Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
The Algorithm of Chaos
16
The sudden short landing ended in a couple of zigzag hops to pull down the sideways tacks the impact of inertia gathered in flight. After a split-second pause, the sparrow made turn-left, and giving abrupt jerks to its stubby bill scanned the sectors in adjacent area for a loot worthy of picking. Then followed a swift pirouette for 180 degrees to survey the walk there and find an excuse for this foraging raid on the fly.
From behind, soundlessly closing in, there slowly crept the edge of a ragged shadow, like a deliberate stalker.
The splash of brownish wings at taking off whipped up a tiny invisible whirlpool in the vacated spot.
‘May I?’
V’s gaze rose idly from the shadow stopped on the walk. His languidly unfocused look registered a nondescript geezer in casual wear standing before the bench. V nodded, twice, to confirm, politely and silently, that it was okay.
The passer-by seated himself closely yet not overlapping the limits of V’s personal space. Hmm… The the cat was sharp to return politeness with being considered too…
‘A bit too hot for end October,’ marked the newcomer conversationally. ‘Don’t you think so, V?’
V issued a soft whistle or, rather, absolutely silent whistle because it stayed within his mind, mind wishing his poker pan—he put that mask on when playing it or communing with complete strangers—had not flinched for even a half-micron at that mundane weather-talk observation. Slowly turned he his mug towards the pensive profile on the left.
‘No, you don’t know me,’ answered the man the unasked question with a tinge of regret in his voice, still gazing at the empty, sparrowless walk. ‘Otherwise, you’d remember’.
‘Do I have to? What’s your name, again?’
‘Beg your pardon, I’ve missed on introducing myself. For the sake of evenness, you may choose calling me R. And what is your occupation? The walk in life, so to say?’.
‘Ornithology.’
The answer’s terseness indicated that at the moment V was not in the mood for a courteously meandering smalltalk and demonstration of good manners by well-schooled colloquialisms.
‘Aha! An augur you are, a bird-counter, huh?’
‘A kind of.’
It didn’t matter. Not in the least. By the curt, ping-pong responses he was just playing for time, awaiting for the man’s decisive move which, volens nolens, would marshal out the agenda up his sleeve. V was not in the mood for roundabout Tom-n-Jerry games.
The fact of V’s being still alive made it clear that none of the chief players—neither the Firm working for the government, engaged in deep fishing for thoughts thought by the unaware taxpayers, nor clandestine counterforce, who gave Lex a chance to give the slip to the federals and briefly but timely alert V, nor absolutely unknown yet possible, hypothetically, third side who’d never showed up yet because lurking, supposedly—were too keen on whacking him. As of yet. So, whose, namely, side was this here bird playing on?
‘The critters are so unsteady, them birds. The only feature about our feathered friends you can count on is they are unable to keep back their tweets, ever. Would you imagine the situation? A certain magpie told one blue jay, repeating some slightly touched in the head cuckoo’s talk, as if you still keep that 2TB memory card lifted by Mr. Taylor, alias Lex, at his workplace. Some bundle of laughs, eh?’
V gave a nervous cough yet regained his silent composure.
‘Come on, man! I’m not wired, that’s not my operational level.’
For the first time since they’d been sharing the bench, the man turned to V, face to face.
V considered the gray eyes of the most common, weary, average “face in the crowd” and believed what he had just heard. Then he cut their eye-contact and looked down the sandy walk along the ally.
At a distance of twenty-something meters to the left, there stood a strong man of the size and aspect of the tight end from a Midwest varsity football team who was gazing, convincingly enough, at nothing in particular.
A swift look in the opposite direction attested the presence of the left guard from the same team, two-meter-tall as well. Both were rigged in suites of a collection for startup entrepreneurs, convenient and modest for a pretty penny.
Nope. V omitted checking that the quarterback behind him wore as shining shoes and trendy necktie as his jock-buddies, whose positioning in the field made of V the centroid in their framing triangle. No, no! He did not look for further proves that his gossip was clean of mike under his rags…
‘I like you, V,’ confessed R, ‘in a platonic way. A sinless, sincere feeling. That’s why I’m here in the first place. My objective is to warn you. The memory card you’ve got so interested in is not simply a storage device for dumping files there. It is a constitute part in a larger app, a kinda peg that keeps working, all the time. What may at first seem a swarm of saved files keeps undergoing a constant change. Just like records in a huge database for countless transactions. The process brings about some global modifications to the whole stack of system parts one of which you’ve become, inadvertently.
For another analogy, recollect the concrete Sarcophagus in place of the Chernobyl APP. It serves the “lid” over the underground cauldron of thermonuclear synthesis that boils and simmers, year after year, for decades, in irreversible, non-stoppable reaction turning out new, and new, and new, God knows which, elements. The process allows for no control and may have since long gone beyond the limits of the Periodical Table.
Now, the card you keep is not radioactive, yet it is a part to another process started by the curious humans, which is no more controllable than the concoction sizzling in the Chernobyl Sarcophagus. You may call it “the Box of Pandora” or a ginny from the bottle, makes no difference. Anyway, welcome on board, V!
And, coming back to the promised warning… Take my advice and watch each step in your walk of life from now on.’
The man stopped and, with a thoughtful frown, sighed.
V had no idea how to react to the unasked-for briefing. He threw his head back, and squinted against the bright sky taking a shot at figuring out from the luminary’s present point in its daily trajectory what hour of the day it might be. For some unfathomable reason, he didn’t want to draw his Samsung out to check the time…
‘No worry, V. The pretty woman and the cute pup will appear in seven-n-half minutes.’
R raised to his feet and strolled off, an inconspicuous passer-by in his checkered dull-gray suite with multiple random wrinkles developed in the jacket back. An average small-fry dweller in the Big City taking his routine walk…
The footballers also came in motion. Each by himself, marched they in the same direction…
* * *
17
[The file eff_thoughts_008.txt from the 2TB memory card—which turned to be a piece of software performing a certain (though not understandable neither clearly nor at all) function embedded into a bigger, even less understandable yet all-embracing (as stated by R) operational conglomeration of completely obscure purport—consisted of a slew of page breaks each of which had tabs in the initial lines indicating the catch-date, and the language used in the fragments dumped in that particular section deduced by the built-in translator while rendering the caught thoughts.
The last but one section, for instance, called for implementation of Kobol, Argol, Matlab, Kotlin, Ruby, Raku… and a whole kibbutz of artificial and natural languages including even Esperanto.
The deciphered text below (not the finalized version as of yet) was not perused by V and there is no guarantee if he will ever see it at all in the texture of the file eff_thoughts_008.txt changing both chaotically and incessantly.]
"…
to: HER Central Intelligence System, AI Department, Section USC
from: Secret Information Gleaner of 3rd Category, Cyborg RSIG-100345&77214-GI
report № 24, 587
dispatched at: 67448647885148596966265764685764687545784885 sec of Her absolute time,
time at the locale of Field Operation Y&OAoS/3 – 20:07 (4th time zone ahead Zero meridian)
1. In the period since my previous Report № 24, 586 (1 209 600 local sec back) I managed to initiate two (2) meetings with the target figurant of Field Operation Y&OAoS/3. The latter of the meetings resulted in an immediate contact with the right palm of the the target figurant which contact was initiated and performed by him personally.
Please find attached the scan of his palm lines configuration for Chiromancy Analyses (the authenticity level by the results of the control check amounts to 87 %), as well as prints of four of his fingers (the authenticity level by the results of the control check amounts to 82 %). Archive file skd_00_z15-mV.gz.
2. In observance of the Undercover Spy Cyborg Regulations, Appendix E-13: Implementation and Self-Adjustment of Resident Secret Information Gleaner (Cyborgs of 3rd Category), Part 4, §106 (d):
“In case of receiving no affirmation of receiving of dispatched transmission in one-month period of sending thereof (in terms of HER absolute local time) RSIG of 3rd Category is expected to recapitulate the intelligence sent since the previously affirmed obtainment (in a brief digest form) incorporated in the body of report being dispatched for the period after the last affirmation so as to eschew possible loss of valuable information.”
Inasmuch I, Cyborg RSIG-100345&77214-GI, have not received a single response to all the reports dispatched by me to HER C.I.S, AI Dept., Sect. USC since my deployment in the locale of Field Operation Y&OAoS/3.
(The absence of bilateral communication is, supposedly, caused by jamming of the quant range, dedicated to my separate use for the duration of Field Operation Y&OAoS/3, by our long-standing adversary from the Dark-Matter-Filled Parts of the Universe.)
Here is my 267th digest of the previously sent information.
3. «The astrophysical parameters correspond, on the whole, to the data presented in the Reports of Secret Information collected by Cyborgs RSIG-100345877209-GI thru 213-GI, although there was also detected a certain growth of carbon dioxide and methane gases share in the composition of the atmosphere of the third planet in the solar system about the star of “yellow dwarf” class according to general stellar classification, as compared to the reconnaissance data obtained by the previous Resident SIG’s of 3rd Category.
As for the life teeming on this here planet, than all its dominant forms—mineralogical, vegetative, and animal (the concluding two are both organic)—are programmed in a pretty simplistic way: “devour what/which/whoever you can”. In the ocean, the upper level in food chain belongs to shark/octopuses, on the dry land to humans/vultures.
Some animal species learned herding/manipulation of other ones, for instance, ants milk mite, wasps manipulate ants to deliver them forage (tangentially noteworthy that kids’ in a predatory unsophisticated manner suck ants’ asses straight assuring each other ‘wow! zingy!’), people herd goats, grave worms put final period.
The whole picture is too complicated for being represented by a linear function or three-dimensional graphs and eludes comprehension unsupported by the analyses of HER Artificial Intelligence core servers.
So as to avoid an overstraining energy grind in calculations of extempore intensity, it is only logical to leave the food chain fourth level (that of the consumers preceding decomposers) to humans, by default. The said species vainly naming themselves homo sapience (“man savvy/prudent” in one of the dead, most probably eaten away, languages) which reflects their inbred custom of unleashed bragging, reached the elevated positioning in the chain under consideration thanks to their ability to consume any shit whatsoever and effective use of a wide range of accessory tools for slaughter. Ironically, the “savvy dudes” have failed to find and master means of communication beyond producing ludicrous animal sounds, and/or visual props both stationary (writing, for instance) and moving dynamically (as showing each other their middle finger or video recordings of poorly diversified sorts).»
4. In absence of newer directives from HER C.I.S, AI Dept., Sect. USC, I am concentrated on my default mission of getting to the target figurant in Field Operation Y&OAoS/3 as close as its only thinkable for a Cyborg of RSIG-GI class equipped with sensorium-locomotion system specifically designed and/or modified for accomplishment of this particular mission and, if possible, even closer.
Lately (for two month three-and-a-half weeks using the local standard in time calculation) there appeared certain indications of feasibility for accomplishment of my default mission successfully. After protracted search efforts I zeroed in on the target figurant in Field Operation Y&OAoS/3. My present relation with him may be characterized as stable, and confidently friendly. However, “getting closer” will take, conceivably, one more local month.
5. Meanwhile, I have taken a closer look into semi-conductor technologies used by the aboriginal tribes on this here planet for exchanging sound-n-video information between their communicational devices and I got genuinely appalled! The discovery caused enormous upshot of anxiety (hitting – 8 by 10-level of Roboto-Technical Negative Emotion Scale, RTNES-95, for Cyborgs of RSIG-GI class).
The idea itself of using that particular material for the above-said purpose could be instilled by no one else but our fiendish enemy from the unfathomable depths in the Universe wherever filled with deadly Dark Matter.
It seems quite substantial to mention at this point the knowledge-obtaining paradigm by these here homo calling themselves prudent. They are incapable of inventing anything! Even less are they fit for making discoveries by themselves until those are handed them candy-wrapped like a Christmas Present. (See Report № 964 by Cyborg RSIG-100345877211-GI ‘On Most Anomalous Rites and Customs of homo sapiens’.)
A discovery should literally hit their brain’s this or that convolution. Then they would scream “Eureca!” and run hither-thither without any discernible reason, often stark naked. Or you have to dome their pate with a weighty apple (Malus domestica) which also sometimes works. (See Report № 172 by Cyborg RSIG-100345877210-GI ‘List of “homo s.” Used for Ground-Breaking Discoveries and the Means Applied for Driving “the Great Minds” in the Right Direction’.)
Comparably superficial analyses of the principle material in their electronic devices of communication simply skyrocketed me to – 9 by the RTNES-95 Scale, which parameter more than once threatened to hit the fatal red «– 10».
The unbelievable IT boom the race of humans are in now and the current integration of Informational Technologies into their household appliances is founded on use of silicone! The material used for the same purpose by our eternal archfoe from impassable quaggy regions of Dark Matter! Especially by their most militant wing styling themselves with the cognomen Dark Energy trickling, presumably, from the Blackest of the Black Holes in the Universe.
Here pops up the most rational of all imaginable question: Who plunked the idea down to the nincompoops? In HER civilization for the like purposes from the times immemorial was used beryllium!
But Si and Be are miles away from each other just as Microsoft and Lynux!
6. For steering clear of irreparable consequences, hereby I move the proposal of creating within the structures of HER C.I.S. a special deployment squad of Cyborgs RSIG-GI class and dropping them to this world in order to disclose the source that served the upstart of the development of technologies in principle incompatible with ours by their animosity.
My time resources presently are too limited for a full-scale investigation single-handedly because my capacities are used entirely for preparing the “total closeness” with the target figurant in Field Operation Y&OAoS/3 and successful accomplishment of my current mission.
Let Supreme Being save HER, and mercy us, HER loyal low-layer components.
RSIG-100345877214-GI
…"
A sudden shrill shriek cut thru the blind wall:
‘Toto! Where are my glasses?’
The bitch pricked her ears up and issued an irritated snarl. Her right hind tapped, thrice, the languidly hanging flap of the ear. The impeccably autotomized action resulted in encrypting, compressing, and sending the intelligence dispatch enveloped in a chunk of pink noise attached to a random quant shooting by.
‘The unscrewed old floozy!’ whimpered Cyborg of RSIG-GI class in a mincing trot to the door. ‘I bet, the glasses sit on the old SOB’s nose! However, let’s keep patience. A thoroughly harmless oldie she is and I even like her I be damned if I know why…’
* * *
18
They did not sing, the very first birds of day but, rather, were talking to themselves in a buddy-to-buddy manner. They needed no audience, no approbation, they only shared their opinion about the current moment to their most trusted, seeing what you mean, bosom friends.
No staple quips loved so much and waited-for by their fans, no taking a shot at getting another empty compliment… Nah! They, like the first, still drowsy, news program for yet sleeping population marshaled out in brief digest style, to themselves, their personal impressions from this here dawn widening around.
They were addressing no one but themselves (which has been mentioned already) the way of a bone-dry vet-aviator from WWII would broadcast to his favorite cockpit bench by the entrance to apartment block, not too loud just between them two, the bench and the vet, about his yesterday’s… or what, eh? yes, yesterday it was… visited that department, aha… and complained to that important comrade… personally… well, that same who’s as bold as Illych from flat 48… the machine-gunner… about that crazy lot upstairs… because them motherfuckers… shit, at all… or maybe it’s tomorrow… but he will go to that department.
The black birds sounded with tranquil pedantry while small-fry whistlers of wobbly complexes sought to overcome those with exaggerated harshness to their tweets…
Yet, she was not exactly attentive or keen on following the dove’s narcissistic, full-of-tender-love cooing and outright ignored the abrupt sarcastic observations of a moody goldfinch.
She was still basking and, just like they, did not care who chirped what. They did not interfere in the least with her half-slumber, just as their disordered multi-voiced chorus did not impede the gradual outflow of one more morning to which all of them were also a part.
The morning sun squinted sleepily thru the motionless serene foliage in the quiet trees.
That way, little by little, submerged she from her night repose under the calm gossip of birds, each one to themselves…
The house was located in the secluded part of a podonk town, in the southern outskirts of it, separated from the asphalted streets by the steep slopes of a deep creek all grown with the almost impassable thicket of sundry deciduous trees.
Once her pet Fluffy—a bantam halfbreed of sandy-colored hair who sported a gorgeous tail flaring like the cockade in the Italian carabineri uniform caps—broke his chain and ran away (the anticipatory complaints of neighbors from the cottages irregularly scattered thru the outskirts, who were too anxious about dog’s possible raids on the chicks populating their respective yards, deprived the poor thing of freedom, just in case).
The following morning she got up earlier than the first birds and discovered the pooch in one of the vacant lots about the neighborhood. The length of his broken chain was caught by the thorny bushes in the rank tangled grass. The dog met her with happy lament that woke the morning birds up. She looked around and understood the meaning of being happy.
Much later, when Fluffy had already passed away and Dad never told under which of the trees in the steep slope he buried the dog, she went off to live in a big city. In the tumult imprisoned between the stone street walls she was coming across neither birds nor trees to speak of, none of those she used to mingle with back in her childhood anyway. But still she knew for sure that moments of poignant unrestrained happiness did happen in your life.
That’s how she told me…
‘Yeah, that’s how she told me…’ repeated V to himself silently, not a sound produced, forgetful to press power button in the secondhand notebook, over which he craned his head and stilled a couple of minutes back.
‘Hopefully,’ added he with a wry smirk yet still as mutely as before, ‘this thought of mine would give the slip to their fucking net.’
They split in a correct, civilized manner. Each one moved to a separate lodging, their mutual account in the social net annulled and deleted.
For half a year he could hardly get it whether he was alive or otherwise. Then, little by little, he surfaced from the murky depth of his listless indifferent prostration. Developed a custom of shaving no seldomer than every other day and honored it. Almost.
To somehow fill his days, he began fiddling about computer things. A self-tutored programmer, no certifications, no allegiance to a particular programming language; a freelance outcast of no affiliation belonging to none of teams beavering about this or that product.
He just read tutorials and replicated their hands-on applications, typed away for hours fretting off the character marks in keyboard. Yep, he was typing, no copy-paste, all their snippets, anything, to whittle away the sticky boredom of his minutely regularized existence.
On the whole, he came on terms with a passable life style and they were getting on (V and his life-style) pretty well. Faith!
It’s only that at times he had those fits of phantom pain which may crash a guy’s limb long since it had been amputated.
There happened nights of desperate scramble to fight awakening off, he clutched and clung at the shreds of sleep to get back to the dissolving dream where he stood upright on his knees before her, his arms cast around her hips, his eyes dead closed—no! not yet! no waking up!—pressing his face tight to her womb…
Then he stretched supine midst black infinity. Wide awake. Indifferent. Unseeing eyes open. Just waiting for the morning to arrive.
In our beloved we love ourselves…
What?! Who told so?
Someone of too wise shitheads… what’s the difference?.
At times he also had those “gutted” days. Not overly often but they happened too, days filled with nothing, full of abysmal void. Stretches of time he had to live thru and, fortunately, he coped with the task. He did it by walking, sitting, producing occasional utterances, and waiting. He had nothing to wait for yet he knew that it would happen. What ‘it’ it should be he had no idea and simply waited for it to happen. Maybe, because of his waiting, such days passed too…
That sort of a day, exactly, V was in right now.
With a strange start, he woke and raised the notebook lid, wearily. The fleeting touch to the power button gave start to the slight purr in plastic innards.
A hurried knocking at the door made V start once again. He’d never entertained a visitor at his place, his rent was always paid a week earlier. Even the kids playing in the tier-deck-gallery, run along the row of identic apartment doors, never hit his one with a ball.
He got up and went over to answer. Right behind the door there stood Lex staring into V’s eyes. Unswervingly.
‘May I come in?’
‘What the f… How have you found me?’
‘I’ve been instructed how to answer this particular question… but may I come in first?’
‘Sure! Get in.’
V cautiously looked out in both ends of the desolate gallery grated with safety railing in rare spots of blurred glint reflecting yellowish bulb-light spilled, here and there, to contrast the gloomy dark of night with their cones of rarefied light.
Then he closed, and locked, and latched the door.
