Section 02 / 39

I shuddered. The voice of the "smart home" system gently inquired from the nearest speaker whether I wanted to answer a call from an unknown number. I glanced at the clock. Eight oh one. Who, I wondered, had enough nerve? If I answer, my coffee ritual will be hopelessly ruined. I was already about to command "decline call," when I thought again about who could be calling. And what the reason for such a call must be... Not to mention that in the last three months, besides Vira, absolutely no one had called me.

Carefully and therefore somewhat hoarsely, I said: "Hello!"

"Greetings! Mr. Giru?" inquired a young female voice in English, and I unmistakably recognized a Japanese accent.

Of course, she wanted to say "Gil," but the Japanese language has problems with the letter "L" (that is, it doesn't exist there at all), so in the mouths of representatives of the Land of the Rising Sun, my name transforms into either Giu or Giru—depending on the imagination of the particular Japanese person.

"Yes, that's me," I tensed, trying to remember what I once knew in Japanese, but besides the phrase from the phrasebook "please bring steamed rice," only "hello" came to mind—konichiwa.

She ignored my pathetic attempt to switch to Japanese and continued in English:

"I represent the private military company 'Conquistador Corps,' Tokyo. Our recruitment center has selected you for an interview. When would be convenient for you?"

The Conquistador Corps—the world's largest private military company! Moreover. It's a whole empire that has long since gone beyond its native Japan! Suffice it to say that it has its own battle fleet. Professional warriors who give a hundred points' head start to any space marine. And they pay them very, very well.

If the operator hadn't called me by name, I would have thought she had the wrong number.

"Giru-san?"

"Excuse me, I'm a bit confused... How did you find out about me?"

"You applied to join the Corps."

Well, yes... Only that was eight years ago... Back then I was blowing the rest of my army salary on the Japanese island of Hokkaido, and Conquistador Corps advertising invitingly loomed on every corner... Damn eight years ago! In the deepest depression, suffering from

post-traumatic stress disorder, I dreamed of only one thing—to feel again the simplicity and value of a combat mission. Again to add to the smallest of daily worries that simple and weighty "survive"... So that those damn thirty-five years would stop looming like a concrete wall in my head.

"Excuse me? Giru-san?" the female voice pulled me from the flow of memories.

"I apologize... This is a great honor... But I have a family now... And a child. So... I'm afraid I can no longer become a conquistador."

It sounded a bit silly—as if we were playing at discovering America. Only needed to add "senorita." But in the Corps they took all these Spanish motifs very seriously.

"We know about your family circumstances," purred the girl from the Corps. "And we're calling because this is a specific contract: it's expected that conquistadors will become founders of a new off-world colony. And because of the planet's extreme remoteness, they're going there with their families. The statistical risk forecast corresponds to minimal category 'A,' the climate ideally matches Earth's. You have a biology degree and a license to operate an atmospheric shuttle—these are extra points at the interview. When should I sign you up?"

The young lady on the other end was chirping as if it were about a haircut or water delivery. Conquistadors... With families... Risk forecast—minimal category... It sounded like a dream.

"Can I call you back?"

"Of course! But we conduct interviews constantly, so the sooner you call, the better chance of keeping a spot for you. Have a good day!" she ended the conversation without waiting for my answer.

Once I waited for their call almost every hour. Then—every day. Then—once every few days with trembling in my chest I remembered my application. I reassured myself that the contingent for the nearest missions had been recruited, and my time would come soon. And only after about three years—I understood. So clearly, as if they themselves had called and told me. They found out. They learned about the problem of "thirty-five to forty-four"... These guys really dig deep—no doubt about it. They requested all my data, including my medical history. And someone with a practiced motion moved my file from the "Candidates" folder to the "Why_the_hell_would_we_need_him" folder.

That's what I thought. I was so convinced that I had almost erased from my memory the very fact of applying to the Corps. And now... They're calling precisely when the "thirty-five" mark has been passed, and until forty-four—a hellish eternity! Didn't dig deep enough? Didn't dig? Or can I really get the best contract of my life? Serious money for minimal risks... Too good to be true? They said something about extreme remoteness... Well, what's close in space! Go on, call them back and sign up for that exam so you don't lose the chance—what's the problem! The answer lies on the surface. More precisely, the answer is sweetly sleeping, scattering her slippers all over the room. A girl named Vira with the Korean surname Ra. She'll "shoot me down" long before the exam, plus she'll do it with a scandal. Our discussion will be very short and will end as soon as I utter those mysterious words "extreme remoteness." Yes, yesterday she yelled that I should get a job not just anywhere, but find "a position matching my qualifications." But today, most likely, she'll say something like: "I'm not taking the child to the edge of the unknown." She doesn't give a damn about all these promises of minimal risks. We all remember perfectly well how everything ended on Proxima...

I decisively, almost in one gulp, swallowed my coffee. I won't even discuss anything with her. Our relationship is already cracking at the seams anyway... And in general... Taking a family to an undeveloped planet—that's crazy! Not to mention the "extreme remoteness." Even with category "A" risks! After all, today in Kyiv, with all the minimal risks, six people will die! So—no. I won't risk my family.

But where the hell were you eight years ago, huh?!

They pay about three hundred thousand a year... Okay, if it's "category A risks," let it be even two hundred. Two hundred!!! Plus—pension after the contract ends. Plus—discounts at all possible resorts and a bunch of hotels. Plus—tax breaks...

I must admit, my "thirty-five to forty-four" won't go anywhere on another planet either, but there won't be time to think about it, that's for sure. Somewhere in the back of my consciousness, a timid thought lurked that if someone eats me there, it would be the best outcome. But I didn't dare to say such a thing even in my thoughts. It doesn't matter if I can't fly! I'm not getting divorced... I almost threw the cup into the sink.

"Wash the cup," I grumbled to the "smart home."

"Call Sashko," the female voice indifferently replied.

"Cancel! You deaf idiot... Cancel!"

"Cancel. Command 'Deaf idiot' not recognized. Do you want to assign an action right now?"

"Wash the cup!!!"

I was terribly upset. Damn those gamma quanta, those conquistadors! I have interviews at two scientific dumps and at a food company. Need to have time to shave.

Hastily, afraid to change my mind, I called up the holographic screen above the table, opened the list of incoming numbers, and pressed the "delete" button.

THIS NUMBER WILL BE DELETED [CANCEL] / [DELETE]

My hand hung for a moment a centimeter from the holographic buttons... Goodbye, conquistador career...

"Have the cream—gone bad?!"

It's Vira.

3

I turned around, not having had time to press anything. Virka was squeamishly sniffing the package. I desperately wanted to yell at her. To scram back to bed with such a mood and not nag here! But I restrained myself.

She disgustedly hurled the cream box into the garbage convector, continuing to mutter:

"I told you not to leave them on the table for half a day..."

However, this repeated every morning. Virka always woke up in a bad mood and first thing found something negative that would ruin her morning. For example: "What weather..." Or: "Remember that it's time for you to find a job?" Or: "Did you clean the tub after yourself?"—and so on. The main thing is to say it instead of "good morning" and with a sour face.

"Why were you yelling at Klava? You should finally take it to service..."

Klava—that's what she christened our "smart home." Though in the program the female voice was called, I think, Victoria. Vira's sense of humor is a peculiar rudiment, it's the only thing that remains in her of the girl I once stupidly fell in love with. And even that—she hasn't joked for a long time, just out of habit says something that could seem funny. For example, gave a stupid name to the computer. But she herself, probably, never once smiled about it.

"Good morning, dear," I uttered this phrase falsely sweetly, emphasizing that Vira could also start the morning with a greeting.

"And you be healthy..." with an expression of some disgust on her face, she rummaged in the bread box. "And the croissants are gone..."

In general, her eternal whining had reasons, and Virunka often called them weighty. She suffered from migraines. Severe headache bothered her every morning and subsided only after taking some tryptamine-containing chemistry. I should explain that usually Vira wakes up still without pain. She gets up with a certain premonition of pain, about which she says her head is "pressing from the inside."

Actually, it's time to take a pill, because her brain is already boiling with serotonin. But no—Virunka stubbornly waits about two hours, hating the whole wide world, until finally the trigeminal nerve joins the process, and then the pain itself begins. That's when she swallows a pill. I tried to explain to her in human language the mechanism of a migraine attack, but in vain. Virunka continues to torture herself (and me) with morning anticipation of pain. She says she first needs to make sure whether there will be an attack, "so as not to poison herself with chemistry unnecessarily." But I think she just needs these legal two hours of hatred for the world.

I started to explain something about the call, but realized she wasn't listening. Virunka nodded, stirring my coffee and waiting for when she could insert a word. I fell silent without finishing.

"You're just crazy, Gil. Sick in the head. Yelling at the computer. Soon you'll start attacking me and Elsa."

This was also a joke. Vira even smiled slightly, but not cheerfully, rather—tiredly. Such a little joke with a moral. Like, I'm joking of course, but you be aware... So how do I tell her about "extreme remoteness"? So she'd scratch my eyes out?

I reached for the holographic panel that still hung over the counter. With one careless motion I pressed "DELETE" and closed it. Welcome to reality...

Virunka put her heel on the el-puff seat, bending her knee to her very chin, and swallowed. Disgustedly grimaced, showing with her whole appearance how unpleasant the coffee without cream was to her. Such is her character: I, for example, would either not drink it, or enjoy what there is. But she'll drink, grimacing and twitching her shoulders, with genuine, unfeigned disgust. Because, Vira is deeply convinced, life is shit. Both before the pill, and after, and on those amazing days when her head didn't hurt—also.

"How's your head?" I asked, not understanding myself what I wanted more—a normal morning conversation about nothing or a reason for a good fight...

"Stunning! To ask about the head of someone who dies from migraines every morning! Plus you snored half the night like a horse, Elsa had some dream and she cried about ten times, so I dozed off only in the morning, but you decided to yell at Klava. And here I am—drinking this shitty coffee without cream."

You have to know Virka to understand—she almost didn't intend to reproach me for anything. This was a completely honest answer to the question "How are things?" in her style. But inside me everything was seething with irritation. Obviously, this is the line beyond which marriages fall apart. The word "divorce" still seemed like an impossible nightmare to me, but came to mind more and more often. I took a deep breath. I tried to remember how beautiful she seemed to me when I first saw her. I approached Vira and bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

She squeamishly wrinkled her nose, not turning in my direction. I straightened up; felt foolish.

"Virunka... I love you..."

"Uh-huh..." she was concentratedly and squeamishly sipping coffee. My coffee.

"Vira!" I said quietly but quite sharply. And fell silent, choosing words. Getting ready to say how tired I was of hearing her "uh-huh" in response to my "I love you"... How painful it is when a close person doesn't even hug you...

But Vira, sensing that I was boiling, simply waved me off with her hand, contemptuously muttering her drawn-out "Oh-h-h-h"... And I

changed my mind about fighting.

"I have three interviews today," I reminded her as casually as possible.

"Lucky you... At least you'll see people. And I'll go crazy from boredom here soon."

I quickly went to the bathroom, continuing to be angry at her and at myself. Eternally gloomy toad! She cares so little about me that she even fights only when she decides to herself!

...Walking away, I returned to our bedroom and furiously hurled her slippers that still lay in the middle of the room.

4

It was only two o'clock in the afternoon when I dryly said goodbye to the pimply HR manager of the Bioengineering Institute and stood confused in front of their main building, not knowing how to kill the rest of the day. I had failed the two previous interviews with exactly the same crash, and the thought of going home now and listening to Vira's whining seemed unbearable. Better to delay that moment. Ideally—let her already be asleep when I arrive. And, by the way, I really want a beer...

"Watch it, don't become an alcoholic," I said to myself, remembering the nasty diagnosis and how it makes a person defenseless against any addiction. And immediately stubbornly objected to myself: "I definitely earned a bottle of beer!"

Sometimes mother said about father: "Better he had chosen alcohol!". Though, of course, not better. It's just that he chose slot machines, and this passion of his lay on all of us as an unbearable burden. How many times mom fought with the club administration across the street, demanding they not let father in! And they didn't care: he's eighteen, after all. And so, when mom once again locked father in the apartment, he jumped out from the thirtieth floor. Either he committed suicide, or—and this was more likely—he was simply trying to get down faster: the disease had completely deprived him of fear, just as it had deprived him of the ability to predict the consequences of his actions. Or maybe he was just breathing by the window when his body decided to dance one of its favorite convulsive "steps."

"Dancing fool..." mom once said in anger. And in my head the word "fool" firmly attached itself to the helpless expression of dad's face when he tried to calm his arms and legs that danced beyond his will. You couldn't put it more precisely... When once father picked up a teapot, and a second later it flew in an indefinite direction (turned out, at mom's head), mom called him that to his face for the first time... The teapot was cold, fortunately...

It occurred to me to see Djokhar. Haven't crossed paths in a hundred years. I pulled out my phone on the go and found the number in the list. He doesn't drink beer, and it's the middle of the workday... But at least we'll see each other. Djokhar served in the conquistadors for about eleven years. But that's beside the point—I've already decided everything anyway. I just missed an old friend.

Above, in the transparent tube of the high-speed track, a gravicycle roared past with a muffled roar. Out of habit I tried to catch some detail with my eye to determine the model. However, I would recognize this one even in the dark. "Tsunami." The same as I had. Some incomprehensible longing ached in my chest with almost physical pain. "You're a father! And you can't afford to race around on a gravicycle!" —after Elsa's birth I heard this twice a day. It came to real fights... And after three years I told myself that Vira was right, and with my own hands wrote an ad for selling my dream.

...I, as if mesmerized, watched what was happening at the range. Fighters from the police special unit were blasting massive cast structures that served as targets into splinters of molten metal. The characteristic smell of heated magnetic coils evoked memories of the army... Induction rifles—the pride of weapons manufacturing—using an electromagnetic field, accelerated a uranium bullet to insane speed, and it, piercing the air with a thunderous sound, could destroy any material known to mankind.

Djokhar nodded to me from afar, as if to say, wait a bit more, and I'll come over. His commands barely broke through the insane rumble of rifles. Finally he gave some orders and headed toward me. Compactly built, with the springy gait of a leopard.

"Salam, my dear!" Djokhar hugged me tightly and kissed me on the cheek. "Congratulations on the past one! Celebrated well?"

I involuntarily winced at the word "celebrated."

"Thank you," I replied. "Normally. Family-style."

It was a lie, because yesterday I got drunk alone. Just stopped by the nearest liquor store before bed and that's all... "Ye-e-e-eha!" Not too cheerful, to be honest.

Djokhar nodded:

"Let's go, it's a bit noisy here."

He spoke with a barely perceptible accent. Bearded, with a wide smile and a predatory gaze. Djokhar grew up high in the mountains, in places where they still use atomic rifles (apparently, the last ones in the world!). Such ancient horror, firing from which you can easily vaporize a tank—and immediately feel the metallic taste of a lethal radiation dose in your mouth.

"Terribly glad to see you, Gilelchik," he put his arm around my shoulders. "Lost weight! Still racing on your gravicycle like crazy, or finally sold the damn thing?"

"Sold it last fall," I said and, noticing approval in his gaze, added: "And I really regret it. Virka made me..."

Djokhar nodded understandingly. He was the only one I allowed to call me Gilelchik. His experience and wisdom were so indisputable that next to him—despite the relatively small age difference—I always felt like a boy.

We sat down in a small cafe. Right above us from a holographic screen they were broadcasting the latest news. But overall it was quiet. I started to order on the tablet, but Djokhar touched the waiter call button.

"You know, I like it when a pretty waitress comes over, because you can call her 'sunshine' and watch her smile," Djokhar's face lit up with a wide smile that probably also pleased waitresses. "An auto-carrier, Gilelchik, doesn't do that. It's not equipped with something you could smile at."

"Live service is insanely expensive here..."

"I'm treating."

"That's not the point, Djokhar!" I felt myself blushing. "I have money, first of all, and secondly..."

"Gil, you're getting into the role of unemployed. That's 'first of all.' This is dangerous, my friend, because 'unemployed' and 'person looking for work' are different people. Do you understand what I mean?"

"You're worrying for nothing. I belong to the latter."

"And where are you and Vira going for Christmas?"

The question sounded, to put it mildly, unexpectedly.

"What Christmas?"

"Any one! Denomination doesn't matter. But at the end of December everyone goes somewhere for at least a week. So I'm asking—where will you go?"

"How should I know, Djokhar! It's only July now."

"You're talking like a rich person who doesn't worry about discounted airline tickets. Will you take business class on departure day?"

"Stop it... First need to find a job."

"There! That's what I'm talking about, Gil. Your credit card isn't blocked, is it? But you're not planning a vacation because you don't have a job. Though logic tells me that within six months you'll definitely find something. If you don't give up. So what, slowly giving up? Right?"

I looked away, unable to withstand his gaze. Vacation, yeah. Sure. Don't have other worries.

"I'm not used to planning that far ahead..."

Djokhar, smiling, was studying me. He often smiled like that when he disagreed. Sometimes he joked, sometimes just looked like this with interest and, perhaps, slightly ironically. If we happened to argue about fundamental issues—some philosophical-global ones like whether the formulation "was following orders" is a justification for a soldier or where the line of humanity is if thousands of lives are at stake—at some point I would necessarily start to get internally feverish, involuntarily raise my voice, gesticulate, and even get irritated. And he, instead of also getting angry—would smile. At such moments Djokhar would listen attentively and somehow greedily to my every word, not interrupting and even stopping arguing. And only occasionally would add fuel to the fire, objecting to some of my most convincing arguments. I would flare up again, and he with some unconcealed satisfaction would listen to what he supposedly categorically disagreed with. From the outside, it might have seemed that he was mocking. But if you saw how unlike Djokhar each of his few friends was, you would understand that there's not a hint of mockery in such arguments. Djokhar says: "Those who agree with you can make you a bit more confident, but those who disagree—much wiser."

We'd known each other for a long time, but in these two years in Kyiv we became truly close. I often couldn't accept what Djokhar said, but he invariably made me think about things that I would never have remembered in the flow of daily bustle.

Now behind his soft smile one could clearly read: "Who are you fooling, Gilelchik." Though that's my phrase, of course, not his. It turns out that what I "read" in his eyes, I'm telling myself... Because even without him I understand everything perfectly: I've long since tried on a new role for myself. A role in which there's no place for either vacation or Christmas. No plans, not even dreams. The role of a fool with his uncontrolled dance.

"For the first time in populated space, a planet with traces of a highly developed extraterrestrial civilization was found," the sympathetic announcer spoke in a concerned tone, tearing me from gloomy thoughts. "Traces of intelligent life were discovered by the orbital telescope system 'Ora Pro Nobis' in deep space decades ago, but the authorities are hushing up this discovery. The Global Space Exploration Agency has already called this information fake."

"Hear that?" I nodded toward the screen, just to break the awkward silence.

"Every year such sensations..." Djokhar shrugged. "Even surprising that someone bothers to refute them."

"You think we're the only intelligent beings in the Universe?"

Djokhar grimaced:

"Honestly, I don't give a damn... I'm more worried about you. I don't like your state, friend."

"I really did start giving up," I admitted, though it wasn't easy.

Djokhar nodded with satisfaction:

"Awareness is the first step to overcoming."

"But it's all behind me. I found a job. Almost found one. Need your advice."

"That's different," Djokhar grew serious and looked me in the eyes attentively. "Tell me, my dear."

"I was invited to an interview at the Corps."

He didn't interrupt me once, listening to a long tirade about my doubts and worries.

The waitress came over. She was indeed a very charming freckled girl who with her whole appearance asked to be called sunshine. But Djokhar didn't even look at her.

I couldn't help it, because it was terribly important for me to convey to her the urgency of my order—a mug of cold, very cold beer.

I finished my story by saying that I'm unlikely to dare to take my family to a conquest, but I want, at minimum, to understand what I'm refusing.

"Wait-wait, Gilelchik. So it's all behind you and you found a job? Or you can't fly because of your family and therefore gave up?"

Djokhar's question, as always, hit the mark. Once I looked in the mirror in the morning, imagined myself in uniform, and said: "A bit more, and it will become reality." I knew their charter by heart, the history of missions, the names of bases and warships... Once... That was before Vira. Before my eternally life-weary Virusa, whom I was careless enough to fall in love with a year after submitting my application. But mainly, it was before Elsa.

"I don't know, Djokhar. That's probably why I came to you."

"Do you need advice? Or do you want me to convince you to agree?"

I wanted to answer quickly, but realized it wouldn't work. Djokhar noticed what I didn't dare admit to myself: deep down I was most afraid that they would take me today for one of these boring jobs and I would spend the next five years of my life in a white coat (if, of course, something doesn't happen with the protein in my DNA). And the Corps... The Corps would be my salvation.

"So what do you say?" I asked.

"Don't even think about it," he answered in an unexpectedly confident tone. "Honestly and frankly. Don't think about it. Even if they promise you mountains of gold—send them to hell."

"Do you know something about this project?"

"You could say, almost nothing. But I know the Conquistador Corps pretty well. They never pay for nothing. And all these perks-schmerks, salaries-shmalaries—it's not because you're so good. And not even because you're eating mud on an alien planet. It's because you're putting your life on the line."

"What does your 'almost' mean?"

"Did they already tell you where the planet is?"

End of Chunk 02