Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 9

Chapter 9

* * *

The Artificers could have burned down half of Redstone and fought protracted battles with NZAMIPS units, but the alchemy lecture started at nine o'clock, and I was on time, though crumpled and sleep-deprived.

The pale autumn sun filled the world with restrained contrasts of warmth and cold, and the golden leaves in the university park set me in a lyrical mood. What would one have to do with black to be drawn to lyricism? Silly question! Almost kill him twice, make him run around town hungry all day, aim a crossbow at him, and glamorize him so that all his magic turns inside out. It's no big deal.

Quarter met me at the gate (was he waiting for me?) and immediately began to pour out the accumulated news. Where does he learn so much since we were drinking together on the third day? By the time I took my seat in the auditorium, I knew what a busy weekend it had been in Redstone. The police had banned a picket in support of Melons, and nothing had happened. Someone set fire to the abandoned shacks on the island at the north end, and Mr. Mayor got burned for about a million crowns. No one would have paid him that money anyway - the place was considered cursed.

There are persistent rumors that the Watchdogs have ransacked the Artificers' nest (of course, the Watchdogs, yeah!) and unearthed such ghastly things there that the police officers refuse to talk about them even in a whisper. The two mutilated bodies that had been caught in the river were probably the work of the same gang, and now the townspeople were wondering whether a third body would turn up. I nodded melancholy and wondered how many tries it would take for some to get it right. They call themself the Artificers. If that's how they always do it, it's no wonder so many people are dead in Nintark.

"...and the mayor's horse gave birth to a three-legged calf."

"What?!!"

"I thought you weren't listening to me."

It was the arrival of the lecturer that prevented me from beating Quarter half to death. Yes, I'm not in the mood for humor today.

The lecture was a nightmare. I could not grasp the meaning of the topic. I had to stupidly scribble word for word. Even in the hospital, this had never happened to me. There I was weak but not stupid. My thoughts were mush. My ears were full of absorbent cotton. I could put matches in my eyes. If it turned out that those idiots had blown my brains out, I would devote my life to the extermination of their kind! You can't do that to blacks! At last, I managed to pull myself together, to concentrate on the principles of electric machines, and the lethargy receded.

It was harder to get rid of Quarter. With his uncharacteristic boredom, Ron followed me to the university cafeteria, where I had to go because I was hungry after yesterday's fasting.

"Why are you bothering me?"

I was running out of strength. I wanted to do a hundred unnatural things, just not study. I was dying for another two hours of theory, but I knew if I missed something important, I would hang myself with frustration. Nevertheless, the desire to visit the beer cellar did not leave me. It was like a curse!

"Tom, are you okay?"

"No, I just drank a lot."

"That was the day before yesterday!" Quarter was taken aback.

"And I took the wrong kind of food. I got poisoned, you know? I puked all day yesterday."

"I'm sorry... You left so suddenly the other day... You usually stay until morning."

It suddenly dawned on me that Quarter must be exhausted with worry. Sweet, but not timely.

"You're so strange! You took the glass out of my hands yourself. What was I supposed to do there till morning?"

Quarter smiled (as if poisoning is fun) and soon left for his own business. Great, I got one of them off, and then there were the Artificers and the NZAMIPS. Who am I more afraid of?

Noone!!!

I shredded the steak furiously, picturing Loran in its place. I didn't give a damn about anyone unhappy, much less dead, but the amount of trouble they'd given me was hard to comprehend.

First, how soon would they think of those three? It is unlikely that the owner of the carriage yard will feel much grief for the offending carriage driver. He will simply cross him off the payroll, and that is all. The two jocks had nothing to do with me at all. How much would the cops know if they got to the boathouse? Something happened, someone died, and you can't tell who or why. True, the fishermen had seen a glimpse of me, and the warden had my address... Well, who was pulling my tongue?! I wondered if the police would be able to make any connection between the island and the barn and the late Artificer, but I had no influence at all and decided to put the matter out of my mind.

Second, I had to find out whether or not I was under the Shackles of Deliverance. If I had the Shackles, I wouldn't be able to touch the Source, and everything that had happened yesterday was a result of a homebrew ritual. The Watchdogs wouldn't be able to stitch me to the case even if they found me. But if I have something on me and it's not the Shackles... Then there's the problem of thirds.

During the break, I went to Rakshat and asked him to let me into the Acquisition room, saying that I wanted to check myself before resuming my studies. He was very understanding and gave me a frame and a spinner to check my concentration. After five minutes of study, I found out a funny thing: I have the Source, but... at times. And not quite the Source, and not quite mine. Out of five calls, at best, two were answered. The power was fluttering about somewhere below the baseboard, but when I concentrated on a simple spell, it surged outward with such force that I barely managed to shut the channel. It would have been insane to do magick in such a state.

There was only one conclusion to be drawn. These crooked monkeys ruined me. Seriously. They didn't kill the magic. They ruined it, pathetic charlatans. What am I supposed to do with that?! Invalid magic is far worse than no magic at all. Out of annoyance I habitually kicked the Source and unexpectedly received a return kick, seasoned with something like indignation. Someone was genuinely expecting me to be grateful and letting me know they were getting bored. What the hell...?

The familiar sensation of an alien presence made my hair stand on end. Oh, my goodness. Is it possible I have a Rustle instead of a Source? How is that possible?

Hello, skeleton with brown foam...

The thought of starting the forty days of adventure all over again made me want to kill myself immediately.

Quiet, quiet, don't panic! I've read the book about Rustler, haven't I? It's easy enough to get rid of him, just let me get to the garage... I ran out of the bunker as if I was chased by a hundred ghouls, not paying attention to Rakshat's surprised exclamations and the bewilderment of oncoming students.

Keep moving, don't stop, don't think about where I'm going and why I'm going! Otherwise, this time my eyesight might not be the only thing that's going to fail. I need to get to where my motorcycle is standing.

It was like a "don't think of a white monkey" bet. A normal person would have lost without question, but not a black mage. My mind was dominated by two thoughts: the need to get to the garage and absolute, all-consuming rage.

Who does the undead think he is?! To pester me like that, me! So what if it had not been destroyed in a thousand years, I am ready to make up for that omission. Without the Source. I didn't need magic for those ghouls! The difficulty of the mission will not frighten the black man. I will unleash the full power of technomagic on him! I'll find out what it is, and I'll do it. Perhaps it's the result of self-infliction, but it seemed to get through to him.

I must have looked scary from the outside. They didn't even ask for my ticket on the streetcar, and that's saying a lot. You see, the passenger was hissing and spitting and cursing to himself, and he might as well be a mage. I burst into the garage and immediately clutched at the saddlebag, removed from my motorcycle after the end of the Black Knight. It held my mage's kit, including a large enchanted lamp, harmless to Rustle now that he was inside me. But the lamp had a power source... I began fiercely forging the battery out of the case, trying not to think about what I was doing. The zombie dog watched my efforts skeptically.

There it is!

My tongue felt a painful prick, and my mouth felt sour. Yes! Now I can talk. In addition to blue light, Rustle doesn't like electricity, so they treat his victims with... um... and we don't need that anymore.

Suddenly there was an emptiness in my head, cold and ringing. Perhaps that's what life after the Shackles is supposed to look like - an apotheosis of loneliness. But, given the alternative, I was only incredibly relieved. As the saying goes, bullshit is learned by comparison.

The first round was mine. Nodding to a puzzled Max, "It's okay!" I grabbed the battery and headed back to the apartment. It didn't make sense to go back to the university, so I would tell him tomorrow that I was sick.

* * *

To reach the NZAMIPS Central Laboratory, cleverly placed in a separate annex, Captain Behr had to cross diagonally across the entire size of the police headquarters. When he was seated on the executive second floor, only two flights of stairs separated him from his target. Once there, Steamtrain felt lucky: waiting in his office, he had had a good night's sleep, unlike everyone else.

Grey with fatigue and ten years older, Satal sat in a relaxation chair, sipping on something that resembled badly brewed tea.

"Good afternoon!" called Steamtrain cautiously.

Coordinator didn't waste any energy on the greeting, but whatever.

"We drew an aura print from the sign, selected fifty candidates from a catalog, and are comparing them now."

"What if he's from out of town?" Ber asked practically. Blacks are usually quite mobile people. They don't like to sit in their garden like whites.

"Then it's bad luck," Satal said indifferently.

"I sent officers to the university and to the local services to ask if the newcomer had shown up. After all, he's an initiated mage; they don't roam around."

"Mm," Coordinator put the cup to his head, "also keep an eye out for any weirdos out there. It's about time."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you even understand what happened?"

Steamtrain shrugged vaguely. He had never encountered such exotic cases of otherworldly manifestations, and the experts had not yet submitted a report. In fact, that's what I was going for.

Satal swung the cup majestically (fortunately, there was hardly any liquid left):

"In combination with a pump-sign, the Shackles do not suppress the Source but rather detach it from the controlling will. Energy channels remain unclosed, and the initiated mage in this state can try to receive energy from outside."

Ber nodded. He knew that, but the ash-burned bodies didn't look like vampirism.

"If at that moment some otherworldly phenomenon offers itself as the Source, the undead will get access to the mage's etheric body, bypassing all natural defense mechanisms. It's like dung in a vein! In this case, the infection cannot be stopped. The organism resists for a while, but then the undead completely subjugates its shell and destroys its host. If we don't find the host before its will goes out, we'll have to deal with the thing that was frolicking in the hangar, so to speak, directly. Do you catch it?"

Steamtrain was catched. His protective suit was not designed for that. And with all these risks, the black man was whining about quarantine! We need to start notifying the services immediately. They'd need more than a few barracks men, and it would take time for the cleaners to put together a really strong strike team.

"Sir, there's a match!" The junior mage came into the room.

The coordinator rushed from his place so fast that he was in the laboratory before the captain. There were record crystals and cardboard boxes on the tables, and he want to believe they will not be mixed up. The black mage had already compared the two murky balls.

"I have two news for you, good news and bad news," Satal began.

"Fuck you...!!!" Steamекфшт couldn't stand it. "What is it?!"

"It seems to be an acquaintance of ours. Makes sense. So strange crystal..."

"It can't be! I checked him last night!"

Satal perked up:

"What was he doing?"

"I think he was asleep."

Coordinator froze for a second:

"Okay. Take the team, and go to him. I'm not in shape right now, but he knows you. See if you can get him drunk on the blocker. It's his only hope. I'll call Fatoune and have him drag his guys into town."

Steamtrain at a trot to the garage - the task force was just waiting for the order to move out. We must hope that Satal will be able to get through to the Cleaners. Ber had never worked with the mage who had replaced Colonel Grokk before, but they said he was a smart guy.

I carefully paid for the streetcar, said a polite hello to the concierge, and generally tried to compensate with good behavior for my crazy appearance. It is not worth testing people's patience beyond what is necessary! My fingers trembled unpleasantly. When I passed by the mirror window and saw my reflection, I even flinched - a natural psycho was looking at me. A mage's physical health depended directly on his mental health, and there was such trouble, one after another, one after another! Even the sturdiest of black spirits had a limit. I ordered myself to look cheerful and decided not to drink coffee at all - chemical stimulants in this state were only bad for me.

Oh, such a mistake with Loran! I should have grilled him slowly, enjoying the screams and the agony. He couldn't have made a bigger trouble to me, even if he'd wanted to. Why is that? Because some people, instead of seeing a specialist, were self-medicating, like it would pass. Yeah, it went away! It went away and came back.

And we'll get rid of Rustle.

I was optimistic at first. Why wouldn't I be? If I don't touch the Source, Rustle won't come out, will he? I have to resume my lessons the day after tomorrow, and I dread to think what my magic would look like in this situation. I would have to give up the course, which was unfortunate but not impossible. The next thing would be to find a real expert on the otherworldly, perhaps pay some combat mage - I'm not crazy and understand that I can't clean up this kind of trouble alone. What if the lesion starts to progress?

But nothing happened for a while, and I relaxed. Eventually the whole morning went off without a problem either.

I didn't keep any special entertainment in my rented apartment, and I had no unfinished university assignments. I could go to bed, but indulging in a nap at noon was a clear sign of unhealthiness. Out of boredom, I took the book from the bedside table, wrapped in yellowed newspaper - the very rarity of my uncle (I hid it according to the ancient method - in the most prominent place) - and began to study it again. The pages breathed with antiquity and magic, and there must have been something very important hidden in them. I wish I could make out what.

And then strange faded scribbles formed in my brain into a clear phrase: //The perimeter leaks in three places.

A wave of panic washed over me again. I tossed the book aside and curled up in the far corner of the bed, but my mind was still filled with cryptic squiggles, which meant the perimeter was leaking in three places. The perimeter of what?

Maybe I was just imagining things from the excitement. Sometimes it's like that - it's like my brain is shutting down. I glanced cautiously at the randomly opened page.

//Salem assures us that there is no threat," the unknown author wrote hurriedly. - His ability to anticipate attacks is frightening, but he is our only hope.

It seemed that if I wanted to, I could see this unknown author, look over his shoulder, and admire this mysterious perimeter. Or even move there, become a hero of the past, learn his essence, and live his life again and again. I reached for the book with a jerk, wrapped it in three layers - a shirt, a blanket, a sheet - and shoved it into the darkest corner of the closet.

I don't want to know anything. I don't want to see anything!

The consciousness was touched by an almost childlike curiosity as if the undead just wanted to understand why.

Just because.

And then it turned out that Rustle's capabilities were not limited to stupid tricks.

The kettle whistled in the kitchen. I didn't usually use it, and the gas was of no use to me at all. Hot drinks are not in the tradition of Krowhard - our ancestors simply had nothing to cook them with. The food in those days was simple and unsophisticated. With some bewilderment, I strode into the kitchen and turned off the burner under the rattling kettle. Pinch me, but I hadn't had such a round-shaped copper thing before.

And suddenly, abruptly and without transition, I found myself standing on the balcony. It's a good thing the railing is high! Slowly, checking my way back into the room, I began to poke myself with the battery fiercely. My hand was aching. I needed some less destructive medicine. I imagined a huge humming electric arc and suddenly realized that I was stabbing my hand with a fork, and the battery was lying quietly on the table. I instantly corrected my mistake. It immediately became clear why I had gone to the balcony. The kitchen door and the window had swapped places.

Bloody hell...

I had no idea that such a thing was possible. Let's face it, the possibilities of the undead were impressive. What would happen at night? The thought made me feel cold. I wouldn't be able to sleep under the electricity day after day for an unknown amount of time. I'd have a heart attack from the nerve strain alone!

My uncle advised me to go to an empath for any problems, but they're all white, and they don't know anything about the otherworldly. Without the old alchemist, the family could do nothing to help me, even if I managed to get to Krowhard by abstaining from sleep for two days. Chief Harlick was a friend of my uncle's, not mine, and what was the point of traveling so far to come in for Watchdogs? In any case, I wouldn't dare go near the people I cared about in such a state - who knows what the undead, enraged by bad luck, might do.

And the battery will run out soon.

What did the bastard want with me? The answer came instantly - cold, clammy tentacles reached greedily for my consciousness, where memory is stored, where the source of desire is, where the threads of feeling converge. I dug the electrodes into my skin until I bled and held on until there was a chilling emptiness in my head. I'll die, but I won't!

However, I have to hurry.

I took Captain Ber's business card out of my desk. My hands were shaking so much that I couldn't turn the key the first time. What was the point of regret and repentance now? No other help I could find, and it would be a good thing if I could get there.

I didn't dare take the streetcar. I was afraid I'd ride in circles, but any cabbie in Redstone knows the building on Park Road. I never thought I'd give that address willingly.

The front doorway of the police department looked just as imposing - no broken glass or tarnished brass. The lobby was surprisingly sparsely populated. The last time I'd been here, I'd flown out so fast that I hadn't memorized the interior, and Captain Beh had taken me in through the service entrance. Generally speaking, they're posh! There was a beautiful blue-gray carpet on the floor. Why not? A police station is not a blockhouse. They don't take drunkards here. But my imagination insisted on placing a couple of protective pentagrams under the carpet. Why not?

I went to the list of offices hanging on the wall, with the names and titles of the occupants, and found that most of them belonged to members of the Fiscal Service. Oh, yes, there are not only the NZAMIPS but also the Criminal Police, the Vice Police, and the Alchemical Control, all of which have their own very busy lives, and bribe-takers and prostitutes are as much of a problem to society as mages. This thought cheered me up for some reason. But how would I find my captain?

"Looking for someone, sir?" The man on duty called out to me.

I silently laid out the business card on the counter.

"Do you want Captain Ber specifically? He just left on a mission."

Indignation broke the shackles of depression for a second. Outrageous! I came in and he wasn't here. What are they even doing here?!

The officer on duty did not wait for me to answer and dialed an internal number:

"Sir, there's a visitor for Captain Ber," he reported into the phone. "I don't know. He's not talking. Will do, sir!" And already to me, "Have a seat! Mr. Satal will be right with you."

I stomped thoughtfully, deciding what could be dangerous about the soft leather chair. Who knows now, you're afraid of everything in this state...

A group of stern men in strict gray suits walked past me, politely motioning me away. Their leader should have carried the Standard of the Arak Guard had his hands not been occupied by a puffy leather briefcase. The strange posse strode silently up the marble stairs to the second floor. Watching them, I did not immediately realize that the same black mage had appeared in the foyer, wearing a similar suit but a tone darker. Mr. Satal, yeah. He looked at me carefully, without mockery, lingered on the battery, and nodded calmly to the man on duty:

"Thank you, Mr. Kennicor! Would you be so kind as to find Captain Ber and ask him to get in touch with me? I'll be in my office. Come along, young man. We'll wait for the captain in my office. And don't be afraid. I don't bite!"

I'm too scared to be scared of him! I followed him reluctantly, trying again to figure out how to start a conversation. It didn't seem diplomatic to talk about Loran right away. There were fuzzy figures at the edge of my vision, and my hair did not stop twitching at the suspicion that Rustle was getting ready to take his revenge.

I guess one look at me was enough for the mage to conclude. He rummaged in the table and pulled out an elaborate bottle with a blue label, without hiding, poured some kind of potion into a glass, poured water from a decanter, and handed it to me. I drank it. Why fool around? The flickering in my eyes stopped abruptly.

"Is it Steamtrain you're so upset about?" inquired the magician cautiously. "He went to see you now. Did you meet him?"

I shook my head:

"We missed each other."

After receiving the answer, the mage noticeably cheered up:

"That's good! That's great. He's not an empathetic man, mired in formalism. You'd better tell me what's bothering you. Maybe I can help."

What's being done?! A black one, expressing sympathy for a black one, offering help and support! I even got a tear in my eye.

And then I told him everything. And about Rustle and the book and the black flakes in the boat shed... Everything. I hoped that death would be painless.

Instead, he sighed heavily and offered:

"Don't give a fuck!"

"???"

"I'd like to interrogate those assholes, but that's fine. It's still a death sentence for trying to kidnap the Source, and they tortured two people to death before you. I'll take that as an execution on the spot. Or did you think the law only worked against blacks?

"What's that got to do with it?! I have a... monster inside me. When I try to do magic, he lunges at people. I think it's trying to eat me, too."

"This is normal. It's a normal effect when a black mage comes into contact with a Rustler, enhanced by the use of Shackles. Don't freak out! You're not the first, and you won't be the last. About The Shackle: If you don't confirm the spell at least three times in the first month, the blocking effect dissipates after three weeks, so Source's behavior becomes predictable again. You're forbidden to do magic by a doctor, aren't you? And he will forbid it for another month, so I'll make sure you don't do magic. You can't shut him out of your mind completely. You have coped with the Power, and you can do the same to him. The main thing is not to coddle."

Yes, I clearly don't understand the style of black mages. It was my white upbringing that screwed me up.

"So I go out unpunished?"

"Why do you think so?" he was surprised. "We'll put it all in your file. Now Steamtrain will be back, and you'll give him a statement. We'll draw up a contract right away. You'll work with me."

"No!" horrified me. "I still have a year to study,.And I have an agreement with the Roland Foundation. I want to be an alchemist."

"Who's stopping you? We'll use you as a reserve mage, as needed, to make it easier for you and to save money for watchdogs. I'll settle the matter with the Roland Foundation. They're very understanding. And anyway," he squinted sternly, "do you want to answer to the full extent of the law?"

I don't even want to know what that means!

Within an hour, I was a freelancer in NZAMIPS, codenamed Black Knight, and Captain Ber was filing my form in the file of an illegal combat mage with a feeling of deep satisfaction. The file was now worth two death sentences and three life sentences. The magic that had given me so much trouble these days was not felt and was not observed. A very familiar-looking lady congratulated me heartily on a rewarding start to my career and tried to get me to confess to the triple murder. She wondered if I was feeling a little lonely. I bluntly answered, trying to figure out at what point my destiny had taken such a steep turn. Did it all start with Bella? Or with a book? Or from the recording of that first crystal? Or maybe right from birth?

And how you ask, could I be one of those people?!

* * *

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