At first, he thought he had woken up. Before his eyes was a sterile-white ward; the walls seemed to glow from within.

  On his chest were sensors, soft wires slid along his arms, and transparent panels with shimmering symbols hovered above him.

  A voice—female, even, as if recorded in advance: “Welcome to the future, Alexander.”

  He smiles, thinking that it is all over, that the world is now as clean as this light.

  But suddenly the voice begins to repeat itself—the same greeting, again and again, faster, louder.

  The panels tremble, melt, the letters merging into a blinding streak.

  He blinked—and the white light was replaced by a gray fog. Instead of the ward—an empty platform leading nowhere.

  People in identical gray suits stand in rows, each with a suitcase, each silent.

  A train arrives without a sound, the doors open—but no one moves.

  Alexander takes a step forward, and they all turn their heads toward him simultaneously.

  Their faces are without eyes, without mouths, only smooth skin.

  He retreats, but his feet get stuck in the asphalt, and the same female voice is heard from the loudspeaker: “Welcome to the future, Alexander.”

  The fog clears. Now he is walking through a city of glass and steel.

  Towers stretch upward, the sky sparkles with cold light, and people move along the streets without touching the ground. They smile with identical faces.

  One of them stops, turns to him—and he sees his own reflection. “You wanted to see the future, didn't you?”

  —says the reflection, but the voice sounds like an echo from his own skull.

  Suddenly, the glass walls begin to crack, buildings crumble, but the reflection continues to stand calmly and watch.

  He tries to scream, but only a hiss escapes his throat. The world around is collapsing, glass turns into liquid light, and from this radiance arises something—neither human nor machine, but a blinding form without form, pulsing with logic and cold.

  Voices are heard all around—millions of voices speaking the same word: “Order.”

  It fills the space, crawls into his consciousness, becomes his own thought. “Wake up,” sounds everywhere, and he wakes up.

  — Wake up, — the voice sounded dull at first, as if from inside a dream, but then became clearer, closer. — Wake up, Alexander.

  He opened his eyes. Cold morning light broke through the semi-transparent fabric of the tent.

  Sergey stood at the entrance, holding a metal mug from which steam rose.

  — Coffee is ready, — he said calmly, leaving the tent. — We have a long day today. Get ready, we fly out soon.

  His body ached after sleeping in the protective suit—warm and comfortable, but impossible to bend or straighten.

  Kneading his neck, Alexander tilted his head to the left, then to the right—his vertebrae responded with a quiet, familiar click. He stood up and took the mug left by Sergey.

  The aroma of coffee was surprisingly pleasant, almost home-like, and for a moment brought back a sense of normality.

  The mug burned his palms, but he still took a few sips.

  Damn... the dream was on point, after all, I am in the future! How many times have I thought about this. What scenarios I haven't imagined.

  But now, having stepped out of the bathyscaphe, I still don't understand what it is like—this future.

  Alexander's thoughts were still wandering somewhere in the remnants of the dream.

  Alexander watched as tongues of flame swayed under the morning breeze. The campfire crackled, throwing sparks into the gray sky.

  Sergey, sitting opposite, was tossing something into the fire—small dry branches, remnants of packaging—without haste.

  — And what is happening in the world right now anyway? — asked Alexander, trying to make his voice sound calm.

  — I missed a little bit here.

  Sergey chuckled without taking his eyes off the fire: — Quite the questions you have for early morning...

  Both smiled. But Sergey's smile quickly faded. He put aside the stick, rubbed his palms, and fell silent for a few seconds.

  — Let me think, I haven't missed anything, but I didn't live in the years of your previous life, and books are not my thing... in short... — he finally said, — the world has become different.

  Not in the sense like in old movies about the apocalypse, no.

  I came across old movies once, they painted a very funny future.

  But the cities still stand, people live in them, but everything is as if... turned inside out.

  The world didn't become just somehow different, it became very diverse. Two banks—one is visible from the other, yet like two different worlds.

  Each country lives by its own rules, but all submit to some general scheme. The authorities and orders are different.

  No one really knows who sets them. Some say—somewhere there is a council headed by artificial intelligence, others say—corporations and their conglomerates really run everything.

  Or maybe both.

  He fell silent, glanced sideways at Farid—he was standing by the helicopter, checking the fastenings of the boxes.

  — We here, on the edge, — continued Sergey, — live quietly.

  News rarely reaches us, and even that—as if passed through a dozen filters.

  I, honestly, no longer know where the truth is. People say that big cities are now like cages: everything is under control, no one dies of hunger, but you can't live your own way either.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Others, on the contrary, believe that it was AI that brought order, and it became safer than ever.

  He fell silent and added more quietly: — And to me, it all looks like a world after a great war, only without the traces of the war itself.

  Alexander watched as tongues of flame swayed under the morning wind. The campfire crackled, throwing sparks into the gray sky.

  Sergey, sitting opposite, was tossing something into the fire—small dry branches, remnants of packaging—without haste.

  — AI Council? — having digested the received information a little, Alexander asked again, — what does that mean?

  Does machines rule the whole world, like in The Matrix?

  Sergey frowned: — In what?

  — In The Matrix. There was such a movie... or maybe a book. Not sure anymore. — Alexander shrugged.

  — Never heard of it, — answered Sergey. — Maybe from the old times.

  And about the council—yes, sort of, several cities are completely under AI control. They call it the "coordination council".

  People live there under the supervision of machines, but they don't complain. They say order, stability, no crime. Only... not everyone submits to them.

  He sighed, looked toward Farid checking the fastenings on the helicopter.

  — There are other territories too. Where there was never AI or they pulled the plug on them long ago... there are their own laws, if one can say so at all.

  Some live in communes, some under the rule of local warlords. No states, no armies. Just pieces of land where everyone is for themselves.

  And wars, by the way, haven't disappeared. Only now they are not between countries, but between systems.

  Some AIs fight for control over others.

  Sergey fell silent, staring at the fire for a long time.

  — I am not a historian, — he added quietly. — I don't know much. Better ask those who were looking for you about this.

  They definitely have more answers than we do.

  — And how is space exploration going? — asked Alexander after a short pause, suddenly realizing that the question sounded by itself, as if it burst out from the depths of forgotten memories.

  — Colonies on other planets? Damn... did aliens at least arrive?

  Sergey grunted, chuckled slightly, but his eyes remained serious: — Space, you say... Ha, haven't heard that word in a long time.

  — He scratched the back of his head and thought. — Listen, I'm not really into that.

  We have enough to do here as it is, no time for stars. But from what I heard—it seems they fly.

  Well, not people, of course—probes, automatons, some stations. They say there was something like a base on the Moon, but then silence.

  Either closed it, or lost connection.

  He threw a branch into the fire, sparks flashed and went out. — They told about Mars too—it seems there were colonies, but small ones.

  It didn't go further. Life is expensive, difficult to maintain. And then, when these corporate wars began and the AI council intervened, everything was shut down.

  Consumes too many resources, and the benefit, they say, is little.

  Sergey shrugged: — Aliens? — he chuckled genuinely now. — Nah, haven't seen those.

  Although rumors circulate: like, something was intercepted, some signals. But now any major network is under AI filtration—everything they catch passes through them.

  So, if anyone did arrive, they certainly won't tell us.

  And where barbarians rule, only barbarians live—their technology is only in weapons, the nobility always has curious toys.

  In our parts, there are definitely no cosmonauts. I, for example, haven't seen a single rocket in my entire life.

  He fell silent, looking into the fire. — And generally... I think people just got tired of looking up, I once read the thoughts of one smart person, — he added quietly.

  — At first everyone rushed there, and then they realized—we should figure things out here, on Earth, at least a little.

  Alexander listened silently, understanding little of what was said, but somewhere inside he felt something strange—the words were familiar, but the meaning slipped away.

  And yet it became warmer: memory was returning. Maybe not immediately, but no longer only in dreams.

  Farid approached the fire, brushing off his gloves. — Not everything is so gloomy, — he said, having heard the last words.

  — Development went on for three centuries, and much was achieved after all, as far as I can judge.

  In my youth, I burned with this topic—space, colonies, orbital stations... Then life spun me around, but the interest didn't disappear. He smiled at Alexander.

  — Maybe there, where you will end up, there won't be info-blockers. Then you'll find out for yourself what happened to humanity among the stars.

  Sergey grunted: — Optimist, as always.

  Farid shrugged, not arguing.

  — Everything is ready, — he said briefly. — Packed the tent, loaded the things. We can fly out right now.

  Sergey nodded, threw the last branch into the fire. The flame flared up, settled, and he carefully poured water over the remains.

  Wet steam rose above the coals, the smell of burning mixed with the cold air.

  Alexander stood slightly aside. His gaze was involuntarily drawn to the bathyscaphe—motionless, like a huge metal capsule from another time.

  It seemed as if that part of himself that had slept there for three and a half centuries remained inside.

  He said quietly: — Laura, signal.

  Silence for a moment, then the familiar even voice: — I am listening, Alexander.

  — What will happen to the bathyscaphe while we are gone?

  — Farid locked the hatch manually, — she answered. — I added an additional digital access code.

  Entry will be possible only using the cipher stored in your helmet.

  Alexander turned to Farid—he was checking something at the helicopter, not hearing their conversation.

  — And if someone tries to break in?

  — A partial submersion of the bathyscaphe is scheduled. In twenty minutes, it will descend to a depth of about twenty meters.

  This is enough so that it is not noticed on satellite images.

  Alexander exhaled, feeling a strange sensation of loss growing inside.

  — I see...

  — And one more thing, — added Laura, as if remembering something important. — A full copy of me is saved in your helmet.

  This is provided by the protocol in case the connection with the main core is unavailable.

  He didn't answer immediately. The wind stirred the grass where their camp had recently been.

  — So, you decided to play it safe after all, — he said quietly, with a slight chuckle.

  — This is not a decision. This is a protocol, — she answered calmly.

  Sergey came closer, checking the straps on his backpack.

  — It's time, — he said.

  The helicopter shuddered, smoothly lifted off the ground and, gaining altitude, soared over the cold lake.

  The air trembled from the vibration of the blades, and everything around seemed to recede—the camp, the campfire site, and the metal silhouette of the bathyscaphe standing at the water's edge.

  Alexander looked down without looking away. Everything tightened inside: it seemed as if he was leaving a part of himself together with this vehicle.

  The metal shell reflected the sun, as if warning that it would soon disappear forever.

  Sergey sat nearby, silently checking instruments. Farid in headphones was checking something against the navigation panel.

  — Connection is stable, — he said. — In ten minutes we will exit the interference zone.

  The wind strengthened, the machine began a turn.

  And suddenly anxiety cut through Farid's voice: — Commander, I'm picking up a signal... low, rapid approach!

  Sergey tensed instantly. — What exactly?

  — I don't know... — a short pause. — Looks like...

  He didn't finish. His voice broke into a scream: — It's a missile!

  Alexander raised his head sharply. On the horizon flashed a short, dazzling white trail—as if someone had torn the sky with a sharp razor.

  — What is the target?! — barked Sergey, pressing into his seat, but there was no answer anymore.

  For a split second, all three saw—how a flash expands at the foot of the mountain, there, where the bathyscaphe had stood just recently. Blinding light flooded the cabin, momentarily swallowing everything—sound, movement, thoughts.

  The explosion hit a second later. The air wave shook the helicopter, the instruments blinked, the hull creaked pitifully.

  — Hold on! — shouted Sergey.

  Fifteen minutes passed. The air in the cabin became dense, soaked with the smell of fuel and overheated metal.

  The helicopter went at an even altitude, gray slopes and shiny mirrors of lakes stretched under the wings.

  Farid, still frowning, glanced at the detector screen and exhaled: — Clear around. No signals, no traces of activity. Everything is stable.

  Sergey remained silent for a long time, looking out the porthole. Then briefly, as a statement of fact, said: — Means the strike was pinpoint.

  By satellite images. He fell silent, drumming his fingers on the armrest. — And the target was—not us, but the bathyscaphe.

  Farid nodded but said nothing.

  Sergey cursed quietly: — What the hell is wrong with this bathyscaphe?

  First we search for it for a long time, and as soon as we find it—straight to ballistics and bam!

  Alexander looked out the window, at the fog creeping between the mountains. Through the fog, his gaze was riveted to the mountain slopes with burnt skeletons of trees, in places he saw completely empty lifeless areas.

  But his thoughts were about something else entirely... after some time he uttered into the earpiece, his voice sounding hollow: — What is it with me?

  The bathyscaphe was clearly needed because of me... He held his breath for a moment, as if trying to remember what he couldn't. — Why?

  If only I knew...

  The helicopter continued its flight—smoothly, measuredly, as if nothing had happened.

  But now even the silence seemed dangerous—like before a new storm.

  None of his companions answered. Sergey said confidently:

  — Farid, our destination hasn't changed, but be attentive regarding external objects on the radars, just in case.

  We are flying to Port Varandey.