it onto her. I did not want the stokers to see her like that; naked and vulnerable. It was time to pal up with my new life. It could be done through gritted teeth or normally; in an acceptable way for also that whom I was locked together. I took out a paper and this time I was who drew something onto it; although I could write. But the message was short. I slid it under her palm. She did not react. I turned and left.

'Timo?'

Her question stopped me. I turned back.

'Fuck off!'

She crumpled the paper with her clenching fist and flicked it away with her thumb. I went to her flat.
π×1,000057331938843

If I had asked the Vice-Admiral who Commander Naoko Kawaguchi really was, she would have answered that I ask her personally. I did not get around to do it. She came out of the hospital on Friday afternoon and went straight to the port. We met there. From here we arrived at the rock named Benz-1-10 the next day. We did not talk with each other on the ship. At the church, the vicar asked me if it was a problem if, first and foremost, he could talk with Kawaguchi in private for a quarter of an hour. It was no problem. I could have sat down on a pew, but I went out in the churchyard instead. Then a little further. So I survived the impact of the artificial sun. Apart from me, a child could say this about himself. Fifteen other people cannot. The detonation threw me out into space where, a minute later, a straying military patrol picked me up. For the past two years, it seemed luck accompanied me inseparably. Or just hazed me mercilessly. I could not decide it for a long time.

The official investigation found that an accident had happened. Hidden program error. Fifty years old. I could have believed it, but a Lieutenant-Commander appeared in the hospital; the leader of the physicist team. He questioned me many times two years ago; tying me to a polygraph. He asked about the technical details of time travel then. Now, he could not ask anything. The Navy Police did not let him enter my room.

I came to the conclusion that the fault of the artificial sun's program and the location of the impact was a message. Its enemies warned Baltroyal thus, to restrain itself because they were also able to create a mess in time.

I did not go to Kawaguchi's funeral. I had to attended to a two weeks long anger management therapy. The priest I wanted to ask to bury her suffered beyond eight days healing injuries. His kidney ruptured. He did not want to take the funeral and said I must get over her and look for another toy doll for myself. I got away with it very cheaply. I got only two years, suspended for three years, and had to take part in a two-week anger management therapy. I was still in the remand when I asked to connect me with Vice-Admiral Dhupia, instead of a lawyer. I asked her for a favour. She said she was unlikely to be able to help me with anything. So I asked her for another one too. The first one was that she should look for a priest to bury Kawaguchi. The other was to publish an advertisement in all probable media with this text: Appel. She asked what it meant. I told her: nothing. Then I explained that it was always a problem for me to overcome my aggression as a result of anger. So this was a message just into the big world that everyone suck me off and who has ears to hear: flee! She said it would cost a shedload and she did not think I would have the money for it. I told her to look at Kawaguchi's will, if there was any, because if there was, then I would probably be the beneficiary at least of her personal savings account; for it is likely that Dame Vice-Admiral also knew what eternal love was and so on. She replied that if she did what I asked for, knowing the income of the officer, it would leave nothing of the inheritance. I asked her what she thought how much I had now and if she looked at my one and a half year mental hygiene file then could she guesstimate how much I cared about that?

The next day, before the trial, I got two letters five minutes apart. The first came from the notary. My legacy was a nice sum. In past tense. The other letter came from the bank. The ad cost a lot. And I advertised in many places.

The judge gave me a suspended sentence with regard to my multiple PTSD. But before that, I had to go to a training immediately. Into a residential. I was accommodated at the police station of the asteroid where the priest was injured. The next day Kawaguchi was buried. The pastor, who finally buried her, then came to me to reassure me that everything went well. I did not ask him anything. I have seen funerals. A few. I did it too. A few. All have the same end. After shovelling the last clod, everyone goes home. Except one. They stay there. Forever. So I was not interested in the details. Still, he told me. What can I say? That she was buried in her full-dress uniform? She was buried in her full-dress uniform. With full military honours. As a hero of Baltroyal. A crumpled piece of paper was placed into the left pocket of the jacket at her chest – the undertaker found it at her. It was in the left pocket of her shirt. It pictured a heart. Drawn with pen. The ink was smeared at one place. Where the paper was soaked. By a falling tear drop. Fuck it.

When I was released, I could not go back to Kawaguchi's flat; it was a service accommodation; the government took it back. I had just so much money to go to the graveyard. Just there. Not a return ticket. Yashvi Mehta retired Navy commander arrived a few minutes after me. She stood beside me at the grave. Two weeks earlier I would have asked why the fuck she came here, but I did not do it now. The training was working.

The graveyard was on Benzaiten. It used to be a place for romantic weddings before. After the accident, its purpose changed quickly.

Kawaguchi's tomb was at the farthest corner of the late churchyard. Lonely. The other fourteen tombs were in front of the remnants of the church wall in two rows. Although the graveyards become full always before time, there was still plenty of room here. The question would have been evident, why she was not buried next to the others, but I knew the answer without that. And I was just coming from the training.

I just stood and was looking at the only little bouquet on the grave. It was not mine. I came with empty hands. The Commander put it there.

Above my head the endless blackness yawned. Unreachable stars were invitingly shining in its inside. It was as if not I but someone else would have started to speak.

'I wouldn't have thought the traitors' necks are just simply broken.'

'Where did you get this stupidity?'

'Nyagawa, Sasaki...'

'If there had been another choice, they'd certainly be brought to justice. If they collaborate, they'd have gotten 35 or 40 years.'

'How many years would I have been sentenced?'

'Why?'

'Treachery.'

'Who did you betray? Kawaguchi? For life, my dear. And you got it. It's a pity that it ended so soon. You'd have been a nice couple.'

Soon? I did not start serving it. A knife turned in my heart.

'Feel no guilt, my dear,' the Commander continued. 'It would have been harder for me to deal with such a situation. But the dead must be buried.'

'She's alone here.'

'She's not here, Stanley. Just her body. But not for long. The resurrection's close.'

She pulled her coat tighter as if it were cold, which, of course, was impossible. She wanted to go. I did not. I had no place.

'Let's go, dear,' she said after some minutes. 'There'll be a solar flare. Broken bones feel the weather. Also she'd have felt it. This is one of the drawbacks to being a human.'

'Thank you for visiting her, Dame Commander, but I'm afraid I'll stay.'

She did not ask why. She was not stupid. She held my arm and took me to her home.

I was with her for two days. She was not uninhibited. Just gentle. On the morning of the third day, she had to go to the pension provider. She asked me to put the bedroom in order before I go. Then she gave me Petty Officer Chirinos's contact details. She said she was a funny girl, she thought she would be right for me. Then she went. I lay in bed for seven minutes, then got up. Four minutes later, someone knocked on the door. I knew it would not be the postman.

\---
**About the Author**

Who is Chino Hill? Good question. He has been working here and there so his résumé quite long. Nevertheless, his author's experience is not so long. Of course, in the primary school, he wrote down his favourite summer experience many times because the teachers never accepted the essay from the previous year. It is not easy to satisfy a teacher's need. But it is easy with Chino Hill. Just put a glass of whiskey beside his coffee. Although, it's true, the coffee is not so important for him in that combo. But if you insist on that, be careful! In his terminology, coffee means espresso. Chino Hill is a man of nowadays. He can be faced in the Face.

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