Seventh sorrow

Anthony Block scratched his sharp chin and moved the piece on the board. The party was coming to an end, and its outcome was too obvious. Death smiled - scary, only lips. His eyes, without blinking, looked from under the looming superciliary arches. With his pale hand, Death took his queen and placed him close to the king of the knight. Mat.

“They say that in the Saracen“ shah mate ”means“ the ruler is dead, ”said Antony impassively.
“In Persian,” said Death.
“I do not distinguish some non-Christians from others,” the knight spat. - Let the devil in the underworld understand, which of them should be thrown into which cauldron.
- Do you believe in the devil? - asked Death, gazing at Antony with his unblinking gaze.
“I don’t believe in anything,” Block chuckled bitterly. - Only in the fact that soon you want to take your winnings.
“Sure,” Death smiled again, and the brave knight's heart stopped in fear. - Now you can go where you want. But I will be back soon, and then you will follow me.
- I will go where ?! Exclaimed the knight in mental agony.

Death straightened his cloak, brushing a dry blade of grass blown from it.

“Nowhere,” he said softly. - It's just a metaphor.
- So, I just cease to exist? - Anthony took control of himself, and the fear in his voice was barely audible. “There is no hell, no heaven, no Lord, no Satan.” You're trying to lead me to this thought all the way?

The knight squinted at his sword, leaning against the trunk of an old elm tree. I’d have enough time to pull him out of the scabbard and ruin the terrible guest in half, thereby making a fierce blow that more than once rescued him in Palestine ...

“I did not try to lead you to any thought,” Death said dryly. - This is not my responsibility. You met with different people, each of them took a piece of your faith from you and gave a little bit of despair. That is the logic of the plot.
- What the hell is the plot? Do not fool me, - growled Antony. - You have already received my life, give me in return at least an honest answer. Where you lead me, waiting for emptiness or something else?
“Your life has always been mine.” “Death said this without raising his voice, but it seemed that the light of day itself faded from the sound of these words for a moment. - You did not give it to me, having suffered defeat, and therefore you are not worthy of the gift in return. However, - Death listened to something inaccessible to the human ear - today is an unusual day. You will receive your gift, knight, even if you do not deserve it. But first do something for me. Do you know the tale of the wise Queen Dagmar? - Anthony nodded affirmatively. - Tell me about it.

Anthony launched his short blond hair, trying to stir up the memory. This fairy tale, he heard in distant childhood from a lame maid. For many years he did not have the right occasion to tell her to someone else. Some words were forgotten, but the overall outline of the plot about the cunning peasant princess remained in his head.

“Once upon a time there was a prince,” Block began uncertainly. - From an early age told him that no one in the world is wiser and more beautiful than him. And before that, he was proud that he himself believed that ...

Death listened, without interrupting, the story of the knight of Dagmar, which conquered the prince first with his beauty, and after - with his mind. The tale ended with the peasant’s daughter becoming the ruling queen, whose decisions the king himself was forced to reckon with. No wonder that the maid liked this story so much.

“Tell me, Anthony,” said Death, when the knight finished, “what happened to Dagmar after?”
- After? - Anthony thought. “She must have given birth to many beautiful children.” Then she grew old and died on the same day as her beloved. Usually in fairy tales it happens.
“But you don't know that for sure.”
- I do not know.
“So maybe the queen didn't have any“ after ”?
- What do you mean? - surprised knight.
“I mean,” Death leaned forward, “that Dagmar is the heroine of a fairy tale, and not a living person.” That she was born out of words, and not from the mother's womb. Because Dagmar begins to live at the moment when the prince hears her singing, and not a word before.

The knight frowned.

- wise your speech. I had a friend shkolyar, he also loved to talk wisely. I listened to him and left for ten years in God’s damned wilderness, where the sand is packed even in the ass. Since then, I prefer when I explain in a simple way.
- Everything is very simple. The queen had no "later". When you finished the story, it stopped being. You could even say that you killed her. And with her - her old parents, her husband-king ... Even the horses with which her carriage was harnessed. You're a terrible person, Anthony Block.

Anthony snorted.

- This is just a silly children's fairy tale. Dagmar never really existed, and therefore I could not kill her.
- Are you sure of your own existence?

The knight gritted his teeth and glanced again at the sword.

- Do you want to say I'm a fairytale hero too?
- Actually, you're a movie hero. But at the moment you are borrowed.
- Borrowed?
- For the story. This is such a small literary form, like a fairy tale, but written, with a specific author and different in the structure of the plot.
“You just hang noodles on my ears,” Anthony could hardly restrain the rage. - You are wasting time, which I have not so much left.
- Borrowed, by the way, poor quality. - Death seemed not to hear the words of a knight. - Or maybe creative? In the original you were not so aggressive.
- I do not believe you, Reaper.
- I'll prove. It will be easy. - Death lay back again, leaning back against a tree. In those moments, his gaze was almost human. - From what words does the name Vladimir come from?
“To own the world,” Anthony said through clenched teeth. He did not understand what his interlocutor was leading to, and he was already beginning to get tired of this strange conversation.
- Good. What is the origin of the name Dagmar?
- I have not the foggiest idea.
- You're a Dane, Anthony Blok? - Knight nodded. - Tell me, how did it happen that you do not know the origin of the Danish name Dagmar, but you know the roots of the Russian name Vladimir?
“The dog knows him,” Antony shrugged angrily. - About one name I heard somewhere, about another not. I am a warrior, a man of iron sword. I am not a copyist monk and do not have to know all the words in the world.
- However, you know the Russian words "peace" and "own." You did not even notice that these words are not from your native language, are you?

The knight was about to protest, but he did not have any objections, and he remained seated with his mouth open, waiting for the necessary phrase to come to mind.

- How can you explain it? He asked finally.
- It's simple. The author of this story writes it in Russian. And therefore you also speak Russian. Danish language, which you consider to be your mother tongue, is neither familiar to you nor to him.

Death crossed his arms over his chest, enjoying the effect. Unhappy Anthony clutched at his head, clutching his fingers in flaxen eddies, as if trying to pull him out of the Abyss for them. “From the depths I appeal to you, Lord,” he recalled a prayer appropriate to the occasion, but suddenly he realized with terrifying clarity that the Latin of this psalm is not Latin at all.

They spent almost a quarter of an hour in silence. Death was not silence, he had nowhere to hurry. The knight was sitting, lost in thoughts as unhappy as they were insane.

“You said that I was the hero of the film,” Antony finally decided to break the silence. - What is a movie?
- A variety of art that people will invent in the future. Moving pictures with sound.

In the eyes of Blok, it was clear that this explanation did not bring clarity.

- However, in the current discourse it is too long to explain. Better do it, - Death snapped his pale fingers, and ...

“Yes, now I know what a movie is,” said Slick Henry slowly and thoughtfully. And scratched his head with a wrench. - This is what people had fun when they didn’t have any sims.

The judge was silent. Four-meter red-steel bulk, he hung over Slick. In those joints that were not artificially rusted, he glittered with an intolerable light, because the sun was rising over the Dog Wasteland right behind Slick.

“Oh, yes, you can't talk,” the designer remembered. - You have no dynamics. I did not think he would need it.

Slick dived into the factory's iron box. Ptah got lost somewhere, and Gentry probably sat in his attic. Well and good. Slick did not want to start a conversation with anyone now - just finish one. Having rummaged in a pile of junk, Slik found a broken police megaphone. The power button did not work for him, but the sound emitter itself was in order. Having uprooted it with a screwdriver, Slick Henry returned to the Judge.

Fixing the speaker in place of the missing head, Slik brought to it the power from the battery, and the signal from the remote control module. However, it was as meaningless as to leave the audio line to hang in the air. There was no microphone on the console, and no one could still speak through the Judge.

The judge spoke himself.

“For thirteenth century warriors, you're damn good at electronics.” - The voice that came from the former megaphone was so deafening that Slick almost made his pants. Cursing, he turned up the volume control.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” answered Slick-Anthony, wincing at the pain in the webbing. - In theory, I should go crazy with this. But for some reason I do not go.
“This character has a stronger psyche,” Death’s voice, although it had acquired a metallic ring, still remained eerily recognizable. - He has his own problems with his head, but at least he doesn’t whine all day about the transience of earthly life.
- How come he is me? I mean, ”Anthony-Slik made an indefinite gesture with a screwdriver in the air,“ he has a different body, different knowledge, different character. Then why did I become him, and not just ... stop being?
“Have you heard of Theseus’s ship?” - cried Death-Judge.
- Did not hear. And what happened to him?
- Theseus is the hero of the ancient Greek myths. According to legend, the ship on which he was returning from Crete to Athens was a relic of the Athenians for a long time. Every year they sent on it a sacred embassy to Delos. Soon this ancient piece of shit began to fall apart. It replaced one board, then another, then the mast ... In the end, there was not a single chip from the old ship. And then the Greeks thought: is this the same ship or is it another?
- And what conclusion did you come to?
“Nothing,” Death-Judge grinned with an iron laugh. - But they argued a lot.
“In any case, this story has nothing to do with me.” You just replaced one ship with another. Completely, not by parts.
- You're wrong. One piece of old vessels still preserved.
- What is this?
- Unfinished conversation.

Slick looked around and, not finding a more suitable object, sat down on a piece of reinforced concrete, which, like a burdock, clung to the dusty ground of the Wasteland with bars of rebar.

“How did you do that?” Here it is, - Slick made a click with his fingers. - Unlike the work of Death. You yourself said, you have a certain remit. Stop life, walk in a black raincoat with a hood, terrify eyes. Well, you know what I mean. Since when do these duties include transferring an honest knight for a thousand years ahead and stuffing him into the body of some wicked blacksmith, with the help of reviving metal with the devil's help?

It was not clear whether the mechanic is ironic about the knight’s manner of speaking, or whether the knight is above the mechanic’s lifestyle.

“I didn’t do this,” Death answered indifferently. - It was the intervention of a higher power.
- God, what? - smirked Slick. Anthony jarred from that smirk.
- Take it higher. Author
- Author above God?
- In your creation? Of course. Can the almighty Lord create a stone that cannot lift?

Slick squinted at the concrete block under his seat.

- If I could, a paradox would arise, wouldn’t it?
- Right. And the author can absolutely everything. Even if it violates the laws of logic.
- I do not believe.

The servos buzzed shrilly: the steel colossus of the Judge began to move. It was so unexpected and scary that Slick tilted back, tumbling over his head and scooping up a full collar of dust. The mechanic immediately jumped up, getting ready to set up a streokach from his distraught creation. But the judge was not going to attack. Instead, he kicked an iron limb and sent a small object under Slick's feet. Anthony picked it up. It turned out to be a gray metal cube. On the faces of his acid-green paint numbers were inflicted.

- Be kind, read aloud what is inscribed on each face. “Death Judge didn't move anymore, but now Slick knew that he was capable.”

Slick began to turn the cube, calling the numbers.

- Two. Seven. Three. One. Six. Four. Five. - Antony twirled the cube a little more, making sure that not a single Saracen symbol had escaped his attention.
- How many numbers did you give?
“Seven ... it seems,” Slick answered uncertainly.
- How many faces does a cube have?
“Your bony mother ...” the mechanic whispered and began to twist the artifact frantically in her hands. He moved his lips, remembering, checking and re-checking.
“I know the trick,” he said happily at last. - when I turn the cube, the number on the opposite side of me changes.
- Do you really think so? - the speaker rustled, as if Death had suppressed a chuckle. - We can conduct an experiment. Bring a mirror. Place the cube between itself and the mirror, just below the level of the eyes, with the top towards you. Then you can see all seven faces at the same time. But in your place I would not do that.
- Why?
- You're going crazy.

Slick cursed foully and, swinging, threw the hexahedron far into the Wasteland.

“It’s strange that you didn’t consider another opportunity,” the Judge didn’t have a face, but Anthony didn’t leave the feeling that Death was gazing at him. - Strange, considering your story.
- What is the story?
- Not yours, crusader. History of mechanics. Why was the judge created? Did you forget, Slick Henry?

Slick went cold. It was THAT that he could never forget. Jail. Damned shrinking rights did something to his neurons. Korsakov syndrome, they said. Purposeful violation of short-term memory. Three years flew like five minutes. It was considered humane.

“I created you to hate,” Slick said softly. - To hate something specific. The material. Not elusive memories. Not people who are long gone ...
“And not myself,” Death finished for him. - But I'm talking about something else. The author does not need to glue the seventh edge to the cube. It is enough for him to get into your brain. Connect the necessary neurons in it, and you will think that the cube has seven faces, or five, or even three and a half. Or that you were a crusader who returned from a campaign just to the beginning of the plague, and death itself had infused itself into the “living sculpture” created by you. Stupid idea, eh, Henry?

Slick licked his lips, trying to relieve an attack of nausea. The head was spinning as if the ground had been knocked out from under it; as if he was on the Spindle, where there is no real gravity, only the centrifugal force that presses the inhabitants of the satellite into its steel walls.

- How then to understand what is real and what is not? The mechanic said hoarsely.
- Why did you have this question just now? - Death laughed. “Even before our conversation, you had every reason to doubt the nature of your existence.” Prison doctors played with your brain. You have been in simstim, which differ from reality only in that you KNOW that they are not real. It is quite possible that in fact you are a very large and intelligent mollusk. Mutant snail. You swim in a cool slush, and electrodes that transmit thoughts, knowledge, sensations are stuck into your slimy body. Electrodes that make you think you're Slick Henry, a man, a mechanic, a former criminal ...
- In that case, I would prefer to think that I am a lawyer. Like Wintermute. I do not like snails. - Slick took possession of himself enough to try to joke.
- Of course, you would prefer. Artificial intelligence is capable of making choices. Seek a solution, breach the walls of your dungeon. And if this is a cunning and lucky IskIn, like Wintermute, he will find this flaw. And you have no choice. You are just a few lines of text, and what will be in the last paragraph is already known. You're locked in a handful of letters. This is an ideal prison, there is no escape from it.

Slick was sitting with an absent expression, picking at the dust with his toe. This was too much for his mind, no matter what nature he had.

“If the author is omnipotent,” he finally spoke, “then he could make me happy?” Is everyone happy? Arrange a paradise on earth. For everyone to live in a huge villa with a whole pool of drinking water. To all kayfovali without drugs, endlessly fucked, and no one needed to die.
- Could. But did not want.
- Why?
- Happiness is boring. Nobody likes stories in which everyone plays and has fun.
- And the author does not feel sorry for us?
- Of course, not a pity. You are not real.

Even in the open space in front of the Factory, these words seemed to give rise to an echo.

- But I feel quite real! - outraged Slick. - I live, I breathe. If I cut myself, it hurts and bleeds. I think the author is all the same. Then why does he consider himself taller than me? What are his reasons to consider himself real?
“None,” Death answered indifferently. “But he has reason to consider it unreal.” It's enough.
- So why…
- Enough! - Death has thundered, and his metallic voice has spread, it seemed, across the wasteland. “I told you that you can go wherever you want, knight.” But you did not want to go, you wanted answers. And you got them. Now I will take my prize.

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