Юрий Верхолин – Im With You (страница 2)
The military recruitment center was located in the building of a former vocational school on the outskirts of Noginsk. A three-story Soviet-era building with peeling plaster and cracked steps. A tricolor flag hung on the roof — huge, faded in the sun. In the parking lot stood buses with tinted windows and a few civilian cars. About ten men in camouflage were smoking by the entrance — some already in uniform, some in civilian clothes, like Vadim.
Inside it smelled of government-issue canned stew, bleach, and sweat. A lot of sweat. Vadim walked down a corridor with yellow walls to an office with a sign: Military Recruitment. Contract Signing. A line of four people. All men between twenty-five and forty. Some with serious faces, some deliberately carefree. One guy, very young, with trembling hands, kept adjusting his belt though it already sat perfectly.
Vadim joined the line, took out his phone — wrote to Alina:
Twenty minutes later he was invited into the office. Inside sat two people — a major with tired eyes and a female doctor with a mole on her nose. The major was flipping through his documents, the doctor was looking at a monitor.
"Vadim Viktorovich." The major raised his eyes. "Volunteer. Reason?"
"Financial."
The major smirked — without humor, just stretched his lips.
"Honest. That's good. Better than for the Motherland. For the Motherland, you know, they fight the first year, drink the second, and collect disability papers the third. But for money, a man will always fight."
Vadim didn't answer. He waited.
"The medical commission has already cleared you," the major continued. "Healthy, fit. All that's left is to sign the contract."
The female doctor pushed a stack of papers toward him. Vadim started reading, though he understood it was useless — the legal language was designed so a man in uniform couldn't understand anything. He looked only for numbers. The amount. The terms. The liability.
"Three hundred thousand rubles a month," he read aloud. "An advance of one hundred fifty thousand rubles on signing."
"Correct." The major nodded. "But that's not all. You're from the Moscow Region, from Pavlovsky Posad?"
"Yes."
"Then listen carefully. For residents of the Moscow Region, there are additional regional payments. A one-time payment upon signing the contract with the Ministry of Defense — 1.9 million rubles from the government of the Moscow Region. Plus the federal payment — 400 thousand. You'll receive a total of 2.3 million right after being sent to your unit. On top of the monthly allowance."
Vadim felt something jump inside him. 2.3 million. Right away. Plus three hundred thousand a month. Plus three million rubles in insurance coverage for the family in case of... He forbade himself to think about the last point.
"And if..." he began and faltered. "And if I destroy something in battle? Equipment, a plane?"
The major smirked for real now, showing yellowed, smoke-stained teeth.
"You're thinking far ahead, soldier. But correctly. They pay separately for destroyed enemy equipment. For a downed plane — three hundred thousand. For a helicopter — two hundred. For a tank — one hundred thousand. Not by planes alone, but those are the sums. So if you turn out to be Rambo out there, consider yourself a jackpot winner."
The doctor giggled again, but Vadim wasn't listening. He was counting. 2.3 right away. 300 a month. If he served six months — another 1.8. A total of more than four million in half a year. Plus possible bonuses. Alina could stop working. His mother would pay off the mortgage. His father would buy proper prosthetics.
"Insurance?" he asked, returning to the papers.
"Three million rubles to the family in case of death," the major repeated. "Hope it won't be needed."
Vadim nodded. The papers rustled under his fingers. He took the pen. Signed. Put the date. The second copy — for himself. The third — into the file.
The major extended his hand.
"Congratulations on signing the contract, soldier. In a week we expect you at the military unit at the address indicated in the orders. Bring your passport, military ID, contract, and personal items according to the list. On the day of departure, a minibus from the training center will come for you — at exactly seven in the morning. We know the address."
"Thank you."
Vadim stood up, put the contract in his backpack. He was about to leave when the office door opened without a knock.
A man entered. About forty, in an expensive dark-blue suit, with a badge on his lapel. Descendants Corporation — Department of Cognitive Copying. The man was clean-shaven, smelled of expensive cologne — sweet and woody, with notes of tobacco. His face — unremarkable, the kind you forget a second after you turn away. His gray eyes regarded Vadim calmly, with a hint of amusement, like a car salesman who knows you'll buy the car anyway.
"Forgive the intrusion." His voice was soft, insinuating. "Vadim Viktorovich? My name is Andrei Viktorovich. I represent Descendants Corporation. We cooperate with the Ministry of Defense within the framework of a program of psychological support for servicemen. We have a proposal. It will take three hours of your time."
The major nodded — he knew, he approved.
Vadim frowned.
"What proposal?"
"We want to copy your memory and consciousness onto a digital medium."
Silence hung in the office. The doctor with the mole stopped breathing. Vadim looked at the representative of Descendants Corporation and waited for the catch.
"Why?" he asked.
Andrei Viktorovich sat on the edge of the desk, like an old friend about to tell him something important.
"A lot can happen in war, Vadim Viktorovich. Concussion, memory loss from a wound... and the worst. Your physical body may not return. But your personality — your memories, character, voice — can live on. A copy of consciousness will help restore memory if you suffer trauma. Or help your loved ones survive the loss. Imagine: your mother could talk to you after you're gone. Hear your voice. Get advice."
Vadim smirked. The smirk came out crooked, nervous.
"I'm not planning to die," he said. "I'm planning to come back alive and well. Get married. Have children."
"Of course." Andrei Viktorovich nodded. "No one plans to. But people fasten seatbelts in cars even when they're excellent drivers."
The doctor giggled — nervously, immediately covering her mouth with her palm.
Vadim was silent. A thought was spinning in his head: the idea was remarkable. A copy of consciousness. Immortality in digital form. He'd read about such experiments — the Americans did it, the Chinese, even the Europeans. They said the technology was raw but working.
"And you won't use my copy without my consent?" Vadim asked. His voice came out harsher than he'd planned. "For scams? Creating clones or replacements? What if in five years I retire, and there's already a me who signed documents in my name?"
Andrei Viktorovich smiled. The smile was perfect — neither warm nor cold.
"This is a confidential technology still undergoing testing, Vadim Viktorovich. We are not going to use your copy illegally. Everything strictly within the framework of the signed agreement. The copy will be stored on a secure server and activated only upon the occurrence of one of the conditions: your physical death, severe traumatic brain injury with memory loss, or at your personal request after your return."
"And if I come back alive and well, what happens to the copy?"
"We'll delete it. At your request."
Vadim looked at the major. He nodded. There was essentially no choice — he'd already mentally agreed. Not because he believed in corporate nobility. But because he didn't exactly have three hours to spare, but he was curious. And something else — a vague hope that if something happened to him, his mother wouldn't be left completely alone.
"All right," Vadim said. "I agree."
"Excellent." Andrei Viktorovich clapped his hands — dryly, businesslike. "The copying process will take three hours. You'll be given a sleeping pill if you're not ready to stay awake that long. Many prefer to sleep."
"The sleeping pill," Vadim said. "Let's do that."
"Reasonable decision."
Vadim signed the agreement with Descendants Corporation. Thin sheets, small print, legal language he didn't understand. He signed where they showed him and added the date. Andrei Viktorovich took one copy, left the second for Vadim.
"Follow me."
They went out into the corridor, descended the stairs to the basement. A clean room, painted white. In the middle — a chair like a dentist's, with a headrest and armrests. Around it — equipment: screens, wires, units with blinking lights. It smelled of ozone and something sweet.
"Have a seat."
Vadim sat. The leather upholstery was cool. A technician — a young guy in a white coat — began attaching sensors to his head. Discs with gel, wires, tape. There were many sensors — twenty, thirty. They covered his scalp from forehead to nape.