Section 04 / 39

"At the pool... What do you mean 'nowhere', Gil?! You had three interviews. Three! Did you blow them all?"

"Imagine?" I nodded indifferently, getting out a pack of hibiscus tea. "Want some tea?"

"Gil!" Vira stared at me, and a tiny spark of fury flashed in her eyes. "Are you mocking me?! You blew three interviews, our cards are blocked, they're demanding you return a huge loan, and you're asking me if I want tea?!"

"First of all, I didn't blow anything. I wasn't suitable for the employer, it happens. That doesn't mean I did something wrong."

"Gil! What will I buy food with tomorrow?!"

"Two minutes ago you said you don't need tomorrow! Vira, calm down, and let's talk."

"Because of you we have problems with the bank, you can't find a job for six months, and I'm supposed to calm down?!"

I took a slow breath and continued in a completely everyday tone. You could say, carefree.

"And secondly, Vira... Why don't you try to get a job somewhere too?"

Vira turned pale with indignation and noisily drew air in through her nostrils.

"I knew sooner or later you'd start reproaching me with this!"

"What kind of reproach is that..."

"So, when Elsa was born, he was 'for' me staying home with the child! His job is more important! Better paid! Interesting! When Elsa needed to be driven to all these clubs and pools, he didn't object either. Didn't ask if I wanted to stay home. Didn't ask if I was sick of running around the same circle day after day like a donkey! And now, when he screwed up, I'm to blame that I still haven't found a job?!"

"Vira, who said you're to blame..."

She seemed not to hear.

"How do you do it? No matter what we discuss, I'm the only one to blame! Even if you blew three interviews in one day, who fucked up? Right, Vira! Sits at home, does absolutely nothing and also asks 'what will we live on'!"

I was taken aback by such a sharp turn. Twenty variants of answers flashed through my head, but I still couldn't decide on one.

After all, the choice was between the prospect of fighting but proving my point, or leaving everything as is, swallowing her accusations along with it... And I thought I was too tired to fight.

My dinner stood on the table, covered with a transparent lid. The utensils lay neatly... For some reason I felt sorry for Vira who had prepared all this. I went to wash my hands and sat down at the table.

"Thank you," I removed the cover from the plate. Vira, without turning around, nodded. "What time will they bring Elsa?"

"Should be here any moment now... Take the vinaigrette. And sauce, I'll put it out now."

We always got along decently when it came to food. Vira cooks tolerably, and I've never once in all these years said that something isn't right. I don't know where this comes from in her subconscious, but precisely this scheme of mutual understanding (she cooks—I like it) is extremely important to her. Thus, the process of food consumption (more precisely, my feeding) was for Virka as if taken outside the brackets of daily problems or quarrels, beyond the framework of fatigue and mood swings. And it doesn't matter whether I need it. In Vira's opinion, that's just how it should be.

How many times I wanted to talk with her about something or just take a walk together in the evening, or hold her hand, finally... But I constantly ran into an obstacle in the form of cooking food for me. That is, the reason she didn't have time to communicate with me was myself.

"I'm not going to feed you the same thing for the second day!" —this Virka phrase meant that she and Elsa could calmly make do with yesterday's stew, but she wouldn't stoop to feeding her husband with it.

Or this:

"Vira, I just want to hug you!" —"Not now, I'm making dinner for you!"

Nothing affected this sacred process! Even when we fought and Vira didn't talk to me for three or four days (by the way, the record is eleven!), she still not only carefully set the table, but also gave hints during the meal:

"Don't forget the salad... Take sauce for the meat."

This didn't mean that Vira stopped being offended and started talking to me. No. Food is like medics on the battlefield: they don't shoot at them, but the battle doesn't end because of this.

doesn't end because of this. For the sake of food, Vira declared a partial ceasefire.

What's interesting is that she didn't cook what I like (I don't think Virka ever even asked about this), but what she considered necessary. And my timid wishes, expressed at the beginning of our life together, she took as an encroachment on freedom of self-expression and an attempt to dominate her.

"Very tasty, thank you," I said sincerely.

Vira was silent and continued to sulk, but now a smile lurked in her eyes.

The doorbell rang: the neighbor brought Elsa. She and Vira took turns driving the children to the pool. In half a minute, my daughter burst into the kitchen like a hurricane and threw herself at me, hugging my neck with her thin little arms. She was four. She was an extraordinarily beautiful, always smiling child.

"She missed you," Vira smiled.

"Daddy! Guess the riddle!" Elsa exclaimed with the look of a person who had a brilliant idea. "Who is like a hedgehog, but has one needle? Who?"

She adored making up riddles.

"Well..." I honestly tried to figure out at least some options, but nothing came to mind.

"Do you give up?"

"Uh... Yes."

"It's a hedgehog!" she cried out, and her little face simply lit up in expectation of my "why."

"Oh really... And why does the poor thing have only one needle?"

"Because Baba Yaga stuck so many apples on him that all the needles—fell off, and one—remained!"

Elsa was even dancing from delight.

"Exactly!" I deliberately slapped my forehead.

"And you didn't guess! And it was an easy riddle!"

I picked up my daughter in my arms, and we began to silently rub noses according to the custom of New Zealand aborigines. Then I hugged Elsa tightly, thinking about what to say to Vira now.

Half an hour ago, on the roof, it seemed to me that the decision was made. I need to stop sending resumes to large companies and

focus on simpler positions... Once, as a seventeen-year-old kid, I entered the biology department, dreaming of working at a dolphinarium. Money so-so... And no prestige at all (if you don't count the opinion of children)... But what a job! Once it seemed like the best in the world. Why not try now? I knew this would cause Vira to have a fit and probably even become a reason for threats to take Elsa and leave. But we both know she'll never do that. "You'd have to be a complete idiot to divorce your husband at thirty-two with a child in your arms"—those are her words.

So ended my reflections on the roof. And what I said to Vira the next second was somehow a surprise even to myself.

"I was invited to a job," I said. "A very good one..."

Vira looked at me attentively, raising an eyebrow.

"Dad, let's go to my room!" Elsa jumped to the floor and pulled me by the hand.

"In a moment, daughter, I'll come..."

And she ran away. Vira pulled out a chair and sat down opposite.

"Gil, are you a masochist?"

"Why?"

"Well, what do you have to have in your head to fight with me for half an hour about not having a job, and not say that it turns out you were invited somewhere after all!"

"This, Virunka, doesn't change anything, because I'll refuse."

She tilted her head in surprise, wrinkling her forehead comically.

"Are you trying to drive me to hysterics?"

"Just sharing with you... I passed the preliminary selection for the Conquistador Corps... I submitted an application before meeting you... They're offering a contract... But the planet is very remote. And you have to go with family."

"And?"

An ironic smile played on Vira's lips.

"What do you mean 'and,' Vira? It's god-knows-where! Just think: at the moment of the jump..."

I suddenly became confused, thinking that Vira was unlikely to be able to grasp the essence of desynchronization, and didn't know how to explain.

"Roughly speaking, during the jump," I barely uttered, "twenty years will pass on Earth..."

"But we won't age, will we?" she asked carelessly. "This jump... Does it take long?"

"Not at all," I shrugged. "For us it will happen instantly..."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Everything, Vira... We'll return in more than forty years. Forty years, understand? All our acquaintances then..."

"What, I wonder, all our acquaintances? My hairdresser? Our neighbor? Gil, there's no one here who would be dear to us except our daughter, whom we'll take with us!"

"Vira, it's a poorly studied planet, and conquistadors are being sent to develop it, understand? And it's fantastically far! I just can't risk you like that!"

"Ah... Well, of course..." Vira said disappointedly and nodded her head with feigned understanding. "Much better to live in a cardboard box and dress from the garbage. Or what's your plan? Settle at the fish market and have unlimited access to waste? However, I don't care. The main thing, Gil—don't take us to another planet!"

She started to clear the table, no longer looking at me. Bowls and plates flew into the sink from a dangerous height, plaintively clanking their earthenware edges against the metal.

"Virunka..." I approached her, but she paid no attention to me. "Listen... If I draw a dot here... Just here, on the counter. A small dot. With a pen. And we imagine that this is our Sun, only tiny. And then I ask you to mark the nearest star to us. Where would you put a dot?"

"I'm not putting anything anywhere..." Vira muttered.

"Just try to imagine. It's important! If the Sun is here and tiny. A millimeter. Where will the nearest star to the sun be?"

"I don't know, Gil," she said irritably, not turning around.

"Beyond Brovary, Vira! Twenty-eight kilometers away!"

"And?" she asked, finally turning around.

"Vira, two tiny dots and between them twenty-eight kilometers," I couldn't hold back. "And nothing more! Understand?"

"And?" she repeated with emphasis.

"If you decide to draw a complete map of the galaxy, its edge will be farther than the Moon. And they're inviting us even farther, understand?"

"No," Vira cut off. "What does the Moon have to do with anything?! To the Moon even from Kyiv—there are two flights a week!"

And she resolutely began to arrange dishes in the dishwasher. I sighed heavily and sat down again. Vira continued to clean up, putting anger into every movement.

"People wait for years!" she suddenly exclaimed, and it was clear that this was her internal dialogue breaking out. "Wait for years for a call from the Corps, ready to immediately drop everything at the first call! And this one—unemployed, with blocked cards and debt—refuses! Another planet, so what! No-no. I'm on the crest of a wave! Where would I rush off to!"

Vira suddenly threw a spoon into the sink, and it clanged with such force that I involuntarily winced. And she sat down at the table, hiding her face in her palms.

"Are you crying?" I squatted down in front of her.

"No, Gil," she said tiredly. "I just have no strength. The last six months I don't recognize you. You're like a child who decided it will be this way and no other. You fantasized a career for yourself that can't be, and nothing else suits you. You fail interview after interview, but it teaches you nothing. You won't agree to less. And here's a chance! And what a chance! Conquistador Corps! Even I would agree to work there! But you, obviously, have other plans! And even if in reality the garbage dump awaits you, you'll still stubbornly push forward..."

"What does this have to do with it, Vira..."

"And what then, Gil?"

"This planet is in another galaxy..."

"But Gil, people no dumber than you are sitting there! Are they such idiots as to consciously risk the lives of their employees and, moreover, their families! Their relatives will drag them through the courts!"

I slowly nodded. There was a rational grain in this... The death of a civilian on a mission is not at all the same as losses among conquistadors. If not the children, then the grandchildren of the deceased will ruin the Corps in lawsuits. The scale of the scandal is even hard to imagine!

"And after this planet you can break the contract and not climb into new missions," Vira said. "It's a way out, don't you understand! And enlighten me if I suddenly don't know something, but as I see it, it's the only way out for us!"

I realized that Vira had already decided everything for herself. And if I don't go to the interview at the Corps, she'll simply devour me.

"Virun... Remember, you asked about the story with my great-grandfather, and I didn't tell you... You know how he died?"

"You said in a fire."

"No. Though the fire started because of him... He shortened his own life. But the point isn't that, but how he did it. He blew himself up with a grenade. And of all the grenades that great-grandfather could have stolen from his military unit, he chose a thermobaric one. It's such... Incendiary, you could say... Terribly powerful. And he probably didn't do it on purpose. Most likely, he took the one that was easiest to steal. But that's the whole point: he didn't give a damn about others. Once he's leaving this world, he doesn't care what happens here next. Locked himself in the bathroom, pressed the grenade to himself, pulled the ring... Six floors burned down... A child died in the apartment upstairs... You know, I have a feeling that if I sign this contract, I'll act like great-grandfather."

Vira, frowning, shook her head.

"Why? What's the connection at all?"

I wanted to answer, but hesitated. Vira doesn't know anything about the disease... About my fear of becoming a fool who dances... Of course I won't tell her that great-grandfather pulled the pin the day after the doctor explained to him that the strange "nervous tic" was actually the first step to complete motor discoordination and a harbinger of rapid mental degradation.

"The connection is that great-grandfather did what he wanted and didn't think about the consequences," I said.

"You're thinking precisely about the consequences! What a comparison! He wanted to leave life, and you—found the job you dreamed of! Moreover, precisely when your work is needed by all of us! Gil... Salary, normal insurance, a contract for at least five years! I understand, you're worried about us..."

Insurance... This word stuck in my brain like a nail. Vira continued to say something, enveloping me with soft, almost tender intonations, but I heard nothing more. Insurance. What an idiot I am!

What an idiot I am! That's the main thing! Not to die young, outsmarting the disease! The main thing is to protect my little Elsa! What could be worse than leaving this life, leaving them with Vira without a penny!

Worse—is without a penny to doom them to care for a dancing fool...

Be that as it may, the Conquistador Corps provides a full social package, and their medical insurance is the best there is on the market. And even if I'm destined to live to this nightmare... To become mentally retarded with impaired coordination... Even if so, all the necessary care—hospitals, nurses, medicines—everything will be free! Plus insurance payments will provide for my girls for life. And if I die earlier—even better. The payments won't go anywhere. The Corps will save on nurses... But the family won't have to suffer because of my pitiful state. They'll recover from grief and will be able to live without need. After all, however cynical the Corps is, it takes care of its veterans to the end...

"You'd prefer a quiet and prosperous life in Kyiv, I understand..." Vira went on.

If only you knew how far from the truth you are right now... She looked into my eyes, as if trying to see a spark of reason in the gaze of an idiot. And suddenly smiled.

"Did you know it's my youthful dream? To be a conquistador's wife. God, at twenty I would have gone crazy with happiness! You'll have a uniform, won't you?"

I smiled in response.

"Wait, there's still the interview..."

"But you, Gil, have already been selected! The rest—you'll pass! How did you even manage? There are probably five hundred people per position!"

I shrugged. Vira suddenly hugged me, pressing her cheek to my chest.

"What's the planet called?" she asked. "Is there a name?"

"Yes. Ix-Chel."

"What?"

"It's a goddess... Of fertility and the rainbow."

"Yes, perfect!" and Virunka kissed me firmly on the cheek.

...At ten o'clock Elsa went to bed, Vira immersed herself in reading, and I unfolded the tablet on the table. I don't even remember at what moment I decided to search for "Ix-Chel."

The Maya Indians generally never depicted women as beautiful in our understanding, but I saw nothing bad in the image of the goddess: a sturdy busty girl with a well-fed rabbit on her lap. Solid prosperity. Quite a successful symbol of the rainbow prospects of the newly-minted colony... What happened on Hun-Ahau is, of course, horrific, but in my case the name promises no deceit. Unless we're in for some very dangerous oversized rabbits...

I looked through two more articles on Maya mythology, until I came across another image. If not for the caption below, I would have thought it was a completely different deity. But it was her—the same goddess of the rainbow and fertility. The article noted that later the Maya for some reason stopped depicting Ix-Chel in the image of a girl with a rabbit on her lap... They began to draw her differently...

In the image of an old woman with jaguar eyes.

7

The bus smoothly swayed on the magnetic cushion and started off, leaving behind the port of Tokyo, shining in the morning twilight. The largest transport hub that carries out any flights: from international within Earth to intergalactic—to any point of developed space. And if they accept me into the Conquistador Corps, then to distant Naosu, where, according to calculations, was the starting point of the main jump, and from there to the incredibly distant Large Magellanic Cloud—we'll also be launching from here. If, of course, I pass the exam...

The optimist in me said that since they paid for the flight both ways and issued quite generous per diems, I was almost accepted. The pessimist philosophically noted that it's unknown what's worse—to fail the exam or to pass it and fly toward god-knows-what. There was also a frightened skeptic who kept repeating that they'll open my file at the medical commission and someone will unceremoniously say: "Did you see what syndrome he has? Hereditary time bomb! Who even calls them here?!"

calls them here?!" And then he'll turn to me and ask snidely: "Are you even aware that you can't be given weapons? Lord, with such a diagnosis you can't even be given a hair dryer in the bathroom!"

Outside the window it was raining. The argon glow of advertising billboards in the pale light of the gray morning still seemed bright. Japan had changed little over these years. At least the highway connecting the spaceport located in the ocean with Honshu Island differed only in the content of advertising boards. I wanted to open the window to breathe in the moist air with the smell of the sea. I loved such weather. Loved it precisely here, where the sky is so often low and cloudy, and the air in the morning is so moist that even without rain tiny water droplets settle on your face. Perhaps I shouldn't have left. Shouldn't have gotten attached to such a cozy and carefree Kyiv. Tokyo is much better suited for someone who wants to race through life at full speed without touching the brakes. I shouldn't have met Vira. Then Elsa wouldn't have been born either, who suddenly broke my wonderful, ancient as the world, plan "live fast—die young"...

The large artificial island ended, and the bus smoothly plunged into the brightly lit throat of the tunnel laid along the seabed. The electric motors gradually raised their bass voices to a melodious tenor, and the bright spots of LED lamps outside the window merged into shining white stripes. We were accelerating to hypersonic speed. My shoulders were pressed to the seat, and my head became five times heavier. Looking out the window was now not easy, moreover, the flickering of light stripes caused dizziness, so I turned away, put the back of my head on the headrest and closed my eyes.

What are you doing, buddy? Seriously—what are you doing? There's no way back, understand?

Still better than sitting without a penny and waiting for that cursed protein in my cells to mutate and start eating the brain... But I still won't pass a hundred times. Maybe they called by mistake altogether. A mistake—that's what this is! Not for nothing was I not needed by them for eight whole years. And now my application ended up in the wrong folder. Or a trainee who wanted to break the record for the number of calls per day mixed something up... It can't be that they won't dig deep enough.

Then what are you, Gil, doing on this bus? As always, instead of making a decision, you relied on chance?

And there is no decision. Probably there will be one soon. But for now, the bank gave us a three-month extension only because smart Virunka thought to send them my invitation to the interview at the Corps. So at this moment—no problems, no decisions. I'm just riding in a tunnel. And what will happen next—nobody knows...

The inertial compensators howled. We shot through the strait in a matter of minutes and were now dropping speed, approaching the exit. I looked out the window again. The white stripes of lights turned into blurred dotted lines. Ahead through the windshield it was visible that the tunnel smoothly curved upward, rising from the ocean floor.

Warning signs began to appear oncoming. I could see the instrument panel—the distance sensor on it showed that to the nearest vehicle ahead was less than two kilometers. The speedometer numbers began to fall rapidly to the "1000 km/h" mark and below.

Two gravicycles overtook us, as if the speed limit wasn't for them. And considering that gravicycles don't have autopilots... Damn, how I envied those guys right now who had saddled amazing power! I closed my eyes, feeling how inertia, counteracting braking, persistently pushed me forward, and imagined how the bikers feel now, rapidly rushing past the slowed-down tin cans... The roar of wind beyond the aerodynamic pocket... Sharp, last-moment braking—the howl of compensators—almost cosmic overloads—turn! And again insane acceleration to supersonic speed...

Vira always said that gravicycles are just expensive toys. And you can't put them on the scales with such important things as family. And if you think about it, of course, she's right... But depriving me of my "Tsunami," she seemed to take away a piece of myself... And yet I love her, despite everything... Probably still love...

Already at the tunnel exit I felt that my heart was beating much faster than usual. A feeling of light tremor in my fingers appeared. I raised my palm and looked at it carefully. Thank God, they're not trembling. But that there's not a shred of confidence before the exam anymore, that's a fact.

Outside the window, artificial light gave way to the milky haze of a foggy morning. There was no rain here. Behind the five-meter transparent fence of the highway towered Tokyo with swarms of air transport. After hypersonic speeds, movement at six hundred kilometers per hour seemed

almost crawling, and I looked with satisfaction at the cliffs of the planet's tallest skyscrapers floating past us.

Yesterday I dared to call Djokhar and say that I was flying to the exam. I was grateful that he didn't try to dissuade me anymore. I asked him about the chances of passing the selection, and everything turned out more complicated than I thought. Djokhar was sure that the tests themselves were nonsense. Standards, knowledge of the characteristics of various types of weapons, or so-called "shock interviews" (like unexpected shooting at you above your ear)—this is supposedly just for show.

To weed out complete idiots, Djokhar said that in the Corps they pay attention to two things in general. First—they try to understand "whether you'll bite through someone's throat if they back you into a corner." That's what Djokhar thinks. And here the tests have nothing to do with anything. If you're like that, they'll understand. And the second—unfortunately, completely unclear in their criteria—a kind of factor "B," about which it's only known that it's evaluated by a separate commission. That's all.

If you're zero at math and write your name with mistakes, if you're under investigation or even escaped from prison, if you have problems with physical training and you're lazy as a pig—the Corps doesn't care. They've fully absorbed the principle "can't—we'll teach, don't want—we'll force." The main thing is that when they drive you into a corner, you can bite through a throat. And then—if everything's fine with you regarding factor "B," then you're a conquistador. That simple.

And in a corner I was definitely capable of a lot...

The Tokyo headquarters of the Conquistador Corps was located in a separate building—incredible luxury for Japan. No big signs, of course. But two armed conquistadors at the entrance were a quite eloquent indicator.

I kept repeating to myself that nothing was decided yet. That they won't take me a hundred times and all that. And that it'll be for the better. But in my soul I couldn't get rid of the thought that now is my only chance to solve everything in one fell swoop: the loan, lack of work, protein mutation... and also the absence of sex with Vira for six months, her whining about loneliness, my depression...—Ix-Chel could become our El Dorado.

...The heavy doors of thick transparent macromolecular slid aside, and I found myself in the reception area. One of the reception areas... Where they met people like me. A familiar feeling gripped me... I call

End of Chunk 04