Project "Eye" Part 17


    Photo: AV Photography

    For those who have not yet scored.

    References to the previous parts and appeal to those who see the Oka publications for the first time:
    Око — мой личный литературный проект, работу над которым я начал в мае этого 2015 года. Из небольшой зарисовки он перерос в научно-фантастическое произведение, главы которого я выкладываю, по мере написания, на GT.

    Предыдущие части:

    Часть 1
    Часть 2
    Часть 3
    Часть 4
    Часть 5
    Часть 6
    Часть 7
    Часть 8
    Часть 9
    Часть 10
    Часть 11
    Часть 12
    Часть 13
    Часть 14
    Часть 15
    Часть 16





    - Will you help us?

    Deimos froze for a second, as if listening only to him to the available broadcast.

    - So will you help us or not? - I repeated my question Matt.

    Their gazes crossed. Both are extremely calm, but Matt is also collected, and Deimos is sluggish and relaxed.

    - Dr. Ivor, how weak is he?

    Mike, who was standing behind Matt, just threw up his hands:

    “In general, I stabilized Oliver, but he is in a deep coma.” What to do - I have no idea. But you, Deimos, apparently, have some idea.

    The old surgeon tried not to betray his irritation, but it turned out badly for him. He was not at the research center for just a few days, and during that time Anna managed to completely lose control of their main subject, Adikia switched to his side, and Astraea is not known where he does not even know if the elder sister is alive.

    - Yes, doctor. There is one idea. - Deimos leaned forward a bit, carefully looking into Ivor's eyes. “The question is whether Matthew Harris will do this.”

    - What will I go?

    Deimos got up from his seat and walked around Ivor’s office, in which the three of them held a kind of “advice”, although it would have been more likely to call it negotiations.

    - The state of coma is poorly studied. Where the mind of Oliver Steele is now is a big question. You do not know what to do, and I know. In return, I need something from you, ”Deimos nodded at Mike,“ Dr. Ivor. ”

    - And what?

    - So that you open the repository with EP-22, Mike. But no, I can do it myself. You need another thing - to calculate the maximum non-lethal dose of the drug for me.

    “Any additional dose will lead to your destabilization,” Ivor flared up, “and so you showed the maximum possible for a person!”

    - I need more.

    - What for? - Ivor asked.

    - Yes for what? - Matt entered into the conversation.

    Deimos stopped at the closet, and once again began to look through the roots of books.

    “Dr. Ivor, you yourself know why.” And yes, I have another condition - you will explain everything to Oliver and Matt after I left, - he turned on his heel and in a few slow, measured steps approached the old surgeon, who was significantly higher than him, - you are ready for confession, yes mike

    “What is he ...” began Matt.

    - Yes, I'm ready. - Ivor, without blinking, looked Deimos in the eye, trying to understand what he was up to. After a second, understanding began to come to him.

    - Yes, Mike. I remember about Henry Johnson.

    “But ...

    - I am already destabilized, old man. A small injection of a painkiller from a nurse after a fall and voila, we here, three of us, comfortably discuss the fate of this butcher, the Steel General. By the way, - here Deimos turned to Matt, - everything will not be as simple as you think. There is little chance of success, plus your friend will be at risk.

    - Which one?

    Deimos, smiling slightly, replied:

    “Our good Doctor Ivor will have to calculate the maximum allowable dose of EP-22 for Oliver.” This will weaken the barriers around his mind and, perhaps, I will be able to return to this side not a moron, but a full-fledged person.

    ***

    He woke up again. This time around the world met him with an unfamiliar room, white hospital walls and the dull light of ceiling lamps.

    Oliver tried to stand, but a sharp pain in his left side knocked him back onto the cot.

    “Hush, soldier, hush,” the man sitting at the head of his bed and, until that moment, who was out of sight, got up, moved his chair so that the Steel General could see him and sat down again in his place — you are still too weak such exploits.

    - Where I am?

    - More importantly - when you are.

    - What? How did I get here? I was with my fighters in the bar, and then ... Who the hell are you ?!

    In response, the man just grinned.

    - I have to go back to the fighters, what is this place?

    - Your fighters have long been dead, Steel General. And, quite possibly, soon you will join them.

    The stranger rose from his seat and walked around the room in which they were located.

    “Do you know, Oliver, I was always interested in how this animal cruelty comes from?” When I was still at the academy, you were already a horror story for the cadets, especially for those who planned to be on the edge of the attack as combat officers. You know what they said about you? That you and your thugs do not take prisoners, that you have a special knife with which you deflect the soldiers who fell into your hands, and then you leave them to die. That you shoot women and children, cut out entire families living outside the cities, if they cooperate with the army in exchange for food and ammunition. Now, seeing you in front of you, aging and helpless, I find it hard to believe that you were the butcher who was talked about in a low voice in the corridors, and in a drunken stupor, special brave men or idiots promised to shoot you like a mad dog. So who are you, Oliver Steele?

    Oliver understood that he was in captivity.

    “Why should I even answer your questions?”

    - Are you in a hurry somewhere?

    Oliver, who had previously kept his head up, leaned heavily on the pillow and looked at the ceiling.

    - What is your name though?

    - Henry. You can call me Henry.

    “Good, Henry.” And what will you do then? If you shoot me, or you, army dogs, arrange an exemplary execution - will you uplift the “Bloody Butcher” or what nickname have you thought of for me?

    “Do you really think you're a prisoner?” Your friend, Matt, is in this building, drinking tea with my superiors and waiting for you to stand up. Consider that again pulled a lucky ticket - we are not the army. Already not army.

    “Well, at least it pleases,” Oliver thought, “even if this piece of shit is lying, it is worth buying time. Maybe I'll think of something. ”

    “You want to know if everything they say about me is true?”

    - Of course, because they say a lot.

    Oliver smiled.

    - I myself heard these stories from other fighters. I heard that they used my name during interrogations - they threatened to give the "Steel General" brigade to "process" ... - For a second Oliver fell silent, and then continued:

    - And do you know what is most terrible about all this?

    - The fact that you're not like that?

    “Yes,” Oliver nodded. “I'm worse.” My strike group was a suicide squad, but suicides who could keep their mouths shut. They took much after them to the grave. - Thoughts Oliver was already far away. - That's just no one is interested in prehistory. Everyone thinks only of the consequences - my atrocities. Do you know how the squads of soldiers enjoyed themselves in the territory controlled by us, the resistance? The units where the senior rank is a yellow-lieutenant or a bastard degraded to a sergeant. They robbed, raped, killed. They believed that they were clearing the land, supposedly belonging to them, from trash and traitors. Have you ever seen an eleven year old girl raped and cut with knives?

    Henry was silent.

    - We found her on one of the tasks. We went into the house, looking for shelter - they knew that a family of four lives there. Honest people were working, trying to do housework, but not enough. The father of the family traded our clothes and canned goods for fresh vegetables. Oh, you have no idea how he grew tomatoes! And how canned! So, somehow we go to him, and on the threshold we find his wife with a face shot. Apparently, she immediately rushed at the soldiers, when she saw that she didn’t want to be alive. In the living room lay Steve and his eldest son, with gulps cut, and at the top we found their youngest daughter — she was still alive. The soldiers cut her face and the breasts that had just appeared, knocked out all her teeth, raped them so that they broke off, everything that could be torn to a woman, and left to die. Thought not to suffer blood loss.

    - She survived? - Henry asked.

    Oliver paused, but after a while answered the question:

    - We let her die. It was more merciful than forcing her to live on, after all that had happened.

    Oliver broke off again.

    - And then we went in search of these freaks. Matt nearly sent me to the tribunal for disobeying the order, for ignoring the mission, until I found out why we deviated from the route. It took almost three days to search, but we found them. I was with the best of my group - eight people, and there were only three of them.

    - And what did you do?

    Oliver closed his eyes hard, remembering that night.

    - We took the sentry quietly, the other two slept. A normal person would not be able to sleep for a week if he simply watched what they did with the girl, and these were asleep. We took them, began to search. And then one of my guys found this knife in one of the bags. It was karambit, a thing, in fact, useless, rather, an accessory, to show off to other soldiers. A bayonet is much more useful. But it was a difficult kerambit, but with serrated grinding. Have you ever seen?

    - Not.

    - This is when teeth are sawed on the cutting edge, like in a saw, only they are not bred. A terrible thing. - Oliver fell silent, catching his breath.

    - And then what?

    “When I saw this knife, I realized that I had left these torn wounds on the girl’s face and arms.” And the decision to besiege the soldiers came spontaneously, we thought they would just shoot them after interrogation. We tied them to the porch and with this knife I personally hooked all three under the root, and left the knife stuck in the beam, as a message to those who find the bodies.

    Henry was silent.

    - Apparently, since then everyone believes that I always have with me a similar toy, which I indiscriminately castrate prisoners with. - Oliver interrupted, as if trying to remember something. - You heard this story at the Academy, right?

    - Yes.

    - When did you finish? - Oliver raised himself a bit on his elbow to better see the interlocutor.

    - Yes, fifteen years ago, maybe sixteen, I do not remember.

    - Clear.

    Oliver stared for a few seconds, without blinking, at the man who introduced himself as Henry, and then spoke again:

    “Fifteen years, yes, Henry?” The problem is that it happened just a year and a half ago.

    Steel General pulled out of bed and threw his companion on the floor. He tried to wipe with his left hand, but a sharp flash of pain in his side twisted him and did not allow the impostor to hit.

    Henry was lying and smiling.

    - Well, what are you, hit. You are Oliver Steele, the great and merciless Steel General! “He threw Oliver off himself and rose to his feet.” “About your cruelty, they have legends for decades, Oliver Steele.” And if you had the strength now, you, like a bear, would lift me with your bare hands. Man is a very fragile creature, and you know that perfectly well. A person is very difficult and at the same time very easy to kill. What do you feel when you kill? Nothing? So you always told everyone?

    Not. You get pleasure from it, because the flame of rage blazes in your chest. Paradox: in order not to go crazy completely, you need to kill, but to kill is not easy, but by order. After all, this is why you became a devoted watchdog by Matt Harris, right? After all, he saved your life, brought you to the brigade commander, and you, in response, did any dirty work, covering up your affairs with the fact that you are fighting the bloody regime, you are a soldier of resistance! You're just a thug, a murderer and a sadist, Oliver Steele.

    - gangster? Sadist? - Oliver tried to smile, but his side hurt too much. - Killer? Yes. Bandit? May be. Sadist - no. Do you know how many times women asked me to put a bullet in the back of their heads, just to avoid being captured? Do you know why? Because it was better to die at the hand of his friend, than to rot in the pit, than to get to the army executioners. And who after this sadist? I? Yes, my sentence was always the same — death, but it was too easy a death for too many, a death from a bullet that they did not deserve.

    Oliver rose slowly: first on his knees, and then, leaning heavily on the bed, on his feet.

    “Who are you, Henry,” Oliver did not say the name of the man, spit it out, “and why haven't you shot me yet?”

    - It is not who I am, but where I am. Henry picked up a chair from the floor and sat down on it. “Sit down, Oliver,” he nodded to the bed behind the Steel General, “it's hard for you to stand, I see.” We are here much longer than you can imagine. And I tell you, I am not happy with this neighborhood.

    “What do you have ...” Oliver began, but Henry interrupted him:

    “The resistance camp forty years ago.” The attack on the train with the families of scientists - twenty-seven years ago. Drinking with the fighters of your brigade twenty years ago ... And many, many more memories.

    - Memories? What are you talking about ...

    Henry didn’t answer, looked at Oliver once more, and then, slamming his palms on his knees, answered:

    “Okay, come on differently.”

    He rose from his seat, and Oliver realized that he, too, was standing, but no longer in a hospital shirt, but a tight-fitting suit, which he had never seen before.

    The walls of the room shook, the bedside table and the bed itself jumped in place, as if an earthquake had started. Oliver tried to find at least some point of support, fearing a new attack of incomprehensible pain in his side, but was surprised to find that he could move absolutely free without any consequences. He wanted to ask Henry again what was going on, but then the walls and ceiling collapsed.

    They were in the middle of the night forest.

    - What the hell is going on here ?!

    “Hush, don't make any noise,” said Henry, “this is your last chance, Steel General.” Let's go to. - Without waiting for an answer, Henry turned around and went somewhere deep into the forest.

    Oliver, trying not to be left behind, moved after him. For five minutes they walked in complete darkness, until in the distance, between the trees, there was a fire light.

    - Who's there? - asked Oliver.

    Henry said nothing and continued walking, gradually slowing down.

    They were already very close. Oliver was able to see those sitting by the fire behind the withered, autumn leaves of bushes: two men, one of whom was already an old man, and a woman, all in the same suits as himself. The woman said something and the men listened attentively.

    - What the hell is going on here.

    - Look.

    At that moment, on the other side of the campfire, from the same undergrowth in which he and Henry were hiding, several ragged darts jumped out and with shouts opened fire on the trinity near the fire. Oliver was twitching to help the defenders, but Henry grabbed him by the shoulder and with a force, from nowhere, who had taken this thin man, stopped him.

    “Look,” he repeated, “look carefully, Steel General.”

    Here the old man grabs the machine gun and cuts several attackers in a queue; The man sitting with his back to Oliver begins to collapse and falls to the ground.

    - You will not know? - asks Henry.

    - Whom? Who are all these people? Henry, what the hell is going on here?

    - OLIVER! OLIVER! - the old man shouted at this moment at the fire, threw the machine gun away, and rushed to the comrade lying on the ground.

    The side burned. The steel General touched the suit and felt the torn fabric and warm blood oozing from a fresh wound under his fingers. He began to sink to the ground, but Henry picked him up and set him back on his feet.

    - Do you understand where we are?

    Oliver tried to focus on the man’s face, but his features floated, shimmering in bizarre grimaces.

    - Is that all already? - It began to come to the realization of the unreality of what is happening.

    - Yes.

    - I'm sleeping?

    - Yes.

    - And I need to wake up?

    “Yes,” said Henry for the third time, “you must wake up, Oliver.” Or you will stay here forever - a prisoner of memories.

    He looked again at his side: the torn fabric of a strange costume, several holes from self-made shrapnel, blood, but no pain.

    - Who are you? - He asked Henry.

    His companion was transformed. Now he was standing in front of a completely different person, dressed in camouflage pants and a black T-shirt.

    - What's your name?

    “I didn't lie, my name is Henry.” But better call me Deimos, ”the man said and slapped Oliver on the shoulder.

    ... The light of the ceiling lamps struck the Steel General's eyes, which was dull, but too bright after a night forest. And next to him, holding his shoulder, was a man who called himself Deimos in a dream.

    - What's your name? - asked Deimos.

    Oliver painfully long, as it seemed to him, he tried to focus on the interlocutor and understand that he was asking him, and then tried to answer. But instead of the usual words only dry wheezing broke out of his throat.

    Deimos nodded to something, took a pre-prepared paper cup with water from the bedside table and brought it to the wounded man’s lips.

    At first, Oliver felt almost nothing - but with each sip he felt the taste of water more and more.

    - Drink, drink. It is useful, they say. Droppers were also not superfluous, but where are they to the water, right? - Deimos smiled, kindly.

    He waited until Oliver finished his drink and set the glass aside.

    - Do you remember who you are?

    - Yes.

    “You seriously scared everyone, old man.” And even less I liked to sit in your head.

    - In terms of? - Oliver did not understand what was going on.

    Deimos laughed.

    - Well, seriously, you're not so stupid. I'm the same as Melissa - the operator, if you like. Only stronger.

    - Operator? So I'm still in captivity?

    “Well, only if in captivity of your own conscience,” Deimos joked. “True, I was always sure that people like you can negotiate with this mistress.” Contradictions break you, Oliver Steele. I stayed in your head for ages and lived with you too much, learned too much about your subconscious, about your essence.

    - And what is she? - Oliver poorly understood what this man is carrying. - What do you think my point?

    - Are you educated?

    - Enough.

    “Then you should have heard of libido and mortido?” Aware of this?

    - May be.

    “Libido is a person’s mover, its positive beginning, although someone attributes to all this shit also sexuality, I don’t share this opinion,” Deimos got up from his seat and went for a glass and a carafe of water that stood on a table in another end of the ward.

    “And you are an important guest,” he grinned, “when I was rolling and drooling, there was no glass in my room.” Only paper cups in the hands of the nurse, and strictly by the hour. Will you? “He lifted the sleek, pot-bellied decanter higher, as if Oliver could not see him anyway.

    - I will not refuse.

    Deimos deftly turned first one glass, which stood on a tray to the top bottom, then the second, took them, and with the decanter moved back to his chair.

    - While I was in your head, your consciousness was overwhelmed by visions that your subcortex just fed you. And you know what I saw there? You want to die Oliver Steele, because you could not agree with your conscience. You are entirely composed of mortido, its quintessence, striving for self-destruction, instead of creation. The flame of hatred burns in you, first of all to yourself. Therefore, every time in your visions you died.

    The longer Oliver listened to him, the more he understood what was going on. At first, modestly, as if afraid of something, the memories of his dreams were scratched in memory, causing an unpleasant phantom itch; slipping out of sight every time you try to look at them, they are like ghosts, unable to speak with full force and scare you to wet pants, but able to move small objects until you see, caused anxiety and discomfort. But the longer Deimos spoke, the stronger the ghosts of memories of his, Oliver, dreams became. Rising to their full height, straightening the twisted backs, straightening the shoulders, raising their heads, they rushed upward from the corners of the subconscious, outward, in all their smallest, albeit surrealistic details.

    He was dying. Stupid, ridiculous, hundreds of times. He was dying of his own free will, by accident, by someone else's fault. He died in a dream every time when in reality for some reason he remained alive.

    “Shadow ...” Oliver muttered. - Is that my conscience?

    Deimos burst out laughing.

    - Conscience? She was too busy killing you, time after time. No, my friend, the shadow is not your conscience. This is me, trying to get close to you in a series of these delusional fantasies. Frankly, this exercise was very tedious. - He picked up the carafe, which he still held in his hands, and filled three-quarters of the transparent, with small points of divorce on the walls from the dried water, glass glasses. One handed to the interlocutor, while the other drained himself by gulp and filled it again, but left him standing on the bedside table.

    “What do you want, Oliver Steele?”

    - I? Easy to live what fate has measured me. Without war, murder and other shit, - Oliver leaned on his elbow and took a sip of water, - but I got so stuck in all this that I already understood to turn on the back late. Even in the ghetto, they managed to find me, although, apparently, they never really lost anything.

    - To live your age? Maybe you need a chance?

    Oliver tried to laugh, but a sharp pain in his side did not allow it.

    - Chance for what, boy? How old are you? Thirty? Thirty five? I am over fifty and I have missed all my chances. At present, rarely anyone lives so long, and even among the soldiers.

    Both fell silent.

    The first to break the silence was Deimos.

    - I guess I did not put it right. Do you need redemption?

    - Redemption of what? - Oliver was already lying and looking at the ceiling, at the dim matte light of the lamps.

    - Total.

    “Not interesting,” a chuckle broke from him, which he could not suppress.

    Deimos fell silent again, and after a few minutes went to the “next lap”.

    - Good. Then you owe you, Steel General, for pulling you out of a coma. How are you going to pay?

    “Speak already what you need from me,” Oliver did not take his eyes off the lamps.

    - I need to go out of here, you found me. And when you find it, you killed it, ”Deimos answered.


    In order to keep readers abreast of the pace of work, and just to chat without fear of being hit by a banhammer on the GT, or, if you do not have an active account, I created a group in the VK open spaces dedicated to the Oko project . We are already one and a half thousand people!

    Welcome.

    Criticism, ratings, discussions and feedback in the comments, as always, are extremely welcome.



    Part 18

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