Celestial Logistic

sobornov_m

SkyGate S vs LoGate G

Cathedral logic Sobornova Moscow Rus

Satirical Roman Novel 2026

Tg English: https://t.me/heli_loader

Tg Russian: https://t.me/heli_asia

Table of Content: Click

Видео Анонс

Telegra Part 3: Novel chapters 4, 5.

Chapter 4. Secure Logistics Logate G

Cutting air with rotor blades,

Stripping flesh with lust and shame:

Unended was the trust she gained

From a Russian man.

Track: Soul. Album: It is Later Than You Think.

Rock band Alisa

Part 1. Mermaid rivers town

The office in an Old City of Mermaids Stargorod felt worlds apart from the ones in Moscow. Outside the glass, a bleak, soul chilling November rain washed over the city. Invoice folders and financial statements were hidden inside, buried beneath uniform gray spines. The blind spots of others' cash flows were yet to be broken and tamed by a single, overriding algorithm.

Tanja, a woman of remarkably elegant hands, sat at her desk. Her well manicured nails were nailing the very first mock up package of the new brand. The design was meticulously thought out: minimalistic, expensive, entirely free of cheap vulgarity. Black plus red. Embossed letters stood out sharply against the matte cardstock. The patter is completely smooth, lacking any loud, bright branding: subtly but perfectly conveying the idea that the product has been engineered specifically to dump assets and disappear. Even the characters in the email address had been tailored down to the last line in a letter, ensuring that communication remained strictly one sided. By their side. Under their control.

Raised, embossed letters caught the light against the glossy finish:

LoGate G 罗盖特 ЛоГейт G

Just below sat a marker. It looked like an internal cipher, or perhaps a playful acronym completely reflecting their attitude:

MYTHical

On the reverse side, clean, sharp lines framed the core propositions:

CONDOM

TRUST HEAVEN LOGISTIC 绷不住

I JUST WANT TO GIVE YOU PLEASURE

Coupled with a laconic:

Free shipping

And a minimalist pattern of three thorns.

— LoGate point of pleasure G Condoms, — Tanja read aloud, weighing the syllables on her tongue.

— What made you call it that, Stish? — Sounds like some massive German Holding. Like foreign trade freight forwarding. Or a customs terminal. Though secure transit logic is true. But isn’t it a bit too dry for something so intimate?

Stish let out a short, dry chuckle. He didn't look back at his CEO, who was sitting there by a window. He stood by the window, poised, sharp, yet carrying that familiar, deep seated exhaustion in his eyes. Back then, the cold spark of a MEPhI graduate still flickered within him. That was how he saw his schemes: operating under the unblinking eye of the guardian at the gate. The gate that led to the fairytale promised lands of double milk with honey 合力. He excelled at weaving closed loop supply chains. And that required amputating all possible risks.

— That’s where the hidden payload is, —he replied reasonably, without even turning his head. — I’ve managed to wrap pure, cold calculation in a beautiful skin. Look at it systematically. — He grabbed a sheet of paper and scribbled:

Law /lo/. Meaning the statute.

Gate /geit/. Meaning the portal.

— We are legally opening the LoGate to everyone I intend to pleasure.

He turned around and sank into an armchair. Stish locked his eyes onto Tanja's elegant hands, wearing the haughty smirk of a capital city logistics expert. At that very moment, his mind was processing a vast, multi dimensional equation. Human lives in it were nothing more than line items on an invoice.

— Tanja, this word carries the ultimate meaning, — his voice was as quiet as ever. — There is perfect symmetry here. Look at another word: Low.

Low as in rock bottom, the lowest threshold. And Gates! They aren't just some picket fence wicket. They open up a world of possibilities for my discount sluice. This will be my portal, my access control system. My personal barrier right here at Low... or rather, the Upper Port! On flip side, I am locking the gates tight against amateurs. The Celestial Revenue Angels will get their orgasm, but I'll get the lion's share. Air baloon of beautiful 天界税务天使 Tiānjiè shuìwù tiānshǐ floats. Appreciate the beauty of it. I’ll have everything I want, and absolutely no liability. The ultimate dream.

With zero taxes, I officially run someone else's transit: no need to be legally married. Opposite! This is my pure, unadulterated logistics: no need to own a fleet of con-science trucks. Rather I put science on con. I simply take what belongs to others, use it, and pocket the foam! I gain absolute control over the tunnel, and more importantly, over the froth.

Stish paused for a moment.

— The mission of this condom is somewhat similar to yours, Tanja. We need to keep this gate dead bolted against the Sky Revenue Authorities. Or rather, we need to grease their automated system with just enough to keep the algorithms happy. Just like the price of Product Number One. Yours, Tanja. You are Number One!

He stepped closer and slid the packaging out of her hands. Stish tapped it with the finger of a pianist whose mother had taught him the adult scales after university.

— Here is your first layer: we tread softly. In music, it also means a low threshold. A low pass gate like that opens the audio channel even to the faintest whisper. I’ve got it all locked down through my brother.

Tanja raised an eyebrow.

— He is in the dark, — Stish reassured her. — A low pass gate like that opens the audio channel even to the faintest whisper. But it will slam shut instantly, dead bolted the moment a reptilian silence sets in. He and I locked down that barrier back at the parking lot.

On a small side table, right next to the brochures and the condom logo were set up lubricants. Nearby, a tiny live snail crawled. Women use the exact kind to make face creams. Sensing the human gaze upon it, the snail retreated, tucking its small, slimy defendless flesh deep inside its shell.

— I cut out the slightest background noise, any stray sighs in the cavities. The latex filters let through nothing but a perfectly clean, useful signal. I hold total control. I manage the sluices. I skim off the whipped cream. I turn the wheel while they believe they are making a choice. And the second tier, the law of the state, is due its compensation. That is the social statute, — Stish spoke quietly.

He kicked back a hefty tax to his legitimate wife. The tax stood firmly in their Priority. He calculated the exact percentage of profit, strictly aligned with the market average. It locked their union into a state of perfect equilibrium. This asset transit was just enough to keep the gates of her mouth, and more, firmly dead shut off. She accepted the rules of this game with an understanding thin lipped readiness. Thin lips were what united them. Stish recalled her familiar, one cheeked crooked smirk with a sense of satisfaction. The tax authorities don’t poke their noses where they get their share. A smart partner doesn't break a perimeter that yields such a profitable smash. This is the hard law of a joint venture.

Suddenly, Stish frowned. A fleeting flash of insight darted through his mind. — No, it’s impossible.

The heli do you know! — shot through Stish's head again as he knit his brows, compressing his lips.

Not everyone is willing to accept these statutes. Once, his perfectly calculated control scheme suffered a steep glitch. So steep that it forced him into a crouching slalom. He’s been crouching ever since.

— And what about the theater, — Tanja said, choosing to switch the topic. — That fate theater... The rock theater where you took Misha’s girl? — Tanja asked, as if reading his mind. — Rock is a zone of pure senses. The nakedly bleeding sincerity.

She paused. Then she continued, — Not everyone deems to count everything. They claim they don’t give a damn about the farce, the hypocrisy.

— Madmen. — The lamp’s reflection gleamed in Stish’s eyes. This equation contained a hidden variable.

— We deal with points when we face them, as twin Misha says, — Stish said aloud.

He remembered how Misha’s girl had spun out of control because her rock turned out to belong to a completely different opera. For a split second, Stish genuinely tensed up: where is mine?

He offered Tanja no reply. Tanja didn't press him, realizing she had blurted out too much. As the CEO of his outfit,

she assumed every single liability. If the latex rips, the fallout is hers. She knew that without her, Stish was like without handed. All because she knew the fairway inside out.

Stish cast another brief glance at the glossy LoGate G box. He was gauging whether the latex was tough enough to contain what defies any calculations.

Stish's thoughts drifted back into neat, disciplined accounting columns.Bright glitches are enemies. Deals, setups, asset transits to a tame nominee, nothing more than an added complexity in the games with the Gates of the Law. Foolish people think the law is nothing to play with. High School of Economics knows: the key to these gates belongs to me, Stish. While Misha slaving away for his Heli Copter with the beautiful solar name dedicated to the Sun gods. Once its light blades make a stroke, my leviathans make a catch.

My three pillars are locked inside the control of this perimeter: free shipping means a zero tax rate when crossing the border in a relationship. Just like goods deliveries in international cross boarding. An emerald bottom. Stish noted with satisfaction that the three thorns of the LoGate S condom meant that he called the shots: how to unfasten, how much to pump in, where and when to dump it. But most importantly, how to benefit the premium off what he owes.

He tossed the latex wrapper back onto the desk. It landed on the contracts with a dry slap.

— Absolute security. My personal law, my personal gates. They will all bleed into this LoGate S latex condom, I won’t let them pass any further. All the cream is mine, all the risks are theirs.

Tanja remained silent, staring at the small box. It was logical.

Part 2. Folga Obornova

While this conversation was taking place hundreds of kilometers away at the coincidence of two sophistical rivers, in the capital city, the wife of brother Misha, a woman named Olfoil Folga, was talking to her friend. She was on speakers phone.

— How did he find out? He would never say something like that. I don’t believe it. It’s cheap trash invented by bitter, envious losers. They are spitting bile because of my, of our success. You get it, Lena, don't you? Is it Stish? I don’t believe it.

The thing was that out of the bush a journalist had materialized and interviewed her lawful ex-husband. This journalist was asking awkward funny questions. Such kind people in decent society keep dead silent about. The special correspondent of the SkyGate G of the Seventh Sky carried a Cathedral church name: Sobornov meaning exactly Collective Positive Spirit. And his first name was a direct nod to the Archangel Michael. That has been teasing.

Folga was no brainless bimbo. She was a smart girl who gave financial literacy lessons while simultaneously letting her own utility debts drag all the way to the Legal Court of Honour.

Folks in Moscow don’t waste their time.

With one hand, Folga was wrapping a chicken in tin foil folga for baking. With her other hand, she pressed an iPhone in a titanium colored case to her ear. On the kitchen table lay an open tablet. The screen glowed with the interview of her formally ex.

— Sacred bonds? — Folga smiled sweetly. — To us, that Saint marriage was just a technicality, and so is that divorce. My ex, who isn't an ex really, is far from sacred Cathedrals, but he is damn good at cash collecting! The fact that his brother talked him into this purely legal move is stroke of genius. I respect Stish, we share the same blood.

She glanced at the tablet once more. The journalist, the namesake of her lawful ex, was asking him idiotic questions.

— Journalists always strike either at the wallet plus at the balls, Lena. It’s a classic, — Folga tore off a piece of the rustling foil with a crisp snap. — He thinks he dug up a scheme, but what he dug up is legal cash. We drew those gates of the law ourselves. Our calculations have been exact. Well, yeah, we walk the edge. What of it? The robots check the digits, the digits add up. They glitter. I regulate the traffic light of the heavenly revenue services.

She pressed down sharply with her fingers, locking the lunch tight into its shiny wrapper. She pressed a finger into the crease, ripping it slightly. The carcass obediently vanished beneath the thin film, hiding everything raw, slimy, unsightly underneath.

— So let them spit their bile, — Folga smiled sweetly again, catching her reflection in the glossy oven door. — The perimeter is under control. And as for Stish launching a new latex brand, well, that’s just business. Need to rustle with him about our common affairs. You with us, Lena?

The call cut out. In the year 2026, mobile connection in Moscow was glitching.

At that exact moment, the lock in the hallway gave a dry click. Misha arrived. He walked into the kitchen, tossing his keys in its place. He looked at the tablet screen with weary eyes.

— This journalist Sobornov actually described the exact servicing structure of the Celestial Empire 天子 transit. We spent years building it, — Misha said softly, scanning the lines of the article. — The guy deserves a bonus for laying information of public importance all out so perfectly.

Fola turned around from the stove.

— A bonus for what?!

— He's brought a mirror that reflects us at full height, — Misha felt surprised himself that he actually said what he was thinking.

He reached out his hand, closed the tablet. The screen went dark.

The Folga, mother of his five kids, stepped toward him, nodding at the rustling bundle on the table.

— Alright then, let’s do some rustling.

Part 3. Logistics low pass gate

Meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers away, the conversation at the confluence of the rivers continued.

Stish was looking at his brother's interview with the journalist from Upper SkyGate. The interview with his reflection ended with an apology.

— Please accept my apologies for any potential inaccuracies. The data was gathered amid the communication interference of 2026. If the beneficiary has any additions or clarifications, I will be glad to make corrections in good conscience. Special Correspondent 77.

— There's another angle to this, Tanja, — Stish leaned forward slightly. — The Celestial Service isn't made of handless ladies stamping out reports. The economy knows: modern inspection works strictly on software. They don’t catch you on invoices. They break the perimeter through cross billing.

He tapped a pale finger against the table, as if hammering the info right into Skillful Handy Tanja’s head.

— While I run transit at zero tax rates, Misha’s legal wife is out the law. — Stish compressed his thin lips. — None of our personal cells should ever cross paths. The Service will match the smart billing in seconds. They will puncture the gateway. Misha’s divorce will be exposed as a sham, and the group of individuals will be ruled a coordinated conspiracy. You get it?

Stish let out a short chuckle, his familiar smirk in place.

— Therefore, the system must be built on the physical layer. Pass the order to get the numbers registered right. We will use our leverage as an employer. Total lowgate. The noise level below the compliance threshold. We will be a useful signal entirely free of background noise.

He leaned back in his chair again, wearily closing his eyes. Despite the surface level success,

Stish, being nothing more than Misha’s pale shadow on the wall, felt exactly like that. Right around absolute zero. Merenull.

— That is when the gate will be shut against everyone I owe. All the cream is mine, all the risks are theirs.

— Everything is logical. — Handy Tanja agreed, watching a tic twitching on Stish’s face.

Tisha's eye twitched from endless exhaustion. Due to the perfect identity of the twins, Misha looked out from inside the eyes: sadly, calmly, with endless pain.

Misha was whispering:

I just want to give you pleasure.

Yes, me and Misha didn’t use condoms.

— Your whole life is that condom. But even that has a hole in it, — someone whispered in the faintest whisper.

A stray Con inside a latex bubble hovered right above the crown of Stish Bornov's spring.

Chapter 5. Nexium as medcine?...

I must confess, my friends, that Grandpappy was dear to me.

— But didn't he beat you black and blue?

— He did, I swear, but for the cause!

Album: Pity There’s No Shotgun

Rock band King and Jockey

Part 1. Antifreeze in LowTown.

The boring contour of Mikhail’s logistics remained in the major key capital. It evaporated right at the entrance to the Low Town. Beautiful invoices, freight rates, and dry spreadsheets for the Solar loaders of Heli chariots were left behind on the Moscow Ring Road. What 2 of Log 8 clerks sleeplessly slaved over all eight 8 days a week instantly turned into wrapping paper for the festival of freedom celebrated by Stish’s smug, cat in play face.

Downstream, a wisp of mist from a bathhouse drifted over the river, accompanied by the scent of baked sterlet, and swim strings of every color of the rainbow floating in the air. Severe logicians, grizzled local men from the region, sat around the table. They were honing their knowledge of metaphysics.

At the center of this celebration of life reigned Stish, an exact replica of the whity blue- eye collar Misha. He was as pleased as a cat that had finally riched into a jar of sour cream. Instead of a red polka dot tie, a mermaid hung around his neck. An inflatable one, of course. For swimming. To keep him from drowning.

— You don’t grasp the essence of Foreign Economic Activity under deficit conditions, — Stish dragged out his words slowly, squeezing two emerald tails tightly against himself. — A thing in itself becomes a thing for us only when customs gives the green light! If a container sinks, the tracks are covered in water. And if it gets stuck at the Port, that’s not a supply chain rupture. That’s a dead calm, during which you need to sell oars at the price of boat motors! You lot just can’t comprehend it if you’ve never loved!

One of the regionals, framed by patches of fog over the river, slammed his fist on the table, trying to catch the rhythm:

— And what about the slanty oriented eyed ones? Those... what do you call 'em... Anhui... the Xchinese, oriented? If they see that their guanxi is out of the loop with the margin that settles on Lokh... uh... Gate, LohGate? Won't their hearts skip a beat?

Stish let out a quiet laugh.

— What do I care about their guanxi!

I forgive everyone I owe! On paper, it’s a zero tax transit: an anti crisis approved by the Higher School of Eco itself. It’s only for the fools on Soloviev's show that they blabber about an honest economy. We optimize through legal sluices. The tax office receives assessments from which they can fashion a tin foil hat! The wife of my reflection is a clever girl, — Stish leaned back against the chair. — Northern reindeer, hurry up and bring those ones without tails over here!

Part 2. The Point of Confluence

Misha couldn't bear to sit in Moscow like a restless cat. Gray office weekdays with their endless reports were exhausting. At the end of the week, he broke away, following his brother. They met on a high bluff, where the wind was unsuccessfully trying to blow the vapour of the lower valley out of Stish. Stish hadn't taken the mermaid off, he had oned her halfway, causing the emerald tails to hang coquettishly over his expensive, understated blazer.

Misha looked at the river grimly.

— Tish, you are walking on thin ice. Your outfit is in a gray zone. It’s semi legal.

— Don't look back, I'm with you! — Tish patted his brother on the left shoulder, nearly knocking his glasses off. — He who encounters no risk never drinks champagne! Besides, everything on my end is as clean as a mermaid's tear.

He theatrically traced a green tail across the panorama of the nod, where two expanses of water gleamed beneath the sun.

— Look at the bigger picture. Who are we? Like сharioteers of the Heli sun. According to the Cloud Code, Trans Port expeditors are fully entitled to a null rate. Do we hire third parties? We do. Do we kick back a share? Yes. Are the services ultimately rendered? Yes! The client is happy, the cargo is in the shell. Which means, we haul. Most importantly, we're hauling in luck!

— The laws are sacred, yet the executors are foxy fierce, — Misha shook his head. — You pay just enough into the clouds so that the Agents of Heaven don't strike you down with thunder and lightning right away.

— Everything is calculated down to the last penny. And right now, amid the sanctions, a wild mess with payments has started in the Celestial Empire. To them, we aren't violators, we are lifesavers!

— The law is a swinging gate, Tish. The Cloud agents could easily rule this a distortion of the genuine meaning of life. They'll come, unwind the chain backward...

— Who has time for that kind of hassle these days? — Tish waved his brother off like a simpleton.

— Your scheme is a classic case of artificial nut cracking for the sake of a foggy benefit. Plus an obvious mutual connection. This is stitched together with white threads.

Tish leaned over, wrapping an arm around Misha's neck, pressing his brother against the rubber side of the mermaid. — And who knows about it? About this dependency of ours? Mutual. You and I are just one reflection in the mirror. I'm doing bad, and you're right there.

— That would be clear as day to any Cloud Agent! — Misha broke free from the embrace. — You aren't sawing logs for the sake of love as such, but exclusively to artificially reduce costs. Is that not so?

— Our ads state everything exactly as it should be, tight as a drum! — Tish reasoned. — We haul, we crawl, we fly, we whistle! Any whim for your palms.

— Tish, you are my brother, but truth is dearer. — Misha stopped, looking into his brother's eyes. — You chose a side. You are simply pocketing the profit on the difference in rates. Twenty percent against zero. Right? Confess.

— We don't forge documents, Misha. We honor the law, we just read it with expression, — Tish grew serious, a dangerous spark flashing in his eyes. — We run high tech schemes. I use the sluices in the laws during a storm. The storm creates the margin. In our pirate code, the line between brilliant optimization and economic crime is thinner than a spider web. It’s a sin not to exploit it when the port is open. The kernels are pure emerald.

— And what exactly do you do? — Misha asked quietly, involuntarily getting drawn into the game. — What's the trick?

— I divide the whole into parts, — Tish shared willingly, lowering his voice like the Wizard Saruman. — For instance, I buy a heavy Heli loader in its bare configuration. At a rock bottom price, but just enough not to anger custom. And all the expensive attachments, cabins, masts, lithium batteries: I register them separately. We haul them under different FEA codes.

— What is FEA?

— Female Erotic Aquatics, — Tish smiled thinly, tinkering with the mermaid's tail.

— Under the guise of cheap tails? — Misha guessed.

— We look for where the duties are absolute pennies. And right here, at our facility, the local MacGyvers assemble the mermaid back together. Piece of cake.

Misha smiled sadly, watching the sun slowly drown beyond the horizon, painting the water a crimson color.

— I see. Rolling back the sunset of Heli by hand... You know, brother, the sunset is sometimes too red. Like your tie. Or like blood.

— Forget it! — Tish laughed light heartedly, flicking the mermaid's tail. — My logs in Log 8 are green as green must be, like a reptilian on the grass of the White House lawn. Heaven doesn't give a damn about us and our loaders. Up there, right now, there's such a geo mix up that they are buried in work without us. Come on, let's go finish the sterlet before the regionals drink all the meta physics without us!

Part 3. Daria the gift

The rain in lows of Stargorod didn’t fall, it hung in the air as a gray, filthy suspension. The kind that sticks to a windshield after following a truck on the Moscow Ring Road. Mikhail, who solved problems only as they came, had never learned how to shut a door all the way. Tish thought of his brother with vexation: Mikhail always left that pathetic, soulful gap of a centi to the sobornov dome. Tish, on the other hand, quietly taking his twin's keys along with the girl, locked the seals with a dry click, like the snap of a soldering iron. But he liked to seal it with foam from above, like a payoff. Besides, he loved her himself.

The room was semi dark. Patterns from maple leaves danced on the ceiling, partially shading the light of the street lamps outside.

She was sitting with her white, childishly smooth knees tucked under her. In the dim half light of the desk lamp, her form seemed like a painted play of light and shadow. She was hugging a plush, light beige and brown teddy bear. Rather, two bears, a smaller one at the feet of the larger one.

— You’re late, Mish, — she said.

The word Mish fell into the empty room and rolled across like a torn off button. Tish remained silent. His fingers, accustomed to shuffling the textured paper of invoices with zero VAT, struck the icy rim of a glass.

She saw in him his selestial twin, Misha, the mystic who met her at an Air Port with a single red rose in his hand. Misha didn't brake when he faced obstacles. Tish had met her here in Stargorod by chance, and, being no fool, capitalized on the situation. Misha lost his resources, but Tish gathered them. Just tucked them as he wished.

For Tish's brain, which basked in revenue without owning any actual iron, it was an ideal asset transfer. Why waste time on explanations when you can simply perform a substitution? The appearance, the voice, everything was a mirror image. He was curious to see if the girl would notice the difference. Misha didn't wear the heavy watches of rock, didn't drive her to hospitals. This was him, Tish.

— Your hands are like a dead man's, — Dasha said softly, looking down.

Tish slowly lowered the glass onto the marble. At that moment, it wasn't a struggle going on inside him, but rather a fine calibration of mechanism. Standard surgery of power.

He wanted to bring her to that edge of confusion where she wouldn't know who he was. Do I even know that myself? — A sober thought flashed unpleasanly. But it was immediately swept away by the green tail of the mermaid. The temp of any reptile is around absolute zero. But right now, looking at the pulsar beating on her white neck, he felt vexation. He felt deeply uneasy because she remembered his brother. While he was just a pathetic operator. A shell without content? No. The shell is never empty. It is just taken by the others, more scooping, rigid entities.

He walked over to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. The tree branches in the distance were crooked, looking like the fractured destinies of Russian roads. Or what he had in his trousers. Tish Bornov threw all his resources into looking decent. To Seem, not to Be. First and foremost, in his own eyes. His nominee director worked the paperwork skillfully. The calculations were built on analysis. Bruta back in Moscow tallied the iron clad logic of profit schemes. He was used to the fact that any mistake could be covered by a counter invoice.

He didn't turn around, but he knew the cowardly lie of the twin had already metastasized. He just didn't know how exactly.

— What is going on? — Tish couldn't contain himself, pulling his forehead away from the glass. On the surface remained a round, blurred smudge from his breath.

Dasha startled. Her childish knees pressed tighter against her chest. She tilted her head.

— A lie isn't cut out with a scalpel, is it, Misha? Or whatever your name is now?

Tish didn't flinch. The blurred spot on the glass slowly melted away, returning the window to its former cold transparency. The name Misha didn't touch him. The operator inside him instantly recalculated the risks, shutting down the unprofitable Twin project.

— My name is Tish, — he said. His own voice sounded foreign to him. — Since we’re done with that, let’s talk about logistics. Misha didn't have tickets for this parking lot. And you have no other options.

His fingers, which had just touched the cold crystal, moved to her shoulder and neck.

Dasha shuddered. Just like she always did when she heard a false note. But there was no note. There was a silence that instantly lost all its mystical depth, becoming flat, like a sheet of an invoice.

He didn't raise his eyes. In the dim light, Tish clamped this loose end.

Dasha felt the room around her shrink to the size of a cage. She just couldn't breathe.

What happened next took place in absolute, suffocating silence. Tish didn't use outright brute force. In his system, everything worked through a takeover of control.

— Please, let me go, — Dasha whispered.

He liked to methodically and completely take what he considered his legitimate profit in this game. He acted with that blind momentum that assumes no boundaries. Catching a trance in someone else's port is nothing more than—

— I just want to give you pleasure.

Not a latex one. This time he acted with that blind momentum that assumes no life. His mistake was that he forgot to check where the line ran between the limit of a girl's conscious and the physical destruction of the laws of existence across all universes together. His settings were locked only onto the blind result he needed.

When he walked over to the mirror in the hall, his movements were steady. He dressed neatly, without haste.

No light broke through the tightly drawn curtains.

The advanced infection she had kept silent about seemed stitched up. Like a mouth with white threads. And the on duty surgeon, his face pale with exhaustion, wouldn't step out to anyone in the corridor, wiping his hands with a rag to say what she had never told him.

An acute, dark, hellish pain somewhere deep inside had already caused her breath to stop. But at that moment, neither of them understood yet what a battle they had utterly lost.

Part 4. The Dare bared Gift.

Pity There’s No Shotgun!

King and Jockey

— What did the doctor say? Which one?...

— One isn't born a Doctor Lecter. One becomes him.

...

— What do you mean? The Khronos complex?

...

— What? It is meaningless to tell someone who has soaked on your blood and licked their lips in satisfaction that you are in pain, — Dasha pressed end on her phone.

The guardroom of Low Town smelled of bleach. On the desk stood a mug with a chipped edge filled with cooled tea. At the edge lay a book in a black cover. A young nurse lazily twirled a page.

— Reading Turgenev, I see, — a senior nurse remarked, wearily pulling off her medical mask. — They bring up these Turgenev maidens, and then they...

— Yes, the times are certainly not Turgenev’s, — the nurse closed the book, sliding the registry Log Gate closer to herself.

From a radio on the windowsill, the muffled voice of a radio host drifted through:

...as a result of two explosions at the Tushino airfield, sixteen people were killed, and dozens were injured. Doctors continue to fight for the lives of the victims at the Wings Rock Festival...

— Good Lord, what a horror, death is everywhere, — the senior midwife sighed softly, staring into the dark window. — And yet here on our third floor we have our own...

— What is that?

Who is sobbing their heart out like that?

— That’s from ward number nine. — The nurse lowered her eyes to a fresh entry in the Log. — A young girl? A mutilated female destiny.

— That’s the one. They managed to save her life, but what's the use? The consequences... She should have been giving birth again and again.

— Is she married?

— Seems so. The husband is somewhere far away. When she was delirious, she kept cursing some Mikhail. She kept whispering: May your lineage be cursed forever and ever, Misha!

Only her husband, I think, goes by a different name.

— What a paradox. Darya. The very nsme meaning gift was meant to give life. It was stripped away from her forever. Turn up the radio a bit louder, will you? I haven’t the mood to listen to these sobs.

The radio hissed. The host announced: In memory of those who did not return from Tushino... The band Kirol i Shut who continued their performance right during the tragedy that took place at the Tushino stadium.

Through the static of the speaker, the raspy voice of Gorshok began to sing:

— Pity there’s no shotgun! No old fashioned shotgun!...

Part 5. Special agent of Celestial Halo Service M. Sobornov

— You are a pirate at heart. The fortress walls are high. But what are the bars on the window made of?

The movie Pirates of the Caribbean.

The Cathedral architecture of the SkyGate S allowed special correspondents to pass beneath the low portals of LoGate G. Whenever the necessity arose. It arose suddenly, alongside the fallen leaves.

The special interview in the Low Town, conducted by journalist Mikhail Sobornov, a native and resident of the Upper Town, took place under the spotlights.

Architector of Higher Senses Michael was asking questions to a guest from Moscow, Mikhail Zabornov, an employee of a dealer for the respected Celestial TransRus Port Helicopter.

Arch. Sobornov:

— Mikhail, good day. I have briefly familiarized myself with the history of your construction firm. It looks like an ordinary story of a Moscow manager working for the Celestial dealer Heli copter. You decided to run a scheme in tandem with a pocket carrier? The usual drill: brought in special equipment at a special price. Entered the market, wanted profit. But appetite comes with eating. So you decided to open the second firm in Low Town. Yet the project failed: off to the scrap heap. Correct?

Mikhail:

— Good day, namesake. Absolutely correct. Business is an invoice plus risk management. If a scheme glitches in a specific region, the project is shut down. A standard operational cycle.

On the table lay a pack of Nexium, a medication for gastric health.

Arch. Sobornov looked at the package of Nexium resting on the table. He tilted his head slightly. — Heartburn medication? Nexium suppresses an aggressive environment so that the delicate parts inside don't get scorched. Did you embed this exact function into the philosophy of your company? To build walls, a ceiling that would block external risks, providing protection and growth?

Mikhail:

— As a brand manager, I value precision. I was creating a structure that was supposed to function like a medication: holding back the external aggression of the market plus yielding profit. It is logical.

Sobornov:

— Tell me, Mikhail, while you were shuttling back and forth between Moscow and Low Town, while your Nexium was supposed to block the hydrochloric acid... what was happening on the inside?

Mikhail answered after a pause, his voice growing a fraction colder.

— I strove for stability. That is my function.

Sobornov:

— A function? Nexium blocks the acid to give the organism a breathing spell, correct? So that the tissues under this protection can restore themselves. You were building a dome. But in reality, everything collapsed.

Mikhail:

— That happens.

Arh. Sobornov:

— While you were building armor, considering yourself effective, the living life that you yourself convinced with such enthusiasm simply froze forever. It suffocated in the sterile vacuum of your practical mind. Doesn't it seem to you that your main formula suffered a fatal glitch?

Mikhail’s hands lay motionless on the table.

— The project was deemed ineffective. That is all I can say about formulas.

Arh. Sobornov extended his hand toward the table, using the tip of his finger to slide the pack of Nexium closer to Mikhail.

Arch. Sobornov:

— You didn't close the company because profits dropped, did you, Mikhail? You lowered your eyelids when you realized there was nothing left to block. Medications have a flip side. If you suppress the acid too intensely, the stomach atrophies. It can no longer produce juice or defend itself on its own. This is the toxicosis of the life generated by you. Your Nexium—your Certain Mind—has strangled the very thing it was meant to save inside her. As you had devoted yourself to he earlier, sealing her by that in a dead way.

From this there is no shelter even at the core of the helios.

NEXT Part 4: click here

1. First part on telegra ph

2. Second part on telegra ph

3. Third part on telegra ph

4. Fourth part on telegra ph

5. Fifth part on telegra ph

6. Sixth part on telegra ph

7. Seventh part on telegra ph

Teaser, ProLog, Preface

1. Gemini Constellation

2. A Stash in a Flash