Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 2

Chapter 2

* * *

I've never had to work in a collective before unless you count the trip to King's Island as collective work. However, one has to realize that the time when alchemists worked in garages alone is irrevocably gone (my motorbike is a separate topic). The future belongs to big research institutes and large trusts! Consequently, I have to learn to get on with my coworkers or become such a genius that I can be forgiven for anything.

Consumed with these thoughts, I bought a penny leaflet from a stall called "Business Etiquette". I read it and realized it was written by a do-gooder who wanted to help prostitutes get into secretarial positions. Of the other caught a manual on the creation of the team, but then the current director would have to fire ... Ask for advice from Quarter was all the more useless. No, he would answer, but God forbid I should take his advice!

It would have been easier if the employer had scheduled me for an interview. We would have looked at each other and seen who was worthwhile. But Ron told me Mr. Polak preferred to test the man in action. I don't get it. Is he thinking, "Every black one is the same shit"? Or was it our patent that made that impression on him? On the other hand, for the money they were offering on probation, you could have put a monkey on the drawing board and still be in the black.

There was incomprehensible and unpleasant confusion about the situation. This alone would have given me an idea of what was going on, but I was still a naïve student, unspoiled by life.

And there it was - the first day of my adult life.

I went to work in my business suit (I did not have many options), but I did not wear a tie because I was sick of ties. The office I was looking for was in a cheap office building on the third floor. There was a dusty sign on the door that said there was a firm called "Biokin" inside. The name had no association with alchemy. Behind the door was an enormous hall. One could make a good guess about the creative process going on here only by the two drawing boards pushed into a far corner and rolls of stationery adjoining tables with puffy folders and other office junk. At the only clean desk by the door, a kid in a messenger uniform and two girls were having coffee (here, I remembered Business etiquette). One, a redhead, giggled sweetly. The other, a fiery brunette, sparkled from under her long fringes with gorgeous blue eyes. I interrupted their amusement, not without regret:

"How can I find Mr. Polak?"

The redhead poked her finger to the far end of the hall, where the stacks of files and blueprints were particularly high. I had to admit I didn't immediately see the man behind them. He did not see or hear me, but not because he was absorbed in his work. Mr. Polak was sleeping sweetly, lying down on a stack of files with his feet out in the aisle.

"Good afternoon!" I called cautiously.

He perked up, looking around with wide eyes. I waited patiently for his face to become meaningful.

"I had an appointment for three."

"Oh... Yes? Of course! Mr. Tangor?"

I had a sneaking suspicion that he couldn't say the word "mister" twice in a row. And it wasn't because he'd woken up a few seconds ago! I stared with some fascination at the man who ran an entire company, wearing a plaid farmer's shirt and barnyard overalls (if it weren't for the quality of the fabric, I would have thought that was where he came from) and an earring glinting in his ear.

And then the truth hit me: my first boss was a classic, over-the-top spokesman for the "nerd". I'm screwed!

"You can just call Thomas."

He smiled beamingly and introduced himself:

"Jeff. Would you like some coffee?"

"Thank you, um..."

"Girls, girls! Coffee!"

Actually, I tried not to take stimulants in the afternoon, but there was no way to throw Jeff off his mind. The courier quietly slipped away, and the secretaries stopped giggling and started rattling their dishes.

"By the way, you don't have to dress like that at all! Our company has an informal style of dress." He pulled back the strap of his overalls.

Call me a hick, but I couldn't walk down the street in that kind of junk. Except to change into it on the spot as in work clothes. But such an approach could have been considered insulting, not to mention the fact that there was nowhere to put my clothes and no lockers.

I smiled tautly, feverishly thinking of a way to send him away.

"Oh, I understand, Jeff," I looked down, tugging at my jacket lapel, "but it was a gift from my Mum."

Knockout! He could not argue with this argument and tried to hide his embarrassment behind a businesslike tone:

"Do you already know exactly what our company is developing?" Polak asked.

"Equipment for Sewage Plants?" I hazarded a guess.

"Not only, not only!" he jumped up indignantly. "The use of improved micro-organisms will usher in a new era in the development of civilization!"

And Mr. Polak showered me with streams of strategic information about the market and promising developments in the field.

I tried desperately to get specifics about the company and my future responsibilities out of the flow of words. Why was he telling me all this? I didn't come to invest money!

"Do you understand now?" He smiled encouragingly, taking a sip of coffee.

"I understand," I nodded bluntly. "But right now, you're dealing with a gas generator."

"Yes," he didn't deny the obvious.

I fought the urge to bail without explanation. Everything in this place annoyed me. I also wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with Quarter...

We started to clarify my work schedule, which was not supposed to overlap with my study schedule. Polak was surprised that twice a week my classes continued until midnight.

"What specialty are you studying at university?"

"Alchemy and Black Magic."

"Ahem..."

I waited patiently to see which of my skills he would question. I swear, I was ready to create Odo Aurum without leaving my seat!

"And have you had to do research before?" Mr. Polak asked cautiously.

I think the boss was beginning to realize who he was talking to.

"Yes," I nodded, "I have a patent in mechanical engineering."

"Oh yes, I was told..."

Then why ask?

He clapped his hands:

"Well, shall we try and get down to business?"

Let's try is a good term in this context.

Polak handed me a hand-drawn sketch and offered to transfer it to a piece of felt paper, and then he said goodbye. He probably went off to sleep somewhere else. The first thing I did was to drag one of the workstations to the window, ruthlessly disposing of a table full of violets. The secretaries, tapping their heels, moved the pots to another window sill.

In two hours, I shook out the sketch as much as I could, leaving out what I thought were questionable areas in the fine lines, and headed to a familiar pub to have a showdown with Quarter. He is a malicious serpent! To get a mate into such a...

"Ron, who'd you give me to, you bastard?!"

A guilty expression appeared on Quarter's face:

"Tom, be a human being! I have a cousin who works there, and she's a crush on Polak. Help people!"

"Is she a redhead or a blackhead?"

"She's usually the one with the curls. Look, they've been fucking for two years now - and nothing. Uncle will be disbanding them soon."

"What's it got to do with me? I have another year to get into this subject! What can I do that they haven't already done?"

Quarter rolled his eyes.

"If only they had done something! Did you catch Johan?"

I tensed:

"What, it's worse...?"

"That's right! The uncle recruited some damn academic experts there. Come to think of it, who would be into breeding crap mold but a white magician? They breed it! And they don't give out the finished unit. Polak talks, Johan writes articles, and their alchemist, Karl: "Give me an idea!" Tom, remember how you used to push everyone's brains out at the seminars? Give them that. Let them run around!"

"Who and how can I push anyone into white magic? I am an alchemist! These are two areas that are almost unrelated in any way."

"You get that message across to them. Tom, I'll pay you personally!"

"Two hundred."

"I agree."

"Per month."

"Deal!"

That's how I knew I'd missed the price. As a bonus, I managed to shake from Quarter his understanding of the problem. He knew nothing about advanced micro-organisms and didn't want to know. The firm had been set up two years before on the back of a wave of new developments, which the experts had said would bring fabulous profits. The work was financed by Ron's uncle, the owner of a Sewage Plant, a very pragmatic and stubborn man. That was his failing - he knew how to count the profits, but he knew little about the nature of academic "nerd". How he had enough patience for two years - no one can guess, but Quarter knew for sure that the "Biokin" has more than once failed with the product. If I had known all that at the time...

Well, it's not hard to break people's moods. And no one can do it better than a black mage. The question is whether the task is solvable at all. Theorists, you know, they can make things up! Chances are, this job will be one of those that do not mention on the CV, but two hundred crowns from Quarter I guaranteed in any case. Ha!

I'll have to get the money upfront...

* * *

Establishing a network of agents is a matter of years, not months, and certainly not days. So, no matter how this important work for Redstone's Watchdogs was financed, Captain Ber had to solve all his current problems with the means at his disposal. And he did!

Moreover, Steamtrain was convinced that he was the only one doing the real thing.

The entire NZAMIPS has been digging in the sweat to find the mysterious exorcist. Why?! The Redstone chief, on the other hand, saw it through: if the set-up of the cleaners and the hit on the regional NZAMIPS had been rehearsed in advance, then what was next on the agenda? What was to happen after the journalists had dumped on the public the chilling tales of mayhem in the district? Half the senior staff of NZAMIPS would have been kicked out, but that would have been only the tip of the iceberg. After the public panic, a murky wave of forgotten customs and strange prejudices, which the state had been eradicating since the days of the Inquisition, was to come pouring out of every crevice. Once again, someone hoped to ride this wave.

Mystique! A word not spoken in a decent society. The echo of primitive times when people were ruled by Fear. That's right. Fear is great and all-encompassing, made up of many small fears - of the elements, of poor harvests, of beasts and neighbors. And, most importantly, visitors from the Otherworld. A horde of false gods awaited the unwary mind in the recesses of memory, beguiling the beauty of rituals and seducing with promises of love, but whatever their adherents might claim, they brought only more fear into the world. No matter what people turned to ancient sorcery for, they could get what they wanted only by accident, but they were willing to pay for their credulity. It would seem easier to forget these silly fairy tales, but hard magic is not available to all, nor is it omnipotent, so naïve belief in miracles returned to people again and again under various pretexts.

That is to say, she is the naïve one at first. Captain Behr witnessed one such wave that coincided with the abolition of the Inquisition. Under the sweet moans of love and goodness, the new priests reveled in power, demanding offerings, and then the potion of "dragon's tears", unbridled orgies, and human sacrifices came in hand. Before you know it, and here are the troops hesitate to enter the city, whose inhabitants proclaimed the foundation of paradise on earth, and a couple of months later the same troops are engaged in disposal of forty thousand corpses, repulsing the few surviving freaks (which characteristically - eating only human flesh). Come to think of it, the ruins of Nintark are still forbidden to live on...

Screw! Why scare yourself like that?!

The authorities had a lot of experience in dealing with the informal, as they called all sorts of abnormals in the bulletins, and Steamtrain had a lot of determination, too. The principle of "no more than three gatherings" had not been abolished - the authorities had not yet forgotten how nice gatherings ended. It was enough to resume the checking of licenses for mass events, and the homegrown gurus were poured into the NZAMIPS cells like overripe pears. That's right, the "second wave" horde of charlatans can no longer be called off. Someone was working, after all, feeding the madmen the necessary information, motivating them, taking them under control, and now all is in vain - the black mage who has appeared inopportune has removed the acuteness of the problem, having transformed the bloody drama into a comical episode, an occasion for jokes. With perverse pleasure, Captain Ber leveled the result of someone else's years of punitive roller-roller work. Good!

The big prize was not long in coming.

In the blue light of portable tripod-mounted globes, NZAMIPS experts dismantled the ruins of a brick outbuilding. The soldiers in protective suits and masks were carefully stacking glass ampoules with distinctly luminous contents in sealed containers. The mere sight of these things made Steamtrain's hair stand on end.

Those very "tears of the dragon"! The first batch in seven years. And yet the experts claimed that the recipe for making the cursed potion had been destroyed. A leak of information? Foreign interference? Even the smell of the drug brought the average man into a state of euphoria, causing a desire to trust and obey without thinking of the consequences and without feeling regret for what he had done. The drink of assassins! The potion caused irreversible addiction in whites. It was easier with blacks - they simply vomited it up.

All the inhabitants of the house would have to be checked both for involvement in the sale and for consumption of the stuff. It was impossible to interrogate the distributor of the poison. As soon as he saw the police, the maniac blew himself up in the boiler room he had set up as a warehouse. The poor guy was unaware of any building regulations! The only damage to the windows of the block of flats was to the building itself, while the roof of the annex was torn off and one of its outer walls collapsed. There were no casualties among the NZAMIPS team, two were hit by debris from the roof, but the bomber himself died on the spot.

Good riddance to him! He was probably addicted to his potion, and he would have been useless under interrogation.

"You are to be congratulated."

Before turning around, Steamtrain wiped a smug grin off his face.

"Yes, sir! The operation was carried out almost flawlessly."

Mr. Satal nodded gravely as he looked around at the glowing placers:

"It will make the capital's bosses run for their lives. But they will have questions."

It will make the capital's bosses run. But they will have questions.

"In ten years, I have written forty-four applications to improve the department's funding. I can provide you with a copy of each."

The coordinator shook his head irritably:

"I don't care about the paperwork! What are we going to do when the inspectors come here? They can stick their noses anywhere, and I don't know your business."

Steamtrain had somehow not thought of that. Being honest was not enough; you had to appear honest to others, and in any normal organization, where people did not only do anything, there were bound to be a couple or three episodes that looked ambiguous. Once the auditors had unearthed something like that and he'd be in trouble!

"I'll... clean off the loose ends."

Mr. Satal nodded contentedly:

"I'm glad we understand each other!"

Captain Ber had long worked with black bosses, but this was the first time he had been so blatantly asked to commit forgery. It was almost an order...

"And another thing," the coordinator stopped halfway to his limousine, "I haven't had time to fill you in on the details of our main investigation."

Steamtrain snorted mentally. He had no time, of course!

"There is a theory that our figurant has an unconventional channel of Power. A wild breakthrough is out of the question, but perhaps the university instructor remembers some unusual student. Say, over the last seven years. I think it would be easier for you to talk to him," Mr. Satal finished.

Of course! The university's black magic instructors were traditionally on the payroll of NZAMIPS. An unconventional channel... And here, Captain Ber thanked all the gods that there was no empath with the coordinator. He knew one mage whose Power channel was guaranteed to be non-standard, and he knew it very close...

Cleaning tails, Mr. Satal? We'll do it, sir!

* * *

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/85505/549654

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP