С А Р А Н С К А Я К О М П Ь Ю Т Е Р Н А Я Г А З Е Т А
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Ч А С Т Ь 2
Д А Т А В Ы Х О Д А В С В Е Т 1 5 . 0 5 . 2 0 0 1 г
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(c) С.Лукьяненко
Л А Б И Р И Н Т О Т Р А Ж Е Н И Й
continuation
And then one Ukrainian boy looked at the color tints
deep programs, shrugged his shoulders and started playing his favorite game
"Doom". Drawn corridors and buildings, disgusting monsters and
brave hero with a shotgun in his hand. A simple 3D game with
It marked the beginning of a whole era of three-dimensional games.
And he got into the game.
The empty (it was already late evening) hall of the patent office, where
he worked, disappeared. The boy never saw the computer again,
which he sat. His fingers pressed the keys, forcing
the drawn figure move, turn, shoot - and he
it seemed that he himself was running along the corridors, dodging
fiery charges and bared muzzles. He knew it was a game, but
I didn’t know why it became a reality and how to end it.
The only thing he could think of was to go through it to the end. And he
passed, although it turned out to be much more difficult than before.
The slight wound now became more than just smaller
percentage of vitality on the screen, but what it should be
wound. Pain, weakness, fear. He found that he was flooded
with blood the floor becomes slippery, like the stone slab behind which
hiding a cache of cartridges, very heavy, that the cartridges
hot, and the recoil from the grenade launcher almost knocks you down. Elixir,
restoring health, had an unpleasantbitter taste.
The body armor turned out to be made of thin metal plates
and quite light on the body - but too spacious and with
uncomfortable ties at the back. After about three hours it started to eat
shotgun trigger, it had to be pressed slowly and smoothly,
shaking your finger in different directions.
At five in the morning he completed the game. The monsters were defeated.
The game menu appeared on the stone wall in front of him, and he
yelled and pointed the muzzle of the shotgun at the word “exit.”
The illusion dissipated. He sat in front of a peacefully humming computer,
my eyes were watering, the keyboard was under my stiff fingers
shattered to pieces. The button that he mistook for in the game was stuck.
trigger.
The boy turned off the computer and fell asleep right on the chair. Those who came
At work, employees saw that his entire body was covered
bruises.
He told about what happened, and, of course, no one told him
believed. Only in the evening, remembering what happened, he remembered
Dibenko’s meditation program and suspected something was wrong.
A week later the whole world was in a fever. Corporations, excluding
selling computers and programs suffered billions of losses -
everyone, from programmers to secretaries and typesetters, wanted to see
visit cyberspace.
With the light hand of Dibenko, the program received the name “deep” and
began to travel around the world. There was still research ahead
proved thatabout seven percent of people are not subject to depth,
and staying in virtuality for more than ten hours a day can
lead to nervous disorders and pseudoschizophrenia
syndrome. A month remained until the first death in virtuality,
when an elderly man whose fighter was burned in space
battle over the planet of intelligent purple reptiles, died from
heart attack right behind the computer keyboard.
This could no longer stop or scare anyone.
The world plunged into depth.
Microsoft, IBM and the Internet computer network created
Deeptown.
The main advantage of deep virtuality was simplicity. No need
draw in detail buildings and palaces, people's faces and details
cars Only general outlines and small, recognizable details.
Brown wall divided into rectangles - brick
wall The blue on top is the sky. Blue pants - jeans.
The world dived. And he had no intention of returning to the surface. B
the depth was much more interesting. Let it remain available not
everyone, but the intellectual elite swore allegiance to the new
empires.
Depth...
11
When I cleaned the computer from the postcard virus and packed
extracted file - now it will look like this in virtuality
an ordinary floppy disk - it's midnight. My head didn't hurt anymore
don't sleepI absolutely wanted it. Which of the inhabitants of Deeptown is sleeping?
at night?
“Vika, reboot,” I commanded.
The thoughtful woman's face on the screen frowned.
- Is it true?
- Certainly.
The screen dimmed slightly, the image blurred. Then the computer
The hard drive indicator blinked, rebooting. I have the car
frivolous, "Pentium", but change it to a more advanced one
don't rise. An old horse won't ruin the furrow.
“Good evening, Lenya,” said Vika. - I'm ready to work.
- Thank you. Connect to Deeptown... through a regular channel.
The modem clicked, dialing a number. I pulled on my helmet and sat down.
- Connection at twenty-eight-eight hundred, the channel is stable, -
Vika said.
- Turn on the dip.
- Done.
Blue, a white flash in the center of the screen, then multicolored.
How were you able to create a deep program, Dima? With my cranky
psyche, amateurish knowledge of psychology, the most
basic knowledge of neurophysiology? What do you want
did it help?
Now that you're rich and famous, what are you trying to do?
Understand your own insight or come up with something even more
amazing? Or you just get wild and smoke weed in your
pleasure? Or you wander the streets all day and night
Deeptown, looking at the work of their own hands?
I'd like to know. But - not to be in your place. Because you
just an ordinary inhabitant of virtuality, with all hismillions
and a prototype of the G8 as a home computer.
The depth holds you as tenaciously as a provincial
a programmer from the Russian outback who has been saving money for months to
visit to Deeptown.
You are not a diver, Dima. And that's why I'm happier than you.
...The room is the same, but outside the window there are flashes of advertising and light noise
cars
- Is everything okay, Lenya?
I look around.
- Yes. I'll go for a walk, Vika.
I take the floppy disk with the extracted file from the table and hide it in my pocket. On
On the shelf, among a dozen books and a stack of side tables, lies a player.
I put the ELO disc into it, put on my headphones, and turn it on. "Roll
Over Beethoven." Which is exactly what I wanted. I go out to cheerful music
apartment, I lock the door.
This time there are no bugs. On the sidewalk I raise my hand and brake
taxi. The driver this time is elderly, overweight, very
intelligent man.
- The Deep Conductor company is pleased to welcome you, Lenya!
I nod and sit down:
- To the Three Little Pigs restaurant.
The driver nods, he knows this address. Let's go fast, couple
turns - and in front of us is a strange building - partly stone,
partly wooden, partly made of straw mats. I go to
A restaurant I’ve known for a long time, I look around.
The room is divided into three parts - oriental cuisine is served
in the one built from mats, you can taste European food in
stone, Russian, naturally, in wood.
I don't haveI want to. Virtual food is subjectively satiating, and
when I'm in complete financial stress, I start eating
"The Three Little Pigs" But now we just have to wait for the accomplice.
I go straight to the bar, behind which stands a dense young
a man takes off his headphones as he walks.
- Hello, Andrey.
Sometimes the restaurant owner himself serves virtual customers.
However, this is clearly not the case today. The bartender's eyes brighten, but
This is a purely mechanical courtesy:
- Hello! What will you drink?
- Gin and tonic, with ice, regular.
I watch the bartender mix the drink. Tonic is real
"Schweppes", gin - a decent "beefeater". Companies producing
alcohol, allow you to use images of them in virtuality
products for a very nominal fee. Advertising...
Pepsi-Cola is generally free - it was their advertising ploy. But
"Coca-Cola" costs exactly the same as in reality.
And they buy it.
I take a glass and sit down at a free table. I'm watching
visitors. It's always interesting.
There are approximately equal numbers of men and women. Women, everything is as it is
selection, beauties. The most different, from Scandinavian blondes
type and up to black women with anthracite skin. Men, mostly
freaks. No, actually it's not like that. Just my subconscious
notices all the nonsense in the virtual faces of men - and
disproportion of overly muscular figures, and toorecognizable
the faces of film actors stuck onto the bodies of bodybuilders.
An exception is mercifully made for women. They are all wonderful.
I take a sip of gin and relax on the counter. Fine.
to be continued...
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