Читать книгу No Way Out at the Entrance - Дмитрий Емец - Страница 5

Only subconscious suicides, tunnel explorers, and hdivers risk riding between subway cars. A young person belonging at once to all three groups jumped at the last second between the last and next-to-last subway car of a train starting at Tushinskaya Station. He was twenty percent suicide, sixty percent tunnel explorer, and hundred percent hdiver. Although today he had replaced the hdiver jacket with a hoodie.

The train caterpillar slowly pushed its way into the tunnel. It crawled lazily at first, but after getting excited, began to twitch its sides, desiring to scratch them against the thick wires sheathed in rubber. Each jerk could turn out to be the last for the person in the sweatshirt. The foothold was poor and there was even nothing really for the hands to hold onto properly. Soon he would have to touch his clms, and how to hang on then was incomprehensible.

Light cut through the windows of the subway car. He saw how the yellow quadrangle, shaking, slid along the sheathing. All of a metre separated him from the people in the car, daydreaming, reading, listening to music, texting. Interesting, will someone hear his scream if he flies under the wheels? He began to feel sorry that he had gotten involved in all this when the caterpillar slowed down. The rumble of the train spread and ceased to deafen. The light from the windows no longer reflected off the walls but stumbled against vertical white pillars appearing out of nowhere.

A light flickered for a second between the third or fourth pillar. Someone switched on and immediately switched off a lamp. This served as the signal for the young person in the sweatshirt. He pulled up his sleeve using his teeth, gauged the distance, and, after seizing the lion on the blazing clms, pushed off with a foot from the unreliable foothold. He was flying a second later into the darkness and only at the moment before landing recalled that today he did not have the jacket to cushion the shocks. Protecting his head, he fell flat as a rag. No rolling across, no somersault. No sense in ending up with a piece of railing in his back for the sake of a beautiful landing. Better to wipe the flagstones with his belly. Let the dear city become somewhat cleaner.

Lying on his stomach, the hdiver turned his head. The caterpillar wagged farewell and, after giving an electrical buzz, was hidden in the tunnel. The youth leaned on scraped palms and got up. He was standing in a preserved unfinished underground station without escalators and exits to the outside. Iron flakes of a large city were lying all around.

“Hey! I’m here!” he hailed hesitantly. “And we’re here!” the answer was quite near. The young person turned around, stretching his lips into a smile without any eagerness like stretching wet socks. A ray of someone’s flashlight struck him in the face. He tried to screen himself but he was not allowed to bring his hand to his face. In the next second, he was pinned in such a way that it seemed to him as if he was pressed in a vise. The light continued to hit him in the face. He more guessed than saw the three large figures.

Rough hands thoroughly felt his jacket pockets, underarms, and back, and slapped around the pant legs to his shin. After cutting the laces, they quickly and expertly unfastened the clms. They removed keys, cell phone, and a penknife, the existence of which even he himself hardly remembered, with a blade the length of a little finger. “It’s dull,” the young person said timidly. They advised him to keep his mouth shut.

One of those holding him was moustached, nervous, and rough. The other was round-faced, with thick eyebrows, and outwardly good-natured. Simply a shaven Grandfather Frost11 who had decided to take a break from the beard till winter.

“A schnepper? An attack marker?” asked Grandfather Frost.

“Yep, a hundred,” the youth answered carelessly and got the back of a hand on his lips. Strangely enough, precisely from Grandfather Frost. His face was compassionate at the same time, like a man who was forced to carry out his task.

“Of course he has nothing,” the one going through his pant legs answered.

“Good boy! Move!” The powerful figures closed in and half-led half-carried him somewhere. Stepping, the young person in the sweatshirt thought that if he tucked in his feet, no one would notice.

Unexpectedly the berserker walking behind issued a short exclamation and directed the ray of the flashlight near his feet. A heavy bee got out of the hdiver’s pant leg and crawled in a businesslike manner along the floor of the platform. The bee crawled and shone like a newly forged nail.

The berserker struck it with a heel. The bee was flattened under the heel but immediately straightened itself. The berserker struck it a second time, a third. In the end, he was already turning his heel screwing the obstinate insect into the concrete. When the bee should have become one moist pulp, he lifted his boot from the floor. The bee, alive and unharmed, was sitting and cleaning itself, moving its antennae and bending its wings with its legs. It displayed no hostility to the person who had jumped on it recently.

The berserker squatted down and started to singe the bee’s antennae with a cigarette lighter. “Tenacious trash! Look, jerks away!” he said triumphantly.

“Don’t touch it!” the youth in the sweatshirt rushed and again got the back of a hand. It hurt more this time because the hit came with the signet ring.

“Leave the insect alone!” moustached said, frowning. “You won’t do anything to it this way! It’ll perish by itself as mine once did.” The youth in the sweatshirt quickly looked at him and lowered his eyes. The bee took off and, after landing on his hood, trustingly crawled under the collar. He with melancholy felt how heavy it was, as if cast.

They started to come across lamps more often in the centre of the platform. The berserker who had trampled on the bee switched off his flashlight. A chair with the back to them was already very visible even without the light. Antique, with decadent curved legs. It would look much more appropriate in the out-of-town palace of a palm-tree dictator but not here in a deserted Moscow subway station. Guy was sitting in the chair, elbows on the back. His security did not form the usual chain but a spacious quadrangle.

Occasionally someone with a flashlight gave a sign into the depths of the station and he was answered in the same way, with the brief winking of a flashlight. Moreover, each time the flash was from a new place. “Eight teams of four here!” the youth in the sweatshirt estimated.

They led him to the chair. The cloth of the back was brighter than Guy’s face and the youth continually shifted his gaze involuntarily to it. Of Guy, he saw only sharp elbows and a soft face lowered a little. Guy waited.

“The bees became agitated. They’re swarming, flying everywhere. Sometimes you’re simply wrapped in a cloud – they’re everywhere,” the youth said indecisively.

“It means, already soon,” Guy commented indifferently.

“Within the next few days,” the youth began to nod in a hurry.

Guy, gnawing his fingers, listened to him. “If that’s all, you’ve wasted my time! The bees always fly for novices in September. It wasn’t worthwhile to drag me to Volokolamskaya for this.”

One of the guards, dark-complexioned with a fresh pink scar on the cheekbone, raised his arbalest. The berserkers holding the fellow in the sweatshirt moved aside. They did not want to be splattered.

The youth began to fret. “DON’T! I forgot! Four bees departed!”

Guy stopped the arbalesters with a look. “To whom? Managed to trace?” he asked quickly.

“Seems so to me,” the youth began.

“I need names, not hallucinations!” Guy cut him off.

The youth froze. To betray straight away was difficult. He wanted to do it piece by piece, choosing the least disloyal of them. But there was no turning back. After lingering, the youth squatted down, unlaced a boot, and took out from the top of the boot a folded sheet of notepaper.

“Pity it’s only four, but also good!” muttered Guy. “Where did you get this?”

“Kavaleria’s office. I copied while she searched for books on horse breeding,” the hdiver said dejectedly.

Guy narrowed his eyes. “But why didn’t you say so immediately? Ah yes! Always it, the unquelled inner voice!” The youth turned away.

“Now about something else. Did you do what I asked?” Guy asked insinuatingly.

“Sweatshirt” began to nod in a hurry. “I tried! At night with a crowbar I tore the roof off the beehive and tried to steal the queen bee. It was difficult because Gorshenya was stomping beside me. It tried to hamper me. It mumbled, muttered, pushed me away, shielded the beehive! I was risking my life!”

Guy yawned. “You were risking nothing. Gorshenya swallows only those it likes. It’s absolutely harmless to others! Did you do everything I ordered?”

“Yes. I fumigated the bees with that gunk you gave me so that they wouldn’t protect the queen. I almost puked!”

Guy frowned. “Now-now, young man! Choose your words more carefully! What gunk can there be in the hair of a witch buried alive exactly ninety-nine years and nine months ago? Well, possibly Beldo mixed it in too much hydrogen sulphide. But he wanted it better!”

“Please forgive me!”

“To forgive is not my department. The bees did not protect it?”

The youth shook his head. “No. But I couldn’t take the queen! Radiance surrounds it. I touched it and it burnt my hand. I was barely able to discard the crowbar. It melted.”

Guy was saddened. “This is bad. Although I assumed something similar… So, my dear, today you came with empty hands. Didn’t reach the queen bee. You can only steal up a few steps to the marker in the Green Labyrinth… On the whole, either you’ll make me happy with something special right away or you’ll be left without a reward.”

The youth was frightened. “In June… or at the end May… a newbie appeared in the guild. Without a bee!” the youth blurted out and looked pleadingly at him.

“This is interesting,” Guy generously admitted. “And who’s the newbie? Got a name?”

“Rina… She brought a hyeon!”

The corner of Guy’s mouth trembled. “Good start! Can’t bring a bee, bring a hyeon… Where did she get it?”

“They say an adult hyeon whelped right by the fence of HDive, and the warlo… oh…” the youth stopped short, after feeling how the hands of those holding him hardened. The word “warlock” is exclusively hdiver. It was necessary to find another urgently as a replacement, but his thoughts got tangled up from fear.

“The courageous rider of the hyeon. This is what you wanted to say?” Guy prompted with understanding. “He was obligated to either shoot the young or take it with him. But not to discard it… Arnaud, tell Till! Let him sort it out.”

The secretary made a note. An ideal secretary. Obliging, forgetting nothing, surprised by nothing. Ordered to kiss, he will kiss. Ordered to cut the throat, he will cut the throat. Ordered to kiss and cut the throat as well, he will do even this, moreover without a reminder and in the time indicated. Smoothed-over forelocks, a timely smile. He was a person surprising even for Guy, who was a good judge of scoundrels.

Once, not being able to resist and having taken the marker at his first dive, Arnaud cut heaven off himself, and so successfully that not even a scar remained. Now everything outside of the scope of his own body, his safety, comfort, and pleasures, was for Arnaud nonexistent. To obtain the maximum happiness, including happiness from juggling the fates of others, and to become clay. But he considered this period non-essential.

Where is Queen Cleopatra now? Did her beautiful body not become brick in some Egyptian cow shed? Is the French king Louis not eaten by worms, pecked by a bird, eaten by a fox, into which flies lay their larvae? On the whole, live in style, and your fly will come flying after you… Only one thing did not give Arnaud peace – Duoka. Why is this world empty? For whom?

“Bring the berserker’s head?” Arnaud clarified.

“Why?”

“Well, what do you mean why? Till for sure will propose it.”

“Work situation. Let Till sort it out himself,” Guy made a face.

“It’s still not grown, a pup. But lets itself be held. True, only by the owner. The others, no,” the young person in the sweatshirt continued ingratiatingly.

Guy frowned. “You yourself saw this? That it allows being held? Without a muzzle? Without something attached to the neck? Without electric shock?”

“Haven’t seen it myself. Our people described it. Unable to bring the hyeon onto the grounds of HDive. They hide it somewhere.”

“Who are they?”

“Rina, Athanasius, Ul, well and all the others with them,” the hdiver instantly responded.

Guy winked at him with a deathly pale eye, in which the reflection of a lamp was floating like the moon in a puddle. “Others with them? Broadly said. So, you’re not with them?” he said merrily.

“Well, they trust me, but I…” the youth began uneasily.

“I don’t care about your ‘I’. Kill her!” Guy interrupted.

The fellow in the sweatshirt was uneasy. “Who? Rina?” he asked, startled.

“For the time being, the hyeon,” Guy politely set him straight. “Find it and finish it off! I advise you to hurry. It’s approximately three months old. That’s the age when a hyeon usually takes wing. This one’s growing without a mother; therefore, possibly, it’ll take wing a little later. But all the same must hurry.”

The youth moved his eyes frantically. He did not intend to go so far. “Why? Perhaps I’ll simply find a place, and you’ll… well on the whole… take it away? Let it serve you,” he began to babble.

“It’s of no use to us. A hyeon that trusts someone is a freak. And freaks must be destroyed. Do you agree with me?” Guy’s voice tinkled slightly.

“Y-yes,” hurrying, the youth said.

“Let him go!” ordered Guy. The hands holding the hdiver unclenched.

The berserker looking like Grandfather Frost mockingly straightened his sweatshirt. “Don’t forget to clean up! And here, you’ll have to find a new lace for your trinket,” he said, returning the clms.

“One more thing!” recalled Guy. “About the hmm-m… Gorshenya. You said it interfered with you at the beehive. What does it generally do in the Labyrinth?”

“Don’t know. It often hangs around there. Especially if the moon is out,” said the hdiver.

“And when there’s no moon?”

“When there’s no moon it goes off to the park and disappears there till morning.”

“Strange,” Guy drawled. “Why go to the shady park on moonless nights, where you’ll see little even with the moon? If it wants to frighten or catch someone, enough to stand up by the path, which leads to the stable.” “Sweatshirt” looked at him with surprise, not understanding how the geography of HDive was so well known to him.

“Follow Gorshenya! Where it goes, why!” ordered Guy. “I want to know what it does each second of a moonless night. And try this with the bees!” He, not looking, stretched out his hand and immediately the attentive secretary put in his hand a small glass jar. Something similar to milk separated by water was splashing about inside. “Grease the roof of the beehive with this. Well, and other places where the bees rest. Only a thin layer. And use gloves. The poison is very dangerous,” said Guy.

The youth stretched out his hand and, having touched Guy’s dry finger for a moment, fearfully took the jar. “Bees are immortal. What have our novices not done with their bees!” he warned almost joyfully.

The corner of Guy’s mouth sagged with annoyance. “Bees are constantly cleaning their queen. When this passes to it through their legs, it will become barren and perish. There won’t be new bees, sooner or later there won’t be HDive.” The youth shuddered and straightened up. It seemed for a second that he would now fling the jar at Guy, but then he stooped and hid it in his pocket.

“What are you waiting for? Move!” ordered Guy. The youth did not leave. Even when they grabbed his shoulder and nudged slightly, he remained on the spot. Pressing the clms against his chest, he was looking around with uneasiness at Guy. “Well, what’s the matter?” Guy asked impatiently but with secret teasing encouragement in his voice.

“You promised!” the youth said anxiously.

“Ah, well yes… So be it!” Guy stretched lazily and, making his face a rubber mask, with a bitten nail touched the youth’s forehead.

The young fellow in the sweatshirt shuddered. A wave of pleasure passed throughout his body. He tried to hide it but his face gave him away. His mouth smiled weakly. His eyelids grew heavy. Droplets of sweat came out on his forehead. When Guy took his finger away from the forehead, the youth did not even notice. Then, losing his balance, he took a step and bumped his tummy into the chair. The berserkers guffawed with understanding.

“Only don’t abuse it!” advised Guy.

“I can stop any time!” the youth said obstinately.

“I know you can,” Guy agreed willingly, lovingly shaking down the shoulders of his dusty sweatshirt. “But all the same don’t spend it all immediately. I’m begging you!”

The youth pulled his collar with a finger and, having nonchalantly pushed aside a berserker in his way, went to the edge of the platform. He was stepping lightly, getting up on his toes, and felt an unaccustomed ease in his body. He wanted to push off and fly, but here was the trouble – a low ceiling.

At the edge of the platform, the youth felt something rolling in the sleeve of his sweatshirt and scratching his skin. He pulled up the sleeve. A dead bee with folded wings fell out. He leaned over it. Then he straightened. Something buzzed in the tunnel, approaching. The youth in the sweatshirt looked around. A yellow cyclopean eye was hitting his face. The young man burst out laughing, slipped the unlaced clms onto his arm, took a run and, after jumping directly towards the eye, teleported the moment before collision with the train.

Guy and his secretary Arnaud exchanged glances. “If our young friend knows about the hyeon, it means so does Kaleria. And she hasn’t interfered. Thereby, she sets up the whole situation…” Guy said slowly.

“One hyeon is no big deal. Won’t even leave descendents,” Arnaud remarked.

Guy clicked his tongue. “The trend is important. I don’t want hdivers to have tame hyeons.”

The secretary nodded and made a note in the notebook, where there was a note about today’s meeting. “Useful fellow,” he said.

Guy massaged heavy eyelids. “Must warn him to give up diving. For the time being he’ll be able to enter the grounds of HDive, since he hasn’t appropriated markers, but already can’t dive,” Guy answered in a preoccupied manner.

“But if we come to an agreement with the elbes so that they don’t touch him…?”

“What do elbes have to do with it? The matter is Duoka. It won’t accept him. Besides, he devours such doses of psyose that the crazy house will be waiting for him in half a year. But in this half year we must extract from him as much as possible.”

Guy smoothed out the notebook page:

Makar Goroshko Tukhachevsky Street, #, Apt. 9

Daniel Kuznetsov B. Cherkizovo Street, #, Apt. 155

Alice Fedina Sobolevsky Proezd, #, Apt. 99

Alexander Dudnik Vernadsky Ave, #, Apt. 301

“Telling handwriting! A lot of curlicues on the ‘M’, but the end of words are broken up, and the ‘y’ has a flabby tail. The fellow shows off but not enough confidence,” he remarked.

A pencil scratched twisting, nasty, curved outlines in the notebook. Only Arnaud knew how to decipher his own signs. “Dispose of them ourselves or saddle Till with them?” the secretary asked quietly.

“Dispose?” Guy was surprised. “Forgotten Krunya’s prophecy? Sooner or later these ten will deliver into our world the most powerful marker.” The shadow from a swaying lamp lost its way in the folds of his face. The face sucked in gloom like a sponge soaks up water.

A train swept past through the eternal night of Volokolamskaya. Light lived inside its cars. Darkness rushed toothlessly to it from the corners but could not swallow it and, champing, crawled away into the tunnels.