The Algorithm of Chaos - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

‘And then?’

‘Then I saw her twice. A week after the… ahem… taking the errand. In the same cafe she thanked for keeping up to the deal and suggested I apply for a job in the Institution I’ve never heard of. I refused to believe the salary she mentioned, were their employees senators or something?. Yet she was not kidding… The second time we met two months ago in the office of the Institution security boss, Wal. They told me to pass you one of the cards we’re dealing with at the Institution. It’s not a breach but skirting about the regulation for everyone’s advantage’.

‘So your arrest was a fake?’

‘Yep’.

‘And you warned me by Wal’s phone?’

‘Exactly… Then I was told to change the location and my vehicle. That’s all’.

‘And now they told you to feed this tall story to me?’

‘No, man! I was looking for you of my own accord! I knew your habits, favorite places to hang out. Then followed. You can’t imagine what a relief to have all that off my chest!’

Now 2ic was looking at V, not avoiding his eyes any more, breathing deep, both noisily and visibly.

‘Hey, V! I can’t believe it! Looks like I’m hungry. By Jove! I feel it! Wow! Any chow in your fridge?’

* * *

22

After locking the door V turned around and with the already automatic move dropped the key into the entry tray. He passed over to the room and stopped in his tracks, a kinda statue “Apprehensive Thoughts’.

All about looked just as it should, the way it looked ever since he moved in—an immaculate pedantically arranged monk cell. Nevertheless, he knew it now was not the same, except for its all pervading quietude – some thing or other has changed has changed its location if even for a splinter of a micron. He felt it.

‘Anybody home?’ called V out loud.

‘Ahem’, answered the kitchen with a voice whose owner kinda got into a huge vat to embellish their response with a booming reverb echo.

‘Don’t shoot he piano player, Mister. He does his level best’. It rolled like peels of thunder from deep inside his innards.

A two-meter-tall guy shadowed the entry with his bulky frame. Two huge claw-like hands up, a beer can in the right one. Despite the comic attitude, his eyes were dead attentive, allowing to see at once the notice in them “We take no shit”.

‘Beg your pardon, pardner. I took the liberty of checking the your fridge contents’.

‘Feel yourself at home. My castle is your castle, Wal’.

The giant's left brow ticked slightly in appreciation of being recognized without self-introduction. In two strides he reached the chair and got seated. The item reacted to the action with a sorrowful squeak.

V neatly sat on the coach opposite his guest. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Cooperation in a job interview if you please’.

‘Who’s the applicant, for which position?’

‘My job is to make you a proposal that you can’t reject, Mr. V. So the applicant is you and your prospective employer’s known in certain circles as the Institution. And please, before we start the negotiations, don’t shorten my name to mere W’.

‘In this respect, count on me, Wal. Now, why me and what makes you think I need some fucking Institution?’

The interviewer’s nod conveyed sad empathy before he answered the question, 2 in 1, actually.

‘I won’t lure you with the pudding’s filling though it’s quite creamy, take my word. No, you’re above that, you can survive on manna in the morning and soup of acrid insects for your dinner. Moreover, you’re free, no wife, no kids, no in-laws. A lucky man! You easily can spend your life with these toys’. Wal shortly jerked his chin to indicate the secondhand notebook atop the desk by the wall and sighed, and shook his head in pathetic envy.

‘They are fine playthings, I concur. And those literary passages you try your hand at and delete day after day, they’re fine as well’.

‘You’re hacking my toys?’

‘No need, pardner. When typing you dictate your fingers, you think thoughts out before they’re fixed in lines, as simple as that. Wired undercover cops, spy cams are there only for entertainment of the public, action movies, court-room reports, you know. That way you can’t prevent mass shooting of innocent kids at Sweet-16 parties, neither dirty wars nor other nasty shit that constitute, in too big part, the world’s constant balancing on the razor edge. The enterprise objective is retroaction from the future removing past snafus a second before the final fall of the guillotine knife.

So, besides the mentioned creamy salary, collaboration gives an opportunity to live a glorious though inconspicuous life, V. No medals, PhD degrees, no laureatizing but when retired in due course you may choose writing your own King Lyre or stuff. How about that?’

‘How about a bestseller?’

‘We’re not in for that shit, pardner. Otherwise 5 minutes back you’d have cinched off your left foot prosthesis and riddle-smoked me with a round of dumdum bullets from the in-built machine-gun and get away by the fire escape. All dummies become happy and start picketing your house 24/7 with kvetchy demands for a sequel doodled in their placards.’

‘You can negotiate, Wal’.

‘Not for nothing I keep the Diamond Star Decoration of the World Champion at Hassling in my desk down-most drawer’.

‘I have to think your offer over. How do I contact you?’

‘No worry, we’ll contact you when you make the right decision’.

* * *

23

V raised his head and under its back he tucked the lace of his trellised fingers then lowered it back onto the same tree root. The ribbed rind surface was a bit too hard for his DIY pillow. But he thought he cold endure