Готовый перевод Нова Проспект / Nova Prospect: Transgenic (Цири)

Transgenic (Ciri)

* * *

Ciri was pulled out of her deep slumber by the urge to go to the bathroom. At the deadest hour of the night. There was no hint of dawn beyond the arches of windows, and the darkness was broken only by the dim light from the signs of the buildings across the street. Ciri rolled over from one side to the other, hoping that the need would somehow pass on its own and she wouldn't have to stomp across the cold floor of the living room.

Adam was asleep at attention - it would be hard to imagine a more uncomfortable position - in the sound sleep of a soldier.

Ciri smiled in the darkness at a recent memory. Innocence had long weighed on her as much as the attempts to infringe on it - well, now no one could take away what was gone.

All of her ideas about first intimacy with a man, Ciri had learned from Anne Tiller's novels, which she'd carefully hidden in a stash under her bed in Kaer Morhen, and from colorful stories around the campfire. The former promised "fireworks of mind-blowing pleasure," the latter told in a terrible voice about five minutes of tears and blood on a dirty haystack.

Ciri sighed and stretched, stretching her aching arms to the headboard of the bed. Her body felt pleasantly sore like it had after a good scuffle.

It hurt. Not "like being stabbed with a spear," as promised, but quite sensitively: when Adam revealed her bravado, Ciri was already trying to clench her teeth and crawl through the damp sheets to the headboard of the bed.

//"Ah, the only thing a man can do with his tongue is talk nonsense," Mistle whispered to her one night, her small teeth flashing, "they have only one concern in bed: to pile up and stick their things wherever they can.

Bald-faced lie, in her memory. Adam's skill was as good as - and if you asked Ciri at the peak of the action, even better than - Mistle's. After his caresses, things had gotten better. So much so that now Ciri was itching to do it again.

It was like peppershake or Fysstech - the first time you coughed and wrinkled your nose, the second time you couldn't get your ears off it. //I hope I don't have to stare at Luke Skywalker for two hours every time before this," Ciri grimaced, rolling over onto her other side. - And how many movies could they make about him?"

No, the need wouldn't go away on its own. Ciri sat on the bed and stretched out her legs, glancing at the bruised skin - a particularly nasty one on her shin - and shivering at the draft that ran across her skin. She took a deep breath and got out of bed.

Which she immediately regretted.

"Damn!" Ciri hissed and flopped back down on the bed, turning her foot to her side.

A bloody stain circled around the shard that had embedded itself in her pale heel. The fucking water clock they'd knocked off the table in the heat of the action!

"What's happened?" Adam asked.

"It's okay, it'll heal before the wedding," Ciri exhaled.

She doesn't have to wake him up because of a splinter, just rinse it with water and be done with it.

"Whose wedding...?" Adam asked.

"Go back to sleep," Ciri waved a hand.

Adam pulled the blanket up to his neck and obediently closed his eyes. The room wasn't cold enough to wrap himself up in. Funny - if only he'd known how much she didn't care for his mechanical appearance; on the contrary, she saw the glossy black muscles as his beauty.

The wound was disgustingly deep. Ciri waddled toward the restroom, leaving a trail of red droplets behind her.

Adam's quarters, though laconically furnished, looked a little empty to Ciri: no trophies of war, no tapestries, no skins, only antique clocks and boxes piled on top of each other. The place had never been touched by a woman's hand. Judging by the fact that Adam had been looking for a second glass for a drink for ten minutes, it wasn't the first year.

Ciri pushed open the glass door to the restroom with her shoulder, stepping onto the cold and slippery marble that apparently hadn't seen a rag in a while. She pressed the light switch. There was a brief click, a hiss, but no light came on.

When Adam turns on the appliances, everything always works. Nothing works in her presence.

The darkness combined with the cold had a depressing effect on Ciri. She should have put something on, but who knew where she'd thrown her clothes last night. Ciri took another cautious step and almost slipped. No, there was definitely something spilled in here. She couldn't see what it was in the semi-darkness.

Using a device that had firmly taken its place on the list of mankind's best inventions, Ciri followed her memory to where the washbasin stood. A jet of icy water from the faucet hit the basin, and the splash hit her face. There was a quiet sound as if someone had stepped into a puddle.

Ciri stirred, staring intently into the space ahead of her. Her distorted reflection stared back at her from the broken mirror.

Adam needs to replace the damn mirror now.

Ciri stared at her face as if expecting someone to appear behind the split reflection. The more she stared, the more her throat tightened with a suffocating sense of wrongness.

Ciri, on the right side of the crack in the mirror, didn't have an ugly scar on her cheek, but she did have an elf-made earring in the shape of a lilac fleur-de-lis on her lobe. Ciri's left side had no earring - not even a lobe, just the torn edges of flesh, as if someone had cut her ear off with an axe.

Sweat beaded out in a flash, and Ciri felt the stub of every hair. She jerked away from the mirror and gripped her forearm with her fingers, pinching the skin.

//"Overlady of Time-and-Space," said Ciri-at-her-right-hand side and her beige lipstick-smeared lips stretched into a ceremonial smile.

Her own voice. It sounded different in her head, but it was impossible to confuse it with someone else's.

//"Unexpected child," spat out Ciri-left-side angrily. - In every moment lurks past, present, and future. In every moment is eternity."

She'd said those words once before. Somewhere. To someone. But where and to whom?

//"You think you're special? - Dozens of pairs of huge green eyes glittered with red lights. - Your uniqueness was left at the tip of a bloody needle."

Ciri cringed at the pain in her lower abdomen, revitalized in her body at the mention of the needle. What the hell was that, was it the ерштп from the lab? But they are separated by hundreds... hundreds of versts... But nothing is capable of enchanting a victim hundreds of miles away...

"Adam," Ciri breathed out, but her vocal cords hardened and refused to obey her. "Adam!"

//"Adam? - Ciri interjected from the right side. - Geralt, Yennifer, Eredin... Everyone needs the Unexpected Child. Who needs Ciri?"

//"To no one," Ciri answered her left-handedly. - A child without a Destination would never leave Brokilon."

One of the pieces of mirror - the one that should have reflected her neck, but reflected only the marble of the wall-fell off and fell into the sink. The floor went from slippery to shaky, swaying underfoot like waves.

//"She's gone. She is dead. The Destination-less Child was beheaded in Jealousy."

Ciri felt her heart thudding: she had never thought her voice could inspire such primal fear. The best way to fight the dream was to realize it was only a dream. No one in the world has ever been killed by it. You have to endure it, like a wobbly tooth.

All she has to do is wake up.

///'What happens to those who are no longer needed?' - Playing with thin manicured fingers with an earring, Ciri-right asked. - Who has fulfilled their destiny?".

By the rules, the nightmare universe obeys Ciri knew who the doppelganger was alluding to before she even uttered her mother's name. Pavetta.

The floor enveloped Ciri's bare feet up to her ankles, rising higher and higher. She was drowsy, painfully relaxed, and wanted to lie back on the cold marble waves and rest for a while.

What is there, in the darkness, at the bottom of the infinite ocean, on the other side of the edge that separates life from death?

//"Our mother fulfilled her Destiny. Black water filled her throat and lungs," Ciri-right said thoughtfully, "and her flesh turned to sea dust.

She had imagined her parents' death many times - ever since the night Calanthe had told her the news.// "Do not weep, Princess. The death of a drowned man is the most peaceful and tranquil death one could wish for." Ciri disobeyed and wept until her throat was cramping from spasms.

It seems that Calanthe then called this death... Lulling?

The last thing she heard was a phrase uttered by Ciri-her right side sounded like a distant echo:

//"Lulling. Like a midnight dream."

Something beneath the floor caught her feet and dragged her down to the deepest depths. The irresistible force of the earth's gravity pulled her down, sucked her body into itself. The thick marble water closed over her head and fell silent.

* * *

When Ciri opened her eyes, she saw the smooth black ceiling of the bedroom.

Knowing the ability of nightmares to cycle, she lay on the sweat-wet sheets for a while, taking short breaths. When she was sure that the outline of the room was still and the voices were silent, Ciri twisted her foot to her side.

There was no trace of the wound on her heel. Ciri hung off the bed, saw the shard she'd stabbed herself with, and placed it carefully on the bedside table. It was as if water was still gurgling in her lungs.

If Adam hadn't been sleeping so soundly, she would have considered waking him up and telling him about the bad dream, but she quickly dismissed the thought. What would she tell him? "Oh, honey, I had a nightmare, soothe me?" He already thought she was an unreasonable child who'd wander off into the middle of nowhere without supervision, so she didn't need to complain to him about night visions. No, let him sleep - she wouldn't have to sleep tonight.

Shadows moved and rippled in the semi-darkness. The Darker would have attacked long ago; her imagination was running wild after all she'd been through in the last twenty-four hours.

What will happen to the people on Hensha? Adam is so calm about what happened - surely the humans have another trump card up their sleeve. Maybe a deposit of dimeritium. Maybe a weapon she doesn't understand.

Or maybe they just don't know what's in store for them.

One joy, nightmares were a pale shadow of what was to happen to Eredin and his henchmen on the wreck of the Hensha. Ciri enjoyed imagining the mutilated, corpse turned inside out, conjured up the image of the gruesome wound on his chest. Her own bloodthirstiness didn't bother her at all; Eredin deserved nothing but hatred. To think that once upon a time on Tir na Lia.....

It's embarrassing to remember. It doesn't matter. He must be dead.

Dead.

Ciri pressed herself against Adam, resting her forehead against the cool carbon fiber of his shoulder. She trusted him, but David Sarif, the man she was about to meet so soon...

Not quite.

* * *

It was 6.48 am on the wall clock.

Hypnotizing the numbers, Ciri waited for the first rays of dawn, but instead, the dark gray light was replaced by light gray, and the noise of people was added to the noise of cars. Adam woke up the second the clock struck seven, and for the first few moments after he woke up he had a look of bewilderment on his face, as if Ciri had crawled into bed with him under the cover of night and he'd had no idea what had happened.

//Damn, it's like waking up with a different person," Ciri thought with annoyance.

Adam put a finger to his temple.

"Damn it," Ciri heard instead of good morning, "we've been moved by the bankers. The meeting with Sarif is half an hour early."

"Good morning to you too, Adam," Ciri sighed.

Adam wished her a good morning as if nothing had happened, too, but Ciri suspected at the same time, that he was flipping through the messages in front of his eyes. Without allowing himself the slightest bit of morning tenderness, he rose to his feet and flew into his underpants and then his pants, quickly undoing the straps and buttons.

What, did she need to get dressed, too? She didn't want to be naked in the morning light, though it was dim, and her clothes were somewhere under the couch or behind the couch.

"Adam..."

Why is this so awkward?

"I'll find it," he answered quickly, glancing around at the two glasses of whiskey, hers, undrunk, and his, empty, and after a couple of minutes of searching, he handed her pants and shirt to her.

Not knowing where to put herself, Ciri hurriedly dressed. Adam was already on the phone with someone, pouring coffee with one hand and pressing computer keys with the other. Refusing the offered bowl of cereal, Ciri hurried upstairs.

And she cursed as soon as the door closed behind her. That's right, leopard can't change his spots! No more morning tenderness or romantic breakfast! What had she hoped for?

Remembering that she had exactly ten minutes to prepare, Ciri pulled off her clothes and tossed them into the basket helpfully labeled "for dirty laundry". Everything in the apartment was tailored to her and signed in the general - the bathroom table was littered with feminine paraphernalia, from combs to cosmetics, and the closet was littered with tailored clothes.

When they try so hard, they really want to get something in return.

Soap and a comb made her a pretty girl. Ciri looked through her closet for something dressy and fished out a dark green army jacket with a local floral pattern. It made her feel like a starched royal poodle.

Okay, in Rome be like roman - it's fashion, so it's fashion. Adam wears a cape with flowers and doesn't give a shit, what, she can't stand a jacket?

With a quick, honed motion, Ciri swiped a black pencil across her upper eyelid - the first time in a long time - and stared into the mirror with an uneasy feeling, expecting a catch from her reflection.

"Ciri, we're going to be late," came a warning voice from behind the door. "I'm sure you look great."

When she answered that she was already "about to," Ciri, out of a sense of contradiction, slowly drew the pencil across her lower eyelid once more. A discreet cough came from the doorway.

Adam's reaction could be guessed by the slight movement of his eyebrow - actually, his facial expression was limited to his eyebrows, you couldn't see his eyes anyway - and judging by it, Ciri looked really good.

"We'll have to walk," Adam said. "Chiron Street is standing still. Put on your sunglasses, and stay as close to me as you can."

//"Stay as close as you can." How does he envision it? Clinging to his chest?

Deitroth's morning was different from Hensha's for the color of the rain: gray sheets of drops fell one after another on the sidewalk. Flows of people flowed through the streets, according to an invisible pattern: Ciri had never seen such an organized and yet so diverse crowd.

Detroit did not belong to a single people; Ciri passed pale and fair-haired, broad-faced and angular, black and narrow-eyed, metal and flesh. As she joined Adam in the flow, Ciri felt more invisible and insignificant than ever, like an ant in a buzzing anthill.

When they reached the broad square, the crowd was transformed from a motley one to a homogeneous one, if not in appearance, then in behavior. Men and women in starched collars and expensive jackets walked like golems, all of them talking to invisible interlocutors, staring ahead with intent and blank stares, never slowing down for a moment.

"Hey guys," a lanky and pitch-black man with shiny steel teeth interrupted her thoughts, "why don't you sign a petition in defense of..."

"Not interested," Adam interrupted him unaccustomedly rudely, pulling Ciri to him by the waist.

Well, she didn't have much trust in such a strange appearance either.

"Oh, right, of course," the man spat out. "You Augs don't care who you cut."

Adam didn't respond in any way to the challenge, quickening his step. A few more curses flew back at them.

"He's some kind of a freak," Ciri shrugged. "Adam, you're going to break my ribs, what's with all this passion in the middle of a crowd?"

//"And where was your passion in the morning? - Ciri continued to herself. Adam loosened his grip but didn't remove his hands.

"I told you to stay close," Adam said, looking around carefully. "You're ahead of me."

"I'll walk where I want," Ciri muttered but didn't pull out of the embrace.

As it turned out, it was a short walk.

Up to the two towers whose peaks cut through the clouds, and for anyone in doubt as to who they belonged to, in shiny letters, as if made of gold leaf, was carved: SARIF INDUSTRIES. And a wing drawn in three strokes of a pen.

The building was crushing in size. Ciri walked across the plaza with her head up and didn't notice she was at the entrance.

Adam's coworkers watched her with the predatory curiosity of courtiers as Ciri passed through the revolving doors. The internal architecture of Sarif Industries resembled the buildings in Hensha: a hall several stories high, followed by a corridor, followed by a hall, followed by a corridor. Except the decoration was more ornate and fanciful: statues in the form of a ribbon twisted in itself, balls of gold suspended from the ceiling.

Adam led her into the two-by-two transparent room she already knew, sighed tiredly, and pressed the topmost button. The transparent room flew upward, and Ciri, forgetting everything, pressed herself against the glass.

She thought she was used to the other scales by now, but the panorama of Detroit blew her breath away. The sun's rays were trying desperately to break through the light brown fog that shrouded the morning city. In the entire Continent, with its kingdoms and republics, suliphates and principalities, there were not as many people as walked to work in Detroit alone.

If one imagined, even for a second, that their worlds would go to war... Her own would turn to dust before the Lodge could convene a War Council.

The elevator stopped at the very spire. A pleasant-looking woman in her late 40s wished them a good morning.

In a room as large as the throne room, a man stood by the full-wall windows. He could not help but hear them enter; yet he did not move from his place, still contemplating the city as if he were seeing it for the first time. Only when they crossed the half of the room lit by the balloons hanging from the ceiling did he turn around with a slight smile on his lips.

There was something glossy-southern about him, something of an Ophir merchant: swarthy skin, a noble gray on his temples, and a shirt shimmering with gold thread.

"I apologize, Chief," Adam apologized dutifully.

"It's okay, Adam. I'm sure there was a reason." Sarif turned his full body toward Ciri and tilted his head slightly: "David Sarif, CEO of Sarif Industries. At your service."

She held out her hand, to which Sharif smiled even wider, and answered her with an enveloping, firm handshake of a black and gold-encrusted hand.

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Sarif."

Sharif looked them both over from head to toe, as if he was seeing Adam for the first time, which made Ciri feel like she wasn't the only show poodle here.

In the center of the room, wide armchairs upholstered in dark brown leather were arranged on the outside of the desk; on the desk itself stood a gilded tray with cups and a coffee pot. Sarif's favorite color left no doubt.
Косплеит одного турка

He invited them to the table, and Ciri sank into the chair like a swampy mire. Did Sarif hang his own portrait on the wall? What the hell kind of modesty is that?

"Miss Rhiannon," Sarif said after a short pause, "first of all, I want to apologize for the very chilly reception on our planet. I deeply regret such short-sightedness, and I hope Sarif Industries will be able to smooth out your first unpleasant impression at least a little."

Sarif looked exactly like a man who felt entitled to apologize for the entire planet. Ciri leaned back in her chair, her shoulders squared and her chin upturned.

"Thank you, Mr. Sarif," she said calmly. "As much as I would like to know more about your world my goal is to return to my own. Am I to understand that you're going to help me?"

The expression on Adam's face seemed slightly surprised, but he quickly looked away. Sarif looked at her curiously. It was as if he was quickly reassessing.

"Your world, of course..." Sarif stretched, pouring the clear glass in front of her. "Tell me about it, Miss Rhiannon."

By local standards, her world was considered "dark medieval," an epithet Adam had once had the misfortune to drop. At least in her Dark Middle Ages, opium smokers weren't rotting alive in the streets.

"My world? It's no different from many others," Ciri replied evasively. "Everything is in the best traditions of mankind: politics, trade, religion, and wars."

Ciri tried to decide whether to trust the man sitting across from her. After all, he'd given a lot of money to get her off the other side of the planet and provided her shelter and protection. She tried to find a catch in the man in the elegant suit, a flaw, a trace of deceit in the soft speech, but she couldn't get a hold of anything.

David Sarif made a favorable impression - or knew how to make one.

"What are you selling?" Sharif asked in a secularly indifferent manner.

Strange questions... What good is it to inquire about a world that no one here is meant to see? At least not while the Ard Gaeth, the Gate of Worlds, is closed.

How would Sarif know about such things, though?

"Anything they buy," Ciri said, encouraging the conversation. "Weapons, grain, gold, iron, dimeritium."

She had the feeling that she was saying one thing, but Sarif was hearing something completely different.

"Yes," he agreed unknowingly. "With the ability to teleport, trade should flourish. How many people in your world have magical abilities? Let's say... a percentage?"

He paused at the last word as if he wasn't sure if she understood the word 'percentage'. Ciri snorted.

"Percentage," she emphasized the word, "two or three. Maybe five, with proper training. What does this have to do with my return, Mr. Sarif?"

Sarif shrugged.

"I just want to get to know you better, that's all. Our worlds have much to offer each other, Ms. Rhiannon. Medicine, technology," he made a broad, uncertain gesture in the air, "social progress."

"Democracy," Adam hummed and shook his head.

That's a very one-sided proposition. The Nilfgaard has been trying to bring social progress to the northern barbarians for a couple of centuries now, but the only things they have brought about are hunger and syphilis.

And democracy, as they say, is generally an illigal thing.

"I don't know about medicine," Ciri shrugged. "Your poor people are dying of gangrene in the streets."

"Between health care," Sarif said nonchalantly. "and universal health care, there's a hundred billion credits difference. I'm sure, Ms. Rhiannon, that the lower class in any world has a hard time."

"In some worlds, people are equal," Ciri objected.

Well, more or less.

"But some are more equal than others," Sarif smiled, putting his foot on his leg and placing his palms together.

"So what about Ciri's return, Chief?" Adam intervened.

The pressure of the question would have left no room for maneuvering for the most skillful politician. Ciri wanted to cover Adam's palm with her own, but she refrained.

"In such a hurry to say goodbye to our dear guest, Adam?" Sarif grinned lightly, reproachfully. "Of course, we'll be looking into the matter. By the end of the month, we should be able to present our first working hypotheses."

Adam drummed his iron fingers on the table.

"Until then," Sarif shifted his gaze to her, "there are many things you can teach us. And we can teach you."

It sounds like a lousy deal, and what's lousy about it is that Ciri didn't have any other options. Okay. She'll be used in one way or another her whole life, the only question is whether she'll learn to get some use out of others. She'll take whatever they offer her from the Sarif Industries - and more if possible.

Ciri glanced at Adam. She certainly had one ally.

"Thank you," Ciri smiled lusciously. Adam noticed the unfamiliar note in her voice and folded his arms across his chest, Mr. Sharif. I owe you one."

Sharif answered her with a warm, "ah-such-a-triffle" smile.

The conversation drifted smoothly to organizational matters, after which Ciri thought grimly that she wouldn't have a single free minute in the coming weeks. Well, except for tonight - Sarif hadn't failed to mention several times how Adam had to show her this and Adam had to show her that.

Why is he so eager to bring them together?

"Oh, yes, Ms. Rhiannon," Sarif interrupted them gently as they headed for the exit. "The scar on your cheek... It's a matter of five minutes if you're interested. On our cost, of course."

Ciri didn't immediately realize what he meant, and when she did, she touched the jagged edges of the scar with her fingertips. A matter of five minutes? She generally hated Skellen's mark. But what would she be without it? Ciri-without-the-scar, Ciri-on-the-left-side?

" She doesn't have to," Adam cut him off.

"Adam, for God's sake," Sarif said, "I'm not implying anything. And I'm not in any way detracting from Miss Rhiannon's beauty."

"Thank you, Mr. Sarif," Ciri replied, hurrying out the door. "I'll be fine."

As they stepped into the elevator, Adam pressed the button and asked a couple of moments later:

"What do you think?"

Ciri diligently straightened the crumpled fabric on her dark green tight-fitting pants.

"The powers that be are the same in all worlds," she sighed. "I wanted to demand something, but I ended up with a list of things I needed to do, and I should be grateful."

Adam hummed indefinitely.

"Welcome to my life. Who's your next appointment?"

"Francis Pritchard, ten o'clock, office..."

"404, first door on the right," said Adam with a sigh, finishing her sentence for her. "I'll be right there. I need a coffee before I go into his lair. And a cigarette."

* * *

While Adam went to get coffee, Ciri had no trouble finding office 404. Numbered offices stretched along the walls, fenced off from the general area by frosted glass doors.

Seeing a door labeled ++"Francis Pritchard, CTO," Ciri knocked several times. When no one answered, she shrugged and gently pushed the door open. The first thing she saw was a mountain of junk: the desk surface was littered with appliances, scrolls of printouts on yellow paper, and empty cups on a pedestal of brown streaks.

Behind the junk was a slumped figure staring at the monitor, not even bothering to look up at her. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the back of his head, his skin tight around his cheekbones, making his already sharp features seem even sharper.

There was an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a long wire behind his right ear. He looked a little like Lambert if he'd been locked in a basement for a couple of months without a sword and food.

"What part of what is written," the man exhaled, "in large red letters on my door escaped your comprehension - 'do not' or 'disturb,' my dear feeble-minded colle..."

And he had the temperament of a Lambert who'd been locked up without a sword and food for a couple of months. When he turned in his chair and looked at her, his thin lips stretched into a wry smile.

"Cirilla! What guests!" He rose from the table and held out a dry, calloused palm to her. "Francis Pritchard. C-tee-o."

The tone left no doubt that the "c-tee-o" was the main man in the entire tower, not excluding Sarif. Something about the eyes, mottled with wrinkles in the corners, Ciri liked.

"Ciri. Adam said you'd help me."

Not sure exactly what it was, she left the wording vague. She wondered why he'd brought a two-wheeler into his office.

"Well, if Adam said so, of course!" Pritchard grinned, squaring his slouching shoulders. "Whatever you want."

The snide smile peeled off his face like a second skin off a snake as he glanced at the opening door.

"Whatever you want," came a familiar gruff voice from behind Ciri, "no shit, Pritchard, what happened to 'hang on the line for three hours and maybe if you're lucky I'll pick up the phone?"

Ciri turned around in surprise; Adam spoke in extended sentences, something that didn't happen to him often.

Adam set his computer on top of the pile of papers, which, judging by the look on Pritchard's face, disrupted the carefully constructed chaos on his desk.

"I have to write a report by the end of the day," Adam replied in a deliberately tired voice. "And after your update, the machines started to revolt. I've been on the loading screen for half an hour now."

He turned the screen toward Pritchard, and the latter stared at him like a dead mouse for a couple of moments.

"You need to stop surfing suspicious websites, Jensen. I know your love of "young blonde girl saved by valiant cop." And who has to deal with the consequences of that love? That's right."

Pritchard stared at Ciri so intently that she adjusted the top buttons on her jacket. Adam glanced at Pritchard and ran a matte black finger across his throat.

Quite an intimidating gesture on his part.

"Leave the computer and get out of my office," Pritchard sighed.

Adam nodded and turned abruptly, army-style, carefully closing the door behind him. Pritchard commented on his departure with a theatrical sigh of relief.

"Do you know, Cirilla, what the real tragedy is?" Pritchard asked, leaning back in his chair. "It's that Jensen is the first one you've had the misfortune to run into. And there are so many more courteous men on Earth."

He spoke the second phrase a little louder, and glanced defiantly at the closing door as if Adam might hear him. Though, knowing Adam's hearing.

"Yes, I've already met Sarif," Ciri smiled innocently.

Pritchard gave her a grim look.

"Okay," he said abruptly. "I've got a long list of things Sarif gave you, namely: a cell phone, a laptop, a credit card, a portable translation module...."

For each word, he pulled a device out of the drawers, which he placed on the table with such a clatter that it was no wonder why nothing worked here. Ciri, meanwhile, was looking at a poster of a pink-haired girl clutching the hilt of a huge, full-body sword.

The Final Fantasy. They really are fantasists, haven't they ever seen a sword?

"And don't ask me," Pritchard sighed, "what the hell do you need equipment for if it won't survive single teleportation? That's the way it works around here, you give the order first, then you think about it."

Ciri took the thin black rectangle in her hands. The locals didn't part with them for a second.

"Besides, I'll have to explain how to use it. In short," he summarized grimly, "we're going to be here until tonight."

"What about weapons?" Ciri asked.

"All questions for Jensen," Pritchard cut off.

Oh, she'll ask them first chance she gets.

"Let's start with the cell phone," the day had just begun and Pritchard was already talking like he'd been working in the docks all night.

"...this rectangle right here, right?" Ciri clarified, taking the thin black rectangle in her hand.

Pritchard rested his head against the palm of his hand and said with just his lips:

"There's a reason the instructions say "keep your fingers out of the socket". There's a reason."

* * *

She had escaped from Pritchard's office a few moments before he lost his patience and she lost her appetite for knowledge. The basics were clear: to call Adam, she had to dial the number one button on the phone, Farid the number two button, and Pritchard was best not to be messed with. She would have been much better at the keyboard if Pritchard hadn't looked at her with such doom every time she spent half a minute looking for the right key.

* * *

Jan Lewandowski was a man in his thirties, boyishly handsome, with an agile face and curly wheat hair. He had white mirrored lenses instead of eyes that reminded her of the muzzles of street cameras, and at first, Ciri thought he was blind.

"I was more interested in how to kill them as soon as possible," Ciri shrugged.

He was clearly expecting applause, but Ciri, who had gotten no revelation for herself, just sighed:

"That's fascinating. I thought you were supposed to be studying my gene, Mrs. Lewanowski?"

Lewandowski was upset like a child, finding no support in Ciri.

"Gene?" he interjected as if she were speaking another language. "Are you talking about a particular gene?"

"About the Elder Blood gene," Ciri continued with a slight chill. The fact that discussing the topic was inevitable didn't make it any less unpleasant, - Aen Hen Ichaer. "The Great Legacy of the Elves."

"And what do you know about it?"

She was the one who'd always known the least about it. Why they thought it could open gates, how it was brought out, where it disappeared to, and why she had the unenviable fate of being its main bearer.

"Not so much. It's passed down through the female line. Allows one to travel between worlds. According to Itlina - and no one in their right mind would do that - it's supposed to save the race of humans and elves from the White Cold. They say we inherited it from the unicorns."

"I beg your pardon?" Lewandowski was taken aback. "Do you think you are descended from unicorns?"

"Ms. Rhiannon, who do you think we are? No one will work with your genetic information without your full and voluntary consent - and most importantly, an understanding of what we are going to do with it. And we certainly won't "poke" you with anything. Especially since I haven't assembled a team yet."

Mice?! Precious elf blood to mice?! Oh, it was a shame she'd never see Eredin's face when he heard that!

"...In the meantime, I'd like to ask you about the Foglet," Lewandowski began the old jingle. "A very interesting constitution for a humanoid - it would be interesting to understand its evolutionary basis."

It seemed she had just bet Lambert that lectures on necrophage structure would never be useful to her.

* * *

Some people are easier to strangle than to shut up. Ciri left Lewandowski's office in the deep afternoon, with a rumbling stomach and a persistent headache.

Adam had refused to share the lunch meal with her, huddled in his office behind a barricade of papers and candy bar wrappers. Seeing Pritchard sitting at the narrow table in the dining room, Ciri smiled. He'd obviously prefer to be alone, but what can you do, life isn't a Covira lollipop.

"I didn't do anything, and I'm so tired," Ciri complained, plopping down without permission right in front of him.

The conversation didn't go any further. Clutching her credit card in her fingers, Ciri headed for the food counter. She chose the most intricate dish, an Abbruzzi cannelloni, and stopped where all the other customers did - at the terminal.

++"YOUR PIN PLEASE," the robot said. It looked like a black flattened pyramid with the top cut off.

"1-2-6-8," Ciri said diligently.

A suppressed laugh sounded behind her. The robot took a moment to process the information, then corrected itself:

++"ENTER-YOUR-PIN-CODE-PLEASE."

Ciri gently poked her finger at the right numbers.

"I linked your card to Adam's account, didn't I?" Pritchard asked himself thoughtfully when she returned with the tray, and rubbed his palms together, crunching his thin fingers lightly. "Yes, I've linked your card to Adam's account. That's nice. He likes surprises."

Ciri shrugged and began to eat the cannelloni, which turned out to be just noodles and finished her meal with lemon cream ice cream, which tasted neither lemon nor creamy.

"One question keeps me wondering," Pritchard said, watching her. "Polish? Another world, but you speak the exact same language as on Earth? I mean... What are the odds?"

Ciri inwardly brightened.

"Ah, well that's easy," she shrugged.

"Oh, really?"

In truth, the theory of reflections was just one of many theories, but Ciri liked the effect it had on Pritchard so much that she told it as an obvious truth.

"Do you know what Latin and Sanskrit are?" Pritchard asked in a stifled voice.

"Oderint dum metuant (Let them hate, but fear)," Ciri repeated Kalanthe's favorite saying. - I was raised in the royal court of Cintra.

"But... how..." Pritchard could not formulate the sentence to the end, "this simply cannot logically happen... There must be unique historical conditions for this... Culture....."

+//+"The lawyers will be right over," Adam texted her. - I'm in the conference room."

"Tempus nemini (time is not waiting)," Ciri said proudly, pushing her plate away and leaving the dazed Pritchard to himself.

* * *

In the meeting room, the outlines of three figures could be seen through the milky glass. Two familiar ones - Adam listening to something with his arms crossed over his chest while Sarif gesticulated frantically - and the silhouette of a gaunt, tall woman standing to the side. The latter noticed her first and took a couple of steps toward the door.

//"Son, this is a model agreement on the use of genetic information. Don't look for a catch where there's a catch..."

Noticing her, Sarif faltered and smiled dutifully.

"Ciri," Adam said, "meet..."

There was more femininity in the lump of stone than in the figure standing before her in a tightly buttoned gray vest. Her gray hair was slicked back to a grizzled mess, and piercing gray eyes drilled into her uninhibitedly.

"Rosalind Ginzburg," the woman interrupted him, extending a firm hand for a handshake and tugging Ciri's palm downward. "I'm in charge of teleportation research on Project Supernova."

There was no point in Сiri introducing herself, so she made a polite sound befitting the occasion. "Project Supernova, huh?"

"Miss Ginzburg ran CERN and specialized in quantum teleportation," Sharif said with undisguised pride. "By the way, Rosalinda, I never asked why you were shut down."

Rosalinda studied Ciri's face for a moment before answering. Ciri noticed under the thin gray hair a line from the back of her head to her temple, and from her temple to her fingertips. The hexagon-shaped plaque on her temple similar to Adam's glowed a muted dark blue color.

"Unfortunately," she somehow managed to speak with her lips pressed tightly together, "one equation reigns supreme in our world, Sarif, and it's not the e=mc^2 equation, but the profitability equation. Science without practical output does not pay dividends."

Adam kept out of the conversation but listened intently to every word. She knew someone else who always tried to stay out of the way and always found himself in the thick of things.

"Amen," Sarif chuckled, but his companion didn't find it funny at all.

"Project Supernova?" Ciri asked, crossing her arms over her chest. "What is the project about?"

Adam drummed his fingers on the jamb.

"Your return, Ms. Rhiannon," Sarif smiled. "Among other purposes."

Of everyone present, he was the only one who managed to stay composed.

"Miss Rhiannon," said Rosalind, looking at her from under her heavy eyelids. "I shall expect you as soon as the formalities are settled."

* * *

They put a twenty-page document in front of Ciri and made her read it. Adam was explaining things to her, the lawyers were correcting Adam, Adam was arguing with the lawyers, Sarif was trying to smooth over conflicts, and Ciri was trying to concentrate. Some points were rewritten right in front of her at Adam's instruction, some were rewritten at Sarif's instruction, each time forcing her to read it again from the beginning.

The document assured that the genetic information would be the commercially protected property of Sarif Industries, like all patents and technologies derived from it, subject to non-disclosure and proprietary encryption, would not be used for terrorist or anti-capitalist (whatever that is) purposes, and would be processed in full compliance with international laws on human genome transformation.

The last paragraph was heavily debated, and humans were changed to "sentient beings," then to "humanoid races," then Adam went out for a smoke, and when he came back, the lawyers had agreed on "humanoid species. Ciri, meanwhile, was reading the definitions of the words mentioned on the first page, which took up most of the document.

She glanced over to Adam before signing and wrote "Cirilla Fiona Ellen Rhiannon" in broad letters on the last page before the inscription sank into the page, mirrored on the screen with a time stamp and an assurance of authenticity.

Sarif raised his thumb upward.

* * *

++"ENTRY FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY," said the sign, behind which stretched rows of gray, smoothly contoured tables that looked like statues cast in liquid metal. There were no windows, the room was smooth, beige, and smelled like an infirmary.

Rozalinda was waiting for her with a team of ten people whom Ciri couldn't distinguish by face, name, or clothing - especially since they were sitting behind a transparent wall and staring at her huge, full-screen magnified pupils. The slate behind their backs was divided into three columns: "quantum entanglement theory," "exact replication theory," and "black hole theory."

She had been promised that the most she would experience would be mild discomfort. It was mild discomfort when the iron hoop closed around her head in a crown of thorns and she felt the tingling of many small needles at her temples.

Ginsburg's voice - cold, detached - came from speakers built into the ceiling of the room.

"Ms. Rhiannon, please proceed. Try to move to a distance of half a meter."

She felt like a circus performer in the arena in front of a skeptical audience. Ciri imagined how the fabric and being around her distorted, and the world folded inward on itself, opening up to her.

A sigh of admiration rang out in the next room. The hoop around her head hissed and shimmered. Somewhere nearby, a warning beep sounded.

"Clothes too?" Someone asked. "And jewelry? Anything she comes in contact with... or anything she consciously wants to move?"

Ciri had never given the question much thought but agreed with the second option.

"I think," Ginzburg's voice rang out, "we should separate two things at once. Where Ms. Rhiannon gets the energy to move - let's call it the magic component for now - will be studied by a separate team. Our goal is the technological execution itself."

"The electromagnetic effect speaks in favor of my theory," replied someone behind the glass.

Meanwhile, a younger scientist drew a line under all three columns and wrote "self-destruction and exact reproduction" with three exclamation points next to it.

The phrase went white on the board for perhaps a minute before Ciri realized its meaning.

"Reproduction and destruction...?" she interjected. "Are you saying that when I teleport, I'm not me anymore?"

"The philosophical question," Ginzburg grinned, "is what is 'me' and when does it cease to be 'me'."

Ciri found it quite pressing, and the thought that she was not her, but merely a copy, extremely unpleasant.

The process went in circles.

"Ms. Rhiannon, please proceed. Try to move to a distance of two meters."

"Ms. Rhiannon, please proceed. Take the piece of metal lying on the table in your hands."

She was only freed when total confusion crept into the scientific community - everyone was defending their theory, unwilling to listen to others - and the blackboard was scrawled with indecipherable word combinations.

* * *

That night, Adam and Sarif flew out for an emergency meeting with investors, and no one could say when they'd be back. She didn't bother Pritchard, who'd taken refuge in an outpost of pizza cartons and empty bottles.

//"Even the peasant work less when the harvest ripe," Ciri thought sympathetically as she walked between the lighted offices

She had to return alone - except for the tight convoy of Sharif Industries Security Service badges that escorted her every step from the gold towers to her car and from her car to the Chiron Building.

We like everything alive and beautiful.

She took a couple of steps toward it, and as she came to the very precipice, she looked down. Instead of the Great Skellig Sea, a black, viscous plateau lay before her.

But when we try to understand what makes it alive and beautiful...

Ciri's head was filled with a variety of unearthly sounds, whistling and scraping - a distant echo of the world around her. She felt as if her head were about to shatter.

...it ceases to be both.

Ciri woke up covered in sweat, and the voice was still vibrating somewhere inside her head, echoing off her skull.

She walked to the window, trying to find the Unicorn constellation in the gray sky. An alien sky. Nothing familiar.

First thing tomorrow, she'll ask Adam for some sleepy herbs.

* * *

Ciri found the first day at Sharif Industries hard until the second, and the second until the third. In the morning, Lewandowski had made her study genetics with a tenacity that would have made Avallac'h proud, but without his patience.

After lunch she had to do more and more strange exercises - teleport through an iron buzzing tube, with a mouse in her hands (why do these people hate mice so much?), with a mouse with iron paws. The last of the experiments did not survive, collapsing in Ciri's palms as a breathless carcass. Someone in the audience made a witty joke about Adam.

Unlike Lewandowski, Ginzburg did not try to teach her sciences personally but loaded her with a whole pile of books. One of them, ++"Wave Theory of Light for Dummies", was lying on the table in front of Ciri, and she couldn't give it to her. The more so because it was not about the waves she needed.

"Oh, I hope he survives," sighed the childishly pretty blonde girl, taking a noisy sip of her drink through the tube.

"Ciri felt her knuckles turn icy."

This news pleased her companion. She shook her shoulder and took a long slurp of her drink.

Their eyes glowed with sticky curiosity.

There was a graveyard silence in the dining room.

"I'm a little busy, Ciri..." he muttered, twitching his mouse and clicking on one of the bars. "Something urgent?"

On the immense and perfectly clean desk was only a Zenith, a black coffee cup, and a neat stack of papers.

"Did you know?" Ciri threw her head up so that her cervical vertebrae crunched.

The air around her began to heat up.

"What did I know...?" Finally hearing the bad notes, Adam looked up at her. "Calmly, no sudden movements, I have not saved all morning...."

The air around her began to shake with green sparks.

"Shit..." Adam summarized grimly. "Is this about the elf?"

Of course, he knew. If she didn't break something right now, she was going to burst with anger.

"You're so smart," Ciri snickered.

His ability to not lose his temper completely pissed her off.

"You know, Adam... You're either sleeping with me or you're taking me for an unreasonable child. But both of those things are really weird together."

A vein twitched under Adam's eye, and his cheeks tightened as if he'd swallowed something bitter. For a split second, Ciri thought she'd overdone it, but she quickly dismissed the thought.

Don't slam the door, she's not a child anymore. Don't slam the door, she's not a...

Ciri slammed the door so hard that it was a miracle it didn't fly off its hinges along with the doorpost.

* * *

Vesemir had said that anger was a lousy counselor. Good, that was the last thing Ciri needed right now: anyone's advice. She walked out into the square in front of the towers, taking a seat near a small fountain and noisily inhaling the thick and dirty air. The sky to the horizon shone with an uncompromising grayness.

She needs to finish off Eredin. But how can she do it without being seen as a murderer in the eyes of the world?

From the direction of the shopping plaza, at the very entrance to the underground network, came a disjointed, irritated rumble. People were shaking banners. The crowd bypassed them, as in Novigrad they would have bypassed a fool in the square, or a magician impaled on a stake.

"WE NEED THE TRUTH ABOUT HANSHA," read the poster, which showed the vague outline of either a Kraken or a Drowner, a picture is so poorly drawn as to be indistinguishable. The picture swayed in time with the jerky movement.

The girl with the placard that read, "CHEMICALS IN THE AIR WILL GIVE US NIGHTMARE" glared at Ciri as if she were personally responsible for her trouble. And, of course, "FREEDOM FOR ELVES."

Soft footsteps sounded behind her. If Adam followed her... Though no, Adam walks silently. Ciri turned around. The one person who annoyed her least in Sarif Industries at the moment was, oddly enough, Pritchard.

"I told Adam," Pritchard said melancholically, tossing the cigarette butt onto the pavement and rolling it into the dust. "You can't hide a cat in a bag. But who's he going to listen to?"

"You'd better tell me, Pritchard," Ciri replied grimly.

"Oh, come on, Ciri, don't worry. When it gets quieter, we'll finish him off. Three bullets to the head, and no doctor or necromancer can save him."

"The heart needs to be cut out so the necromancer can't save one," Ciri corrected him.

Pritchard gave a short, nervous laugh, sat down beside him, and drew in his breath with feeling. They were silent for a moment, watching the procession of banners.

"I need a gun."

Pritchard looked around conspiratorially.

"Jensen is an ex-cop, which, my dear, is a scary, I'd say incurable diagnosis. He needs a copy of the paper verification paperwork before he'll put a gun in your hand."

He leaned closer to Ciri, blowing acrid smoke:

"Though it would seem so," Pritchard made a vague gesture with his hand. "All he has to do is get it from a room... Behind an armored door... Protected by a code. On the first floor near the server room."

Ciri smiled.

"What about the cameras?" She's worried.

"You're a fast learner, Supergirl," Pritchard grinned. "I'll cover for you, then."

Well, at least someone complimented her.

" What, out of pure humanity?" Ciri was wary. Something told her he wouldn't even get out of bed for the sake of humanity.

Pritchard drew in with feeling, and, letting out puffs of smoke and lowering his voice in the manner of a theatrical villain, he proclaimed:

"One day - and that day may never come - I will come to you and ask you to return the favor. Until then, take this as a gift on my long-awaited payday."

Ciri didn't understand who he was quoting with such relish, but smiled contentedly:

"It's a deal. We're gonna be friends, Pritchard."

"Francis," Pritchard grumbled, giving a parody of a smile. "Don't adopt our Robocop's bad habits."

* * *

The next morning, as she left the Chiron Building under tight escort, a poster of a redheaded woman with her long hair in pigtails wrapped around her head hung on the building across the street. She bared her white teeth, clutching a poisonous green vial.

The inscription read +++"Find your inner elf. Valentino."

Nothing gave Ciri as much power as anger. Anger ordered her to teleport to Geneva, vakizashi in hand, slip under the cover of night, into the hospital, track down Eredin in the many identical wards, and introduce his throat to the monomolecular blade.

But Adam was damn right. You don't go into the fight unprepared.

She'd been preparing herself: fierce, furious preparation, trying to absorb everything Sarif Industries could give her. And she'd looked for a Hurricane TMP-18 in the armored room she'd moved into a couple of times under the cover of night.

* * *

"Miss Ginzburg..." in one of the short pauses between experiments, Ciri asked, "what, in your opinion, are time and space? And how are they connected?"

Ginzburg was silent, looking at the tables on the flat horizontal screen that served as her makeshift desk. The plaque on her temple blinked in time with the changing graphs. Finally, remembering Ciri's existence, she answered:

"The special theory of relativity describes the connections between time and space, Ms. Rhiannon."

After that, Ginzburg went into a long parable about two twins, one of whom went on a long journey and took a watch with him. The conclusion of the whole story somehow became that in the epicenter of the planet, time flows much slower than on its surface.

"But to be honest," finished the story Ginzburg, "we ourselves are not able to link all the laws of physics together ... Even before you appeared in our world, and now even more so now."

In a world where everyone thought of themselves as the keepers of universal knowledge, such modesty appealed to Ciri. She bowed her head in agreement.

I hope that you, Ms. Rhiannon are the key to a theory that will unify classical and quantum physics. A theory of everything.

Ciri grinned.

"You expect a lot from me, Mrs. Ginsburg."

Everyone expects some kind of revelation from her but is doomed to eternal disappointment.

"Rather, much is expected of me, Miss Rhiannon," Ginsburg sighed. "But you will remain in history."

Her mouth turned into a thin line.

"I had a nightmare a week ago," Ciri said suddenly to herself. "That I see many of my reflections, but they're all different."

Ciri wasn't quite sure why she was telling Ginsburg the dream. She listened with her hands above the table. Her movements were so frugal that sometimes she was indistinguishable from a frozen statue.

"I had a similar dream when I was a child, Miss Rhiannon. That I'm standing in a room and I see in the mirror a girl who is both me and not me. And she's standing there looking at another girl who is also me and not me."

To hear her say something so personal was strange. Ciri was already convinced that the woman was at least half robot.

"Nightmare?" Ciri clarified.

"Maybe," Ginzburg shrugged, "but I thought something completely different. I thought that physics was my calling."

" I don't quite understand," Ciri admitted honestly.

Ginsburg ran her finger along the outline of a dark blue line from her temple to the back of her head.

"I wish I could know it myself, Miss..."

"Ciri."

"I wish I know, Ciri."

* * *

Staying off the phone had become a challenge for Ciri. The local habit of staring at the screen no longer challenged her. She herself was addicted to the constant flow of information, to the adrenaline rush that news about Aen Elle caused in her, to the irritation of every lie she read.

The only good news was that she could even find out what Eredin had for breakfast if she wanted to. The elves' whereabouts were no secret.

//"The technogenic disaster at Hengsha has polluted the South China Sea with production waste from two large Tai Yun Medical factories. At this moment, conglomerate Sumimoto and Versalife are doing everything possible to avoid the disaster from spreading. Versalife's press office says that there is no reason to fear an ecological cataclysm and asks not to give in to the panic fueled by marginalized media and statements by representatives of the elven race."

Ciri clicked on another report. The Picus News emblem lit up on the screen.

++"We are continuing our report on the elven guests, and before we go any further I want to warn you: our guests have been through terrible stress and are in an alien culture; all of their claims should be taken with some... skepticism."

* * *

Sharif Industries functioned like a well-oiled clockwork. Ciri liked to draw parallels between the company's structure and the royal court, with Sharif playing the role of emperor, Adam the head of the guard, and Pritchard the gray cardinal. At least it confirmed Avallac'h's theory that regardless of time and place, societies organized similar structures.

Like the palace, Sarif Industries had many nooks and crannies behind closed doors. That night she wandered into the showroom, where instead of royal regalia behind the racks were implants. Super-fast legs, fingers capable of measuring temperature and analyzing the structure of matter, spinal enhancements, even genitalia - each model gleamed and proudly wore the same golden emblem.

Ciri stopped in front of a rack of long ebonite carbon fiber legs - judging by the structure and shape of the muscles, a female model. The feet were equipped with switchblades //++"made of monomolecular matter of the latest design."

Someone behind her coughed; she heard the familiar rustle of expensive leather shoes and the creak of the door. Ciri immediately recoiled from the shelving unit. He would misunderstand her and cut off her feet without asking.

"Do so many people need implants?" Ciri asked without turning around. "How come you have so many cripples? War?"

Sarif was constantly in motion, moving from one state to another, jumping from one topic to another - and now, as he approached her, he kept twirling the small golden orb in his hands.

"Come on," Sarif laughed, "Ms. Rhiannon, of course not. People alter their bodies voluntarily. They pay money for the augmentations. A lot of money."

Oh, yeah? Adam, too?

"Voluntarily?" Ciri questioned. "Why?"

"Because they see cybernetization as the future of humanity," the smile disappeared from Sarif's face as if it had been erased with an eraser; "Because *I* see cybernetization as the future of humanity."

Sarif's eyes reflected a frantic, almost religious devotion to his work, and there was something strangely mesmerizing in his entire expression.

"A future without limits, a future full of possibilities, a new stage in the development of our race. Nature has set us limits... But the time will come - and it is not far off - and we will set the limits ourselves."

Ciri watched as his eye sockets twitched finely - real, biological, no admixture of technology - and thought about staccades.

"Do you really believe all this?"

"'All this' is the only thing I believe in," Sarif said firmly. "How do you see the future of your people?"

Ciri blinked.

"The future of my people?"

"You are the emperor's daughter, aren't you?" Ciri nodded slowly. "Heiress? What do you intend to bring to your people when you ascend the throne?"

"I wanted-" Ciri tucked a strand behind her ear. "I'm a witcher, not an empress, Mr. Sarif. A monster hunter. Let those who can't live without it take the throne."

"Is that so?" Sarif asked with a note of disappointment. "Interesting. With your abilities, I was expecting... a little more ambition. Very few people can make a difference in the world. Even fewer want to."

And these people tend to be far away from politics and thrones.

"A witcher may well make a difference in the world," Ciri replied stubbornly.

"Maybe," Sarif shrugged, immediately losing interest in the conversation, and his face resumed its duty smile. "Perhaps. It's getting late, Ms. Rhiannon. Get Adam out of work and do something more interesting than reports and research."

He patted her shoulder lightly, a fatherly, careless gesture. She should ask. Even if Sarif lied - and he probably would - she wondered what kind of lie he would choose.

"Why are you so zealous in your support of our relationship, Mr. Sarif?"

Sarif laughed.

"Adam's my best employee, but his sullen look makes the nuts sour. Your presence has a favorable effect on him."

No, that wasn't the lie she wanted to hear. Staring at the floor, Ciri sighed heavily, half fake, half real. Sarif crossed his arms over his chest.

"You're special, Ciri," he addressed her by name. "You both have no idea how special. The future I want to build - you'll be at the center of it."

Ciri thought Adam was special herself, but it seemed that Sarif put a very different meaning to the word.

She was left alone in the room. Outside the window, the panorama of Detroit stretched beyond the veil of smoke, rising above the city, and the tiny human figures in the plaza in front of Sarif Industries looked like lice on the skin of a polished beast.

Is her world also destined to become a jungle of metal and fog? //"How do you see the future of your people, Ms. Rhiannon?"

In a different way.

* * *

Ciri had always been bad at being angry for too long. Not like Yennefer, who could hold a grudge for months, or nurse her revenge for years. By then, however, Ciri had forgotten what she had done. She had not yet forgotten what Adam had done, of course, but she had already begun to justify his misdeed with good intentions.

The office floor was lit mostly by flickering monitors at this late hour. Ciri walked casually past Adam's office - which required two detours - and hesitated, waiting. Without any response, Ciri circled the hallway and passed the ++"CSO, Adam Jensen" sign again.

The door behind her opened quietly. Ciri took on her most independent look.

"If you about dinner," she crossed her arms over her chest, "I'm not hungry."

"Me too," Adam replied nonchalantly. "It's about the shooting range."

Ciri froze in place, taking the bait with hook, line and sinker.

"What shooting range?" She asked cautiously.

"You wanted to learn how to shoot, didn't you?"

There wasn't enough anger in the world to refuse such an offer. Ciri turned around gracefully and shrugged, suppressing a smile with a tremendous effort of will.

Adam had borrowed the car from Sarif Industries - it resembled an elongated black bullet, outlined with three strokes of the logo. As soon as it touched down, the panel inside lit up with bright blue lights in every crevice where they could be shoved, and Ciri was pressed into the leather seat. The cars in the traffic buzzed like worried flies.

The signs and lanterns whizzed past in a colorful string that made Ciri feel as if she were galloping through the middle of a Yale fair. But such speed would have been impossible for the Kelpie, even on the sidewalk and with a fair wind. And she had a better temper, for the car obeyed the slightest touch of her black fingers on the wheel.

"It's incredibly cool," Ciri exhaled, unable to contain her admiration. "Would you let me ride around?"

The skepticism in Adam's gaze wasn't even hidden by the dark lenses.

"Without a license? Steiner-Bisley-Automotive R8? With a three-phase induction motor and thrusters?"

Rhythmic, percussive music was playing softly in the background - "bam-bam-bam-bam-bam" - with a terribly sticky refrain. Something about a queen, gunpowder, and gelatin. //"If I wanted to say no, I'd say no right away," Ciri thought, and added:

"Please?"

"We'll see," Adam hummed. "I take it our conflict is over?"

Melitele, if it were up to him, he'd still make a report, write there in large letters "c-o-n-f-l-i-c-t i-s o-v-e-r," get her to sign it, and use it as evidence in case of anything.

"No way," Ciri snorted, "I'm still mad at you. But I want to ride even more. Turn it up, will you?"

"How much louder? Music screaming out of a sports car..."

Ciri spun the wheel, luckily hitting the very chorus.

"... a crime against public order and good taste," Adam finished.

"Well, arrest me," Ciri laughed. "What did Pritchard say about the policeman and the blonde?"

Adam shook his head disapprovingly and focused on the road.

* * *

The shooting range turned out to be the worst hole in Detroit - so bad that people abandoned this place in a city that usually doesn't get crowded. Most of the houses located here had become ruins, and the rest were to be demolished. To get to the firing range, you had to wade through the slums, a string of blocks where people in filthy clothes cooked something stinky on makeshift fires behind a barrier of iron barrels marked "TOXIC".

//"Industrial contamination zone," Adam explained. - "You can't build anything here anymore."

The shooting range turned out to be a piece of scorched earth with targets, and the beauty of it was one thing - there was nowhere to hang cameras even if you wanted to, and it was surprisingly quiet.

She hobbled from foot to foot and listened to safety, ten-millimeter ammunition, reloading, safety, recoil, safety, and safety again. Nodding was required at intervals of a couple of minutes. When Adam had finished his lecture, he parted from his Zenith with such a squeak that Ciri was afraid he might change his mind at the last moment.

At the sign, she put on her headphones, pointed the muzzle at the target, put her left foot forward, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger smoothly. As Geralt had said, self-shooter triggers don't like nervous movements. The gun twitched in her hand, the barrel surging upward. The headphones drowned out the sound of the gunshot, turning it into a short click.

Only a couple of inches from the head. Ciri felt the same euphoria she'd felt when she'd struck the pendulum for the first time in Kaer Morhen, a feeling vaguely reminiscent of carnal desire. She glanced at the unsuspecting Adam, remembering the weight of his body and the droplets of sweat that formed on his forehead at the very hex.

"Try to concentrate on the sight, not the target," Adam said. "And keep your left arm at a one-hundred-and-twenty angle."

He chose a very verbose way of saying "You haven't gotten a damn thing done." Adam stepped in behind her and corrected her fingers clutching the gun. Ciri wiggled her hip casually, touching the hem of his cloak.

Adam cleared his throat and lit a cigarette. She already doubted he really needed tobacco, and it wasn't a nervous reflex to smoke every time normal people felt an emotion.

Ciri took her time firing the entire magazine. While she reloaded the gun - exactly as instructed - Adam pulled up the targets for inspection. On the first target, out of fifteen shots, only three hit the head and five hit the chest.

"Aim for the chest, not the head," Adam said. "It's easier to hit."

"I need for sure," Ciri objected.

"All you have to do is stay alive until I get there."

//"Got himself a damsel in distress," Ciri scowled and concentrated on the target. She slowly shot two more magazines until her arm began to cramp, and then three more. Adam watched her with the patience and calm of a boa constrictor, even though it was slowly starting to get dark.

Her witch's reflexes and keen eyesight played into her hands: on her last run, she'd gotten eight hits to the head out of fifteen. Her arm was humming from the constant recoil. Ciri lowered the pistol, reveling in the feeling of victory; her passion for cold weapons fought with her admiration for the pistol's deadly effectiveness. To think, if one rearmed the Northern Kingdoms... the war would be over in no time. The realization of the possibilities and sense of superiority made Ciri slightly dizzy.

"The head position needs work," Adam gave his verdict.

//Damn you, eight hits out of fifteen on the fifth try!

Ciri asked him in a husky voice to come over and show her exactly how to hold the damn head. As soon as he did so, she pressed her back against him, as if by accident. You can't walk around with that stony face all the time!

Adam exhaled noisily:

"What the child's play is this, Ciri?"

This definition of her attempts at seduction was something Ciri took very personally.

"You don't like child's play," she snarled, "you should have picked an older girl."

Adam squared his shoulders.

"Look, Ciri, we either learn to shoot or...."

He clearly hadn't thought of the end of the sentence yet. Should they shoot again? Unlike Adam, her arm was not ironclad and was about to fall off, much to Sarif's delight.

"Or what?" Ciri asked with a wry smile.

She had a great idea to get even.

"Or," Adam cut off.

"All right," Ciri agreed. Adam raised his chin questioningly. "Let's or, then. There's grass, and we'll make up your cloak."

Beneath them was just a perfect island of shriveled grass in greenish puddles. Adam's normally unchanged face twitched. It was funny how squeamish a man could be when he was covered head to toe in enemy blood on the battlefield.

"What? Here? On cigarette butts and broken bottles?"

At least he's less enthusiastic about the entourage than the idea itself. Watching the agony of the choice, Ciri reveled in her little revenge and smiled cheekily:

"Why are you so icky? In my world, a haystack is a love bed," Ciri chuckled and smiled innocently, "And I missed you so terribly. Don't you?"

She smiled invitingly and began nimbly undoing the buttons of her military-style jacket, one by one, inwardly chuckling at the obvious confusion of a man a dozen winters older than she was.

Would he take off his cloak or not? Her jacket had already slipped over her shoulders, exposing the white blouse beneath.

Come on. God forbid he should reject her now.

Adam reached for the clasped collar of his cloak and slid the clasp a couple of verts down. He froze for a few moments, sighed, and took a step toward her, running a hand in the direction of her hair.

Gotcha.

"I'm just kidding, just kidding," Ciri jumped, slapping herself on her dark green pants, "I'm not that horny, don't worry."

Adam's face went purple.

"I wanted to fix my collar," he hissed, "And as for you, young lady, if you want to have an adventure in the middle of the wasteland... I can suggest folding seats in a car. It's warmer and more sanitary."

Ciri stared at him in amazement. A pleasant shiver ran up her spine and made her shiver.

"Seriously?"

"I'm always deadly serious about these things," Adam replied with the sternest expression on his face. "Unlike some others."

* * *

//"Something about making love is like fighting," Ciri philosophized, putting her hands behind her head and stretching out on the crumpled sheets after they'd changed from the cramped cabin to the spaciousness of the bed, "probably the long-awaited release after half an hour of panting.

The tips of her toes were still twitching from the recent spasm, the music was blaring in her ears, and she had a small mark on her back from the wheel pressing into her lower back. She was nimbler on horseback; it was easier to choose her angle and amplitude of movement, to set her own pace. It was her father's leadership, or her riding skills.

How did she endure it to her 20s?

The fact that the shooting range had been abandoned was a fortunate coincidence - otherwise, they would have been, as Adam put it, "arrested for disorderly conduct." Well, at least Ciri had. For blatantly breaking the silence.

In the books, lovemaking was usually followed by fervent confessions - at the very least, clumsy compliments - but there was an awkward silence between the two of them.

//"I wish he'd say something," Ciri thought. What exactly - "something" - she wanted to hear, she hadn't thought of yet. Adam, of course, didn't say a word, gently apologized that he had more work to do, and got out of bed. Ciri dozed off to the tarantella of mechanical fingers on the keyboard.

"Sarif doesn't spare you, hmmm?" Ciri asked sleepily, rolling over onto her stomach. Her nakedness embarrassed her much less.

Adam shrouded in cigarette smoke, sat hypnotizing the screen. Next to him was his constant companion, a squat round glass. Ciri reflected that she'd never seen Adam without a drinking glass after hours, but no matter how much he drank he didn't seem drunk.

Well, no so big sin. In Kaer Morhen, a day didn't end without a flask of liquor either, and in the dark winter, it didn't even begin.

"It's a personal project."

"Do you have time for personal projects?" Ciri wondered.

"No," Adam exhaled another puff of smoke, "that's why I work at night."

"What's the project?" Ciri persisted, burrowing into the cool blanket.

Adam was silent for so long that she almost dozed off.

"Could you imagine the world being run by a backstage lodge? Wars? Catastrophes?"

"It was harder for Ciri to imagine it being any other way."

"My world was already ruled by a backstage lodge," she stretched. "The Sorcerers' Lodge."

"No, that's...," Adam muttered, "a whole different scale."

Well, of course, she and her little medieval world are up against a technological giant!

"I thought," Ciri snorted, "you were asking about the principle of operation, not the scale. So what's the project about?"

"I'm trying to understand what mankind has come to."

Adam rubbed the hex on his forehead with vigor.

"Please, Adam," Ciri said, "you're not an elf to criticize mankind. I've met a lot of races, and believe me, I like humans the best out of all of them. We just need someone to guide us."

"Guide?" Adam interjected. "Yeah, I think those people feel that way, too. That they should be guiding us. Toward a brighter fucking future."

Ciri waited for a further explanation, but Adam was stuck in his thoughts, forgetting to even exhale the cigarette smoke.

"Okay," Ciri sighed, making herself comfortable on the pillows, "I won't distract you."

"Sleep, sweetheart," Adam murmured.

"Umh?" Ciri, who had heard perfectly well, asked back.

"I said sleep, sweetheart."

" All right," she answered, surprisingly obedient.

Taking a packet of Galcion from the bedside table, Ciri twirled the green, clear-coated pill in her fingers. How she hated the local pills... But they were better than insomnia. It's better than nightmares. Anything is better than nightmares. She popped the pill into her mouth, wrinkling her nose at the bitterness it left on her tongue.

She fell asleep as if she had been hit in the back of the head and woke up the same way - already in the wee hours of the morning.

On a torn piece of paper resting on a nearby pillow was written in sprawling handwriting: ++"I have to go away on some business. I'll be there in the morning." Ciri sighed shakily as she buried her nose in the pillow.

She didn't feel like sleeping anymore. She wandered around the apartment for a while, checking the refrigerator (to no avail), peering apprehensively into the bathroom (still broken), and decided to settle down on the couch. On the table next to an empty bottle of whiskey lay his still-open computer. Ciri noticed the flashing icon and moved closer: one message from david.sarif, three messages from nurlsnake, and one from wintermute.

She froze in front of the screen, arms crossed over her chest, and fought the itchy urge to peek. She'd once gotten a half-hour flogging for clumsily opening a letter.

Well, Adam wasn't likely to do that. Ciri pressed enter, and the screen came to life.

Enter your password.

Ciri stood for a couple of minutes before the screen went out again. Her pale face was reflected in the blackest glass.

++"It's not nice to peek, sis." - The white letters against the dark background seemed blindingly bright.

Ciri jerked away from the screen in surprise. She immediately fumbled for her cell phone in her pants pocket and pointed her finger at the "one" button.

++"Don't be in a hurry, you'll have time to tell your friend everything," the message on the screen changed. - By the way, where is he?"

Ciri pressed the receiver to her ear. How does Wintermute know who he's talking to? Oh yes, that's right! Her thumb gently covered the camera plaque.

++"That's what I thought," the message popped up. - You don't."

The caller is unavailable. Please call back...

++"You're so gullible, sis," the message was interrupted by a smiling face, "I'm afraid you'll wake up one day without arms and legs, just like Adam. Are you sure you know exactly what you signed up for?"

An unpleasant feeling rolled through her stomach. How should she answer him? Ciri put her fingers on the keyboard and slowly typed out:

+//I don't,,,

++ trust. Take it easy. Trust, don't trust, who cares? Do you want to get out of this world or not?"

After thinking for a couple of moments, Ciri pressed the "Y" button.

//++"Ask Sharif if you could use his bunker. The one that completely blocks any electromagnetic waves. It might work."

An uneasy feeling clenched her throat.

++//"Look at his face when you offer. And if you still feel like Sarif is eager to send you home... well, then complain to your buddy about me. And if not..."

The phone vibrated.

'//+"Let me know."

"Cirie, is everything okay?" judging by the music blaring in the background, Adam was in some kind of entertainment venue. "Is something wrong?"

Only fools trust everyone, only madmen trust no one. The smart thing to do is to verify the information. After all, there's something Adam isn't telling her.....

"It's all right," Ciri said. "I didn't see the note right away. I'm sorry."

...something she won't talk about yet.

* * *

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http://notabenoid.org/book/86809/569694

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP