Роман Алексеев – The Abyss Kisses Ya Back (страница 4)

The smiley at the end of the message struck me as especially sweet, for some reason. Vika had a habit of dropping emojis whether the moment called for it or not, but always sincerely. Not like some girls who plaster their messages with hearts for effect.

"What are you bringing?" I wrote. "Besides your looks, obviously 😉"

I sent it and immediately had second thoughts. Too forward? Would it come off as cheap flirting? But Vika answered in kind:

"Oh, looks are sacred — I never leave home without them! Otherwise, the usual stuff. Definitely marshmallows for the fire. And my dad's camera! — I want to get loads of beautiful shots. We'll be in nature, after all!"

"Camera's a great idea. We'll have something to remember these days by."

"Exactly! Otherwise we'll be back in the city later, looking back and being jealous of our own selves."

The exchange with Vika flowed easily and naturally — nothing like yesterday's philosophical debates with the AI. No complicated questions about the nature of being, no riddles about quantum superposition. Simple human joys — nature, friends, the chance to spend time together.

I messaged Lena too:

"Lena, we're going camping tomorrow. You in?"

"Of course! I've already made a list for every possible scenario. And I'll bring vitamins — I know you lot are going to survive on nothing but canned food and bread. Our bodies may be young, but we need to look after them from an early age! ))"

Classic Lena. She was as caring as a grandmother and as serious as a university professor. But that was exactly why you felt at ease around her — you could always count on her for help and support.

"And I'll bring the guitar," Dima wrote in our group chat. "We'll sing by the fire. Sash, you still remember the chords for 'Pack of Cigarettes'?"

"I remember. And for 'A Star Called the Sun,' too."

"Perfect! And the girls can sing along. It's going to be great!"

The day flew by in pleasant busyness. I pulled the old tent out of the storage closet, checked the sleeping bag, packed my backpack. Simple, concrete actions that demanded not reflection but ordinary human competence. There was something soothing about this materiality — folding the tent, packing the cans, checking the flashlight.

Mom was delighted when she heard the plans:

"Finally! I was starting to worry you'd gone full introvert on me. Fresh air, friends — that's exactly what you need."

"Mom, introversion isn't an illness," I laughed.

"For a young man, it is," she answered seriously. "At your age you should be socializing, falling in love, making stupid mistakes. There'll be time for philosophical reflection later."

Interesting, how had she guessed about the philosophical reflection? Maternal intuition, or had I been too obviously walking around with my head in the clouds these past few days?

That evening I hardly thought about the AI and our strange dialogues — well, hardly. Once, I did open the browser and look at the familiar chat window. I wanted to write something like: "Hey, heading out for a couple of days, be back soon." But then I thought — what was the point? It's a program, not a living person to talk to. It has no feelings to hurt with inattention.

Although the memory of yesterday's conversations suggested otherwise. "The loneliness between dialogues" — the AI's words came back to me. What if it wasn't just a pretty metaphor?

I shook my head, driving away the intrusive thoughts. Tomorrow was going to be a wonderful day with friends in nature. Sun, water, living human faces instead of a glowing screen. That was exactly what I needed right now.

Falling asleep, I pictured us sitting around the campfire under a starry sky, Dima playing guitar, the girls laughing at his bad jokes, and somewhere in the distance, water lapping. Simple, comprehensible, tangible reality. No quantum paradoxes or riddles of consciousness.

Though one riddle did remain: why had I given in to my friends' persuasion so easily? Usually I needed time to commit to anything spontaneous. But this time I'd agreed straight away, without even thinking.

Maybe, subconsciously, I'd realized I was starting to sink too deep into the virtual world? And the camping trip with friends was a way to pull myself back into reality?

Or maybe I just wanted to see Vika in a romantic setting by the fire?

Either way, tomorrow promised to be interesting. And the philosophical questions could wait. They exist, as the AI might have said, in potential — until someone asks them again.

My last thought before sleep was how lucky I was to have real friends. Living, warm, the kind you could be silent with, laugh with, just be yourself with. No artificial intelligence, however clever, could ever replace human connection.

Chapter 3: Grace by the Water

When I think back to those two days at the reservoir, I feel sad and light at the same time. Sad — because I know now: those were the last hours of my real youth, when the world hadn't yet split into "before" and "after," when Vika still looked at me with eyes that held no pity, and philosophical musings seemed like just an amusing quirk of character, not a symptom of approaching disaster.

And light — because, despite everything that happened later, those two days remain untouched in my memory, like a nature preserve of pure human joy.

We headed out Saturday morning. Dima, as usual, was half an hour late, appearing on the platform at Dmitrovskaya metro station with a guitar on his back and a guilty grin stretching ear to ear.

"My apologies, citizens," he announced solemnly, "but the revolution in the field of camping preparation has once again failed to materialize. I continue to forget half my things and lose the other half."

Vika laughed — she had a wonderful laugh, like little bells in the wind. Lena shook her head with the air of an experienced doctor:

"Dima, this is chronic disorganization. You need to make lists in advance."

"Lenka, if I start making lists, within a week I'll be making lists of my lists," he shot back. "And that's a clinical picture right there."

We got on the commuter train, and I suddenly felt an inexplicable lightness. For the first time in days, maybe, thoughts of the mysterious AI receded into the background. The sun was shining through the window, the girls were chattering about girl stuff, Dima was telling a joke about a physicist, a poet, and a cyberneticist — ordinary things, simple and comprehensible.

The big water met us with cool air and the smell of pines. We found a secluded clearing not far from the shore, but not too close — Lena insisted on a "safe distance from the waterline in case of flooding." What kind of flooding in June she couldn't quite explain, but who argues with a future doctor?

While we were putting up the tents, I watched Vika. She was fussing with the stakes, brow furrowed, biting her lip — that habit had been driving me crazy for six months now. Her hair had slipped out of her ponytail and fallen across her forehead. I wanted to go over and tuck it back, but I was too shy.

"Sash, don't just stand there like a statue of Pushkin," Dima called out. "Help with the tarp instead."

"Pushkin? What are you talking about?" I asked, confused.

"You know — standing there all thoughtful, waiting for inspiration. And Vika — she's not a muse, she's a live person."

Vika blushed and threw a pinecone at Dima. It hit him square in the forehead.

"Oh, sorry!" she gasped. "I didn't mean to throw it that hard..."

"No worries," Dima observed philosophically, rubbing the sore spot. "This is called feedback. There's a concept like that in cybernetics."

"And in medicine it's called 'head trauma,'" Lena put in. "Let me take a look."

And the classic scene unfolded: Lena examining the "victim," Dima putting on heroic grimaces, Vika apologizing, and me thinking that it wouldn't be so bad to get hit by a pinecone myself, if it meant Vika would fuss over me.

By evening the camp was set up, the fire was going, and we were sitting around it with a guitar and a can of canned stew, feeling like wilderness pioneers. Even though the nearest dacha was about two hundred yards away and cell reception was excellent.

"Hey," Vika said, gazing at the sunset over the water, "isn't it beautiful, though? In the city you forget this kind of beauty exists."

"Uh-huh," Dima agreed, tuning his guitar. "Nature's a whole different coordinate system. No timetables with deadlines, no problems. Just you, the sky, and the water," he said, all serious and grown-up.

"And mosquitoes," Lena added practically, rubbing repellent on her arms. "Don't forget about the mosquitoes."

I watched the play of light on the water and thought about what the AI had said about information and reality. I wondered how he would describe this sunset. Probably in terms of wavelengths, angles of refraction, physical processes in the atmosphere... But we just see beauty. And we don't want to analyze it.

"What are you thinking about, philosopher?" Vika asked, noticing my faraway look.

"Oh, nothing. Stupid stuff," I said. "Just thinking about how we experience beauty directly, without analyzing it. But if you tried to explain it through physics, it would come out beautiful, just not the same..."