The Celestial Logistics
Sobonov_mSkygate S vs Logate G
Cathedral logic Sobornova Moscow. Russia.
Satirical Roman Novel 2026
Tg English: https://t.me/heli_loader
Tg Russian: https://t.me/heli_asia
Table of Content: Click
Part 11. The Forest Lake
I fell asleep on a battlefield
Right in the heart of a bloody fight
Among the wounded, among the killed
I just wanted to rest a while
On the edge.
Album Dream Diary by Flëur
The lake in the forest is captured in Dasha’s soul forever. She would swim for hours in this wonderous, blessing bliss. The lake hadn’t taken root in her heart instantly, but after every swim, it drew her deeper and deeper into itself. There, she could fully live and relax, surrendering to the warm wave. Trusting it. Being in this fairytale, Dasha felt entirely free from any thoughts, problems, or chores.
Even though the trip to the lake took nearly an hour, the travel time flew by unnoticed.
The lake itself reflected the sky like a large, round mirror. Tall thickets of grass grew all around it. In some places, trees crowded right up to the water’s edge, and stepping into it was pure ecstasy. Despite the soft moss that gave way slightly underfoot, the entry into the water was easy and inviting. The surface of the lake was like a cloudless sky, just as smooth, clean, and deep. If you dived under, you could make out small fish and dark green weeds swaying from the bottom. In the sunlight, the water's surface glittered as if someone has scattered a handful of sequins into it. Sunbeams danced across the shifting ripples whenever a light breeze blew.
Grains of sand tickled the pale skin around her belly button, slipping into places they shouldn't. There were no large, crowded beaches around this hidden lake where travelles gather. Instead, spaced some distance apart from one another, were several small sandy patches where you could leave your towel while swimming. Dasha’s favorite spot featured an island of lush soft grass. After swimming, she could change her clothes without getting her feet dirty again.
Opposite the lake lay a wide shoal of fine, light sand. There, you could play volleyball or simply lounge on the sand, warmed by the hot rays of the summer sun.
The reason it was called a forest lake was that it was surrounded by an endless green forest. The woods are like a living guardian, shielding its pure water from prying eyes. There was little grass in the forest, but a vast variety of mosses grew alongside plenty of conifers: spruces, junipers, and pines. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and spruce needles. If you walked barefoot, pinecones pricked your heels. It was slightly painful, but it also tickled. You could walk on the moss without shoes, completely barefoot. Just imagine: you walk along the soft, damp moss, and it sinks beneath your feet like thick fur covering the ground. It was gentler than the softest carpet on earth, and it was the most pleasant thing you have ever felt.
Chanterelle mushrooms grew there in the woods, just as orange and sly as real foxes. They hid beneath pine needles, cones, and moss. After her swim, Dasha would always gather a large basket of mushrooms.
When walking through the forest, bad thoughts never came to mind. You only wanted to immerse yourself even deeper into the wonderful world of nature meant by destiny for you. Stepping onto the damp moss, crossing the border between the trees and the sandy path, it felt like entering another world. This world was filled with the buzzing of bumble bees, the singing of birds, the scent of resin, the snapping of dry twigs, and absolute harmony. Sunlight filtering through the tops of the tall trees illuminated small glades, making you feel as though you had stepped into a sunbeam yourself. She wanted to spend her entire life in this fairytale.
That was exactly what it was like, the forest lake: mysterious, hidden from everyone, magical, and beyond description.
At night, the stars reflected in the lake. Burning in the sky were the constellations of Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Virgo, Sagittarius, and Gemini. The latter twins were drowning at the very edge of the black expanse, beneath the ripples of a restless wind of change. The forest could no longer protect them after the Black Moon rose above them.
Chapter 12. The Mirrors in Moscow's Finchley.
But my heart burns with love, and my soul is in pain,
And the wax figures look so beautiful in vain,
Peace reigns everywhere around!
Album: Memories of a Bygone Love
By band King and Jockey
Part 1. Honest Business 合力
The studio of the regional cable TV for the Northwest district of the capital city was broadcasting from Ozyablikovo. It was chilly in the room with the large mirrors. The air conditioning was humming. Two men sat opposite each other at the desk.
— You are watching Honest Business. I am your host, special correspondent of the Celestial Service, Arch Mikhail Sobornov from the Upper City, — the man in a sharp smart suit looked confidently into the camera and adjusted his microphone. — Today, our guest is the manager of a fast growing Xhinese distributor with vertical takeoff, Heli Copter! Meet a crystal clean man, an ideal citizen, a model father, Mikhail Zabornov. Welcome, Mikhail.
— Hello, — Zabornov sluggishly stretched his pursed lips.
The charter on joint efforts 合力 was in his pocket, while back home in Ozyablikovo, his faithful busty blonde, Olfoil Fola, awaited him with their five children. Every morning, Zabornov began by reading the Law of the Financial Bible. Then he would kiss his mother’s EvaGenia portrait, thinking about how he had fulfilled her hopes for high symphonies of material wealth. He slaved from morning till night in the plowing fields of sacred rotary wing forklifts of down to earth concreteness. Up, left, down, right, and... left again! By no means tearing himself away from the concrete into some foolish flight. Succinctly. To the point. Like a ground blizzard.
— Mikhail, — the journalist frowned, glancing down at his notes. — Our district is buzzing with rumors. Word is that your twin brother, Tish Bornov, owns an outfit called Log 8. Through this company, like through a leaky hose, budgets might be siphoned out of the highly respected company Heli, the twin of Geli? Is that so?
— Oh, those are filthy insinuations! — Zabornov quietly tightened his thin lips. — My brother Tish is an honest business man. And as for me, I am a legalist to the bone! I have never in my life violated a single article, a single paragraph! Check the paperwork! My reputation is as clean as my mother's sheet music!
The journalist leaned forward, an intrigued smile appearing on his face.
— Then how can you comment on the fact from the Abode of Hymen? It has come to our attention that you, Mikhail, in the year 23 Anno Domini, filed for a split up from your spouse, Fola Bornova? Whew, excuse me, a slip of the tongue, Fola Zabornova, with whom you share five children? And you did this right on the dot, just before the profits of the Log 8 outfit skyrocketed by more than 1000%? By the way, is it true that the firm Log 8 is registered to a PO box in hissy Shipilyovsky Cul de sac?
Mikhail froze for a second. His eyebrows furrowed sternly over the bridge of his nose.
— That is personal! — he squeezed out. — We simply had a clash of characters.
He fell into a gloomy silence. His namesake in the black suit watched him intently.
— You parted ways with your beloved just like that?
— What do you even know! — he suddenly slammed his hand on the desk. — I flew off the handle so hard I lost all goddamn brakes. You want the truth? Here is your truth! I, a physics engineer, went to a fortune teller. She confirmed it: we are a mismatch for life. The fortune teller said that the Gemini constellation in the sky is in eclipse. And the red trump card is in the sixth house. The fortune teller's word is law. How can anyone not believe fortune tellers?!
— Come off it, namesake, — the Celestial special correspondent Mikhail Sobornovъ sharply tapped his fingers on the desk, mimicking playing a piano. — Everyone is thinking... perhaps without grounds? Many believe that you are channeling the assets of Log 8 to Fola. Possibly to save the outfit from a total, intense grilling of love? Tell me honestly, are you hiding behind a divorce stamp to shield millions from HMRC, His Master's Revocable Custom? What do you say to that?
Zabornov swallowed hard, realizing he had to simulate this split heavily... He couldn't even allow himself to think it! They would read his lips.
— I repeat once again: the rumors are groundless. We maintain separate billing. We try to.
— Well, what a coincidence, — the host raised an ironic eyebrow and turned a page in his folder. — Characters clashed exactly at the time when the respected Xhinese dealer of sunlight Heli, swept its rotors against the backdrop of the Great Sanctions Shift on the Borderlands in 22 and 23, turning on an unlimited valve for Log 8.
The special correspondent went silent, letting the camera capture a close-up of the guest’s face. Under the cold studio lights, Mikhail could hear the air conditioner quietly rustling.
— But the most interesting part, Mikhail, is not even that, — special correspondent Sobornovъ leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk. — Your ex spouse has stopped paying her utility bills. Housing and communal service debts! As a psychologist with a Master’s degree in Higher Economic Sciences, she must be suffering from the economics of split ups! With a multi-billion turnover at your firm's PO box, ideal mother Fola is about to have her electricity and water cut off! How does that square with your image of a loving father?
The forklift operator opened his mouth, but instead of a confident voice, only a quiet, slow sound crept out. His eye twitched in a nervous tic. Look what Tish dragged me into. What a bastard. I knew I could get caught up in this.
— It’s an economic strategy, — he said aloud. — She is an economist; she economizes. The paperwork is in perfect order.
— Hold on, she isn’t an economist, she’s a psychologist!
— One doesn’t get in the way of the other! — he paused. — That... That is her area of responsibility! — Zabornov forced out, his blue eyes growing dim and darkening from a deep, profound sadness. — We have a protocol. A split-up means a separation of accounts. Everyone chooses their own level of comfort. If she cannot calculate the economics of her own toilet, what does that have to do with me and my firm? Moreover, what does it have to do with my twin, Tish? Money loves correct transactions, not rent payments. I do according to the beautiful hieroglyphs 随物局 Suí-wù-jú!
The special correspondent didn't even smile. He merely gave a quick, understanding nod, as if looking at a big cat that had stepped into a puddle.
— Excellent logistics, Mikhail.
The special correspondent paused, looked directly into the lens, and firmly drew the line:
— Our program has come to an end. This was Honest Business in Ozyablikovo. And remember: when your split up finally bottoms out in a November puddle, no wizard is going to fly in on a blue Heli Copter. All the best.
The studio lights went out. Mikhail was left sitting in the dark. His left cheek began to twitch faintly and rhythmically, in time with a sad piano solo from his childhood.
Chapter 13. Kotjara the cat: slowly and sadly
A star fell into a puddle by the porch
The squad didn't notice the loss of a soldier
Album: Fruit and root.
Egor Letov
Part 1. Divorce in the third year.
The woman whom Thou gave to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.
Genesis. The Holy Bible.
Mikhail loved his woman. They were drawn to each other like magnets. Offsprings are not born out of thin air; it was a real family. Not like Tish’s.
With Tish, everything was completely different: Mikhail didn't hoard. He gave himself to her with all his heart. He didn't want to split with her. He kept telling himself that the split was purely technical. A necessity. A move forced upon him by external pressures. By circumstances. By the unstoppable momentum of a train barreling toward him at full steam. She understood everything herself! She was a smart girl. It was essential. It was nothing more than a stamp at the registry office. A technicality. As a true materialist mystic, he knew exactly how matter was structured. Yet, deep down, doubts flickered. What if it wasn't so? Quantum physics is a fickle thing...
But Tish had laid out such devastating, airtight arguments that Misha simply couldn't contest them. His identical twin, Tish, always won on the field of logic.
— When I went to tell her about our plans, Tish had said, — she just listened in silence. She never argued with him. His woman always understood him. Loved him. Sweetheart. He was certain she would understand. After all, they shared telepathy! He felt it all too well, knew it, and kept trying to force it into a rigid framework. But what if? Here, his ratio failed him. Crushed by confusion, he couldn't take it anymore. He went to the aunt they call a fortune teller. The fortune teller laid out the cards as she was supposed to. And her? She remained silent. Whew! Now he could rest easy. Yes.
That was in the spring.
They divorced in silence. The clerk lady at the registry office processed everything perfectly. The third year. Zero. Three. Threes. Near zero.
Tish felt like a master strategist. His brother had finalized a purely formal divorce. Tish had always known how to twist Misha around his finger whenever necessary. His selfish interests were ironclad. Protected by concrete. Whoever needed to would get the hole of a donut, not his money. Bruta with Fola would hold the line fiercely. Now, he needed to appoint a similarly dummy director for his entire life. A nominal figurehead would run everything. Meanwhile he, Tish, would tread lightly. Unnoticed. Hide away. Better yet, under the table. Oh no! This was not for grown ups. He was undercover. Right inside that very hole of a donut.
On the screen, the commercial switched to Danila Bagrov from the well known movie, who was calling a Russian NHL hockey player in US.
— Pick up the phone, it’s Danila.
— I’ve got this, like, girlfriend, she won’t understand. Things are different here in US.
— Well, you’re the one who needs this more.
Misha modestly nudged Tish by his sleeve. Tish measured his twin brother with an arrogant, top down look, puffing out his cheeks like a turkey.
— Well, what do you want?
— I’m afraid to say, Misha murmured softly. — They say the Chinese are fond of some kind of guanxi. Brother, do you happen to know what that is? — Misha trembled timidly under his twin’s formidable gaze.
— Guanxi? Fianci! That’s what everyone is fond of!
Part 2. The Old Tomcat Kotjara
Two skinny ladies were strolling down the alley. One of them was carefully leading a cat on a leash. The cat had a barely noticeable limp in one paw. A rhinestone collar hung loosely on his once plump neck, regularly squeezing his throat.
— Is he slipping lately?
— Getting old. But he still catches mice well enough.
The cat sat down instantly, the leash pulling taut. His faded blue eyes stared lifelessly at a single point. Deep within them, a profound pain was clearly visible. The cat's ears twitched; he cocked them alertly.
— Oh, what is it? Come here, let me scratch behind your ear, you silly thing. Kitty, kitty, — called the thrifty owner. The cat didn't budge.
— Come here, look, here's your bowl, — the woman coaxed gently but firmly, scratching behind his ear. A modest clump of pale fawn fur remained in her thin fingers.
— Is he shedding?
— He's balding. He used to have a beautiful, glossy coat. It used to shine.
— He used to prowl beyond the fence at night. But now, feline hoarding takes all his attention.
— And they say cats can’t be tamed, — the first lady remarked to the second, who had coal black streaks in her hair. The brunette adjusted the beautiful collar on the cat, who was sitting right in a puddle.
— Go tell that to Kuklachev, famous cat tamer.
— Come on, I’ll pour you some milk. — She pulled out a small bowl, then a bottle of milk.
— He's resisting. Shh. We're being too loud. Cats know how to listen, too. Quieter.
— Why did you stick rhinestones on the collar anyway?
— Shh. Let me whisper it in your ear: so the cat thinks he’s the boss. And let the jealous ones envy in silence. Let them run face first into a wall out of pure envy. Help me out. Oh, look at that, you spilled it all, — the lady grumbled in annoyance. — We’ll run out of milk entirely at this rate.
— Sorry.
— You need to be more careful, — the lady with the leash muttered, keeping her anger in check. — Spilled it, as if on purpose.
— Sorry, it wasn't out of spite. Just clumsy of me.
The lady with the leash merely shrugged. A white puddle of milk mingled with the murky rainwater on the asphalt.
— You’re not perfect either. Look at how bare he’s getting. Buy him some vitamins or something. You've completely run the poor creature into the ground.
— Yes, you’re right, I should.
— The French have started making such good vitamins, specifically for the coat. Otherwise, he’ll molt completely soon, and nothing but ears will be left.
Dusk was falling.
The lady with the leash tugged the cat toward her, forcing him up. The cat reluctantly stood on his paws but froze, staring into the darkness of the alley.
A bit further down the path, small lights flashed in the beam of headlights. Near the wrought iron fence, a female cat leaped onto the smooth hood of a black car. She carefully tucked a fluffy, bandaged paw under herself, shaking it once. Droplets of moisture scattered around.
The cat lay down slowly and sadly. Beneath her, a disc with the rock opera gleamed.
Part 3. The Logistics of a Setup.
At that very moment, on the outskirts of the capital city, two men were talking.
— Mikhail. Do you realize that you and your wife, with whom you are actually divorced, will find yourselves under the scrutiny of the oversight authorities? Or perhaps you already have? Not to mention that the court will turn into an outright farce, a mockery that everyone will openly laugh at?
As your Celestial Guardian, I would have to officially, on the record, prove absolutely everything to the celestial Themis. For instance:
— Your Honor, your Mercy. We request that the image of the cat in the puddle be recognized as a bad image to the petitioner's dignity. Since in the pale, balding cat on a leash, who faithfully catches mice, or, well, not exactly mice, while sitting in a puddle, my undercover, a Transport Tycoon of the capital...
While reality embraced Mikhail with thin Moscow rings on curving cycling fingers, a voice from a beautiful faraway land echoed sadly, in perfect unison with his frozen, melting soul.
Part 4. Soft Paws.
Miha the cat swayed fluidly. With an effort, he neatly retracted his claws, touching his owner with a soft paw. He sat down. Demonstratively, he scratched behind his collar. The cat knew perfectly well that one shouldn't look at the collar. For the time being. It was pulled taut. Just like that other one. Well, you gotta the idea.
Part 5. City Office on the 77th.
Meanwhile, on the 77th floor of the City, a conversation was underway.
— What’s going on with them?
— She spoke to him as if he were an ordinary human being.
— Has she lost her mind?
— No. She simply came from the Garden of Lycian Roses.
— And what’s in that garden?
— Look at the semantics. It’s the missing link between rock and opera.
— What does that mean for their situation?
— Rape in reverse. In principle, he cannot help but violate her. Tish is a Hannibal Lecter in a sheep’s mask.
— To the point of confusion?
— To the choke of profusion.
— How did he manage that?
— He brought her and showed her a teddy bear with a torn off paw.
— What floor is he on?
— Minus 9.
— Tell her where the key is.
— Women aren't meant to deal with keys, are they?
— Yes, they often mess them. They weren't designed to steer.
— Do you see any other option in this case?
— Access time?
— Indefinite.
Table of Contents
6. Sixth part on telegra ph
Teaser, ProLog, Preface
1. Gemini Constellation
2. A Stash in a Flash
3. Parking Lot 03/Rose, Special 1
4. Safe Logistics LoGate G
5. Nexium like...
5.5. Forklift in the Mermaid Road
6. 66.6 Tons
7. Cathedral Shrines and Designs
8. The Python Code.
9. The Fear
10. Azbuka ABC of Skygate Heli Co
11. Mirrors in Moscow's Finchley
12. The Silence of the Lambs, Special 2
13. Slowly and sadly: Kotjara the cat
By the Mur Spring, EpiLog