The Celestial Logistic

sobornov_mOctober 23, 2026

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

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Telegra part 5: Chapter 6 and Chapter 7.

Chapter 6. Club 66,6 tons

The Black Moon

Album Opium

Agatha Christie

— Pop music goes viral. Rock smashes straight into reality itself.

— Well, where is it, the real rock? — came a voice from the booth near the stage.

— Don't kick up dust, — another voice cut in from the blind spot behind the speakers. — That Agatha Christie album isn't just an album; it’s a gothic opera. The plot, the agony, the mysticism. It’s been a classic for ages, a masterpiece!

— More like a half frozen satellite leaking a desperate signal to her. Pure radioactive noir is blasting from the Sky. This rhythm of an empty dark space, where a horrific eclipse of tidal forces is taking place.

Someone at the edge of the stage hit a cymbal in agreement, adding, — Agatha crafted an everlasting product. A rock opera is a cultural heritage. Not all rock is born equal. Search for the breath of the stars.

— Oh, come on, classics, opera, — a third person chimed in. — It’s just pure drive. Depends on the mood.

— Yeah. That’s him, the mysterious reindeer, with a broken antler under the Dark Moon.

— Rock, rock. Screaming into a mic off key isn’t freedom! — grunted a grim looking man on cronche from the left side, stepping onto the stage. From the open transom under the cornice, a piercing, unique, live streak cut through the air. A painful chirping cry at the rift between heaven and earth.

— They use volume to replace what they can't hold in tempo. Much ado about nothing. — Misha said, staring at the stage. — The real music is in Nord Ost. There, the score, the choir, the orchestra: every element is in its place. True drive.

— Yes, — Nikita agreed with him. — The creators of Nord Ost, Alexei Ivashchenko with Georgi Vasiliev, grew out of Soviet auteur songs. They didn’t write music for the sake of cash. They wrote out of a massive love for Kaverin's novel The Two Captains. It’s not some pop product by Tish Romashev. It’s a real, tragic, sincere, and pure soul.

— But pop is good for chilling out. You turn on the radio, there’s a light tune, a rhythmic boom boom beat. — Someone chimed in again from a neighboring table.

— Pop is different too. There’s the chocolate bunny, and then there’s be jealous, America and Europe, I’ve got the prettiest pop-a. — a woman’s voice answered him.

— It works. Sound montage. They took a structure, aligned the grid to the rhythm. The sound lands exactly right, without extra resistance. A concentrate for fast absorption.

— But not for reaching, — Nikita sneered.

— Minimal costs, maximum profit. But the mechanics of extracting the sound, the breakdown of accents: it's all calculated, — Misha slowly spun a murky glass in his hands.

— Russian rock is where soul speaks to soul. And not for the sake of cash. — A loud voice rang out from the stage.

Nikita agreed, — Rock music isn’t for those held by the balls of the pop vortex.

From the side, a table burst into collective laughter over some joke.

— Pop hits make stadiums cry and fall in love too. Isn’t that a soul to soul talk?

— If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow, knowing no shame, — Nikita dropped a quote. — Shaking your popa is a successful success. I’ve got nothing against decent music for the masses. But pop music is no more than the tip of the iceberg. There’s much more underwater than above it.

— Is that your rock opera?

— No.

— ?

— There is one. But it’s not for those standing behind the left shoulder.

Misha spun an empty, drained to the dregs, grimy scaled faceted glass with a chipped, sharp edge. — Pure spirit?

— Not a form for the sake of turnover. It’s written in blood and filled to the brim. But you don't lap up rock from the same bowl you use to lick pop. This dish is from a different opera.

Misha put the glass back on the table.

— Haven’t changed your mind? — he asked with a frown, looking at the Log disc.

— They wanted to make Nord Ost an ideal machine too; they calculated the chords, pumped in millions, forced it into a grid. In the end, a living soul was buried under the wreckage.

— Dead is dead.

Nikita looked at Misha’s murky glass, then at the sagging chamomile petals in his button hole.

— One flies in the epicenter, the other plays the odds on the ground. Real rock is written in the present. Where the blind won't perceive, the sighted will achieve. As for this, — Nikita nodded at the Log 8 disc, — it’s a lite demo version for Tish. Meaning, formatted for the dregs. Only, who reads chamomiles to calculate the square root of two?

Rock is tribute, nor an attribute. An hour will fly, the pain won't die. Whoever wants spirit in a glass of gold, sketches the steep turns of honor bold, —

A voice threw out from the depths of the rock cafe, —

Sketch it, if you’ve got anything left to draw with.

Chapter 7. Cathedral Shrines and Designs

No Way Out

Album: Pomegranate

Rock group Splin

In his childhood Misha had plenty of fellow lads and one true soul mate. They had no secrets from each other. They trusted each other with literally everything, to the point where they knew one another thoughts without any words.

In some ways, they were like Siamese twins. Yet in others, they were completely different. At the time this only complemented their union. If Nikita dreamed up some more mischieves, Misha always found a way to make it a reality. They built shelters in various secluded spots. There, swearing an oath over a piece of broken brick, they swore never to turn on one another.

For them there was no bad weather or boring days. If a fall rain poured down, they would launch toy boats into roaring puddles. When winter arrived, they built snow fortresses so sturdy that all the rest from the neighboring street combined could not take them by storm. The entire world around them could wait.

But special times have a spin of ending, and life tends to scatter people to different corners of the earth.

Big Dome Street in the Upper City was shimmering with the sweltering heat. Nikita was sitting at a far table of an outdoor veranda under the lime trees. Slowly sipping cold cider, staring through the crowd, trying to calm down. Thoughts of upcoming transit weren't bringing much joy. A flash drive containing copies of Intel was in the pocket, though it had no business being there. It had to be kept strictly in the hidden safe. But Nikita had continued working on it. He had travelled away for the weekend just to clear mind. It didn't seem to be helping. The mood was whatsoever wretched.

— Nikita?

Nikita startled. Misha was standing right in front. The very friend who had crossed the mind just some time ago while going past places tied to their shared mischieves. Nikita was genuinely surprised by this encounter. It was not expected to see him in the Town. They had parted ways when Misha chose a job of securing his parking. Nikita had not approved of his friend's choice, but the very nature of Nikita wasn't able to remember any bad stuff. Until it was refreshed, of course. He extended his hand, initially a bit stiffly — Mishka? Hey there. What a surprise.

— Just here on business — Tish looked on haughtily, struggling to force on a mask of politeness. He wore a clean shirt and a red, with camomile spots tie. Tish's gaze flicked over to the expensive watch on Nikita's wrist. He instantly pulled himself together: stay calm. — Listen, it's been ages! — he said evenly. — We need to catch up properly.

They ordered beer and drank some. They exchanged few phrases.

— The fishing is great around here. Maybe we could rent a house out of town by the Oka River? BBQ, some rest. We can sit back and unwind! — Tish checked the time. — What's your number?

Looking at his calm face, Nikita told the numbers. He was glad for this meeting — Alright, let's do it — Nikita nodded. He desperately wanted a release.

What Nikita could not possibly know was that he had not met Misha, but his twin, who for years had been using Misha's ideas and achievements. Tish had spotted Nikita's eyes five minutes earlier while walking past. While Nikita was finishing his drink, Tish had already walked away and was dialing a number. — Listen, run a background check on a... friend for me. I'll send the details to your messenger. What do they have on this person?

A couple of hours later, Tish knew enough. A single resentment, which Tish had buried deep down, stirred beneath his tough, reptilian skin. Nikita, underneath it, was sealed away in a hermetic coffin supposed to hold radiation.

They arrived at the cottage. A log cabin, a solid fence, pine trees. The sweltering heat gave way to a cool breeze from the river.

A ruined Cathedral stood nearby.

The nettles near the church walls rose higher than their shoulders, sweetly bitter, stinging, warmed by the midday sun. Misha stepped cautiously into the narthex, trying not to make the floorboards creak. In the gloom, icons without value glimmered with faint reflections. Directly above them, through a narrow window of the dome, a magical slanted beam of light broke through, with tiny specks of dust slowly swirling inside it.

Nikita was already there. He stood directly beneath the dome.

Right under the roof, a swallow's nest was built.

— Look, a swallow under the dome — Misha said, holding a double teddy bear in his hands.

Nikita smiled, looking up.

Swallows are sacred birds, a symbol of soul purity and fertility.

Misha knelt down near the partially destroyed soleas. He touched the crumbling masonry with his finger. He pried at it, again, and again, again. Don't let go. Press. Deeper. Press. Deeper. Finally, with a dull snap, a heavy, blood red fragment yielded from the wall.

❓

Some time later, in an office in the Lower City, the air smelled of fresh calico book binding. The project Curator, Mr. Wall Loginov, sitting across from Misha, cut a solid figure. He never raised his voice. From his polite, icy manner of shifting papers across the desk, Misha compressed his lips.

— The situation is border line, Mikhail, — the Draftsman gently tapped an expensive pen against the geomap. — Half and half. Engineers say the railway line can be run along an arc, bypassing the church. But that means extra costs. Or it can run straight through, right along the border of your Sobor Cathedral's protected area. The law permits this, provided the lead technologist signs on the docs.

Misha stared at the blueprint, where the blue line of the tracks sliced right through his conscious.

— There... the foundation has become unstable. The nearby geodesy was disrupted, — Misha said quietly, feeling everything inside him melting away. Yesterday, Nikita had been offered an enviable position in the capital. Nikita was leaving, while he, Misha, was staying here.

— The foundation? — the Curator smiled subtly, almost sympathetically. — Forget it. We will pour fresh asphalt over everything there. Right next to this territory, there will be a logistics hub. A convenient, secured parking lot. I am looking for a reliable person to run it. A chief. A co owner with a solid percentage. You feel insufficient in your current status, don't you? We only need your single signature under the second option. The calculations are fair, 50/50. Think about it.

Misha adjusted his tie. Nikita is dropping everything. He is leaving for his precious project. I am all alone in this field. Why should I sacrifice co ownership of the asphalt for some profitless swallows' nests if he was the first to cross the line?

Misha picked up the pen and firmly put down his signature.

A week later, diesel engines began to howl in the field. Machines dug into the dry earth right behind the hastily erected posts of a metal fence. The ground shuddered so violently that teeth rattled. The old church could not withstand the vibration; with a dull, terrifying snap, the load bearing structures cracked. No one was demolishing the Cathedral.

On paper, everything was perfectly clean. The collapsed pieces of the dome lay in the weeds. Strange grey people climbed through the breaches, dragging out the remnants of icon frames from the altar, breaking the grates.

Swallows and Steel

By that time, the meeting between the twins, Misha and Tish, had passed its first crisis. The exchange of seals took place in a business like setting. Tish received signing authority, Misha got his dividends. The brothers shook hands.

Michael stood by the new railway tracks, looking at this destruction. His chest burned with heat; he turned away. But his feet carried him inside the Cathedral on their own.

Earlier beneath the Sobornov dome there was a swallow’s nest with live swallows. However, followed the logic of Michail’s Certain Mind it has been destroyed and two dead nestlings, two tiny swallows were resting on the Altar.

By the Altar stood an elder woman with a colorful sack. She brushed them down into the trash, saying her words as usual in this state, muttering into the empty cold space:

— And what is this? Just bricks and clay. Go, dear, go to your warm parking lot. There is nothing more for you to do here. You have nothing to do with this.

A black crow with clear eyes flapped its wings with a resonant caw, kicking up a pillar of dust from the debris.

Misha exhaled. These words acted like an icy shower.

— Yes. Of course. Just. Stones. There was no sacred there, just ordinary clay.

That evening they sat in a dimly lit cafe. Nikita looked at him without judgment. Without discussion.

— I am leaving, Mish, you know that — Nikita said. — But the contract is still here, I need to close these matters. I invited you into the project, didn't I? I believe we need to build on a good foundation. For ages. Patience and hard work. Faithfulness is required.

The last was too much of 5he requirements. Misha looked down at his predictively polished shoes, but boreing the grey dust from the ruined Altar. He raised his eyes, speaking with confidence:

— A foundation? What foundation? Take that old Cathedral domes, for instance. It yields no profit, it only demands investment! But I was offered a parking lot. Do you know what was actually under that sobornov dome? Just bricks plus clay. There was an old woman by the Altar telling fortunes, she confirmed it all for me. But now I will be the chief, a co owner of the parking lot.

Nikita looked at his friend in silence.

— You yourself didn't want to share a stake with me in the new project, — Michail continued. — You were the first to step out of it. I am where the technology is. I will be working on loaders of profit. I will find ways. Grounded, concrete ways. — Misha spoke distantly, with certainty.

Past the windows, with a heavy, building roar, the first freight train tore by. The glass rattled. Misha spoke calmly and slowly, turning the light source away from himself:

— I simply don't want to stand in the way of a train heading toward me at full speed.

But maybe it was just a simple ask to Be, no to seem?

Nikita did not recall this old conversation right away. He was too consumed by his current affairs. A few hours later, they were sitting at a table by the riverbank. Tish did everything flawlessly. He had a skill for technically executing task assignments. He bustled about the grill, slicing juicy pieces of meat. He carefully poured red wine for Nikita. At first, Nikita kept quiet about his business, but the thick fog over the river did its work. They began to talk. Nikita spoke about his project.

In China, edible birds' nests 燕窝, yanwo, composed of the saliva of swiftlets, are not merely food. They are an iconic superdelicacy. A luxury item, a sacred part of traditional Chinese medicine. A remedy with a history spanning over a thousand years.

The Chinese treat this product with particular reverence for three reasons.

To them, it is an elixir of immortality, youth, and health. The hardened avian saliva possesses a potent biological force. Like the youth-giving apples from Russian fairy tales. It is the finest gift for Chinese women. They believe the product strengthens the fetus. The soup is also used to boost male vitality.

Since the days of the Tang and Ming dynasties, this product was supplied exclusively to the emperor’s court. Today, serving swallow's nest soup at a business banquet is a way to show Chinese partners the ultimate respect. To demonstrate a cosmic level of wealth.

The price per kilogram of high quality nests on the market can reach from $2,000 to $10,000. Because of this, they are called white gold, the caviar of the East.

By two in the morning, exhausted and tired from a lack of sleep, Nikita could barely stay on feet. There was a desperate wish to trust the place, this old friend. Tish caringly kept offering the best pieces of meat. To Nikita, it felt like a heartfelt, soul to soul conversation.

— Alright, Mish, I am going to sleep, I am falling down, — Nikita muttered, with difficulty leaving the veranda table.

— Go ahead, Nikita, get some rest, I am feeling pretty wiped out too. — Tish smiled sincerely. Tish gave Nikita a tight embrace around the neck. Firmly touching his lips to Nikita's cheek, he patted on friend's back. From the bottom of his heart.

Nikita drifted into a deep sleep. His phone remained on the veranda. The keys to the black car with the rose emblem were left in the ignition, where he should have never, under any circumstances, left them. This jeopardized the entire project. Perhaps precisely because his heart was not in the right place at all, the keys had been left in the start of the engine. And Tish did not miss his chance.

Tish waited for a while. The house grew still, with only the crickets chirping in the grass. He silently stepped out into the yard. He made sure the headlights did not flash too brightly. He technically opened the glove compartment.

The flash drive lay right in the open, on top of the insurance papers. Tish, freezing for a second, took it. On the seat there was a beige and brown teddy bear, Mishka, holding a smaller teddy bear between its legs. Tish closed the car and returned to the veranda. There was no triumph on his face. Just calmness. He did everything cleanly. He inserted the flash drive into his laptop, copied the entire beige and brown folder, and made two red marks inside it. He verified the address and forwarded it to the Curator: The originals. Without insurance. Is my matter settled?

An hour later, the response arrived: Yes.

Tish took the flash drive back to the glove compartment. He returned the keys to the ignition, closed his laptop, and went to bed. He had played a dry game.

Three weeks later, when the thin, newly conceived crescent moon of the natural cycle were supposed to hung over the dark crimson sunset on the horizon, Nikita was beaten within an inch of his life. Locked away in a basement, everything inside Nikita twisted into an unbreakable, scorched knot of beige and brown teddy, stained with two red tears. Before his consciousness faded, it wasn't just the misty river and Tish that flashed before his eyes. The memory of where the ignition keys had been left flared up with vivid clarity. What had happened on the seat. What was happening on the seat. Who and how had been refilling the glass. How exact. The puzzle pieces came together.

— You scumbag. Judas, the double harshness wheezed through the blood on the lips.

Tish, sitting in front of his computer, grimly frowned his brows.

Over the course of a few weeks, he had completely rewritten reality in his own mind: Nikita was the enemy dared to give him, Tish, a sober evaluation. Tish grabbed the necessary tool. He needed to polish a certain circuit board in the system unit. It had become overgrown with cobwebs, rusted over. He rubbed the board bearing the letters Co until it gleamed, using the pale, musical fingers of a tuner accustomed to soldering other people's microcircuits. He was crystalline, brilliantly clean.

Yielding to a noble impulse, Tish picked up his phone. He found Nikita's contact. Tish wrote a single tune:

I forgive you.

Sealing his case with beautiful eco word, he placed the phone screen down. A sharp current flowed through the wires, riveting the rust beneath a layer of pure enlightenment.

Upon returning to Moscow, Tish lay down on the bed, silently staring at the ceiling.

Bruta, walking over to the window, drew the curtain with a cold glint in her eyes.

Tish did not even turn his head. The smooth, white ceiling of the Moscow flat remained flawless, without a single crack.

It seemed as though there was no moon in the sky at all. A respectable grey brown crimson jacket hung on the chair. Empty. The button hole was dense.

— Does she seriously think I don't know who I am?

Who is she fighting for? No. Not for me. For him. He was delicious. Need to check if there is a piece left.

NEXT Part: 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