Norman Steel
Inverted Earth
"Fates lead those who want to and drag those who don't." Max Fry
CHAPTER 1. SCATTERING EFFECT
The air in the tunnel was thick and stale, smelling of ozone from the sparking overhead rails, the dampness of centuries-old stone, and the dust blown by the passing trains. This wasn't the clean, sterile metro they showed tourists on the surface. These were its arteries, hidden deep beneath the city's skin, the technical floors of civilization, where the darkness was absolute, and the silence was broken only by a distant, growing hum and the insistent beeping of sensors invisible in the gloom.
He raced through these arteries. Doctor Maxim Voronov. A man who only an hour ago had a name, a position at the Institute of Evolutionary Genetics, and a future. Now he had only instinct—to run.
His suede coat, a gift from his ex-wife, fluttered behind him like dark wings. He didn't run; he flew, barely touching the ties, his gaze desperately clinging to the tunnel's distant blackness. It wasn't his heart pounding in his temples—it was the only remaining impulse in his head, refined by adrenaline to an animalistic simplicity: "Forward, forward, forward."
His teeth were clenched so tightly his jaw ached. His clenched fists dug his nails into his palms, trying to drown out the panic with physical pain. His pupils, gray and always so alert behind his glasses, now narrowed to pinpoints, picking out from the darkness only what was necessary for survival: the unevenness of the rails, the flickering emergency light, the ominous red eye of a camera.
Life or death—that was the only choice. Here and now.
He had solved the ultimate mystery. Not an abstract riddle of the universe, but a concrete, deadly mystery. He had found an anomaly in the code, mathematical proof of artificial intervention in the human genome. And for this, he deserved death. In the rational, flawless system he himself had discovered, it made sense. It was rational. Eliminate the threat to the experiment's integrity. Erase the faulty data.
A buzzing noise grew behind him, like a swarm of enraged hornets. He turned as he ran, and his heart sank. A cloud floated in the darkness, reflected in his fogged glasses. Dozens, hundreds of tiny "scalp" drones, having acquired his coordinates from that very look into the camera. Their bodies were a matte black metal, reflecting no light. They moved with mechanical, inexorable precision, without emotion, without malice. Simply function. The toxin-filled stingers were already extended—thin as syringe needles, ready to deliver their injection. Death, as befits good protocol, would be quick and painless. A clean removal.
The headwind from the tunnel whistled in his ears. Somewhere ahead, around the bend, there should be a train. Its roar grew louder, merging with the drones' roar, and the light from its headlights was already blaring, blinding him and offering him a last, wild hope.
And then he saw it. To the right, in the wall, a gaping alcove yawned—an emergency alcove for linemen, half-buried in old cables. The solution came not from his brain, but from his reflexes. He lunged toward it, tripping over the sleepers, and in a last desperate leap, his fingers dug into the slippery concrete, pulling himself inside.
He leaned against the cold wall, gasping for air, and felt a leaden weight spread through his legs. Now. Everything would be decided now.
And then the world exploded!
The train roared into the tunnel. Blinding light, the deafening roar of steel crushing the duralumin hulls of the "scalps." Sparks, like hellish fireworks, lit up the tunnel for a moment, and Maxim saw the drones shatter, spraying the walls with a toxic liquid resembling synthetic blood. The train whistled past without slowing, carrying away the remains of its pursuers.
The silence that followed was deafening. A pungent smell of burning filled his nostrils. Maxim, not believing he was alive, slowly, like an old man, crawled along the wall, moving deeper into the tunnel, away from the scene of carnage. His fingers found a piece of cloth folded to the size of a handkerchief in his pocket.
He draped it over his shoulders. The material immediately came to life, flowing, changing its structure, and blending with the surrounding environment. An invisibility cloak, stolen from a secret institute lab "for study." It blocked visual contact, dampened body heat, and dampened odors. Dear military technology. Now it's his only shield.
Hidden against the cold wall in his invisible cocoon, Maxim Voronov's breathing slowed slightly. The system had failed. The mathematical model had made a mistake. He had a chance. A small, insignificant one, but a chance nonetheless.
He swallowed convulsively. They had found him. So he was right. And that meant his research, all his data, all his calculations… they weren't just theory. They were the key. And now he had that key. And he had to give it to someone. But to whom? Who in this mad, sleeping world could he trust?
Life, paradoxically, had just given him a second chance. So that, perhaps, it could give one to all of humanity.
He raced through these arteries. Doctor Maxim Voronov. A man who only an hour ago had a name, a position at the Institute of Evolutionary Genetics, and a future. Now he had only instinct—to run.
His suede coat, a gift from his ex-wife, fluttered behind him like dark wings. He didn't run; he flew, barely touching the ties, his gaze desperately clinging to the tunnel's distant blackness. It wasn't his heart pounding in his temples—it was the only remaining impulse in his head, refined by adrenaline to an animalistic simplicity: "Forward, forward, forward."
His teeth were clenched so tightly his jaw ached. His clenched fists dug his nails into his palms, trying to drown out the panic with physical pain. His pupils, gray and always so alert behind his glasses, now narrowed to pinpoints, picking out from the darkness only what was necessary for survival: the unevenness of the rails, the flickering emergency light, the ominous red eye of a camera.
Life or death—that was the only choice. Here and now.
He had solved the ultimate mystery. Not an abstract riddle of the universe, but a concrete, deadly mystery. He had found an anomaly in the code, mathematical proof of artificial intervention in the human genome. And for this, he deserved death. In the rational, flawless system he himself had discovered, it made sense. It was rational. Eliminate the threat to the experiment's integrity. Erase the faulty data.
A buzzing noise grew behind him, like a swarm of enraged hornets. He turned as he ran, and his heart sank. A cloud floated in the darkness, reflected in his fogged glasses. Dozens, hundreds of tiny "scalp" drones, having acquired his coordinates from that very look into the camera. Their bodies were a matte black metal, reflecting no light. They moved with mechanical, inexorable precision, without emotion, without malice. Simply function. The toxin-filled stingers were already extended—thin as syringe needles, ready to deliver their injection. Death, as befits good protocol, would be quick and painless. A clean removal.
The headwind from the tunnel whistled in his ears. Somewhere ahead, around the bend, there should be a train. Its roar grew louder, merging with the drones' roar, and the light from its headlights was already blaring, blinding him and offering him a last, wild hope.
And then he saw it. To the right, in the wall, a gaping alcove yawned—an emergency alcove for linemen, half-buried in old cables. The solution came not from his brain, but from his reflexes. He lunged toward it, tripping over the sleepers, and in a last desperate leap, his fingers dug into the slippery concrete, pulling himself inside.
He leaned against the cold wall, gasping for air, and felt a leaden weight spread through his legs. Now. Everything would be decided now.
And then the world exploded!
The train roared into the tunnel. Blinding light, the deafening roar of steel crushing the duralumin hulls of the "scalps." Sparks, like hellish fireworks, lit up the tunnel for a moment, and Maxim saw the drones shatter, spraying the walls with a toxic liquid resembling synthetic blood. The train whistled past without slowing, carrying away the remains of its pursuers.
The silence that followed was deafening. A pungent smell of burning filled his nostrils. Maxim, not believing he was alive, slowly, like an old man, crawled along the wall, moving deeper into the tunnel, away from the scene of carnage. His fingers found a piece of cloth folded to the size of a handkerchief in his pocket.
He draped it over his shoulders. The material immediately came to life, flowing, changing its structure, and blending with the surrounding environment. An invisibility cloak, stolen from a secret institute lab "for study." It blocked visual contact, dampened body heat, and dampened odors. Dear military technology. Now it's his only shield.
Hidden against the cold wall in his invisible cocoon, Maxim Voronov's breathing slowed slightly. The system had failed. The mathematical model had made a mistake. He had a chance. A small, insignificant one, but a chance nonetheless.
He swallowed convulsively. They had found him. So he was right. And that meant his research, all his data, all his calculations… they weren't just theory. They were the key. And now he had that key. And he had to give it to someone. But to whom? Who in this mad, sleeping world could he trust?
Life, paradoxically, had just given him a second chance. So that, perhaps, it could give one to all of humanity.
Contacts:
NormanSteel.info@gmail.com
