Unfortunate never shoots at other players.

– What? – I ask.

– What you've heard. He doesn't shoot at the players. He kills the monsters in a snap, -mutters Anatol, – One feels envious seeing it… But he didn't shoot at humans even once. When I was dragging him out for the first time, it was the thing why I failed. I was sure he'll help…

– He "flows"… – I say – He considers what's going on real… well no! He said it himself that it's virtuality around…

– Um-hmm, – agrees Anatol – He didn't lose orientation but the humanism is his quirk.

– Religion? – I guess, – Pacifist?

Anatol just shrugs.

– So it were the players who killed him each time?

– The fate killed him, – Dick enters the talk, – He was killed by players, by monsters, by ruined ceiling, by ricochet, he drowned in melted asphalt and fell down from the height. Fifteen deaths, all different.

– It's impossible, – I note. – Unless he does it himself.

– If he's suicidal, then he must be very-very cunning, – Dick doesn't agree, – Everything looks like an accident. It's just too many accidents already.

– Dick thinks it's his karma, – says Anatol – He had earned this fate somehow. And whatever we do, it's impossible to get him out.

– Crazy, this is bull, – I say. Dick just smiles, – Guys, isn't there ANY mean to shut the player down forcefully? Without knowing his address?

"Labyrinth"'s divers look at each other.

– Don't hide it, – I beg, – It's serious..

– There was a method, – confesses Dick. – Anatol have tried it.

I look at Anatol waiting for explanations.

– Thirteen deaths in a row, – he answers reluctantly, – If the player perishes thirteen times in a row with interval of less than five minutes, the program kicks him out without notice. This is a barrier for absolute dummies.

I still don't understand.

– I tried it this morning, – says Anatol, – I haven't drag Unfortunate through the level, just stood at the beginning of it and started to kill him. Thirteen times, then two times more, I thought that I did a mistake in count. And nothing happened!

– Stop! – shouts Dick jumping up, – Leonid, one more step and I'll kill you. This is a game, understand?

I retreat from Anatol. Dick is right, one can't measure what's going on in "Labyrinth" with the real world's or even Deeptown's measures. This is deep within the deep.

– How did he respond? – I ask.

– I explained everything to him before! – Anatol hardly refrains himself too, – Don't think I enjoy that! I explained everything, was shooting at his head with the carbine. I thought maybe he'll resist somehow, but in the beginning he tried to hide, then just sat and waited!

Now it's clear why Unfortunate thinks so about him.

– Leonid, it's a game, – repeats Dick. – On the 17th level you had to shoot the boy tied to the tunnel door in order to pass. Did you do it?

Sure I did, it was impossible to untie him…

– That was just a program Dick, a drawing and a sound file. It prevented me from getting to the real guy.

– And how many people did you shoot in the first day earning reputation? – shouts Anatol,– And don't tell me about fair fight! You're the doomer of the old training, you're diver! All "Labyrinth"'s heroes don't have even a half of your abilities in a fight! You can jump out of the Deep and not feeling any pain! You can shoot like being in the shooting-range! You can walk along the wire as a rope-walker!

He silences and frowns, – Was Al-Kabar your work?

I nod.

– Beautifully done… – Anatol calms down as fast as he fires up, – So listen up, Leonid. We won't interfere in your business. Make a try. But don't vent out on us! We're doing our own job.

– And now it's our turn, – adds Dick. – Return in six hours. If we don't get the guy out by that time, it'll be your turn again.

I don't argue. They are hosts, I'm the guest. I rise and walk to the computer by the wall.

– Hey Leonid! – shouts Anatol' behind, – Do you know why you couldn't kill those escort guards at once?

I shake my head.

– The programs can cheat too. Wherever you shoot, only the last target will be the real one.

Well, thanks for info… I touch the keyboard and save my result.

– In six hours! – says Dick behind my back, – Not earlier!

1010

This time it's much less people in the column hall, but still around 10 people stand sipping beer and obviously waiting for me.

I go past them.

– Gunslinger!

I turn around. Two unfamiliar guys and long haired girl come towards me.

– I'm Gunslinger, – I agree.

– Who are you? – asks stooping guy with glasses. Many people pick such peaceful looking appearances to distract the vigilance of their rivals.

Looks like it'll be no fights with shooting today. Very good; yesterday everybody were pissed but their minds cooled down a bit as of late.

– This is not important.

– Gunslinger, what do you want? – the girl joins the talk, – Are you just playing?

– No.

– What do you want then? You were seen on the 33rd level all day. Are you stuck?

– No.

Delegation makes no headway, then the guy in glasses raises his hands.

– Peace Gunslinger?

– Okay, – I reply puzzled.

– People fear to go through the 33rd – he explains, – About half hundred of them gathered on the 32nd. Gunslinger, if you won't purposefully shoot the players, they won't touch you too. Otherwise the big hunt is gonna be declared, and not only in the Twilight City.

– Very good, – I agree, – But one condition… there is a guy with the pistol on the very beginning of the level. He must not be touched too.

The guy in glasses and the girl glance at each other.

– Deal, Gunslinger.

We shake hands.

– Let's go to "BFG"? – suggests the girl.

The deals are usually celebrated with beer, and I have six free hours anyway, so I nod. The rest of the group joins us and we leave the column hall in a dense group. I look around – either Alex is not among my companions or he hides in the different body.

– Guys, if anybody breaks the deal and attacks me…

– It'll be your and his problems, – confirms the guy in glasses.

– Great.

– Gunslinger, are you doomer? – asks the girl.

– Yes.

– Maybe yet played on the 'threes' { 386 }?

– On 'twos'.

– 'Doom'? On the 'two'? – asks the guy in glasses ironically.

– Sure not. 'Wolfstein'.

The crowd buzzes approvingly, most of them had only heard about the most primitive of 3D games.

– By the way, – says the girl, – I've recently met a guy, he entered Deeptown from the 'three'.

– What?! – the guy in glasses looks shocked.

– What you heard. As is, without the helmet or suit. He said he's a drafted sergeant, sits somewhere in tundra on the space communications station. Their equipment would just fit a museum, but they have a connection to the Internet through some military local server. He installed deep-program on 386-DX, entered Deeptown through some gate and ventured into the city. I noticed him because of his gait, shaky and jerky, obviously due to a crappy modem.

– Bull, – the guy in glasses shakes his head, – it's impossible to get into virtuality on the 'three'.

– Why not? Quite possible, if with 'sopr'. – objects somebody.

A long argument starts, about whether it's possible or not to enter virtuality on IBM-386 and whether the math coprocessor will help in this process. I just listen but don't meddle, even if I know the answer.

It's possible.

I started with the 'three' myself, also without helmet or suit, just like that hypothetical soldier in the most unusual leave in history. But this information is not for giving away.

In the meantime, the hall livens up. The guy with the guitar appears from somewhere, swarthy and long-haired. He smiles shyly, waves his hand and steps into the green substance which hisses under his feet. Then he walks into the center of the green zone, sits on the chair that stands on the small concrete patch and starts tuning his guitar without a hurry. I wave back to him, even if he can't recognize me in the Gunslinger's image. This is a legendary person in the Deep, one of the old hackers, and also – the bard. Our paths didn't cross for a very long time. He usually sings in "Three Piglets", where he even has a small share as they say. He's quite indifferent to "Labyrinth" and the fact of his being here is a rare luck. The singer brushes his hair off his forehead and starts singing.