A heavy gray cloud hung in the sky, hiding the sun but not its heat, which rolled in dry gusts over the greening slope.

  The protective suits' cooling system was struggling to cope. Sergey and Farid sat by a crackling fire, watching the dance of the flames.

  The air was filled with the aroma of burnt meat and cooling coffee, a smell Sergey couldn't seem to get rid of.

  — You know, — Farid began with a chuckle, leaning back against a log, — back in flight school, we had this incident.

  We decided with the guys, being totally young, to make a run for the city—you know, when you crave freedom but have to be back at base by 6 AM?

  So, we’re sneaking out to see the girls, the night lights are beckoning us... and then, a patrol! — he theatrically raised his eyebrows.

  Sergey nodded, but his gaze remained stern. He waited for the continuation, showing neither too much interest nor cutting the story short.

  — We had "borrowed" a helicopter, after all! — Farid grinned, as if the thought still amused him.

  — And we landed it so clumsily that it took two days to repair later! — He chuckled, waving his hands.

  — Well, of course, we got caught... But you know, one of those girls actually became my wife later on.

  That is another curious story...

  Sergey remained silent, trying to maintain his composure. His attention had long been fixed on the helicopter nearby and the unnatural mountain in the distance, which caused him tension.

  Farid stretched out his legs. — You probably don't remember stories like that, do you? — he continued, tearing his gaze away from the fire and catching Sergey's eye.

  Sergey finally forced a dry smile and answered quietly: — Let's just say my training was... less romantic. — I'd say with your luck, you were fortunate to remain a pilot.

  Farid smirked, catching this tiny spark of humor from his silent partner.

  — Yeah, well... But you know, I’ve always been lucky with stuff like that, — he fell silent, expecting Sergey to pick up the conversation.

  Sergey looked thoughtfully at the flames of the fire, the light of which was reflected in his tired eyes.

  He spoke, as if torn between the desire to say nothing and the need to share at least a little:

  — My training ended before it really began. There was no time for going AWOL—it was right during the Second Ural-Siberian War.

  We knew that every day could be our last. I was sent to the infantry immediately, a few months before the end.

  Ammo, mud, snow… — he paused, remembering how the endless weeks dragged on.

  — Three months in hell, and then there it was—the truce. Senseless, but desired.

  Farid listened attentively, his slight smile vanishing. He sighed silently, spread his hands slightly, and after a while dropped:

  — In my combat experience, there haven't been any serious clashes. Just a few "hot" operations, and that's it.

  It can't be compared to yours, of course...

  A pause hung in the air. The fire died down a little, as if listening to the silent shadows of the past that had suddenly appeared in this harsh, lifeless terrain. The mountains around stretched in massive ridges; in some places, their slopes were overgrown with green oases, in others, they remained bare, as if nature itself had not withstood the test of time. Autumn trees trembled under gusts of wind, among them flashed yellow and crimson leaves clinging to life.

  Riverbeds had long changed their outlines: rivers became fuller, washing away coastal areas, and lakes filled up until they stood level with the gentle hills.

  The climate of these places seemed like an insane mixture. During the day, the sun scorched so that the hot air breathed fumes, but by evening it dived behind the horizon, bringing sharp cold.

  Sergey suddenly raised his head sharply, as if shaking off the fog of memories.

  — Farid, — his voice sounded firm. — We need to fly over the fifteenth quadrant again.

  Farid arched an eyebrow, looking askance at his partner.

  — But we've already been there, — the protest sounded soft, more like a reminder than a reproach.

  Sergey tensed his jaw, clenching his teeth briefly. His gaze went somewhere into the mountains again, as if an invisible solution was hidden there.

  — I know, — he said with restraint. — Our map is old, very old. The landscape has changed over 350 years.

  But… I feel we need to fly over it one more time.

  Farid hesitated briefly, then nodded with a sigh.

  — OK, Captain. We're flying there.

  Farid brushed the remaining breadcrumbs from his palms and stood up.

  Sergey, meanwhile, threw the last lump of earth into the fire to finally extinguish it.

  The orange tongues of flame choked with a wheeze, giving way to black smoke that slowly dissolved in the air.

  Both packed up with military coordination: things that a minute ago were laid out by the fire were instantly stowed in crates.

  The dry branches left over from their short rest were scattered so as not to leave any traces.

  Farid approached the helicopter first, checking the cargo rigging and inspecting the rotors once more.

  Sergey clicked the lid of the last crate shut and placed it on board, arranging it neatly next to the other gear.

  — Is everything in order? — Farid asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  Sergey nodded, lifting his chin, and climbed into the cockpit, taking his seat. Farid sat down next to him, launching the instrument check.

  His fingers lightly ran across the sensor panel, where multicolored strings of indicators lit up from his short touches.

  Sergey buckled up, peering into the horizon where the cold morning fog was barely visibly spreading.

  — Starting up, — said Farid with a grin, as if about to make a joke but holding back.

  The engine came to life with a low, growing hum. The blades began to rotate slowly, picking up speed.

  The helicopter shuddered with its whole body, as if preparing to break free from the tenacious shackles of the earth.

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  Finally, with a sharp jolt, the machine rose into the air, and the noise of the rotors mixed with the wind accelerating through the mountain valley.

  The abandoned campfire and their temporary resting place rapidly diminished below until they completely disappeared among the trees and rocks.

  The helicopter banked slightly over yet another seemingly faceless patch of land.

  Below stretched mountain valleys, rivers, and endless gray-green expanses. Farid piloted the machine confidently, but fatigue appeared on his face more and more often: the flights had been going on for the twenty-fifth day, and every subsequent loop over a previously explored section of the map resembled a vicious circle from which there was no escape.

  They methodically combed the territory, using maps that had long lost their relevance.

  Information for the search was extremely scarce, and it seemed the bathyscaphe had never surfaced; Sergey understood this better than anyone.

  From time to time, Farid tried to get Sergey talking, but he answered in monosyllables, just to keep his partner from sensing his own anxiety.

  Sergey sat in his seat, leaning his elbow on the armrest and silently watching the uninteresting and tiring landscape.

  Thoughts swirled in his head like a ceaseless swarm. This mission... a job where everything seemed strange from the very beginning.

  The clients who hired him remotely called themselves representatives of Vulnos Inc.

  Searches for information about the company on the net yielded many blocked links, and some materials clearly indicated that the company was unfriendly to the Ural Republic.

  Sergey knew that Vulnos Inc. managed one of the advanced high-intelligence cities in North America, which concentrated the best technological developments and scientific knowledge.

  One of the world leaders, and there are no more than thirty such cities in the world.

  In fact, such corporations had long replaced traditional states, taking control of separate zones of influence.

  Old states became more like traditions and, lacking sufficient resources, more often served the new super-cities; there were examples where they cooperated on equal terms.

  As some guys from the base said, Vulnos Inc. implemented advanced management models based on the Vulnaris artificial intelligence.

  But this AI model does not hand out directives, failure to comply with which entails punishment, but builds mutually beneficial cooperation.

  But Sergey perceived these stories as nothing more than a fairy tale. Here in the Urals, any AI was rather a useful appliance.

  Governance was primitive; everything was divided into spheres of influence of certain groups whose resource was paramilitary mercenary groups.

  Conflicts often flared up between them, but more often they took on various jobs.

  Sergey was one of the best among many and could afford to choose his jobs himself.

  This time, from the moment of the first conversation with the client, he clearly understood that he could not spread the word about him or the client to anyone.

  And since they paid very well, Sergey was ready to keep everything secret.

  But one question occupied Sergey. After all, it was they who had created this bathyscaphe once upon a time. And now they are searching.

  Is it possible that besides maps, they don't have a tracking system? Why do we have to desperately search for it literally with our eyes, scouring huge territories?

  And why search? A bathyscaphe. Inside, someone might be alive or... more likely dead.

  Sergey took a deep breath, straining his gaze as if he could discern the target through the mass of stones and water.

  Three weeks of exhausting flights over the boundless territories of the northern Ural Mountains.

  A mission that was supposed to be completed in a couple of days was dragging him deeper and deeper into its endless labyrinth.

  Thus flew another two weeks.

  At the beginning of the mission, having received half the sum as a deposit, Sergey gathered all the necessary equipment and prepared literally in three days, hired Farid, and flew out to search.

  But now the fuel cells were almost worn out and required replacement; their recharging no longer provided even 50 percent capacity.

  All the supplies they brought with them were almost exhausted: the provision stock was reduced to dry rations, and the water purification system filters already needed urgent replacement.

  When Sergey finally made the decision to return to base, it was a heavy but inevitable step.

  They simply couldn't continue without resupplying, repairing equipment, and at least a little respite.

  Farid nodded with relief when Sergey announced this, as if he had been waiting for this decision himself but didn't dare to voice it first.

  The helicopter made a smooth turn and headed southwest, where in the distance, behind a series of mountain peaks, the Novy Kochmes base was hidden at the mouth of the Usa River.

  A few hours later, they reached the base both of them missed so much.

  Rusty hangars, fortified bunkers, and rows of tents met them with the heavy atmosphere of a military organization.

  The place was simultaneously reliable and unwelcoming, with concrete fortifications tearing apart rare green islands of nature.

  Sergey and Farid climbed out of the helicopter with difficulty, kneading stiff muscles and feeling brisk blood flowing through their legs again.

  — Well, here we are at home, — Farid muttered, wearily wiping sweat from his forehead before dragging worn-out equipment into the hangar for maintenance.

  He glanced briefly at Sergey, who was frowning into the distance, clearly immersed in thought. Sergey nodded silently.

  Feeling the tension and involuntarily choosing his words, he muttered under his breath, describing his results to the client. As if there were "results."

  An unpleasant step, but a necessary one. For the entire time in the search territory, there had been no connection, and Sergey was warmed by the hope that now he would receive new information to finish the job with the result he was accustomed to.

  Having submitted a written request for contact, a few hours later, a familiar male voice, devoid of any warmth, sounded in his helmet over an encrypted channel.

  — Your request has been accepted, I am listening, — the voice sounded restrained and tense. — Report on the work done.

  — We examined the entire territory you specified, — he began. — 44 days of searching with no result.

  — The bathyscaphe or its traces have not been found. We exhausted all possible resources, so we returned to base to replenish supplies and repair equipment.

  — I am requesting new information and asking to clarify the coordinates of the search zone.

  — Good, — the voice responded calmly. — We have processed new data arrays.

  — We analyzed climate changes for all the years since the bathyscaphe's submersion, tectonic shifts, water spills, and other data.

  — We modeled flooded areas where spills could reach a depth sufficient for the bathyscaphe to move.

  — I am sending updated coordinates; the map marks areas that were not included in the initial search zone. It is recommended to return to the search tomorrow.

  — Copy that, — Sergey perked up, having managed to briefly inspect the new map. — Tomorrow we return to the search zone.

  The following days flew by in a monotonous routine while Sergey and Farid carefully flew over sections of the updated map.

  The gray landscape of early winter was replaced by the same behind every mountain pass with grim inevitability: snow-covered rocks, forests, changeable gorges where wind turbulence dwelling in the wilderness constantly forced Farid to hold the control stick tensely.

  Sergey became increasingly gloomy; his anxiety gnawed from the inside, but he tried not to show it.

  Farid, seeing his tense face, tried to defuse the situation with light jokes and tales from flight school.

  But even his optimism began to seem strained.

  At the end of yet another day, tired and disappointed, they took to the sky again, knowing that the day would end just like the previous ones, unless fate intervened.

  But a sharp loud sound to the right of the board, recorded by instruments, aroused their interest.

  There they saw a rock collapse. Huge boulders flew into the gorge with a roar, like a swarm of gigantic insects, crushing and destroying everything in their path.

  Some of the stones crashed into the lake at the foot with a splash, throwing up fountains of water.

  Dust from the flying stones rose in a thick trail, which the wind immediately picked up and scattered along the slope, creating the illusion of a moving gray cloud dissolving in the air.

  — Farid, let's pay a visit to this spot, — Sergey suggested.

  — We'll admire the new views of the renovated rock, be the first tourists, so to speak.

  — Agreed. It's late, and we can look for a place to spend the night.

  — Understanding the reason for such an extensive rock collapse wouldn't hurt either, — Sergey answered condescendingly.

  — Look, there's a convenient landing pad, right behind the lake. New collapses cannot be ruled out, and that's far enough away.

  Farid was already busy setting up camp, his figure flashing among bags and crates of equipment.

  With imperturbable confidence, he hammered tent pegs into the stony ground, laid out a wind net, and muttered something under his breath.

  The severe Ural Mountains reminded of themselves with an icy wind walking through the autumn forests and an unusual calm, interrupted only by splashes in the lake.

  Sergey stood on the shore, bowing his head to the water, studying its dark and opaque mirror.

  Suddenly, his attention was drawn to air bubbles bursting from the depths and silently surfacing on the other edge of the lake, in the area of the fresh rockfall.

  First — rare, then — with increasing frequency. He frowned, tracing bubble after bubble bursting on the surface, leaving thin circles behind.

  "Farid!" he called, looking back over his shoulder. The pilot paused, looked around, still holding a heavy hammer in his hand.

  Sergey pointed to the lake.

  Farid stepped toward him, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. "You mean to say something lives here?" — he teased jokingly, but his gaze also lingered on the water. Bowing his head, he tried to hear muffled sounds coming from there.