The second message was expected.
"Seventy-seven. Where usual, as usual. Brothers."
Seventy-seven is my number. Brothers-divers are outraged…
According to the Code, I told my diver's name (also being the real one, by the way) to Anatol and Dick.
According to the Code, they filed a complaint against me: I intruded into their working territory and used weapons.
This can't be forgiven.
– Unfortunate… – I mumbled, – Bastard… What the hell are you doing with me?
Damned the moment when I was lured by the Medal of Complete License and rushed to rescue you!
– Vika, submersion, – I ordered, – Personality number seven… Healer.
I know three Romka's personalities, even four if to count the wolf. But today he appeared in a new one: a little scraggy youngster in glasses and with tousled hair. He stands by the bar, gazing around and in no way reminds an accurate Roman. I recognize him only when he drinks a glass of pepper vodka in one shot.
– Romka?
– Lenia?
We shake hands.
– Wanna drink? – asks the guy.
– No… I've… already, in reality.
– Alcoholic, – mumbles Roman. Yeah, says who? Considering his immunity to alcohol… – Len'ka, do you know in what deep shit you are?
– Yes. How deep?
– A complaint was filed against you… by somebody called Anatol' and Tosser. Details of the charge were not yet made public.
I nod. – I know about that.
– What, there are more troubles expected?
– Tons.
We often work together, I sympathize the werewolf and looks like Romka returns that.
– Lenia, what's the matter?
– Think a little.
Roman frowns and suddenly takes off the glasses nervously.
– Is "Warlock" your work? – he whispers.
– Good guess.
– It means that "Labyrinth"…
– Shhhhh… – I remember Shurka's words about spreading of information,
– Let's not talk about that.
Romka calls the bartender – today it is a program obviously – and refills his glass.
– Gee Len'ka, this is cool… – he mumbles, – Man you're in trouble… Up to the neck!
I suddenly understand that the werewolf is not scared by the severity of my troubles, neither does he worry about me – he's admired! He's ecstatic of such turmoil of action, of being himself lighted by a sheen of the scandalous fame. If we, being completely selfish, still can see an idol in another diver then I became one for Romka.
– If you need my help during sorting the things out, you'll get it, and not from me only!
Maybe I'll need that… maybe I'll get it. Roman is a very social guy, and a recognized leader in a narrow circle of divers-werewolves.
– I'll have to leave anyway, and for a long time, – I confess honestly.
Roman blinks quickly:
– What? From the Net? Are you serious?
It can't be more serious… I nod.
– Oh… and how will you live? – asks Romka in confusion.
Only we, the virtual world dwellers, can understand each other.
How can one live without the time, compressed by the Deep, without instant travels from the cool of the restaurant to the hot sand of the beach, without drawn jungles and imaginary mountains, without endless boiling flow of information, without ancient anecdotes and just finished books, without masquerade of bodies and costumes, without hundreds, thousands of friends and acquaintances living in all parts of the world?
How?
One must visit Deeptown to understand what he loses.
– I don't know Romka… But "Labyrinth" and Al-Kabar…
He nods. Everything is clear: elephants fear mice in tales only, and against these corporations we're not even mice, but just plant-louse.
– Lenia, if you need money… – says Romka suddenly. – I can return my part. You did almost all the job after all, and it was you who suffered. You'll need it if you're going to hide.
I shake my head, Romka is a good guy but I don't need such sacrifice.
– If possible… I'd like to ask you for a different thing…
– Whatever you need!
– I'll have to flee, to tangle my traces. I don't want to use hotels… if it'd be possible to stay at your place for a couple of months, until the noise calms down…
I don't know myself why do I ask for that. Maybe I just don't want to leave the Deep completely? To be able to watch the virtual world at least through Romka's eyes? To feel the electronic pulse, to swallow information…
– I won't be a burden… – I add.
But looking at Romka's face I understand that the offer didn't pass.
– No.
– Sorry. – I shrug, – I understand.
We fear each other anyway, it's easier for us to sacrifice huge money and to calm our conscience with that than to disclose who we are.
– You don't understand a thing… – mumbles Romka, – Do you want me to give you my real address? A city, a street, a house?
– No.
– I really can't receive you, – he averts his look, – These are… family problems.
We build palaces for ourselves in the Deep, but what about the real world?
For instance, I can accept guests despite the size of my apartment, but what if for the one of the same size Romka has a wife, mother in law and three snotty kids?
– Understood, – I put my hand on his shoulder, – I really understand, no offence.
But Romka looks past me anyway.
– I should go, – I say.
– Will you be at the meeting?
– Sure.
– And where are you going now?
It's a great temptation to keep mysterious silence and this surely would be the most reasonable choice, but I reply anyway:
– To scare the Elves a little. I need to go, Romka. See you.
When I leave "Three Piglets", he takes one more glass of vodka. Lord, this is atrocious! Or is he such a strong diver that doesn't feel intoxicated of so much alcohol?
Role-players don't advertise themselves much. There are exceptions like "Elvish Meadows" but this is more of a tourist attraction where the fairy tales' characters earn their living… or rather money to pay electricity and phone bills to be exact.
The server where Lorien is built belongs to somebody in Russia, this is all that I could find out without breaking laws, and the company that hangs there is mostly Russian– speaking. Of course I could drop by there as a tourist too, but who knows how this would end? This is just like if a Christian would arrive to Mecca and immediately drag himself to see the Black Rock in boots, hat and with a golden plated cross on the chest.
No, I'd better be a newbie who read too much Tolkien, Howard, Perumov and all those others who paid their tribute to the romantics of swords and dragons!
I get out of the cab by the shabby two floor lopsided wreck. I must admit that the squalor of the building is done well, it's much harder to imitate poverty and desolation than wealth and splendor.
The whole street here doesn't shock with beauty though: some blind buildings, warehouses, offices closed until better times. Role-players don't like noise. Vika isn't here for some reason, just some Elf hangs about the entrance: a fragile golden-haired creature of vague gender and age, dressed in light-green tights and darker jacket, a bow and a quiver with arrows is behind Elf's back.
I stop by the door and wait. The Elf squints his eyes at me, then takes a cigarette and lighter from the bosom. He inhales then releases a cloud of smoke. Smoking Elf isn't a look for the weak nerved person: looks like he would die after the very first inhalation, illustrating the harm nicotine might cause… Geez!
– Vi… – I start and cut off, what if it isn't her?
– Vi-vi! – says the Elf cheerfully, – Both Vi and Mi… Lenia?
The voice is changed too, must be a sound correction program. It looks as if Robertino Loretti have got into virtuality somehow.