Section 38 / 39

My brain, exhausted by gaps in memory, hastily lays out a solitaire of memories, hurrying to arrange them in the correct order—like that very chain of "why" and "therefore" that those born from the mycelium can't grasp.

I remember Irma. How we sit in our cafeteria, and she darkens, hearing that deserters can't go to Earth. And how later I caught her and Okamura when they were arguing after the night raid—the corporal had enough sense not to go to the forbidden zone...

Irma was looking for someone to replace him and chose me.

Involuntarily I imagine a phantasmagoric picture: already on Earth, in the yard of some sanatorium for Corps veterans, I'm digging a hole with my hands and burying myself in the soil to start a new mycelium... And immediately I remember Elza, who was digging something on the beach in front of the house in an attack of sleepwalking.

Thud-thud-thud-thud...

Who knows what would have happened if I hadn't woken up that night. Most likely, in the morning the real Elza, wrapped in a shroud of web, would have lain in a grave dug by her own hands, buried under a false lawn grown overnight. And the next night, when we'd be running our feet off searching, a chimera resembling a little girl would have knocked on our door...

"Elza," I say aloud, suppressing the desire to shout.

I need to search somewhere here. I get up. My body obeys, and this is strange, considering it's been motionless for several months. Though my brain thought the body had lived two very, very active months—because the clone was in communication the whole time. Like a radio-controlled toy... And if not for my syndrome, it wouldn't be me at all controlling the toy...

"Elza!" it's strange, but my voice, tearing through the silence, gives strength and courage.

The laboratory is bigger than I thought, and I can't understand which way to go. I close my eyes, trying to remember how I saw this same room through Nathan's eyes. Back then, though, all these roots weren't hanging here... Nathan went that way, so the exit is there, and around the corner—the quarantine compartment that Irma and I never reached. And now I'm almost certain that Elza—is right there.

"Elza brought home a flower yesterday..."

"What flower?"

"She says it grew on the beach."

When was this conversation? It seems, before the hand. Or at the very beginning... If only I'd known then! If only I'd known... I think the black powder was the connection to the mycelium. How much did Elza manage to inhale? I think, not much and only once. But for the mycelium, obviously, this was something like a personal introduction. Who knows, maybe back then, in the abandoned city, when Irma insisted so much that I sniff the powder, it was also for this: the mycelium needed to understand whether I'd be suitable or not. And those who use it for a long time? Now it's clear that the strange regeneration and super-strength can't come from nowhere. I guess the mycelium does this in sleep: nourishes their bodies, heals, restores tissues, saturates with necessary substances... You just put on fresh bedding, and the mycelium's hyphae have already sprouted through it and are waiting for you. And if you stopped using, the mycelium decides to collect its debts: dissolves your body in its depths, and puts a chimera in your place...

I shuddered from my own thoughts. I don't know where it came from in my head, but it's just as accurate as the fact that Nathan Gog met death at the hands of a chimera that had the appearance of his beloved.

I didn't notice how I found myself at the gray armored doors that looked like they could hold back a herd of mammoths. The quarantine compartment. I mechanically pat my pockets. The fact that Nathan's pass is still in my pants seems almost a miracle. But, come to think of it, why would Irma take it... I look around. Fear tickles under my spoon, and I, gritting my teeth, transform it into rage. I remembered that horror that deprived me of strength in Okamura's ward. I'm sure, that's exactly why Irma dragged me there—to shoot him before everyone understood that the corporal was no longer human. Because she herself is incapable of killing a chimera. Be that as it may, I never once saw her shoot at anything spawned by this planet... And her plan almost worked. Almost.

There's a tiny window in the compartment doors—too dirty for me to see anything properly. Except that the compartment is large. Taking several deep breaths, I apply the card to the lock and open the heavy doors.

The first thing I see—a cocoon in an open specimen cabinet cell. White, like a willow "catkin."

"Elza!"

I run in, not even looking around. I grab the cocoon with my hands, but my right hand (clumsy as a piece of plastic) ruins everything... Finally

I make a hole in the dense surface of the cocoon, stick my fingers in, stretch the edges... And I recoil, shuddering from surprise. This isn't Elza. In the cocoon is Irma.

At first I can't understand how this is possible. Then I figured it out: this is the real one. Of course, the real one. From her head, intertwining with her hair, thousands of threads with purple glow lead somewhere. Her face is calm, like someone sleeping. Breathing. Under her eyelids her eyeballs move. You could think she's dreaming something... "Living life together with her copy," I think, "just not at the wheel."

My first thought—to wake her. But I hesitated. Whose side will she be on, the one who for many years breathed with the same lungs as the Irma I know? Who embodied her plans together with her...

"Sorry," I say aloud. "You'll have to sleep a bit longer."

"And aren't you tired yourself?"

The voice sounded behind me. I turn and recoil. In the compartment doorway stands Irma. The same one. Stark naked—not a thread on her. Her skin is a bit pinker than usual, and I understand why: the mycelium created this body just now...

"You..." I say, stunned, vainly trying to find with my eyes at least something resembling a weapon. "What are you doing here?.."

She smiles at me as if we'd met in the morning at the biostation by the coffee machine.

"You killed me, remember?" Irma is unperturbed, and her intonation is even friendly. "And I was reborn. Didn't think you'd shoot, honestly. Considering how many times I saved you, that's a dirty trick. No?"

She walks toward me in her usual springy manner—collected, like a panther. Her nakedness against the background of roots hanging from the ceiling makes all this even less realistic. I step back, not knowing what to expect. Though what "not knowing"... I'm terribly afraid of her.

"What do you want?! I just came to get my daughter!"

"She's not yours anymore! Maybe that's good, considering what awaits her father. By the way, how's the hand?"

"Where's Elza?"

"How did you figure out that sometimes we have to preserve the originals?"

"To think, you need a connection to a human brain," I said this and came to my senses; she wants exactly this—to draw me into conversation.

Irma approaches closer. Better think of something, because bare-handed I can't handle her.

"You understand that everything can be returned?" she asks. "Your immortal body. Our friendship. More than friendship—you wanted this..."

Her hands are always held slightly behind her back—this has a strange appearance... But as soon as I notice this, Irma gives me a stinging slap. I would have managed to dodge, but she has something on her fingers! It touches my face, burning my cheek and forehead. Claws—the size of kitchen knives. Blood flows from my forehead, flooding my eyes. I step back, looking around confusedly for at least some weapon.

"That body of yours would have healed such a wound in a few minutes. But you chose this ruin. Where's the logic?"

I see it. Fire extinguisher. Big—its tip is visible from under the roots in the corner.

"Have you ever heard of a soul?" I ask.

Irma isn't hurrying—too sure of herself. Otherwise she would have jumped and finished me off.

"I read about it," she answers. "In that book of yours... How God was born an ordinary boy."

"You mean the Bible or what?"

To the fire extinguisher about five steps. Only five.

"Yes," she nodded. "Exactly. Did you read it too?"

"No," I say and take the first step. "But I know what it's about..."

"That boy was born to check whether you can be human and at the same time be above all that shit in your heads. He could easily rake in cash with healing and prophecies. Could drink wine for weeks on end—many people do that, no?"

I nodded and took a second step.

"But he was more than human!" Irma continued. "And I'm also a bit more than human! I've lived both Irma's life and the life of the great mycelium, free from your weaknesses. And I can give humanity a new dawn, lieutenant! Like that boy of yours. There's no sense refusing eternal life! Do you lose anything?"

"Freedom of choice," I say and take step number three.

The fire extinguisher is on the left. Very close.

"What's the point of choice if you always make mistakes with it? And if I offer you the perfect choice..."

"That moment is in the Bible too," I say and take the fourth step. "The last temptation or something like that."

"So you remember how the stubbornness of that boy ended? Or do you believe you'll also resurrect?"

She smiles, and you couldn't imagine a more predatory smile. Irma—is at lunging distance. A droplet of my blood has congealed on the tip of her claw, frozen as a black wart.

"No," I say honestly and take the last step. "You know why?"

Confusion appears on her face only for a fraction of a second—like a shadow from a bird that flew by. But it's enough for me.

The fire extinguisher said a low tired "bam" when I cracked her on the knee, and immediately sang a prolonged "ting"—when I hit her flat on the back. I was even grateful to her for those twenty-centimeter claws—without them there would be a feeling I was beating a defenseless naked woman.

Irma collapsed like a sack. There was no doubt she'd get up. I jumped over her and ran to the real Irma's cocoon.

The monster behind my back screeched furiously. Tearing the pin from the fire extinguisher, I, without looking, poured a tight stream of coolant into pseudo-Irma, and she rose in an inhuman, high jump. Like a mongoose. "If I'm wrong, she'll kill me"—this thought arose separately from emotions, by itself, and I know it's the truth. Throwing aside the fire extinguisher, I grab the real Irma's cocoon with my hands. The white threads, thin as hair, stretch somewhere deep, and I'm afraid they'll turn out to be too strong. Behind me sounds a guttural roar. With peripheral vision I see how, swinging her claws, the beast rushes in my direction, and with a jerk I yank the cocoon from its nest. The threads burst with an unpleasant sticky sound, and the cocoon falls to the floor. Simultaneously with it, as if stumbling, the clone falls at full force, and the claws freeze half a meter from my leg.

The woman in the cocoon convulsively inhales and sits up with a jerk, like a person who just woke up.

"Not a dream," she says, and I even shudder.

She waves her hands in front of her face, as if seeing them for the first time, moving her fingers as if playing an invisible harp.

"Not a dream," she repeats.

She looks around the room, but I'm not sure she sees anything—her gaze seems empty.

"Oh Lord..." she suddenly says on some convulsive, involuntary inhale and raises her eyes to me. "That's why she was in such a hurry..."

Honestly speaking, at that moment I didn't understand anything.

"You just came to your senses," I say and wonder how much she actually remembers. "We're at object 'Two-Zero' and..."

With a lightning movement she grabs me by the loops. So fast I didn't have time to recoil.

"Listen to me! Listen!" her tone is now icy. "You forgot about transmarginal inhibition. In the next day everyone will die!"

13

"Quiet, quiet..." I try to unhook her hand from my tunic, but it doesn't work right away. "Calm down. You need to calm down."

"Hear me, you're a biologist! Remember what 'transmarginal inhibition' means?"

"Yes, but it's an individual thing! It can't happen en masse."

She waves this off.

"It can! She calculated everything. The new sleep regime was introduced for everyone at once, so there's one starting point. And then—pure probability theory. Twenty percent will reach the nervous system overload threshold tonight. They'll just shut down, regardless of any signals."

The woman climbs out of the cocoon, and I see with what disgust she touches it. She's wearing the uniform of the first expedition. Dirty.

"Will they shut down simultaneously or how?" I ask uncertainly.

"I'm telling you, throughout the night! They're already gradually shutting down. And by morning every fifth will become a chimera. And by tomorrow evening there will be more chimeras than people. If we even survive. Give me the fire extinguisher!"

"What?"

"The fire extinguisher," she repeats and points with her finger.

I mechanically obey.

I'm still thinking about transmarginal inhibition. She approaches the naked body of her own clone sprawled on the floor and with a low chest "ha-ah," raising the fire extinguisher high, hits it on the head. An unpleasant, deafening crunch penetrates to the diaphragm.

"Stop!!!"

But she's already swinging again. The fire extinguisher descends on the same place—now the sound is like hitting a crushed egg.

"My God, stop!"

"She would have come back to life. But now—that's it. At least while I'm not in a cocoon."

Now she looks me over from head to toe.

"What's your name? Tell me, now I'll remember."

"Hillel."

"And your daughter?"

"Elza."

She nods.

"I'm Irma. Hold your breath, there's powder all around here," and she quickly strips off her uniform, remaining in just her underwear.

A black cloud of powder indeed rises from the clothing.

"Give me your tunic," Irma asks, covering herself with her hand, "because I'm like that one... With the apple."

"Eve."

"Right. I'll remember that too."

Putting on the tunic, she resolutely headed for the doors.

"Elza's cocoon is in another room," she briefly informs. "I'll show you now."

I grabbed the fire extinguisher, because there was nothing else resembling a weapon, and rushed to catch up.

"Listen... Do you know everything that Irma knew?"

"Don't you dare call her that. Irma—is me."

We passed by the corridor that led to the exit, and headed further, until she finally answered:

"I know everything, but I can't remember everything. I have an ordinary human brain."

She stopped at some doors.

"Here. Break it, she blocked the lock."

It's some technological room. The doors are ordinary, and with several blows of the fire extinguisher I easily knock them out.

The cocoon is very tiny. Impatiently I tear it with my fingers and even my teeth. The web gets into my mouth, I spit it out, and again... Finally I tear the edges of the hole and pull out such a delicate, such tender little body... She's in pajamas... Lord, what else—of course, in pajamas... I kiss her and I'm afraid: what if she doesn't wake up. But she opens her eyes.

"Daddy..."

I want to say "Elza," but I can't, because I'll burst into tears and scare her. And I just kiss her cheeks, forehead, eyes, cheeks again...

"Five minutes, Hillel," says Irma. "I can't give more. And explain to her that I'm not a monster anymore."

...The boat was landing with jeweler's precision—exactly on the narrow platform in front of the entrance to the research complex. I was still with the fire extinguisher. Irma held Elza by the hand, in her other hand she held an old radio—we'd dug it up in Gog's former room. I kept looking around, nervously expecting some next monster from children's nightmares to crawl out. The boat lightly touched the ground and just settled on its supports, we rushed to the cabin.

Alex threw open the door, but instead of the pear-shaped smiling physiognomy, the barrel of a Shiva peered gloomily from the cabin.

"Back," he growled.

We stepped back. I hid Elza behind my back. Alex stuck out his huge head and looked around, as if he wanted to check that there was no one here besides us. Then he threw something right on the ground.

"Here. All three. And now."

Three tester tubes.

We did it. Elza fussed a bit, but I persuaded her. Then we stood and phlegmatically shook the white tubes, not uttering a word. From the side, probably, all this had a chimeric appearance... The big guy was serious. His Shiva didn't lower its barrel for a second. Finally we showed him the tubes in turn—each with a green light.

"Well, thank God! Can't believe it!" throwing aside the Shiva, he jumped out of the boat and rushed to hug me. "Bro, that guy was the spitting image of you, I talked to him just like this! And he blew his fucking head off right in front of my eyes! In the airlock, I shit myself!"

"Alex... That was..." I couldn't answer because he pressed my face to his chest.

"Lord, if you knew what's happening in the camp! Phew... Irma! Are you even aware that he shot you?"

Finally Alex let me go.

"Alex..." I said again, catching my breath. "She's exactly aware... And that guy who shot himself in the head, that was me. But I'm asking you, no questions right now."

"No questions? You're out of your minds! Have you even seen that there's a damn big city of fucking aliens around you? And in the camp right now there's a shootout with zombies! A shootout, damn it, with zombies! Fucking hit in the head! And these shits, like, shoot pretty damn well!" here he sheepishly glanced at Elza. "Sorry... Anyway, you'll have to tell something. And quickly, because Vandlik went crazy and ordered to shoot down shuttles with Shivas."

"What?!"

"She's afraid a chimera with her appearance will show up and lower them. By the way, they say such a freak was really seen."

"How many did they shoot down?"

"Already three when I took off. So, I hope you have a plan. Because if not, I'd rather lie down and sleep before death. Seriously, I'm passing out on the go. I'll just die right now..."

Irma and I exchanged glances. She nodded.

"You'll sleep on the way to the linkor," I tell Alex. "How many Shivas do we have?"

"Three, as promised... Are you really seriously decided to bolt?!"

"No," Irma reassured. "We'll take everyone we can. But you have to do something."

"You know I hate the word 'something'?" Alex shifted anxiously from foot to foot, watching as I sat Elza in the boat.

Irma settled on the floor behind the pilot's seat.

"You won't like our plan," I admitted honestly. "But there are no other ideas. Get in. I'll be at the wheel."

About the time when Alex was landing the boat in the middle of object "Two-Zero," some woman in the camp fell asleep right in line at the border to the central sector. From the side it seemed she'd fainted.

In reality, her brain, saving itself from overload, activated the emergency mechanism—transmarginal inhibition. They spent a precious tester on her and, making sure it wasn't a chimera, dragged her to the medical station. This was a mistake. The medic checked whether she was choking on vomit and took on more severe patients. And when the turn came to her, she'd already transformed. And sank her teeth into the poor soul's throat.

The transporter driver was racing to the central sector on an urgent call, squeezing everything possible from the all-terrain vehicle. They said some woman in the medical station had bitten several people. They also gossiped that supposedly those she bit came back to life and also started attacking people. All this was like a movie plot. Or delirium. We don't know what exactly the driver thought about this. Obviously at some moment he found himself on the other side of consciousness—quickly, like a snap of fingers. Transmarginal inhibition. Raising clouds of snow spray, the transporter made a wide arc, ramming through the border, and at full speed crashed into the warehouse wall. The speed was high enough that most of the conquistadors inside the iron belly broke their necks. The mycelium extended invisible finger-hyphae into the cracks in the steel plating and revived them in about fifteen minutes—hastily and not having time to fully reanimate. It raised them exactly enough so they could run to the nearest people and sink their teeth and nails into them.

Killing zombies wasn't difficult, and they themselves soon died. Another thing was those who managed to sleep at least an hour. They transformed into fully formed, skilled monsters, and the skills acquired in life they applied excellently after rebirth too. A trained conquistador shot from a rifle equally well both for the honor of the Corps and for the glory of the Mycelium...

The last drop that broke the moral spirit of the colony's defenders was a shuttle crashed in the very center of the camp. The "black sleeves" who were shooting them down on Vandlik's orders did it skillfully. They disabled only one of four passive levitation engines—then the boat, tilting, slid in an inclined arc beyond the colony and awkwardly toppled into the taiga. Theoretically, if you survive the next few days, the shuttles can still be restored. At least about two... But someone shut down during the shooting, and stuck a long burst of synth-nuclear charges to the side of the boat hovering above him—completely took out two

engines along with the stabilizer. Spinning hysterically, the shuttle crashed right onto the former security service headquarters.

The black column of oily smoke raised into the sky—the last thing we saw before our boat pierced the cloud layer.

14

At noon by colony time, the linkor "Three Crowns of Cortez," so large it wasn't even assembled on Earth but in space, with the unhurried grace of a whale was entering the dense atmospheric layers of planet Ish-Chel. With every protrusion of its hull it drew a white contrail in the sky, and the plating had already begun to heat from friction, despite nearly minus fifty overboard. Linkors aren't designed for planetary landings about the same way a sailing galleon of that same Hernan Cortez wasn't designed to crawl belly-first onto coastal sand. But due to the colossal safety margin, the "Three Crowns" really could withstand the insane load during atmospheric descent. Or they might not withstand. Before first-class pilot Alex Pai actually performed such a landing, all these assumptions were no more than the subject of drunk arguments.

"I did this high! High!" Alex declared, though his movements were completely confident. "My God, I'm saying this to a dude who shot himself in the head, and a girl who hatched from a cocoon today..."

Elza was sleeping soundly in the flight engineer's chair, buckled in and covered with Alex's jacket. The other inhabitants of the "Three Crowns" we locked in the wardroom—eight biologists (they indeed cold-bloodedly systematized all information from the biostation and hospital), plus several technicians and four "sleeves."

When we docked our boat with the linkor, everyone on board was sure it was Vandlik returning with the "Crowns" crew. That's why nobody activated the drones. Most outrageously, the technicians had already started preparing the ship for the return jump.

We gathered everyone on the bridge and explained to them that flying off without evacuating those who survived—is immoral. Strangely, when you directly remind people about mercy like this, even their expression in their eyes changes. Especially if you do it with cocked synth-nuclear rifles, when everyone understands that any careless shot can pierce the captain's bridge dome and throw everyone to fucking hell out into open space.

..."Three Crowns" was noticeably shaking. The first warning lights lit up on the console.

"So how old are you, Irma?" large drops of sweat appeared on Alex's forehead, but obviously constant chatter allowed him to feel more confident. "And how to even count time in a cocoon? Because for sixty, you're just ice hot babe!"

He chuckled—with just his mouth, not for a moment taking his concentrated eyes from the monitors.

"The mycelium will try to get on the ship at any cost," said Irma, ignoring his joke. "Alex, how many testers will we have?"

"If they scrape together about twenty—that's good," Alex muttered.

"Without them we can't take the unconscious. We can't tell them apart."

"And those who are conscious? Any ideas?"

"We have a control question!" I reminded.

"And we'll back up with dogs," Irma's pupils ran busily back and forth, and then she resolutely shook her head. "Everything will be fine."

"Sure?"

"No," she answered honestly. "But I know for sure that to create a thinking copy you need to preserve the original... Like me. She only does this at object 'Two-Zero.' So..."

"Does she have a brain there?" Alex responded.

"Probably..." Irma frowned. "I don't remember."

Here we were shaken so hard our teeth chattered. The straps roughly threw me back into the seat.

"The water's coming in!" Alex shouted excitedly. "Nobody promised it would be easy!"

For ten minutes we were shaken so mercilessly that nobody uttered a word. I was afraid that if I unclenched my teeth, I'd simply bite off my tongue. In