"...you have failed the people and the party, Comrade Litovtsev," Argon finished speaking, contemplatively observing his handiwork. The body with the shattered skull slowly tipped over, falling from the chair, splashing the contents of its head even more. The explosive bullet, leaving a small, neat hole at the entrance to the forehead, had completely blown off the back of the head of the would-be traitor.
With a heavy sense of duty fulfilled, the operative put his PM back into its concealed holster, buttoned his jacket, and hurried to leave. The newly built house guaranteed that none of the neighbors had heard anything. The robots did their job too well. Besides, the operatives of "Argentum" didn't eat their bread in vain, having previously ensured the absence of extraneous ears and eyes.
Glancing at himself once more for any bloodstains, the officer carefully closed the door behind him, locking it with a duplicate key. Thanks to this, the executed man would not be discovered too quickly by his friends. Comrade Litovtsev was an antisocial personality and suffered from binge alcoholism. His absence wouldn't be noticed for another three or four days.
Leaving the entrance, Kuznetsov slowly walked out of the yard, merging into the stream of workers hurrying to work. A couple of dozen minutes of leisurely walking – and he completely dissolved into the flow, descending into the capital's metro.
The former military scout didn't really like liquidation missions, especially this kind. It was somehow easier in combat, especially in a firefight. That was psychology. It was easier for a person to pull the trigger than to hit someone with a stick. It was easier for an officer to shoot an enemy of the Motherland in a shootout than like this… There was no time for torment. The one who shoots better is right, and that's that.
On the other hand, the executed man was a complete scumbag. It wasn't enough for him to associate with black marketeers and help them with their dark dealings. To pull off the job properly, they had killed more than one person. That same comrade had pestered his neighbor, not letting the young girl pass, waiting for her in the entrance. A creature – he was a creature in everything, no matter how intelligent he looked.
Therefore, the dirtiest work fell to the surveillance, which tracked down such scum. The observers could only grit their teeth and watch, memorizing every detail. They couldn't even count the teeth of the fat boar who pawed the girl against her will.
"Report!" Argon commanded mentally. The "Mysl-S" neuroconnector allowed for mental communication in the imperfect neural network of the capital. From the outside, Argon simply slumped in his seat in the subway car, reading a newspaper, not engaged in conversation.
"Objects 'Six' and 'Nine' are in the designated sector. Working," Radon reported briefly.
"Tracking 'Five'," Krypton added.
"'Three' has been liquidated," Xenon reported.
"To the rest – gather at the 'Library' station. Target 'twenty-second'," Kuznetsov ordered, mentally counting the remaining bullets. Satisfied that each scumbag would receive their rightful twenty grams of lead, the commander of "Argentum" relaxed, enjoying the feeling of peace under the rhythmic sway of the car…
There was absolute silence. The thickened atmosphere was broken only by the ticking of the mechanical clock, swinging its pendulum in time with its work, clicking like a cold metronome. The mechanism diligently measured time, unknowingly counting down to… If they could, the clock would not know what it was counting down to, just like its owner.
Filatova had been sitting in her apartment for hours, a large one built with Stalinist grandeur, and hypnotizing her Romanian wall unit. The piece of furniture, obtained through great connections, did not bring joy to her heart, but seemed to ooze blood and dirt. The bright dinnerware and crystal glasses seemed to mock her, playing with beautiful reflections in the rays of the rising sun.
Larisa fought the urge to drown herself in the shower, simultaneously scrubbing her skin with a pumice stone. How she longed to be under the cold drops and scrape off all the dirt that had stuck to her skin and threatened to spoil her soul. To inflict pain on herself, feeling how the exposed flesh was wounded by such cold drops, granting physical pain along with moral release from pain. The woman had not done this only because of the thoughts that overwhelmed her.
She hadn't slept for several days, but her mind, burning with thoughts, had no sleep in any brain. The young doctor didn't even pay attention to her numb body, which sat carefully on the very edge of the armchair. The suffering of her soul, in which the fragments of ideals and beliefs were burning out, was far greater than the pain in her stagnant muscles…
The woman had assisted Sechenov during the operation. She could swear that the Nechaev couple was an enchanted pair. The implant, designed to restore missing parts of their brains, was installed only on the third attempt in both of them. At some point, Larisa even thought… Ha. She thought many things, but Sechenov had once again achieved the impossible. His skill and sheer stubbornness, which had already surpassed determination, had once again broken down the barricade.
Larisa didn't know why she decided to read the documentation for the device that had been modernized by her and her idol, which until then she had only seen in the hands of her mentor, Academician Zakharov. Especially now, although she could have done it right during the development of the polymer expander.
Until then, the woman had only used the working documentation, not delving into all the intricacies of the accompanying documentation compiled by the development team, with her teacher's remarks. There was no need to delve into the device's operation. A routine procedure for installation. All the testers from the "Argentum" squad had passed through her hands. She had installed "Iskra" for everyone, not truly guessing what it did.
The doctor didn't ask questions. Why? She worked for the good of the Motherland, the party, and the working people! All for the good of all humanity! What a lie that was!!! Others simply didn't speak. Why, when everyone knows, but shyly keeps silent about it? Nothing would change from this, and the system would continue its ruthless course, working like clockwork. It wouldn't notice your resistance, and if you were slow, it would grind you up with its gears.
Only now, the words of her mentor and superior, Academician Zakharov, took on new colors and fell on fertile ground. All thanks to the hypocrisy of Khariton Fadeevich himself!
The academic was a difficult person. He didn't like people and didn't let anyone get close to him. It was rumored that there was no friendship between him and Sechenov, only business relations. Zakharov derived too much pleasure from scientific activity, immersing himself in the mysteries of the universe. This was a plus for the neurobiologist, but not for the person.
It was difficult at first, but the girl found an approach to the honored scientist, gradually gaining his trust. At times, he even forgot himself and said all sorts of… strange? Frightening? Zakharov lacked recognition, the woman thought then, as passionate about science as the recognized beacon.
Therefore, she calmly accepted all the pronouncements about power, people, and their greed. Larisa knew about her patron's misanthropy, so she wasn't surprised, continuing to work. After all, the party was counting on them!
The last piece of the mosaic fell into place, shattering her rose-colored glasses. The party was counting on them. Ordinary, routine words for the entire USSR turned out to have a too sinister nature. They said they were meant to prevent the chains of capitalism from tightening around the necks of the working people? Only the party officials themselves wished to acquire an obedient herd instead of free people.
"Collective 2.0" turned out to be far from what it seemed. She had justified herself for a long time. That all sacrifices were for the greater good. And thanks to the documentation she read, Larisa understood: it was planned from the beginning! Everyone was tainted! Even she…
"...only a little adjustment is needed," Sechenov said thoughtfully, removing his latex gloves.
"But the operation was performed perfectly!" Filatova objected, who had assisted the academic. "Brain functions…"
"I know, Larisa. I know," the Wizard said, a little tiredly. "You yourself saw the commission's conclusions. We will fix their bodies, but their minds… They remember both fire and pain. The treatment will be incomplete. We can make slight corrections, as the functionality allows…"
"This is inhuman! To decide for them without their consent!"
"We are doctors. It is our duty to save lives… even from their memories."
"But… but! You can't do that!!! It's immoral!"
Sechenov nodded to some thoughts of his own, pausing for a moment before replying: "On the path of a doctor, a person freezes on a thin line between their conscience, morality, and the patient's life. You are too young, Larisa. It's good that you haven't experienced war to the same extent as I have. You can condemn me, Comrade Filatova," the academic's voice filled with coldness and disappointment, "but you have never had an immoral choice, and I hope you never will. When you are involved in sorting the sick, segregating death… it is very difficult to remain as you are! Sometimes a doctor has a choice: who will live. The choice. To treat someone who is healthier in body but mentally ill, so that they cut their wrists the next day, unable to bear the burden of life, or to take on an almost hopeless case. For me, there is no choice. I fight for everyone, only I don't engage in battles that are already hopeless."
The last phrase struck with concentrated hypocrisy. Coming from the lips of one who had performed a miracle and assembled two corpses, albeit maimed, but alive, it looked terribly hypocritical…
The owner of the apartment groaned and curled up, pulling her legs into the armchair. She felt very bad. She wanted to take up as little space as possible. Everything around was built on lies and blood, so that the power-hungry creatures would gain even more power. Lies! Everything around is lies!
Foundations crumbled with a crunch. Reason shed the illusion of faith. As the old Larisa, a Komsomol member, an excellent student, an athlete, and simply a brilliant doctor, died, a new one was born. The seeds of doubt, once sown by Shtokhausen's behavior, nurtured by Zakharov, and cultivated by Viktor, had sprouted, finally blooming when the thirty-year-old woman's mind accepted reality.
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo!" the cuckoo cried, counting the time, marking the final collapse of the former Larisa.
The words of the former German sounded now in the young woman's blood. The German comrade, who had not lived since birth, knew firsthand all the shortcomings of the USSR, while the young genius saw them, albeit through the eyes of his mechanized creations. The whisper of his own and others' thoughts thundered like a tocsin in the mind of the broken woman. It seized her mind, launching its tentacles into her soul, finally extinguishing the girl's light.
The renewed Filatova wanted to do something wild, something she would never have done before… The thought was like thunder. She jumped up from the armchair, knocking it over, and shot into the bathroom. Stripping off her checkered dress and underwear, looking in the mirror, Larisa decisively took the first strand of hair and cut it off with scissors. Her shoulder-length hair fell onto the white tiles. With each click of the scissors, her face became more masculine. Softness, kindness, and naivety left it. Malice flared in her eyes, with flecks of determined madness…
At work, her colleagues met her with disapproving nods. Only two days had passed, and nothing remained of the former Filatova. Her dresses were replaced by trousers. Her hair was dyed bright colors. The words coming from her became sharp and angry.
The head of the personnel department, with a heavy heart, made a note in her personal file a month later, lowering her social rating, stopping her career's ascent. He saw how her sharp mind, which had given much to science, had begun to sow discord. Filatova, like a puppeteer, skillfully quarreled the team. She became dangerous. The system did not need such… comrades.
The punitive flywheel of the state machine was gaining momentum again. If the purge of the 1930s was frightening, then now it unfolded almost imperceptibly for ordinary citizens of the USSR. The beginning of a new purification of the party and the working people from saboteurs and traitors to the Motherland was marked by an incident at an all-union factory.
Although the so-called saboteurs could not be found at the "3826" enterprise, thanks to the initiated inspection by the "Sh" department, a network of theft of strategically important products was uncovered. A problem common to all union enterprises surfaced – pilferers, closely linked to black marketeers.
The brown plague had not only reduced the country's population but had also dealt a blow to the economy. Thanks to state policy, people were provided with necessities. No one starved. Everyone was clothed. There were goods on the shelves in the stores. Only everything was the same, or there was the necessary minimum, and that's it.
For example, when entering a shoe store, one could see ten types of products. Good products, made according to all GOST standards from good materials, comfortable, even with the possibility of fitting them to the foot in five minutes in the store, but not diverse. In this "but" lay the problem.
As soon as something new or special appeared in the store, it inevitably stuck to the hands of the trade workers. No punitive sanctions stopped them. Even with the law "On Three Ears of Wheat," they carried away everything that wasn't nailed down. The saying: "Everything around is collective farm – everything around is mine!" did not appear out of nowhere.
The situation at the factories was somewhat different. Tools, materials, or finished products were also taken from there, but there was also the factor of "restoring proletarian justice." For a factory worker, the state was a "bourgeois." With declared universal ownership, in addition to the above, there was a feeling of lack of oversight. How could one not take a piece of fabric or a chisel from the factory under such circumstances?
There were also those who amassed entire "underground" fortunes from this. Local authorities knew about this and did nothing, and sometimes openly covered up the criminals.
With Khrushchev's rise to power, everything became even worse. The departure from NEP left honest workers with no alternative at all. Before, there was a choice: buy in a store for a ruble or go to an artel and buy for two, and if there was none there either, then buy under the counter through "connections and for a lot of money." The liquidation of "bourgeois survivals" only spurred the desire to possess the benefits of a "bourgeois lifestyle." And the new government tolerated this. Up to a certain point.
When information about the incident at the enterprise reached the right people, the punitive operation began to unfold…
But Comrade Sechanov himself intervened. The Minister of Cybernetics, having rethought much recently, decided to act more subtly. Seeing the ineffectiveness of punitive measures, he proposed his solution to the problem at the next party meeting, which, to Comrade Molotov's displeasure, was accepted. Comrade Khrushchev was too pleased with the "scientist council of the all-union enterprise, which had become closer to the people."
While the upper echelon of the coordinated system of social property theft was being cleared out, from the assembly line of enterprise "3826" marched in neat columns... "Rafiks." Many "Rafiks."
Within a month, they were in every store, factory, and collective farm. For another month, people couldn't stop rejoicing at such good helpers. And then the "Rafiks" got down to business, with all their persistence and meticulousness.
Within a month, everyone got used to them, and the workers considered them just another machine tool, as if they were furniture. This was exactly what the cunning machines needed. They saw everything...
"Comrades, where are you taking three kilograms of copper wire?" the robot, for some reason standing near the entrance, asked in a nasal voice, precisely where the fence had sagged so conveniently.
"None of your business, tin can!" one of the three local drunks, whose bonuses had been cut again, rudely replied. And the "pipes" were burning, demanding treatment.
"If you don't have a release form, then I am forced to detain you until the circumstances are clarified with your foreman," the stubborn mechanism stated in a calm, nasal voice.
"You, a weakling, are going to detain us?!"
Five minutes later, the robot was escorting three neatly crumpled men to the guardroom...
And there were countless such scenes. The "Rafiks" became a nightmare for the worker carrying something from his factory, the cunning warehouse manager, or the overly quick store manager. If all the documents were not in order, then don't even try to take out a single nail from state property. Add to this the robot's "quietness and agility" when it wanted to...
At first, production stopped for a couple of days to a week, but then everyone got used to the machines that had occupied the necessary places. The output of the factories increased manifold in some enterprises. Thanks to the robots' reports, the state plan began to be compiled more realistically. A connecting link appeared between the "ground" and the "power."
Many managers, deputies, and workers were sent to places not so distant, to live on a state diet.
This was the first blow. The widespread introduction of cameras and detector frames was the second. It didn't solve the problem, but it reduced its severity. The deficit of various goods, which threatened to turn into a simple deficit, did not disappear. But the scientists also thought about this.
Following the example of state MTS, which allowed collective farms not to buy expensive equipment, a Mobile Universal Automatic Assembly Line was developed on the "Icarus" platform – "Minerva" or M52-UASL.
The very name revealed the essence of the project. "Minerva" was essentially a small factory that could produce one type of product and was managed by a brigade of twenty specialists who monitored product output and programmed technical tasks. The main feature of this factory, besides mobility, was that the production nomenclature could be changed in literally a day.
This was achieved thanks to achievements in botany, hydrodynamics, and microelectronics. The entire production worked thanks to the force of liquid, accelerated by pumps, through a network built in the image and likeness of a mushroom's mycelium. The main computer, using microcontrollers based on fish brains, controlled the heart of the complex. The mobile factory was powered by a reactor enclosed in a polymer jacket, which prevented the working body from overheating and radiation from escaping.
The cost of such miniature factories was relatively small. Thirty units cost as much as one medium-sized factory with a thousand workers. Thanks to its versatility, the mobile factory was undemanding to the quality of raw materials and did not require intermediate products.
The disadvantage was also the advantage of "Minerva" – its assembly line. If the factory made vodka, it made only vodka. No tinctures, no wine. Only vodka. The same applied to cartridges, galoshes, and everything else. Because of its universality, it was a quarter slower in product manufacturing.
Based on the universal assembly line, a universal assembly station – "Hestia" – was developed. This small apparatus was inferior to "Samodelkin" in all respects, but it was cheap to produce and less demanding of the operator. By setting it up as a sewing workshop, any vocational school graduate could sew a full and diverse wardrobe for forty people during a working day. Their supply to "Service Centers" would solve the problem of the deficit of consumer goods to a minimum, along with the work of "Minerva."
According to the scientists' calculations, along with the cleanup of the main figures in the black market organization, the crisis would be resolved by the summer of 1960. And until then, it was necessary to change the person himself and his attitude towards labor. It is not enough to give a tool into one's hands. It is necessary to instill a desire to use it for good. To raise general culture and production culture. Without this, even a magical tablecloth-self-cooker will not help. Without a systematic approach, it will simply be stolen or become unprofitable due to unskilled planning and management.
The commissioning of the "Collective 2.0" neural network would help with this, but something needed to be done for another three years before that.
While the party was thinking about how to use the entire situation not only to solve the problem but also for its own benefit, Sechanov took a step towards his dream.
Mikhail Stockhausen, the deputy head of the enterprise, Dmitry Sechanov's right-hand man and errand boy, was in a strange state of mind. He sifted through the events of the past three weeks, trying to find an answer to his unspoken question, but each time it slipped away unnoticed. Flipping through his notebook once more, he closed it with irritation, slamming the cover. He got up from his desk and decided to take a walk to clear his head. He thought better on the move. After suffering from the "Brown Plague," which he, like many survivors, had endured more than once, the doctor's mind began to work differently than before the illness.
The man frowned. His once perfect memory, tenacious as a good German Shepherd, had now become lazy, like an English Bulldog that had eaten all the bacon from its owner's table. While key events still remained in it, trifles flew through like through a sieve, getting lost in the back alleys of his mind. And it was on trifles that his "game" was built.
He examined every event, no matter how insignificant, through the prism of benefit. Otherwise, he would not have climbed to the top in Nazi Germany, would not have survived its fall, and would not have risen again in the USSR. Even his origin, which would have cost others their lives at that time, did not prevent him from starting his ascent when he was still Josef...
He knew how to subtly sense people, playing with words, facts, and hints with the grace of a virtuoso. The mask of a friendly, slightly timid intellectual deceived most. Many paid for it with their careers or their heads, but Stockhausen treated them with cold disdain. Far from political views, he even used science as a step to rise...
Walking through the park, laid out near the administrative building of "Chelomeya," the former biologist grimaced. In the distance, he saw Zinaida and decided to change his route. Their "parting" had been too stormy. If Comrade Sechanov had been honored with a well-aimed blow to the eye, the scientist did not get off so easily. The enterprise head's right hand was publicly humiliated.
"Hello, maggot," Zinaida announced in a cold voice, punching the German in the solar plexus as he stood up from the cafe table to embrace her.
Before Mikhail could take another breath, a steel female hand grabbed him through his pants by his male dignity, squeezing so hard that "omelet" almost flowed down his leg.
"Y-y-y-y!" Comrade Stockhausen howled, bending over even more, grabbing the deceptively thin limb of the enraged woman with both hands. For which he immediately received a blow to the ear in return.
Grabbing the injured organ of hearing, Muravyova twisted it, causing another round of howling, and yanked upwards. Not waiting for the desired result – the straightening of the German – she grabbed him by the nose, using two fingers as a hook, pulling him by the nostrils to the level of her face, contorted with still cold rage.
"I warned you, you dog soul, not to look at any skirt?" she asked in a "tender" whisper. "You're lucky I didn't have time to insert your little mushroom... I would have cut it off and fed it to you like your Munich sausage! And you would have eaten it, purring and whistling with your remaining teeth! Why are you silent, scientist, not a warrior? Swallowed your tongue or did your conscience kick in?! Or are you mute? You can keep riding your 'tin' toys to all sorts of... Don Juan, damn it. If I see you in my neighborhood again, you'll only be able to march on the parade ground in the evenings!"
At these words, the woman stopped the execution, letting go of the man, causing him to fall like a sack onto the asphalt. Walking about five meters away, her elegant heels clicking loudly, to the surprised glances of the cafe visitors, who had become involuntary observers of the show unfolding on the summer veranda, she turned around, causing the hem of her beautiful sundress to fly up, saying:
"So you know. German dick is so-so... Domestic producer is better!" – finally crushing the man's self-esteem.
Zinaida departed with dignity, leaving Mikhail and the visitors. As soon as the woman disappeared around the corner, the gossip began. Many were surprised by such a quick reprisal, and many by the feminine image of a "soldier in a skirt," who had dressed decently for once and not in uniform...
Then his memory failed him. The previous evening, he got carried away complimenting Larisa Filatova, forgetting that he himself had "pulled strings" to get Zinaida a ticket to the Maya Plisetskaya Theater... And if Petrov, who accompanied the girl, didn't understand that his sweetheart was being subtly courted, then Zinaida, who had apparently heard everything perfectly, understood perfectly. Given these circumstances, it remained a mystery to Mikhail why she didn't beat him up right there but waited until the next day, but he didn't ask.
This was a month ago. Their "relationship," which she had initiated, lasted just as long.
"Stress," Zinaida said, shrugging her shoulders, to the man, dried out by her temperament, who was as pale as a snow-white bed. That day, her daughter and son-in-law were moved to a general ward, following the results of a groundbreaking experimental operation to adjust their implants.
It was then that the Wizard's three bodyguards appeared – modified ballerina robots. Although only two of them could be called that. Their male version was popularly nicknamed "The Brute" for a reason.
There was something familiar about these "Left," "Right," and "Brute," as if he had seen them somewhere before, but his failing memory couldn't tell him where. And he wasn't worried about it.
Mikhail wasn't too concerned. His thoughts were occupied by Filatova's strange behavior. Using her position, she didn't let most reports get past her, but some still ended up on Sechanov's desk. This was the case a week ago, until Filatova "updated her image." Some might start asking questions of a certain kind. If before she was only accused of violating labor discipline, now she was being attributed outright sabotage. And this is not good for a man's career if he still wants to see her as his passion.
After thinking, the man concluded that Comrade Petrov was to blame for everything. He had too bad an influence on the object of his admiration. Therefore, he needed to be finally framed. No person – no problem. And he would comfort the grieving woman. Moreover, Viktor didn't consider the right people his comrades, which is why he was very frank with him. The former German felt frankly sorry to waste such a tool that could be used as a scapegoat, but what wouldn't one do for love?
He didn't force Viktor to cooperate with the FBI, but just nudged him towards it, taking his small revenge on the entire Soviet Union. Mikhail really didn't like it when people tried to kill him, and he perceived the Brown Plague as exactly that – an attempt, knowing perfectly well who had released it.
Zinaida sat on the porch of her reconnaissance module, sipping scorching hot tea "in passing," occasionally taking a bite from a huge sandwich with butter and sugar. "Not a merchant's wife to drink tea 'on the house'!" she grumbled when someone put sugar directly into the cup, spoiling, in her opinion, the whole taste of the drink.
The "bugs" placed throughout the Enterprise warmed her pride, diligently supplying her with rumors.
Muravyova's pride was pleasantly warmed by the tales about the "German." She knew how to take revenge and even committed sacrilege by dressing like a capital city fashionista, but who would have known how much her legs hurt from those infernal clogs... It was a different matter with кирзовые boots! You could walk through swamps, and it was convenient to count the enemy's teeth... But it was worth it! The woman understood perfectly well that against the backdrop of her outfit, the "dog's" shame would not be forgotten for a long time.
She already had more than enough to do! She needed to get her daughter and son-in-law back on their feet! They were supposed to be discharged soon, and, as the doctors said, only diet and physical exercises were left.
"Don't worry, I'll give you a young fighter's course... you talentless ones. You thought you could scare an old woman!"