The china Celestial Logistic

BY sobornov logate

SkyGate S vs LoGate G

Cathedral logic Sobornova Moscow Rus

Satirical Roman Novel 2026

The Safety of Celestial Transit

Economics is the art of making the most of life. It is the science of satisfying unlimited wants with limited resources.

— Peter Laurence

Many believe that security requires celestial sums of money. In reality, the matter is far more nuanced: safety is governed by a synthesis of logic and intuition. A total lack of control guarantees the downfall of any market enterprise. As Sir Winston Churchill aptly noted, likely struck by a sudden epiphany in Tehran, 1943:

Good things do not come cheaply, but the state of unsafety is much more expensive.

In our current reality, however, this maxim sounds a bit more grounded. When a company pays merely for a mental block of comfort, the firm turns into a free buffet for corporate smart alecks.

A multi year discourse among Moscow's Russian freight forwarders has crystallized rigid, almost sacred archetypes of office plankton. These nomads of the Silk Road have traded their stallions for crossovers. Global psychology has long since produced a cynical formula for workplace psychotypes. Roughly ten percent of individuals are wired to rake in profits under any conditions, driven purely by their metabolic rate. Another, smaller faction refrains from stealing due to unyielding inner principles, defying all odds. Within the realities of the City, they look like a severe genetic mutation. The remaining eighty percent constitute the absolute majority. This conformist medium stands ready to pull off a virtuoso sleight of hand at the very first alignment of favorable stars. Much has been written on the subject, but our focus here is on a completely different agenda for the day plus the night.

Let us briefly recall the landscape, though. Instead of criminal masterminds, we are faced with the most ubiquitous species of office fauna. These are ordinary managers, whose defining trait is an absolute, everyday buoyancy. They harbor no visible, terrifying psychiatric disorders. They aren’t planning to burn down the office for insurance money; they aren’t orchestrating global conspiracies. These are people who simply came to claim what is theirs, and, while they’re at it, grab that thing over there in the corner that’s been sitting unattended for three days. There is nothing extraordinary about this.

This faculty operates in a state of perpetual spatial scanning for personal gain. They diligently adjust reality in their own favor. Why upset a client with superfluous pricing information when you can keep those figures to yourself and save the world from unnecessary drama? Their résumés invariably read: Team Player. In practice, however, they are born partisans of the full moon. Not even Big Brother knows about their real deals, pleasant kickbacks, or evening plans. They mastered the art of masterfully blurring information back during their probation period.

The actions of such employees are as predictable as a New Year’s congratulatory speech by our Vector of the Voyage Paramount, shortly and known all over the globe, VVP. In an environment where no one will notice anyway, they suck in any available resources with a quiet, visceral purr. Literally anything from reams of paper to the margins on major contracts. They do not break the system; they neatly parasitize it, maintaining a flawless equilibrium between productive output and personal enrichment. Mind you, if that were the end of it, it would be quite dull.

Within the rigid framework of international transit, these statistics flesh out with specific, tangible details and fangs wrapped in platinum vinyl.

There exists a fourth, rarest, most elite and incorrigible type of effective management: The Narcissists. These shadow dealers, with a complex, clinical fusion of structural psychic layers and glossy charisma, constitute the primary asset for accumulating hyper profits. They lead, hypnotize, and domesticate the aforementioned conformist biomass of opportunism.

The signature weapon of the Narcissist is never a primitive act of embezzlement. Never. The Narcissist flawlessly integrates himself into the macro-scheme. Into its very core. In such a blueprint, the parasite generates profit for an even larger parasite, forging an impeccable, closed loop of the food chain. He doesn’t steal some sour cream from the communal fridge. He simply empties it right then and there. Why should he dirty his hands and throw the empty container into the trash bin? He doesn’t waste time misleading some dim witted warehouse keeper. The Narcissist operates on a far more nuanced wavelength, on the level of mental kung fu. He infiltrates the confidence of the business owner himself.

He promises him benefits, shining celestial quotas, thereby persuading him to surrender the goods voluntarily. At the dawn of his journey, a smile of catharsis is easily discerned upon his face.

His chief superpower mimics an ingenious, absolute, sterile order. The Narcissist does not break the system; he quietly, methodically induces people to lease themselves out. Within a standard logistics provider, he erects not so much business processes as a hermetic cult of thousand-fold returns. Instead of morning briefings, he performs silent rituals of devotion to the brand of his own Ego.

According to expert estimates, active sales in logistics demand from a narcissist the contortions of an anaconda, the brute force of a hydraulic press, and the grace of a hippopotamus. It is logical to assume that this requires systemic thinking. But above all, it requires the presence of a total absence of ethical norms. Morality in its primordial form is deemed an atavism in this environment, dead weight. Outmoded nonsense only hinders a sleek, efficient glide up the career ladder. When a hurricane hits the market, the narcissist transforms all that panic, with a calculated, almost balletic movement, into a complex market conjuncture. Hyper profit becomes damning evidence of his personal, cosmic genius. In the arena of international logistics, active sales have long since become a zone of mental plasticity. Survival demands a particularly flexible spine under the aegis of pure cynicism.

But what of the remaining ten percent?

The first, smaller part, the baseline ten percent are pure Asuras. War demons of logistical chaos. They are easily spotted by their predatory habits, murky pasts, shattered phones, and a frequent rotation of legal entities. Companies burst beneath them like soap bubbles. If they happen to land in the sales or procurement departments of legitimate, white label enterprises, it is never for long. The system rejects them like foreign bodies. Their true element is crime, night time loadings in the pouring rain, and, ultimately, prison. Encountering such characters among the top management of major corporations is impossible. They are far too feral for complex feng shui. Their methods consist of direct, willful theft. An Asura operates like a medieval raider: he walks into a warehouse and makes off with a can of paint. Or primitively siphons off the remaining liquidity through a shell company in the bush. Then, he burns down the old legal entity along with its servers and vanishes into the fog. A week later, he is resurrected under a new storefront.

The second group, another ten percent or so, are the mental vegans. Fine crystal glasses mistakenly put on display at a flea market. These idealists remain loyal to the corporate matrix even when staring down a sack of cash. They are profoundly honest and serve enlightened ideals, inducing genuine, visceral nausea in Asuras and Narcissists alike. Can they survive the cutthroat world of business? Driven by their own honesty, they retreat into deep introversion, seeking refuge in government institutions. They might settle down as frightened, careerless clerks. They are justly despised by high flying logisticians. Sales always imply under statement, manipulation, and a touch of light hypnosis, things that offend these most honorable souls to their very core. Our tale chronicles the clash of ideals between different modes of survival in the urban jungle. For instance, how a pristinely honest manager tries to put on a brave, swaggering face. While another counsels keeping quiet while dragging rat tails through keyholes. In a true rat race, the extra baggage of Super Ego constructs triggers of an immediate wipeout. Ironically logical is that this story is chronicled by the Special Correspondent of the 77th Celestial Service. The One who is capable of passing the SkyGate, an Architect of the Highest meanings in sobornov Cathedrals. For Cathedrals always reach toward the Heavens.

Indeed the etymology of the Russian word for Cathedral sobor /собор reveals a profound philosophy embedded directly in the language. In English word cathedral derives from the Latin cathedra meaning seat referring to the bishops throne. In Slavic this sobor root tells a story not of institutional authority, but of communal gathering.

To understand this one must look at the morphological construction of the word. The prefix so /со signifies joint action alignment and togetherness. It is fused with bor / бор which is an ancient word for a dense forest. In the primal landscape of old Russia, the bor is a wild untamed eco system where trees stand wildly crowded. To create a So+bor one has to turn the chaotic proximity of forest into more decent thing. It is always an act of will to build a sacred sobor / собор meaning imbued with the true beauty and happiness of the soul. The wild timber is shaped properly and unified. Literally, spiritually where there was once only a forest bor there becomes the sacred gathering Sobor.

This linguistic truth forms the foundation of Sobornost /соборность. It is a uniquely Slavic concept of spiritual community. It describes a state of togetherness that is neither a forced collectivism nor a fractured individualism. Instead, it is a free organic unity of people bound by a Higher meaning. It is much like individual trees rooted in the same earth, but reaching together towards the Heaven.

Therefore when the Special Correspondent, journalist chronicles this history from the Heights of the Sobornov Cathedral, it conceals the senses. The physical cathedral a structure of wood or stone reaching toward the Heavens. It is merely a reflection of the true Cathedral. Sobor is the living breathing assembly of human souls gathered in harmony. But back to the story!

Meanwhile, research by global agencies only adds fuel to the fire to cores of corporative structures. It turns out that the primary threat to modern business is not mythical reptilians or the machinations of competitors, but the company's own staff, sipping coffee daily in the office kitchen. Year after year, Western corporations voluntarily gift their personnel a sizable chunk of their turnover through various fraudulent schemes. The vaunted European corporate intelligence quietly consumes what remains of the budgets. The resulting picture is clear as day: nearly all corporate losses are inflicted by the very people whose health insurance and parking spaces the company faithfully pays for. The reptilians at this feast of life are left smoking nervously on the sidelines.

But in Russia, this commercial thriller reaches a whole new level. While the shareholders of souls are meditating in the Maldives, our domestic security is allocated mere tears, pitiful crumbs of the turnover. Our merchants devoutly practice a faith wherein a nominee director, coupled with the clearance of a green channel via the automated revenue system, is expected to become a literal icon on the CEO’s dashboard.

As a result, staff activity blossoms in riotous profusion, much like giant hogweed. But the juiciest nuance lies in the geography of the theft. If in the West the primary sin falls to the share of ordinary wretches, clerks smuggling home printer paper, in Russia it differs. In our charts of plasticity, top management leads by a cosmic margin. Hired directors account for the lion's share of all economic sophistication, which in most cases is proudly labeled abuse of power. Translating this from the language

of harsh weekdays: Russian bosses masterfully optimize themselves.

There is nothing to wonder at: through a quarter century of wild capitalism, the speculator's instinct has been hardwired into the fabric of the office class. The moment easy prey looms on the horizon, this instinct instantly shuts down the manager’s higher nervous activity, leaving nothing but a prehensile reflex. Any attempts to establish order are swept away by him with the grace of a well fed yet aggressive crococat, while at a time decrying such measures as ghosts of backwardness.

Ultimately, transit efficiency definitively mutates into an official greed tax, which respectable corporations submissively cough up into the pockets of predators. The race continues, and the rules are written by the one whose chest holds a ticking calculator instead of a heart. A mere handful of strict control measures, implemented into the system in time, could have saved the business from a fatal tailspin into the void of the gates of the lower worlds. Bill Gates, the genius of calculation, is their style icon. In the logic of the trans legal LawGate, these are sluices. But away with idealism! This work merely exposes the underbelly of the freight forklift forwarding business. Knowledge does not guarantee even partial insurance against playing the role of the primary sponsor for someone else’s heavy luxury. For how one can dare say it: what can the Celestial Service do when one hand keeps tightly the other?

At the fracture point of the rat race, where idealists are the first to drop out and Asuras burn their bridges, the true geo politics of gray corridors takes shape. The fourth type, the Narcissist, unlike the chaotic demon with a criminal background, knows how to masterfully mimic systematicity. His slipperiness possesses an intellectual, almost mystical quality of a MEPhIstopheles. He does not breach walls with an axe. Neatly, day after day, he builds a personal totalitarian cult inside the logistics operator, subjugating those very eighty percent of the biomass that is accustomed to tamely eating from the hands of the corporate matrix.

Amid the conditions of active transit from the Celestial Empire, the Narcissist finds an ideal, textbook breeding ground. The thing is, the Chinese business mentality itself, steeped for centuries in the concept of guanxi, organically despises weakness. China has built a blueprint of complex clan ties, the strategies of ancient triads. To a Chinese manufacturer or a port agent in Ningbo, an honest idealist from Moscow must seem a misunderstanding. A sucker ripe for immediate shearing. But the Narcissist, with his icy gaze, impeccable suit, and total absence of self reflection, is perceived by them as one of their own. A dragon man?

And when this celestial matrix suffers its logical, inevitable glitch, be it a harsh inspection at the Far East of Russia customs post or a sudden freezing of accounts in Chinese Shenzhen, the behavior of the psychotypes inside the office unfolds with boring predictability.

Eighty percent of the mass instantly lapses into a stupor, a paralysis. They begin scribbling counter memos, eager to shift the blame onto their neighbor. They must preserve their access to the annual bonus and the smorgasbord buffet at the corporate holiday party.

The pure demons, the Asuras, swiftly launder the cash, wipe the databases, burn down the old legal entities, and vanish into the fog. Only to resurface a week later under a new brand with the exact same pool of loyal clients.

The honest idealists meekly walk to the chopping block. They are genuinely bewildered as to why their loyalty to the company and their honestly filled out invoices have become the primary evidence of their own guilt in blatant, became the primary evidence of their own guilt in the case files of the Fed Customs Service’s operational audit. Fools!

The Narcissist, meanwhile, executes his ultimate grandmaster maneuver at this very moment. Armed with an absolute, clinical immunity to shame or compassion, he turns any catastrophe of celestial transit into his personal benefit performance.

Any corporate losses are written off by him as the sheer incompetence of the vegans. The very fact of survival and profit amid mass bankruptcies is presented to the CEOs as the direct result of his unique, brilliant foresight.

Thus, transit security definitively mutates into a tax on the purse. The strong devour the weak with the silent consent of the majority, while the jungles of the freight forwarding business continue their operations within the green channel of the ASK NDS 2 system.

All of this unfolds according to the laws of higher psychiatry, where safety must be paid for, and where the price for its absence is paid by the little children caught in the crossfire of unmanned aerial vehicles, in this era of the active carving up of the global pie.

Chapter 1. The Constellation Gemini.

Part 1. Fences in Moscow's Finchley.

Mikhail Zabornov, as a logistics manager of the Highest Order has the pointy habit of keeping his hands clean. It was drummed into him during childhood by his mother. However, it was his brother’s wife who truly entrenched the practice. A woman possessing the systemic mindset of an efficient forklift operator. Misha kind of liked the wife of his twin far better than his own brother, a man named Stish—screw, whose very name carried the heavy, unyielding quietness of a fading whisper. As fate would have it, Misha had only reunited with him well into adulthood. Misha knew all too well that the economics of a family venture brook no foolish miscalculations. Consequently, he managed all the accounts with the sterile rigor of a scientist scrubbing a radiation suite after a corporate gala.

Unlike Stish, nick name short for Stishscrew, Misha considered himself an iconic family man. He had fully staffed his personal logistical structure. His beautiful blonde wife had borne him five children, for whom he bore a stern, unyielding responsibility. For Stish, his identical twin, the balance sheet looked way more modest. A single dark haired offspring, though the lingering influence of their shared blonde granny, a pianist, routinely breached all barriers.

Misha directed his logistical flows as though conducting an invisible orchestra, where every single delivery performance fell perfectly into his own place. This skill was no fluke. It had been hardwired into him since the early 2000s. It was back when Moscow was a kaleidoscopic blur of billboard banners, casinos, glossy magazines. Frantic hustle and the exhaust fumes of endless gridlock added the picture.

In those days, the open air markets more like flea ones on the fringes of the city wallowed in mud, piled high with cheap goods. Money did not grow on trees. A guy had to be sharply good at math. Misha all well knew how to calculate. A graduate of the Institute of Nuclear Senses, he tracked the movement of trucks along the country’s battered highways much like photons in a laser beam.

It was an era of fierce transitions, marked by a young, thin Putin, as yet married, and accelerating velocities. It was then that the first private ventures in logistics were beginning to emerge. Yesterday’s nuclear physicists were laying the groundwork for future, closed door transit management schemes. They were fencing their turf. Fencing in the cargo, fencing off control. Taking whatever could be taken without getting caught, regardless of who originally owned it. Though, truth be told, a calculated risk always came first. They only took what was there if, by their estimates, no subsequent threat could jeopardize them. Ordinary merchants down in the Finchley outskirts were shivering like frozen finches from fear and uncertainty. But Mikhail Zabornov was diligently constructing his own perimeter.

Worth mentioning the very meaning of the name. The deep linguistic root of the Rus surname Zabornov comes from an action verbs to grab: zabirat, zagrebat. In general it means to take away, to seize, or to rake in.

Centuries ago, before it meant a physical wooden fence, a fence zabor referred to the act of taking possession. Also fencing off a piece of land. So, the surname originally described a character trait. It was likely a nickname for a highly ambitious, assertive person who confidently claimed what they decided was theirs. Zabornov rakes in success plus wealth. In English, it carries the same energy as surnames like Grabber, for instance.

In the world of freight forwarding and tight control, a systemic mind viewed vulnerability as a mere glitch.

However, Moscow finchley district in the northwest of the old city was a recent development. When an astral visit bore fruit twenty five years earlier at the start of summer, the Gnessin piano School was celebrating its holidays, and Eva Genia, a blonde, was giving birth to twins.

Her son Misha was a twin not merely by his zodiac sign, but by the very nature of things. He adhered to musical notation with unwavering diligence within the confines of a single, separate, two room Moscow score.

Within his single, slender frame coexisted two entirely distinct persones. The first was a tech minded pragmatist driven by cold calculation. The second was a mystic, capable of discerning a higher symphony even in the circular motion of the orbital highway of the Moscow Ring Road.

Misha’s mother has spent her whole life teaching piano. In school, he studied sheet music for as long as required. Yet the exact sciences bend to discipline just as readily as the black white keys on an old piano. Striving for perfection, Misha showed his mother his gratitude with love, proving he was well worth the investment.

Eve, whom those close to her called EvaGenia because of her genius, grieved. Having grieved that her son’s biological father failed to support her emotional stirrings, got married to the one valueing her. Under her watchful gaze, Misha’s internal mystic produced a rare symbiosis. The one where the tech mind calculated the math ideal angle of the spine when bowing after a home recital. His mother strove to give her son the best. She was attempting to compensate for the bio father’s absence with the other kind of male presence. She consciously sacrificed her own freedom. A mother understood: a son needed at least some male figure to look up to.

Misha’s bio father had neatly rationalized his disappearance by a few sparse words stating there were no claims against him. He wrote exactly this:

Forgive me.

Receiving no decent answer, he mercifully added:

I give you my forgiveness.

I have no claims against the mother with a son.

Following that, he removed himself entirely from their lives marking them disposable. The days rolled on.

After school, with his mother away giving music lessons, Mishka would settle in their tiny kitchen. He would brew some tea and retrieve his secret stash. There was a cherished paper bag hidden away. Inside were sweet, chewy, light beige rounds coated in glaze, carrying a delicate aroma. They tasted of pure, homemade happiness, of a sun warmed summer, and total freedom. In the final months of the year, it was especially sweet to linger by the window. He was catching the fleeting twilight in the city lights beyond the glass. From the window of their ordinary Moscow panel building, the boy looked down at the courtyard as it was going to sleep. He blissfully crunched on the sweet, chewy crusts with their nutty undertone. While he was listening to Murka snoring peacefully and cozily in the corner. Eventually, Murka would nudge his knees with her wet nose, gently climb higher. She would trustfully rest her head on his shoulder. In those moments, Misha didn’t need to measure the angles of his bows. He was simply happy. Murka was a free spirit, which Mishka loved. She was also blonde furred, just like his own fair hair. Her steady purring melted away the exhaustion built up over the day. He didn't want to let go of this quiet intimacy with a creature of his own kind. The sweet taste of the glaze and that gentle touch smoothed over any troubles. He froze, afraid to disturb this kindred breath amidst the winter twilight. The soft, quiet warmth beneath his fingers dissolved the icy hardness of the world.

In the maternity hospital, it all came down to the beginning of summer. Funny, how camomile patterned swaddling clothes reflected in the destiny of a newborn. But there was smth else, not as nice as flowers. It was the philistinism for consumerism of society in those years. A baby girl was born to the couple. She was born alive, healthy. Yet, due to the greed with hypocrisy, she died. To cover up their negligence, they intentionally swapped the bundle for one of the twins. They covered their own tracks. Because of the camomiles on the fabric plus the fact that the baby never cried, he was named Stish meaning quite. They nicknamed him Romashka Camomile.

He grew up in a stranger's family. He and Misha knew nothing about each other.

While Misha was catching the twilight in his tiny kitchen, a very different reality was taking shape for Stish. His inner world knew no secrets. His transparent blue eyes were as cloudless as Bill Gates’s cloud computing. Stish became a Gate Keeper for accounts back then, in his very childhood.

While Misha was savoring his glazed treats, Stish was already learning at school to look at his surroundings as a rebus. Growing up a decade before Gorbachev's Perestroika, he was feeling out the perimeter of his future schemes.

He had discipline, too, but of a different kind. It was a rhythm of control over everything living, at times measured, at times aggressive.

They moved in parallel lines until the mythical MEPhI brought the two halves of a single placenta together. It happened within the same university department.

Such were the times, such were the settings. Their diplomas rested in their suit jackets, but nuclear physics struck both brothers as far too unprofitable. It held too much theory and too little tangible power. The world around them was changing at breakneck speed, demanding a reality check.

The choice of logistics for both brothers was no accident. The twins’ analytical minds quickly calculated that by the mid 2000s, real power had shifted from sterile labs onto the grey asphalt. The flow of cargo moving across borders operated like charged particles in an accelerator. It was the very same chaos that had to be bent to their will. Whoever managed the movement of this transit carved out their own place in the sun.

To some extent, the traffic was a messy blend of big money and flashy egos. People all around were making stupid moves, committing errors. The twins kept calculating. While everyone else was wasting themselves on futile bustle, they were constructing a metronome. Physics plus logistics. Set to the music of their mother giving piano lessons.

The split.

Misha began seeking common ground with Stish. Slowly, Misha started stripping away all from his life that created unnecessary gap between the twin brothers.

The difference lay in what they kept in reserve. Back then, Misha still saw logistics as a supreme symphony of musical notes. For him each note could serve a beautiful melody. Tish, however, discerned within the endless transits an ideal scheme. He riddled with blind spots, unaccounted opportunities. How could anyone resist draining what they wanted from it, especially when it was almost legal? The grey zone. Technique was everything in it. The road welcomed them both. They both entered it, starting with a hack. Only, each rigged the hack in his own way.

Part 2. Stish.

Astonishingly, what happened in Tish’s foster family mirrored the fate of twins bio mother. The family that had taken him in to replace the deceased baby girl, Dasha, also underwent a decay, like a nuclear reaction. He grew up with his mother in Moscow. From childhood, he learned the true worth of words in a household where the father was a bluff. His stepfather was merely a temporary fixture until he turned eighteen. His mother, too, was only married for the sake of her son. She had no respect for her husband: he was poor. Stish never saw him as the head of the family. He knew it was just his mother’s temporary social contract for his benefit. A mere stage prop. Tish had no one to rely on, but himself.

Stish had one weakness. In a vase, there always stood a single, large, white narcissus with pale yellow petals. This was no cheap, vulgar flower that craved likes on social media or gold chains around a neck. No. Stish’s narcissus was absolutely autonomous. Quiet. Almost transparent. Like a pair of rimless glasses. Its master nourished his narcissus day and night. The narcissus was perfect. How could such flawlessness have been accidentally cast into the bio chaos of this Moscow bustle? He lived in a world where everyone is constantly late, screwing up, mixing up numbers, and suffering from hangovers. One should know how to use that mix properly. Stish looked at his narcissus with what were almost tears of admiration. But alas! Stish did not know how to cry. He irrigated the narcissus with a strictly measured amount of moisture. He pour exactly what, in his judgment, was needed to maintain perfect balance of moist.

The Wachowski brothers, shown on the TV back then, broadcasted Stish’s unclear suspicion that the world was nothing, but a mirage. Numbers were the only safe reality. He set out to calculate them strictly to his own advantage.

Stish calculated fast. His mind, honed at a top ten university, was geared toward rock solid profit. In place of physics, he chose to manage the turnover of cash and tires on asphalt. His workplace was anywhere his phone rang day plus night, whenever duty called. Stish raked in the cash, packing the chaos of Russian roads into neat spread sheets. The people in them had their own personal scale intervals.

In the industry, he was known as Stish Romashev Camomile. With the years, his childhood nickname had gained a sense of respectability but had not changed his core. Tall, lean, he possessed a rare gift for remaining unnoticed. This kind of build allowed him to slip in wherever he needed without any questions asked. The details weren't obvious right away. The gaze of cold eyes behind rimless glasses gave him the look of an intellectual. This perfectly masked a hyperinflated ego centrism coupled with ruthless instincts. His external appearance absolutely defied his inner core. Control over the situation was paramount. The mystic in him had died the moment he realized that behind any magic lay convenient explanations from other people's mouths, ready to justify his difficult dilemas. The music of the spheres? An algorithm. The better you execute it, the less vulnerable you are. His curved legs were the only thing that gave away his frail, grounded origin. The guy skillfully hid this behind well tailored clothes.

Women were a renewable, almost free resource. Hormones drove him to hunt, but practicality forbade wasting money on women. Therefore, married ladies became a logical logistical solution. They valued him for his cleanliness and discretion. He valued them for their lack of commitment. Sex was a transaction. The orgasm served as a form of payment. He executed the process with technical precision, paying attention to the details. Once the job was done, he went to the bathroom. The love of cleanliness had been instilled in him by his mother. Then, he would reach for an expensive perfume, which perfectly masked the scent of stranger's body.

Stish stood by the window of a rented apartment on the top floor of a 1970s panel building. Stish looked down, checking on his old Audi in the secure parking lot. The security of that parking lot was a priority.

Part 3. Misha.

Misha stepped away from the window once he was sure his car was secure. It was important to him. His mind was touching thoughts of sects or rather, the other kind. All the more so because a car made an excellent spot for that kind of pleasure.

Moscow never slept. Moscow was digesting petro dollars, turning them into the neon signs of casinos. Everywhere, gridlocks sat in dead locks, brought on by never ending construction sites. The capital was a massive yet familiar anthill. What this beehive needed was a breakthrough. Living, vulnerable elements should be managed. His alias kotjara75 /Tomcat was inspired by male cat's habbit to play the field. He was catching luck by chasing tails of a mermaid's green sheen.

He was sitting down at his desk, where a cell phone lay in front of a grey curvy monitor. Misha suddenly thought about how ridiculous movie scenes were when characters blasted away at screens. All the data lives deep inside the hard drive box on the floor, not on the monitor. What mattered was seizing control of that specific box of hardware on the floor. In those years, cellular service was expensive. Unlimited talk plans were a clear statement of the owner's status. He wasn't looking for status so much as he wanted to minimise his vulnerabilities. That, perhaps, was the one thing where he and his brother Stish absolutely saw eye to eye.

Misha clicked the switch of his desk lamp. Current surged through the wires. You don't need to be an electrician to control the light; it is enough to know exactly where the toggle was. While others frantically traded hot air in the corners, Misha was contemplating how to claim his share in the real sector of the economy.

Semis is the ultimate instruments of the highway symphony moved under his watchful eye. Forced downtime could result in losses. He didn't praise burning fuel in vain. The main priority was always the channel's throughput capacity. The systemic kickback percentage factored into the overall optimization of the tax castling. He was ready to sacrifice something if it promised to become a winning strategy. Yet, at the same time, Misha was a romantic mystic. At that time he believed in goodness.

Gripped by a drive that could not be extinguished, he acted with confidence. He was forcing his way into the heavenly guarded inner sanctum, unable and unwilling to hold back his impulses. But once inside, drowning in soft light, he knew how to Be. His pulse was in his temples with bursts of passion. Time seemed to slow down, caught in a universe that evaporated any words. A light burned there that was brighter than any out signs. He stole seconds from eternity, seconds that has never been on the map. He thought he was the one controlling the rhythm. As they merged, he failed to notice how he had completely surrendered to it. Surrendered to a force with which, in the end, he was shattered to smashed pieces.

The car, or on meta words the instrument, for which she had been granted power, was black. Beautifully shaped, sleek, glossy. Yet, she absolutely detested the car's license plate number: zero three. Besides, she didn't dare to drive just yet. She was far too soft for rush Moscow roads. Misha would teach her to drive. One day it was on a practice ground. On another in the back alleys near the Eastern bridge. But the palace to which this vehicle belonged felt foreign to her. She had no desire to be there at all. It was the very last thing she needed, like a dog needs a fifth leg. However, the logistics of the irresponsible mythical logicians surrounding her, were relentless and deeply grounded. She knew it, so she was forced to except what was offered.

On the rear window of her car, there is an inscription:

Read the full story in my real rock opera. In my own true manner.

Part 4. Heli and Geli

Misha loved his mother, but living in the same apartment with her was absolutely out of the question. She lived just a few floors below, and it was cookies that brought them together. Whenever she wanted to see him, she would call and say:

— I bought your favorite.

At that, the conqueror of matrices would surrender instantly. He would drop everything on the spot and went down to her floor. Misha simply couldn't say No to his mother when she lured him with a taste so familiar since childhood.

His mother believed in her son, who possessed a bright future in the harsh world of freight transport. Most importantly, it promised profit. Misha was her hope, her pride. He wanted to live up to her expectations, but she respected the music of profit.

One day officials in suits from the Red Agencies came knocking on his door. It happens when you are a graduate of one of the country's leading universities. Misha listened to what they had to say. They offered him a chance to serve the Motherland. Mikhail asked them one single, crucial question.

— Will you give me a condo for free?

They refused. Learning furthermore about the travel restrictions, Misha smirked to himself.

— They want to limit my freedom without giving anything in return.

He consulted with Stish. Tish pondered for a moment.

Personal comfort is far more important than the interests of a fallen empire. Now every man for himself.

And just like that, Misha closed the matter for good. In the end, this philosophy shaped his logistics: the kind where semis dissolve into the rustle of cash. He assembled computers with his own hands. It allowed him to see the road as a spread sheet of profit.

The division of spheres of influence happened swiftly, devoid of useless sentiment. It was as if an invisible dispatcher had flipped a switch. The twins picked certain tracks within the depot of life logistics.

Silent Misha, like a reflection of Angel in a Cristal hall, chose a path as straight as a rail. He entered the heavy business sector. He took a job as a modest manager at a firm with transport oriented name of Heli Copter Meta Huge. His frontline became the Asian iron solar machines, straightforward and solid. They had to be sold on the uncharted Russian market. Misha harnessed himself to this plow, drowning out the ache for his unfulfilled illusions.

Stish, on the contrary, chose the shadows. His choice was an outfit with the sunny name of Gelios: Geli, for short. While his brother toiled in the real sector, Stish was preoccupied with entirely different schemes. He had no interest in tons of iron as such. He cared only for the pure liquidity of the traffic. Very soon, nestled comfortably inside the pouch of the leaping Geli kangaroo, was Stish’s personal firm.

He named it Lowgate 8 or Log 8, for short. It was chosen by Stish because he admired silence plus gates. Applying a low pass filter gates in his own specific way was an art he was very proud about.

Stish had also chosen the number 8 in Log eight for a reason. Although there were only two people in the firm's, the number 8 in logate carried profound meaning. Infinity. An hourglass where time no longer slipped through one's fingers. Instead, it drives traffic in a closed loop. A perfect Möbius strip! Someone else’s value entered the inside, Stish turned it inside out. Then he guided it through the center as pure profit, leaving no tracks behind. The entrance with the exit at the exact same point. It was the very logic of the ancient serpent Ouroboros. It was the magic of numbers turned into a focus glass for sunny budgets.

Stish loved the illusion of novelty. Only think of it! As the little snake passes through the center, it thinks it is breaking free into a brand new space.

But the geometry of the quantum trap of communicating vessels is tricky. After a spin along the new loop, inevitability flies right back into the same center. At this exact point, the Ouroboros sees its own tail right before its eyes. Realizing it is trapped, it experiences a flash of rage and terror, and...

It bites down, initiating the next coil of self devouring.

Such is the hourglass effect. At the point of the bottleneck, through the very center of the figure 8, the entire mass of chaos in the loops is forced to pass. The past of one loop and the future of the other crash into each other with a thunderous roar.

Part 5. Legs and lace of life

Pop bands were rocking in sport stadium. Rock concerts were roaring in Soviet era comunity centers. Stish spent his money carefully when he invited the brunette to a musical. He loved melody plus drive. The show promised to be dazzling. The musical left a deep impression. Where Misha would have felt the beauty of singing strings, Stish got the dynamics.

Stish liked it. So she did, too. This brunette stood out with her icy cold gaze. Exactly what the doctor ordered. Tish looked at her skinny curved smile, deciding whether the project was ready.

— Stish, I need a stamp in my passport, and you need the status of a family man for business. Everyone needs an heir. It’s an excellent deal. Say yes, she said, adjusting her expensive blouse. In this case my dad will buy us a condo.

Stish looked at her through the clear lenses of his glasses. His heart gave a couple of thumps while his hand rested on the computer mouse. He calculated the debit with credit. Real estate! The loyalty of a father in law plus the skinny bone sharp Bruta. She wouldn't poke her nose into his business with the trucks and, as he desperately wished to believe, with other chicks. But she would definitely become his iron safe.

He nodded, calculating whether he would have enough time before the wedding to meet with the wife of the fish factory's CFO. With a single click, his reply from in box myrlo75 flew deep into the belly of comforting pleasures.

Her skewed smile aligned perfectly with his life plans. The deal was honest.

A gigolo? Nonsense for losers! This was all temporary, just a runway for takeoff with landing. Not being a fool, the newly minted capitalistic dealer Tish silently scraped the margin wherever he spotted it.

The wedding was set all right. His mother approved of her son's choice. She had waited long enough. Her son was bringing her dreams to life. Everything was going according to plan.

He with Bruta clicked together like puzzle pieces. His father in law shook his hand firmly. Tish smiled with his cheekbones. Ahead, a time of achievements shone bright for Tish. Bruta celebrated her own personal achievement. She was flashing a leg in a white lace stocking with a garter against glasses with champagne plus wedding rings.

The 2008 crisis became a software update for Stish. Those who weren't in the loop short circuited, crumbled away like burnt wires. The asphalt grew less crowded. While fellow logicians drowned their stress in whatever was easiest, Stish polished his pragmatism. His choice of secure parking lots plus warehouse equipment was sharply calculated. Justified. In place of celestial accelerators, the graduate of the nuclear school chose a hard reality check. He grounded himself literally in everything mundane.

Misha’s story was more dramatic.

His wedding took place later than Tish’s marriage. The nursing breast received a beautiful kiss. Misha got the keys to her garters. His wife devoted a great deal of attention to lace and lingerie. External appearances were given paramount priority.

Yet, everything has the beginning of existence.

A true storm in the icy seas of logistics tolerates no half measures. It accepts no breaks in the supply chain. To survive within them, one must surrender completely, to the very end, to this force. In this prelude to steep ascents, the ocean does not resist. It freely, sincerely submits to the helmsman, giving itself entirely without reserve to his brave course. It can be beautiful. It can be absolutely pure. In dreams.

In reality, at the onset of the storm, our helmsman caught his ultimate wave. The walruses, with their flippers, smashed through the ceiling. The catch volumes merged into a flawless picture of Aivazovsky’s The Ninth Wave. It was a triumph of pure force. The waves foamed, skyrocketing to the heavens, but holding the helm was becoming increasingly difficult. The wind grew stiffer, the risks higher. A tremor slowly surfaced in the helmsman’s hands from the realization that steering in such a mode demanded colossal exertion. Yet, there is something more ephemeral, the kind of thing the maps keep silent about. Something for which no safe routes exist at all.

Once, at the dawn of his sailing, he had only low powered boats under his command. On one such sharp turn, he had playfully trusted the helm to his blonde. The cutter, naturally, instantly flipped keel up. But out in the open sea, amidst the splashing waves, he had enough strength at that time to right her back on an even keel. It was pure victory, where every maneuver depended on a precise move.

In a deep fairway, a boatswain will not capsize the ship. There is no doubt about it: the vessel’s stability is far too costly. But here, another law of the Caribbean Sea comes into play. It happens that the captain and the boatswain sit in the same cabin as equals, sharing a single bounty half and half. When they hold absolutely identical maps in their hands, Barbossa can easily turn into a Plan Barbarossa.

It happens that the black spot catches up with a predator that missed its marks.

From time to time, a helmsman needs solid ground. The lights of a lighthouse. When there is no grounding, one might just happen to splash down into a dead silent bay at the bottom of bottomless marine lagoons. Neither sunlight nor the light of distant stars penetrates there. All that remains is the numbed ache of a scorched field. Plus the pressure of everything you clawed out for yourself.

When a boatswain is at the helm, it is foolish to expect biblical loyalty. But smart people, at the moment of a storm, do not slash each other’s throats. They stand back to back. Worthy of respect. Except that standing back to back, can you see the true colours? When the sea's mirror surface waves, the ship is in a perilous state.

— Oh, Stash stish, my sweet little Stash. — The ship's crew broke into song on the deck.

Meanwhile, in the distant capital city, Misha's legal spouse named Olfoil, in Russ transcript Folga, was calling her friends. Oilfoil in its deep meaning is glittering, and glitter tripped.

— I come home, and my husband is lying there with a broken leg. Just staring at me.

Olfoil, which is in Russian sounds Folga, shared the news on a phone, speaking with bitter resentment.

She saw only the consequence, blind to the causes. To her, it was merely an annoying domestic injury that disrupted her inner plans. For Misha, it was the logical finale of his system override. His body had simply slammed on the brakes where Misha himself could not stop. Yet, he failed to heed it as a warning.

Misha’s career as a brand manager at Heli Copter started not with slick presentations, but with the dull clank of hydraulics at the cargo terminals. Born to fly, he had crash landed onto the concrete ground. A novice manager in the heavy business sector is no City white collar worker. He is a galley slave as the Master of Proper Ways once said. In place of helicopter blades, Misha was handed warehouse forks. First, he had to climb into the cabin of the SkyGate forklift. Then, he had to climb inside the head of his buyer. Misha went deep to the uterus. He simply has never known any other way.

He engineered connections the way one builds a nuclear machine. Networking in the specialized equipment logistics rested on three pillars.

The first pillar was a direct line to the Celestial Empire. Misha would hang on the phone for hours with the gods of Heli 赫利 Solar power. He quickly learned that the dragon's business doesn't trust dry contracts; it trusts rituals plus numbers. He shouldered everything at once, all the way down to the physical loading with the forks. Masts, container departure schedules from the ports, and most importantly, the scale of hidden Helios volume ray discounts. Misha knew precisely: to raise profits to the heavens, it wasn't enough to just catch the solar rays 赫利. One had to know how to properly distribute the load during the Lift. Keeping the god's hidden discounts in mind, he masterfully raised the balance with lifting forks 叉车, dispatching luck itself in a single move. The Sunny factory allowed a buffer for its own. Misha kept those percentages in his mind as a sacred secret. He calculated how to budge any stalled deal.

The second pillar became the logistics directors of major retailers, warehouse terminals. Misha didn't just sell them iron. He solved their problems. If a client required a non standard, custom batch of stackers, Misha personally rechecked everything. He guaranteed the turning radius and the lift height on his own forklift. The big fish swarmed toward his crystal honesty and technical precision, drawn like moths to a lighthouse beam.

The third pillar was the internal supply chain. Misha calculated the journey of every single unit down to the last penny. The freight from Shanghai to Vladivostok, the tariffs of customs brokers in Zabaykalsk. Then, the cost of renting heavy lowboys for the final leg to Moscow. All the data, including passwords, detailed calculations, and delivery schedules, lay inside his computer. It was a flawless, clean musical score.

Yet, any ideal blueprint always possesses a vulnerability. The one who stands right behind your left shoulder.

Tish entered this symphony without knocking. He utilized Misha’s Celestial Constellation. They possessed matching faces. While Misha toiled day and night, Stish would visit his brother at the office. He didn't need to crack any codes. It was enough for him to wait until Misha stepped away from the hard drive box on the floor. Being brothers, both were highly skilled in computers.

Stish easily made a complete double of the numbers from his brother prof life. Joint efforts 合力 bore fruit.

Tish didn't merely exploit the contacts. He cloned the very architecture of Heli Copter. He scouted within it for blind spots to feed his pouch, his outfit Log 8. He had no interest in the machinery itself; he cared only for the vulnerability of someone else’s calculations.

Tish understood Eastern wisdom: if you want to harness solar energy, learn to lift it by the pallets. He didn't wait for favors from nature. He slid his forks beneath Misha’s software and, with a slight jerk of the forklift, illuminated his shadow 门 with solar rays.

The interception of control occurred silently, at the microchip level.

While Misha spent weeks wrestling for a special price to win a major tender, Tish could already see that calculation on his own monitor. He knew his brother's critical threshold down to an iota. At the final stage of the deal, when the client was primed ready, Stish Romashev Camomile would emerge from the shadows. It was the ultimate Stishscrew. His High sea shell company Logate 8 物流控制门 was right then and there!

But how did it all begin, back when it was for the first and renewed time?

Next part: click

English https://t.me/heli_loader

Russian https://t.me/heli_asia

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