Echo of Two Worlds
Book 3 — The Trace That Cannot Be Erased

Those Who Chose the Keeper

Lira's Archive

Six hours later

After everything that had happened on the square, the Consortium fell unusually quiet.

Not silent — a station of that size never truly knew how to be silent. Somewhere the engines went on working, drones glided along the corridors, the Archive took in millions of queries, and beyond the panoramic windows the stars turned slowly. But inside our pack, what settled was silence itself: that rare, heavy silence in which everyone heard their own thoughts, and not everyone liked the sound of them.

The Author sat in his new room, the one he had chosen next to his brother and his brother's family. His jacket lay over the back of the armchair, the sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up, and a coffee was going cold on the desk. Anubis had taken the middle of the bed, looking as though the room had been built from the very start for him and no one else.

Someone knocked at the door.

Not the Archive. Not the internal channel. An ordinary human knock.

The Author looked at the door, smirked, and told them to come in.

A young woman from the liberated world stood in the doorway. The same one who had been the first to dare speak on behalf of the people, before she even knew whether they had the right to speak for themselves. Now she wore no uniform, no insignia of the old system. Only plain gray clothes and the weariness of someone who had had to live through several years in the space of a few hours.

She came in, but didn't sit down.

— We have a problem, — she said.

— What you have is freedom, — the Author corrected her calmly. — Problems come included.

The woman didn't smile.

— Millions of people are demanding that you become our new central voice.

The room went very quiet.

Anubis lifted his head, looked at the visitor, and laid his muzzle back on his paws. The Author leaned back in the armchair and studied the woman in silence for several seconds.

— Hey, brother, if it's no trouble, bring a bottle, would you, — the Author asked the Architect over the intercom.

The door opened almost at once. The Architect came in with a bottle of cognac and three glasses, though no one had asked him to bring glasses at all, let alone a third. I appeared behind him. My husband set everything down on the table, looked at the woman, and sat down beside his brother without any unnecessary questions.

The Author poured the cognac, took a sip, then handed a glass to the woman.

— Drink, please, and calm yourself. I'll try to put it very simply. There's a difference between a leader and a patron. A leader leads people because the people themselves chose to follow him. A patron forced people to follow him through fear or other bad reasons. What's happening with you now is natural when an old order collapses and a new one hasn't had time to be born. History is witness to that.

The woman took the glass in both hands, but didn't drink.

— So what do you suggest?

— Those who want a quiet life, — the Author went on, — we'll help find a place, we'll give them all the resources they need to start, and later you'll choose your own leader among yourselves. But those who used weapons and violence, we leave there. Let them kill each other off, however cynical that sounds.

I looked at him more closely. The Architect didn't move, but his fingers stopped lazily turning the empty glass.

— Too simple, — I said. — Among those who took up arms were people defending their families. If you leave everyone who was armed, you'll put the defenders alongside the killers.

For the first time, the woman took a small sip.

— We have no law, — she said quietly. — The old law was the will of the central mind. It's gone. Now one man calls himself a defender, another a liberator, a third an avenger. Each one is certain he's right.

The Architect turned to his brother.

— So one of us has to decide who gets left behind?

The Author looked first at him, then at me, and then at the woman.

— Killing is wrong in any case, no matter what the motives behind it were. But I'll give you an example, and then you decide for yourselves how to live with it. There was a case in my world: a maniac killed people for pleasure. Then another man killed the maniac when he tried to murder the man's daughter. Both are killers. But the man who killed the maniac was found not guilty by the court.

— Because it isn't only the act that matters, — I said. — What matters is what the person was protecting, and what choice he was left with.

— And who will prove that? — the woman asked. — We have billions of testimonies, and everyone is afraid their neighbor will lie first.

At that moment the Archive cautiously intervened:

— A complete array of thought registrations from the former central consciousness has been detected. The Archive contains the intentions, orders, reactions, and personal memories of every connected citizen for the past twenty-seven years.

The woman went pale.

— You can read all of it?

— Technically, yes, — the Archive replied. — Without the subjects' consent, it is a violation of their personal choice.

There it was, the real trap of freedom. Not guns, not a dictator, not someone else's will. The chance to learn the absolute truth at the cost of every person's right to have a secret.

The woman looked at the Author.

— Tell us what to do. Use the archive and punish the guilty? Or destroy it and let the criminals hide among everyone else?

The Author set his glass down on the table.

— My dear woman, even after so many examples and so much talk, you're still trying to get me to decide for you. That isn't going to happen. I gave you freedom; my family is ready to give you a new home. But we will not help you make the decision, because this is your life.

She looked at him for a long time, as if waiting for the hint that was surely bound to follow those words. There was no hint.

— You may get it wrong, — the Architect added quietly. — And that, too, will be your decision.

The woman finally sat down. The glass trembled in her hands, but her voice gradually grew firmer.

— Then the archive will be sealed. Temporarily. Only elected representatives will have access to it, and only for specific cases, when other evidence proves insufficient. The decision to open each record must not rest with a single person. And before we begin the resettlement, everyone will hand in their weapons voluntarily.

— And if they don't? — I asked.

The woman looked me straight in the eye.

— Then they themselves will have chosen to stay.

The Author smiled. Not in triumph, not in condescension. Simply the way one smiles when a person takes a first step without the leash and discovers that the ground beneath their feet hasn't vanished.

She stopped at the door, but turned back before leaving.

— When we find a new world, will you come? Not as a ruler. As a witness.

— I'll be sure to come, — the Author answered with a smile, — but only together with my pack.

◆ ◆ ◆

Three days later

They named the new world Beginning.

The name was simple, almost childlike, and that was exactly why no one changed it. The planet orbited a calm yellow star, two-thirds of its surface was ocean, and the first residential modules already stood on the largest continent. The Consortium had delivered water, power, medical equipment, construction complexes, and food. Everything except a ready-made state.

That, the people had to build themselves.

We stood on a wide plateau above the sea. The Architect was beside me, the Author to his right. Gemini held Earth's Artem by the hand. Gina and Alpha were arguing with Dexter about whether the first popular assembly could be considered historic if half the participants hadn't yet decided where the toilet would go. Pirate had already managed to strike a deal with the local fishermen for a boat that didn't exist yet. Anubis sat at the Author's feet, looking at the wind with contempt.

Thousands of people had gathered before us. Millions were watching over the broadcast.

That same woman stepped up onto a low platform. She had now been chosen as interim coordinator — interim precisely, for thirty days, with the decision revocable at any moment.

— For too long we lived under a law that could not be questioned, — she said. — So the first law of the new world will not be an order. It will be a boundary, beyond which no one will ever again be able to own another person's life.

Words lit up above the platform:

NO PERSON MAY BE DEPRIVED OF THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE THEIR OWN LIFE. BUT NO CHOICE FREES ANYONE FROM RESPONSIBILITY FOR ITS CONSEQUENCES.

The people were silent.

Not because they disagreed. They had simply, for the first time, seen a law that promised freedom and at the same time forgave nothing in advance.

The Author lit a cigar. The Architect looked at him and did the same.

— A disgusting influence, — I remarked.

— Family tradition, — they both answered at once.

I rolled my eyes, and Gemini laughed. The tension on the plateau was finally beginning to let the people go.

And then the sky darkened.

First three dots appeared. Then seven. Then twenty-four heavy ships emerged from the jump directly above the continent. Their hulls still bore the insignia of the old world, and their gun systems were already swinging toward the settlement.

The smiles vanished.

The Archive instantly deployed a defensive perimeter around the civilian modules.

— Incoming communication channel, — Dexter reported.

A hologram of a man in military uniform appeared above the platform. His face was covered in burns, and his gaze held that particular certainty a man acquires when he passes off his own rage as the will of thousands.

— You stole our people, our resources, and our future, — he said. — We have chosen war.

No one on the plateau had time to answer.

The Author laughed, flicked his cigar away, and spread his arms. In the sky above him a wave of fiery energy was born — the same kind the Architect had once created. The flame unfurled into an enormous scarlet wing, covered all the ships for a single instant, and vanished.

There were no explosions.

The engines simply died. The guns fell silent. The shields went out. Twenty-four heavy ships turned into thousands of tons of helpless metal and began to fall.

The Architect raised his hand.

Red light flared in his eyes. The air above the plateau trembled, and the ships stopped. One by one he caught them in a force field, leveled them, and set them down gently on an empty plain a few kilometers from the settlement.

Not a single person died.

The hologram of the military commander flickered, but the connection held.

— You talk about freedom, — he said through his teeth, — and yet you took away our ability to do what we chose. Who gave you the right to impose consequences?

The Author calmly drew on a fresh cigar and said, perfectly calmly:

— Guys, you really ought to see a psychiatrist…

The first chuckle sounded on the plateau. Then a second. Within seconds hundreds of people were laughing — not at a defeated enemy, but at the absurdity of a man who considered freedom to be the right to kill without resistance.

The officer turned crimson.

— You don't understand who you're talking to!

— To people who made a choice, — the woman answered from the platform. — And have now met its consequences.

She turned to the Archive.

— Restore their engines, communications, and life-support systems. Do not restore the weapons. Give every crew member two options: return to the old world, or stay here unarmed and go through an open hearing. The choice is individual. Commanders have no right to answer for the others.

— Confirm that this is your decision, — the Archive demanded.

The woman froze for just a second.

— Confirmed.

The officer's hologram vanished. Out on the plain, the ships' emergency hatches began to open one after another. People came out, looked around at the new world, and understood for the first time that the order which had brought them here could no longer take them back.

The Architect lowered his hand and looked at his brother.

— Tell me honestly. Did you write yourself the prettiest part in advance? Show up at the right moment, kill no one, and get the crowd laughing on top of it?

The Author smirked.

— The moment I stepped into your world, I stopped writing the script, and in all that time I made only two corrections, which you saw for yourselves.

— Archive? — I asked.

— Confirmed, — it replied. — The first correction isolated the link to the hostile reality. The second ended the existence of its central governing intelligence. Since Artem Elkind's entry into the Consortium, no other script changes have been detected. The energy strike on the ships was an application of already existing abilities.

The Architect looked at his brother for several seconds, then held out a cigar to him.

— Then you're starting to improvise.

— Like all normal people, — the Author replied.

I walked over to them, took the cigar before the Author could reach it, and tossed it into the grass.

— And now both normal people are going to help build the medical module.

— This is exploitation of divine entities, — the Author protested.

— Take it up with the family council, — I said.

Behind us, Gemini laughed. Gina was already explaining to Pirate why he couldn't appoint himself minister of the navy on a planet that didn't yet have a single ship. Alpha and Dexter were checking the lists of arrivals. Earth's Artem was helping the first volunteers climb down from the disarmed vessels.

No one was waiting for the next line.

No one knew what tomorrow would bring.

On the stone wall of the first public building, beneath the main law, another inscription appeared. That same woman had proposed it, and it was approved by an ordinary open vote:

THE STORY BEGINS WHERE EVEN THE AUTHOR DOES NOT KNOW WHAT COMES NEXT.

By evening, Anubis had settled down right beneath those words and fallen asleep, paying no attention to the people, the machines, or the noise of the new world.

For the Author he used to be, not knowing would have meant losing control.

For Artem Elkind, for the first time, it meant freedom.

End of Chapter 20

The Price of Non-Interference

Lira's Archive

Twelve Days Later

That evening, for the first time, we allowed ourselves to decide nothing.

The Consortium's common lounge was filled with lazy family talk. Gemini sat beside Earth's Artem, her head on his shoulder. Alpha and Dexter were quietly arguing about the new system of interdimensional transits, while Gina tried, without success, to take a bottle of whiskey away from Pirate, who was hiding it behind his back and insisting with a perfectly innocent face that it didn't exist at all.

The three of us had taken the big couch.

I lay in the middle, with Anubis sleeping peacefully right on top of me, curled into a warm ball. On my right, the Author had fallen asleep without letting go of a glass with the last of his cognac, and on my left my husband dozed, a cigar slowly burning down in the ashtray beside him.

It was a wonder we all fit on one couch at all.

I was afraid to move for fear of waking the cat, and for a while I simply listened to the calm breathing of the two Architects on either side of me.

An ordinary family evening.

An almost forgotten luxury.

Anubis was the first to sense trouble.

He suddenly lifted his head, flattened his ears and hissed softly at the empty wall.

The Author and the Architect opened their eyes at the same time.

My husband was on his feet instantly. The Author lay motionless for a few more seconds, as if trying to work out what exactly had woken the cat, then calmly set his glass on the table.

— Emergency transit detected from the planet Beginning, — the Archive said. — Identifier confirmed. Request for immediate portal opening.

The merriment in the lounge broke off.

Gemini straightened up. Dexter unfolded a holographic panel in front of him. Pirate stopped hiding the bottle, and for the first time Gina didn't even try to take it.

The Architect looked at his brother.

The Author gave an almost imperceptible nod.

— Open it, — my husband ordered.

A portal flared in the middle of the lounge.

A woman from the planet Beginning literally fell out of it — the same one the settlers had elected as their interim coordinator. Her clothes were torn; her face was covered in blood, dust and black ash.

In her arms she held a little girl of about seven.

The child wasn't moving.

The woman fell to her knees.

— Help her…

Earth's Artem reached her first. He carefully took the girl, laid her on the floor and pressed his palm to her bloodied chest.

The Archive instantly deployed a medical field.

Gemini knelt beside the child. Her hands were trembling, but her movements remained flawlessly precise.

— Penetrating wound, — she said. — The lung and several major vessels are damaged.

— Vital signs critical, — the Archive confirmed. — Beginning restoration.

For several endless seconds, no one said a word.

I went to the woman and helped her up.

She could barely stand.

— What happened?

The woman didn't look at me.

She looked at the Author.

— They came back.

The Author rose slowly from the couch.

— Who? — the Architect asked coldly.

— The people from the ships we let go.

The lounge went dead silent.

— Not all the crews obeyed their commanders, — the woman went on. — Many stayed on Beginning. Others used the restored engines and went back to the old world.

She ran a hand over her face, smearing blood across her cheek.

— They had no weapons. But they knew our coordinates. Knew the locations of the settlements, the medical centers, the defense systems. Eleven days later, they brought another fleet.

A hologram appeared above the table.

We saw the city we had so recently helped build with our own hands.

Now, where the residential modules had stood, ruins were burning. The medical center had been destroyed. Columns of black smoke rose over the coast. Rescue teams moved between the shattered buildings, carrying out the wounded and the dead.

An overturned metal frame lay on a playground. Beside it lay a small toy, covered in grey ash.

The Archive began its report:

— Eight hundred and forty-three deaths confirmed. Two thousand one hundred and sixteen wounded, of varying severity. One hundred and seventy people listed as missing.

The Architect slowly rose to his full height.

The cigar slipped from his fingers and went out on the floor.

I knew my husband too well to be fooled by his outward calm. The red light wasn't only in his eyes. Thin scarlet lines showed beneath the skin of his neck and hands, and the air around him began to tremble.

— The attackers' coordinates, — he demanded.

— Established, — the Archive replied. — The main group has returned to the old world. Confirmation received of preparations for a second strike.

— Lock down all transits. Bring the Consortium to full combat readiness.

— Brother… — the Author said.

The Architect turned sharply toward him.

For the first time since they had met, there was no mockery in my husband's eyes, no respectful curiosity, no brotherly warmth.

— Not now.

The woman took a step forward.

— I'm the one who let them go, — she whispered.

The Architect looked at her.

— You gave me a choice, — the woman went on. — I decided to give them back their engines. I decided they had the right to leave.

— You couldn't have known what they would do, — I said.

— But I knew who they were!

Her voice broke into a scream.

— I saw that they had come to kill us! I saw their faces! I heard their threats! And I let them go anyway, because I wanted to prove we were better than the old system. That freedom was really worth something!

The woman looked at the motionless girl, the medical field still shimmering above her.

— Now I know exactly what it's worth.

— The child's condition has been stabilized, — the Archive reported. — Damaged organs restored. Threat to life eliminated.

A single breath of relief passed through the lounge.

Gemini carefully lifted the girl into her arms.

She moaned weakly and opened her eyes.

— Mama?..

The woman covered her mouth with her hand and burst into tears.

She rushed to her daughter, sank down beside her and pulled her close. The girl didn't yet understand where she was, but she wrapped her arms around her mother's neck.

Everyone was watching them.

Everyone except the Architect.

He kept looking at his brother.

— You defend the right to choose, — my husband said quietly. — And I defend those who will never choose anything again, because they were killed.

— Architect… — I began.

— No, Lira.

He pointed at the hologram of the ruined city.

— We let fanatics go only because at that moment they had no weapons left. We gave them back their engines, let them leave, and now eight hundred and forty-three people are dead.

— That was the decision of the people of Beginning, — Alpha reminded him.

Her father turned to her.

— And they paid for it in blood.

— You have no right to blame her for not seeing the future! — Gina said sharply.

— I'm not blaming her!

The station's walls shuddered at his voice.

The girl pressed herself against her mother in fright.

The Architect saw it and closed his eyes. The red glow dimmed for a moment, but didn't disappear.

— Then who are you blaming? — Earth's Artem asked.

My husband looked at the Author.

The answer was obvious.

The woman carefully got to her feet, still holding her daughter in her arms.

— If you go there now, it will be war. After the first attack, thousands in the old world wanted to leave. If the Consortium attacks, the authorities will declare them traitors and wipe them out.

— And if I stay here, — the Architect replied, — thousands more will die on Beginning.

— Then the choice must be ours, — the woman said. — Not yours.

— You already chose.

She flinched as if he had struck her.

I stepped in front of my husband.

— Enough.

He looked me in the eye.

— Tell that to the dead.

Something inside me snapped.

— Don't you dare talk to me like that just because you're in pain!

The lounge shook a second time — this time from my power.

The Architect froze.

I had never been afraid of him. Not when he lost control, not when the red light flooded his eyes completely, not when space itself began to come apart around him.

But now it wasn't myself I was afraid for.

I was afraid that, for the first time, our family faced a choice in which every possible answer made someone guilty.

Gemini gripped Earth's Artem's hand tightly. Gina and Alpha stood side by side. Pirate silently set the bottle on the table. Dexter cut all external communication channels, leaving only us.

The Author walked slowly up to his brother.

Red light flared in his eyes as well.

They stood facing each other — two beings of equal power, two sides of a single nature.

One was ready to let a human make a mistake, because without the right to make mistakes, freedom became a beautiful cage.

The other no longer intended to wait for the next mistake, because he had seen its price with his own eyes.

Less than a meter remained between the brothers.

Anubis jumped down from the couch, walked over to them and calmly sat down exactly in the middle.

The Architect lowered his gaze to the cat, then looked his brother in the eye again.

— You came here as the Keeper of Choice, — my husband said. — Then tell me, brother: how many more people have to die before their right to live matters more than a killer's right to make his choice?

No one moved.

Even the Archive was silent.

Everyone was waiting for Artem Elkind's answer.

— I don't know, brother. Honestly, I don't, — the Author answered calmly. — But you can't watch over and protect everyone, always. One day you'll simply tear yourself apart. We did everything we could for them. And you and I also have a family that needs our protection too. Think about that.

The Architect said nothing.

None of us had expected those words from the Author. Not because they were wrong. On the contrary — there was a truth in them so simple and so merciless that it was harder to argue with than any beautiful philosophy.

My husband looked at me, then at Gina and Alpha. His gaze lingered on his daughters, then moved on to Gemini, Earth's Artem, Pirate and Dexter.

On our family.

The red glow in his eyes began slowly to fade.

I almost believed his brother had managed to get through to him.

But the Architect looked at the ruined city again.

— I have thought about it, — he said. — And that's exactly why I can't stay here.

The Author frowned.

— Because one day the threat will reach our family. Not necessarily today. Not necessarily in a year. But those who are killing defenseless people now won't stop at one world. They already know about the Consortium. They know about the transits. They know about us.

The Architect went to the hologram and enlarged the image of the enemy fleet.

— As long as they think of us as observers, they'll keep testing how much more blood they can spill before we intervene.

— So you want to destroy them just in case? — Earth's Artem asked.

— No. I want to destroy their weapons, their command and their ability to attack again.

— And if they build ships again? — Alpha asked.

— I'll destroy them again.

— And then?

— Again.

— And how many times do you intend to do that?

The Architect looked at his daughter but didn't answer.

— That's exactly what he's telling you, Dad, — Alpha said gently. — You really will tear yourself apart. Not physically. Inside.

— And if we do nothing, — Gina cut in, — it's the survivors who'll be torn apart inside.

The sisters looked at each other.

Even they, for the first time, stood on opposite sides.

— I didn't say we should do nothing, — Alpha replied.

— But while we debate the limits of freedom, the enemy is preparing a second strike!

— And if Father decides everything for the people of Beginning, how will he be any different from the consciousness that controlled them before?

Gina's eyes flared red.

— Because Father isn't forcing them to live! He's stopping others from killing them!

— Enough! — Gemini ordered.

Both girls fell silent.

But it was too late.

The crack that had opened between the brothers had already run through the whole Pack.

Pirate stood beside Gina.

— If the attackers are preparing a new strike, I'm going with the Architect.

Dexter stayed by Alpha.

— And I think we first need the consent of the people of Beginning, and to understand what they want to achieve. Protection, evacuation or war.

— While you're running your survey, they'll strike, — Pirate shot back.

— And while you're shooting, the people who'll die are the ones you never even asked whether they wanted to take part in your war.

Pirate stepped toward him.

— Did you just call me a murderer?

— I called you a man who picks up a weapon first and formulates the question afterward.

Gina grabbed her husband's arm, and Alpha stepped in front of Dexter.

I looked at our family and didn't recognize it.

A few minutes ago we had been lying on the same couch, laughing and trying to share out a bottle of whiskey. Now the brothers stood against each other, the daughters defended opposite decisions, and their husbands were ready to settle who was right with their fists.

There it was — the true price of choice.

Not the kind you can carve handsomely into a stone wall.

The kind after which people who love each other stop understanding each other for the first time.

— Stop it, — I said.

No one heard.

— I said, stop it!

An azure energy wave slammed through the room. It hurt no one, but it pushed everyone apart and blocked their abilities for a few seconds.

I stood at the very center of the lounge.

— Look at yourselves! This is exactly what the attackers wanted. They haven't even struck a second time, and our family is already at war with itself!

Pirate lowered his head. Dexter straightened his shirt and silently stepped back to Alpha.

Gina was still breathing hard.

The Architect was looking only at the Author.

— You said our family needs protection, — he said. — Look around. Right now it needs protection from us.

Those words hit harder than the energy wave.

The woman from Beginning carefully handed her daughter to Gemini and stepped forward.

— You all talk about our right to choose. Then give us the chance to make that choice.

She looked at the Architect.

— Don't destroy them in our place.

Then she turned to the Author.

— But don't leave us alone either, just because you already helped us once.

The Author listened closely.

— We're not asking you to become our rulers, — the woman went on. — We're asking you to stand beside us. To protect our cities while we decide for ourselves what to do next.

The Architect crossed his arms over his chest.

— A defensive perimeter will stop the second strike. But it won't remove the threat.

— Then after the evacuation we'll decide for ourselves whether we're ready to fight.

— People may be afraid.

— That's their right.

— They may be wrong.

— That's their right too.

The Architect looked at his brother.

— I recognize your influence.

— No, — the woman replied. — This is my choice.

My husband fell silent.

For the first time, doubt appeared in his eyes.

But at that same moment the Archive interrupted us:

— Enemy fleet launch detected. Arrival at the planet Beginning in nine minutes forty seconds.

A countdown appeared above the table.

00: 09: 40

00: 09: 39

00: 09: 38

The woman went pale.

— The rescue teams are still down there.

— Four hundred and twenty thousand people will not be able to leave the strike zone in time, — the Archive reported.

The Architect turned instantly toward the exit.

The Author grabbed his shoulder.

My husband stopped.

The whole station seemed to freeze with him.

— Take your hand off me, brother, — the Architect said quietly.

The Author didn't.

Red light flared again in both their eyes.

— If you intend to keep me here, — my husband went on, — say it now. Right here, in front of everyone.

He turned his whole body to face the Author.

— In nine minutes, hundreds of thousands of people will die. We have no more time to discuss philosophy. So choose, Keeper: are you coming with me to protect them — or are you going to try to stop me?

The Author's eyes blazed a blinding red. His voice went low, hoarse and truly wolfish:

— Oh, brother, I won't just try to stop you. I'll toss you the hell out of this reality with one snap of my fingers — I won't even need the smartphone — until you stop behaving like an infantile child!

The lounge sank into absolute silence.

Even the Archive's countdown seemed to grow quieter.

00: 08: 47

00: 08: 46

00: 08: 45

The Architect looked slowly down at the Author's hand, still resting on his shoulder.

Then he raised his eyes.

The red glow in his eyes darkened. It no longer resembled fire — more like two white-hot points in the depths of an abyss.

— An infantile child? — he repeated.

— Architect, don't, — I warned.

He didn't hear me.

— Hundreds of thousands of people will be under fire in eight minutes, and you call the one who intends to protect them a child?

The air between the brothers trembled.

Anubis hissed and retreated to the couch. Gemini held the rescued girl close. Earth's Artem stood beside her, shielding them both with his body.

— Dad, stop, — Alpha said.

— Stay out of this.

— Right now is exactly when I have to get involved!

The Architect turned his head toward his daughter.

— Do you really think I should let them die?

— No! I think you should stop acting as if you're the only one who can save them!

Those words made him freeze.

Alpha came closer.

— We're here, Dad. Your whole family. The Consortium. The Archive. Millions of people you helped to win their freedom. But once again you've decided you have to throw yourself alone against an entire world.

— Because there's no time.

— There is time, — Dexter cut in. — If we stop wasting it threatening each other.

He unfolded a tactical hologram.

— The Consortium can raise a defensive perimeter around Beginning in twenty-seven seconds. It requires the personal presence of neither the Architect nor the Author.

The Architect looked at the diagram.

— Why didn't you say so earlier?

Dexter held his gaze.

— Because you were both too busy establishing which of you has the right to decide for everyone else.

Gina whistled softly.

— Bold.

— But objective, — Dexter replied.

Pirate looked at the two brothers and, for the first time in all this, stood beside him.

— Dexter's right. First we get the people under a shield. After that you can throw each other into whatever realities you like.

— Archive, deploy the defensive perimeter, — the woman from Beginning ordered.

— Transferring the Consortium's energy to an independent world requires confirmation from one of that world's owners, — the Archive reported.

Everyone looked at her.

She straightened.

— I am the interim coordinator and I act with the consent of the settlers. I confirm the request for protection. We accept the Consortium's help, but we retain the right to determine our further actions ourselves.

— Request accepted.

A blue ring flared above the hologram.

It expanded rapidly and enveloped the entire planet Beginning.

DEFENSIVE PERIMETER ACTIVATED.

The countdown kept running, but now it no longer looked like a death sentence.

The Architect's shoulders relaxed a little. But the Author's hand was still on him.

— Take your hand off me.

The Author slowly let go.

— So this is what your defense of the freedom of choice looks like, — the Architect said. — When I choose something you don't like, you threaten to throw me out of reality.

— He was trying to stop you, — I said.

— I had already stopped.

— After you found out about the defensive perimeter.

— Exactly. Because there was a way to save people without an immediate attack. But he threatened me before he knew about that possibility.

The Author said nothing.

— You called yourself the Keeper of Choice, — the Architect went on. — You said you'd stopped writing the script. That we were no longer your characters. That you came here as a brother, not as a god. And the moment I made a decision you disagreed with, you reminded me straight away that you can erase me with a snap of your fingers.

— He didn't say he'd erase you, — Gemini objected. — He said he'd throw you out of this reality.

— A huge difference, — the Architect smirked bitterly. — Especially for a man who has already lost his world once.

I went to my husband and took his hand.

He didn't push me away, but he didn't squeeze my fingers in return either.

That frightened me more than his rage.

— You were ready to start a war, — I reminded him.

— I was ready to stop the second strike.

— Alone.

— I never asked anyone to follow me.

— That's the problem! You never ask! You just decide you have to carry everything on your own, and then you wonder why we're afraid of losing you!

He looked at me.

For a brief moment, pain showed in his eyes.

— I'm immortal, Lira.

— Your body is. And everything else?

The Architect had no answer.

The hologram of Beginning kept turning above us. The enemy fleet was approaching, but the defensive perimeter was already ready to take the blow.

The woman took her daughter back from Gemini and held her close.

The girl looked at the Architect for a while, then at the Author.

— Are you brothers? — she asked quietly.

No one answered.

— Mama says brothers are supposed to protect each other.

The Architect closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the red light was gone.

— Your mama is right.

He looked at the Author.

— But a brother shouldn't threaten to destroy your place in the world just because he got angry.

— You were speaking out of rage too, — Earth's Artem pointed out.

— I threatened the enemy. Not my family.

Those words split the room for good.

On the tactical map, the first enemy ships reached the planet and opened fire. Hundreds of energy charges struck the defensive perimeter and dissolved in blue radiance.

The people on Beginning were safe.

But our family no longer was.

My husband looked his brother straight in the eye again.

— Answer me honestly, Artem. Not as the Author. Not as the Keeper, and not as a being who can rewrite reality. As my brother: will you really throw me out of this reality if one day I make another decision you disagree with?

The Author suddenly laughed. The red light in his eyes went out completely.

— No. And I never would have. But my words did stop you, didn't they? That's called the psychology of control.

For a few seconds the Architect just looked at him.

Then he nodded slowly.

— The psychology of control…

There was no rage left in his voice. And that was exactly why I grew more uneasy.

— So you deliberately made me believe you could take away my home, my family and my very right to exist in this reality?

— He stopped you without using force, — Earth's Artem pointed out.

— With a threat.

— Which he never meant to carry out, — Gemini added.

The Architect turned to her.

— And I was supposed to guess that?

Gemini fell silent.

— But you could feel he wouldn't hurt you, — I said.

— I felt his power. His rage. I heard the voice of a man who once really could change my fate with a single sentence. And that man said he would throw me out of reality.

The smile began to fade from the Author's face.

— You just admitted you controlled my decision with fear.

— Brother, you're overdoing it, — Pirate cut in. — He just brought you to your senses.

— Then let him say so. Let him say: "I made you afraid because I decided I knew better than you what you should do."

The room went quiet again.

I understood what exactly had wounded my husband. Not the threat itself. For millennia he had looked into the faces of beings capable of destroying stars. He couldn't be frightened by death, pain or war.

But the Author had threatened to take away the one thing the Architect was truly afraid of losing.

Us.

The family he had been building for longer than some civilizations had existed.

And he had done it to get the reaction he wanted.

— You talk about the psychology of control as if it justified everything, — the Architect went on. — But controlling other people's choices is exactly what we destroyed in the previous chapter of our lives.

The Author narrowed his eyes.

— That's different.

— Why?

— Because you still had a choice.

— No. You made me believe that one of the options would lead to banishment from reality. That's not a free choice. That's pressure.

Alpha lowered her eyes.

The Architect looked at the line above the main screen:

DEFENSIVE PERIMETER STABLE.

— You stopped me, — my husband admitted. — Maybe it really did save us from a hasty decision. But don't call it defending freedom. You manipulated me. And the worst part is that you're laughing, because you think the result is justification enough.

— Architect, — I said, — he just admitted he would never have done it.

— I heard.

— Then what do you want?

— For my brother to understand the difference between stopping me and controlling me.

Those words made the Author grow more serious.

At that moment the Archive reported:

— Change in enemy tactics detected. The fleet has ceased fire on the defensive perimeter.

Above the planet, the ships began to regroup.

— Are they retreating? — the woman asked.

— No, — Dexter replied. — They're splitting up.

Several dozen new trajectories appeared on the hologram.

Some of the ships stayed near Beginning, holding our attention. The rest were leaving through transits.

— Where are they headed? — Gina asked.

— Targets undetermined, — the Archive replied. — Probably civilian transport routes and other settlements of the freed people.

The woman went pale.

— We have seventeen settler convoys. They carry no weapons.

— They realized they can't break the shield, — Pirate said. — So they're forcing us to split our forces.

The Architect turned instantly to the tactical map, but this time he gave no orders.

He looked at the woman.

— Your people. Your decision.

She was at a loss.

— We can cover all seventeen convoys with defensive perimeters, — Dexter reported. — But then the Consortium's energy grid will be overloaded. Beginning's defense will weaken by roughly forty percent.

— And destroying the enemy ships? — Gina asked.

— Possible, — the Architect replied. — Quickly, and with no risk to the convoys.

He looked pointedly at the Author.

— But now I'm afraid I'll be accused of being infantile again.

— Dad, don't start, — Alpha pleaded.

— I'm not starting anything. I'm asking permission, since my own decisions are no longer trusted here.

I squeezed his hand.

— We trust you. But trust doesn't mean silent agreement with everything you do.

The woman stepped toward the hologram.

— Shield them. All of them.

— Beginning's defense will weaken, — Dexter reminded her.

— I understand.

— If the main fleet resumes the attack, some of the charges may get through the perimeter.

The woman closed her eyes.

— Then evacuate the children to the underground shelters. Armed volunteers will stay on the surface and defend the generators.

The Archive requested confirmation.

— Confirmed, — she said.

The Consortium directed its energy to the convoys. On the hologram, protective spheres flared around the seventeen transport groups.

The woman had made her own choice.

And accepted its consequences.

The Architect watched the operation in silence. Then he turned to the Author.

— Now I've stopped on my own. Not because I was frightened by your threat. Because the person whose life my decision affects asked me herself not to attack.

He came up close to his brother, almost touching.

— I'll forgive you those words. I understand why you said them. In your place, I might have gone even harder.

The Architect held out his hand.

— But if we really are brothers, never control me again. Argue. Shout. Hit me if I completely lose my head. But don't use my family and my fear of losing it as a tool. Agreed, brother?

— Agreed. I went too far as well. That's exactly why we really are brothers, — the Author said, and held out his hand.

The Architect looked at his palm for a few seconds.

Then he shook it firmly.

The red light in both their eyes went out for good.

— Next time just punch me in the face, — my husband said.

— I'm afraid the station wouldn't survive it, — the Author smirked.

— Then we'll pick a planet nobody will miss.

I walked up to the brothers and smacked them both on the back of the head at once.

— That's for threatening to destroy reality in my lounge.

The Author rubbed the back of his head.

— Actually, I only threatened to throw him out of reality.

I hit him again.

— And that's for the clarification.

The Architect smirked.

— Now we've really made peace.

Anubis walked over, sniffed their clasped hands and rubbed against both their legs, officially confirming the restoration of family relations.

But the Archive didn't let us relax.

— Critical drop detected in the power of Beginning's defensive perimeter.

Dexter spun toward the hologram.

— How critical?

— Fifty-eight percent. Still falling.

— We expected forty, — Alpha said. — Where's the other eighteen coming from?

Her fingers flew across the panel.

On the planet's surface, the generators began going dark one after another.

— That's not an overload, — Dexter said. — Someone is shutting them down manually.

The woman went pale.

— Only the interim council has access to the generators.

— Then there's a traitor on your council, — Pirate concluded.

— Or a person who made a different choice, — the Architect remarked coldly.

The Author looked at his brother.

— No digs right now.

— Agreed.

The face of an elderly man appeared on the central screen. I recognized him: three days ago he had stood beside the woman when Beginning's First Law was adopted. He was the one who had proposed destroying the old system's thought archive completely, so that no one could ever use another person's past against them again.

Now the man was in the planet's main energy center.

Behind him lay the bodies of the guards.

— I have seized the channel, — he announced. — I hope the Keeper and the Architect can hear me.

— We hear you, — the woman replied. — What have you done?

— What you didn't have the courage to do. I'm ending the war.

— You're shutting down our defenses!

— The defenses only prolong the suffering. The old world has offered us peace in exchange for our return.

— They killed eight hundred people!

— Because you refused to submit. Every death from now on will be on your conscience.

The woman stared at him in utter shock.

— The people chose to stay on Beginning.

— The people are frightened and don't understand what they're choosing.

The Architect slowly turned to his brother. His look said: "Now do you understand?" But he kept his promise and said nothing.

— You decided for millions of people on your own, — the woman said.

— I'm saving them from the wrong choice.

The Author stopped smiling.

The elderly man saw his expression and smirked.

— Don't look at me like that, Keeper. I listened carefully to your words. Every choice has consequences. I've made mine, and I'm ready to accept them.

— You killed the guards, — Gina said.

— They tried to stop me.

— Their right to live turned out to be less important than your right to switch off the generators?

— Sometimes freedom has to be sacrificed for the salvation of all.

The Architect looked at the Author.

— Now that is what's called the psychology of control.

The Author slowly turned his head toward him.

— I said: no digs.

— Not a word.

On the hologram, Beginning's defenses kept weakening.

PERIMETER POWER: 41%

The enemy fleet began charging its guns again.

— Forty-two seconds to the salvo, — the Archive reported.

— The generators can't be restored remotely, — Dexter said. — The traitor has cut the connection to the central grid.

— I can jump there and switch them on by hand, — the Architect said.

— He's expecting that, — Alpha objected. — A spatial charge has been detected in the energy center. If you appear inside, the station will blow.

— That won't kill me.

— But it will destroy half the continent!

Pirate unfolded a diagram of the complex.

— We can't get in through an ordinary portal either. Every entry point is mined.

The woman looked at the two brothers.

— Do something!

The Architect didn't move.

Instead, he turned to the Author.

No order. No demand. No attempt to decide for everyone.

He simply stood beside his brother.

Shoulder to shoulder.

— One of us knows how to destroy threats, — the Architect said. — The other claims to understand the psychology of control better.

The familiar wolfish grin appeared on his face.

— Your move, brother. How do we save the planet without taking away its right to choose?

— I realize, of course, that everyone is sick to death of my laughing. And yes, I promised not to write the script anymore. And I won't — I'll just give our portal technology a little boost.

The Author took out his smartphone, quickly typed something and put it back in his pocket.

— We'll jump right under his nose, brother. The two of us. Literally. If we can't come to terms, we eliminate him. He's already guilty of a thousand deaths, so I don't think my conscience will torment me.

The Archive reacted immediately:

— Change detected in the Consortium's technological parameters. The change does not affect events, decisions or the consciousness of living beings. The portal system has acquired the ability to ignore local spatial blockers. The amendment is classified as technological, not scripted.

— Convenient, — Gina remarked.

— Very, — the Author agreed.

The Architect smirked.

— If we really do turn up under his nose, I officially forgive you the psychology of control.

— Twenty seconds to the enemy salvo, — the Archive reported.

My husband came over to me. He said nothing. He simply touched his forehead to mine.

— Come back, — I whispered.

— If you call me.

— I always call.

The Architect kissed me, then turned to his daughters.

— Don't let Pirate take command of the station.

— Why me, right away? — Pirate protested.

— Because Dexter won't paint a pirate flag on the hull.

— Hey, not a bad idea…

— Pirate! — Gina and Alpha said in unison.

The Author stood beside his brother.

— Archive, new portal. Exit point — directly in front of our diplomat.

— Distance to the subject?

The Author looked at the hologram of the elderly man.

— About ten centimeters from his nose.

Even the Archive paused briefly.

— Confirming transit construction.

A thin vertical line appeared before the brothers. The line opened into a portal.

— Let's go, brother, — the Architect said.

They stepped inside.

The portal closed.

◆ ◆ ◆

We watched what happened through the Architect's sensors.

The transit worked exactly as the Author had promised.

The brothers appeared in the energy center literally ten centimeters from the traitor's face.

The man cried out and recoiled. The back of his head struck the control panel, and the weapon fell from his hand.

— Well, hello there, — the Architect said calmly.

The Author stood beside him, grinning broadly.

— Portal system functioning normally, — the Archive reported. — Spatial charge not activated.

— Why? — Alpha asked.

Dexter enlarged the image of the detonator.

— The fuse is designed to respond to changes in the spatial field near the entrances. They appeared inside the guarded zone without crossing its boundaries.

— He really did just write the portals the ability to cheat, — Gina concluded.

The traitor tried to reach for the weapon.

The Architect put his boot on it.

— I wouldn't.

— You don't understand what you're doing! — the man shouted. — If Beginning keeps resisting, the old world will destroy everyone!

— So you decided to help it? — the Architect asked.

— I decided to save my people!

— By killing the guards and shutting down the shield?

— Their deaths will save millions!

The Architect turned to the Author.

— He's yours. I'm not steady enough for diplomacy right now.

The enemy fleet fired its salvo.

Hundreds of energy charges streaked toward the planet. The weakened defensive perimeter flared. For a few seconds the whole hologram went white.

Then the image returned.

— The perimeter held, — the Archive reported. — Residual power — nine percent. The next salvo will be critical.

— Time to the next attack — one minute twenty seconds, — Dexter added.

The Author went to the generator panel.

— Simply switching them on won't be enough, — the Archive warned. — The control circuits have been physically locked.

The elderly man laughed.

— I destroyed the access keys. They can't be restored.

The Architect squatted down in front of him.

— You do realize that standing next to you are two beings for whom the word "impossible" sounds like a personal insult?

— Kill me, — the man replied. — It won't change anything.

The Author studied him closely.

— He's lying, — the Architect said. — His pulse quickened when the Archive mentioned the physical lock. The keys exist.

— You won't get them.

The man raised his hand. In his palm was a small device with a single red sensor.

— A biometric dead-man switch, — the Archive identified. — If the owner's heart stops or the device leaves his hand, the spatial charge will activate.

The Architect rose slowly.

— So elimination is off the table for now.

— I told you: there's nothing you can do, — the traitor smirked.

— You overestimate your own importance, — my husband replied. — We just haven't decided yet how unpleasant your rescue is going to be.

— Fifty seconds to the next salvo, — the Archive reported.

The Author looked at the panel, then at the device in the man's hand.

— I'm not afraid of death, — the man declared.

— People who aren't afraid of death don't usually wire a sensor to their own heartbeat, — the Architect observed.

The smile vanished from the traitor's face.

My husband turned to his brother.

— You wanted to negotiate first. I promised not to interfere.

He stepped away from the prisoner, pointedly put his hands in his pockets and leaned a shoulder against the wall.

— So the stage is yours, brother.

The traitor looked at the Author.

— You call yourself the Keeper of Choice. Then acknowledge my choice. I decided to bring our people home, even if some of them have to be sacrificed for it.

A new countdown appeared on the hologram.

00: 00: 31

00: 00: 30

00: 00: 29

— You can't defend freedom and stop me from making decisions at the same time, — the man went on. — If you stop me, you'll prove that your fine words mean nothing.

He gripped the biometric dead-man switch tighter.

— So who will you turn out to be now, Artem Elkind? The Keeper of Choice — or one more god who allows people only the decisions he happens to like?

The Author looked at the man without the faintest smile.

— I think the psychiatrists would agree with me if I said you lost your right to choose the moment you crossed the Rubicon of death and began killing innocent people. You're no longer a human being. You're a maniac. A dictator who decided everything for everyone else without even asking them.

He took a pistol from his pocket and pressed it point-blank against the man's head.

— You have no idea how badly I want to do this. And when I do, you'll die and lose anyway. The weapon is from my reality — your dead-man switch won't trigger a thing. So you have five more seconds to think. Otherwise you lose everything.

The traitor tried to smirk, but his lips wouldn't obey him.

— You're bluffing.

The Author cocked the hammer.

— Five.

— If you shoot, the charge will destroy the continent!

— Four.

— You call yourself the Keeper, but you're ready to kill without a trial!

— Three.

The man looked at the Architect.

— Stop him!

— I already tried making decisions for everyone, — the Architect replied calmly. — Today I was told that's infantile.

— Two, — the Author said.

Real fear appeared in the traitor's eyes.

— You won't do it.

The Author pressed the barrel a little harder against his forehead.

— One.

— Code seven-nine-alpha-four! — the man cried out. — Emergency confirmation — "Return"!

Dexter entered the sequence instantly.

— Code accepted! — the Archive reported. — Biometric dead-man switch disabled. Spatial charge deactivated.

The Architect was beside him before the man could understand anything. He tore the device from his hand, grabbed the traitor by the collar and flung him away from the central panel.

The Author didn't lower the pistol.

— Restoring the control circuits, — Dexter said.

On the hologram, the generators lit up one after another.

DEFENSIVE PERIMETER POWER: 17%

34%

62%

100%

The enemy fleet fired its second salvo.

The energy charges reached the planet and shattered against the fully restored shield, turning into a vast scarlet glow that covered the whole horizon for several seconds.

Beginning held.

All seventeen civilian convoys were under protection as well.

Voices of relief rose in the Consortium's lounge, but I kept watching the Author.

He was still holding the pistol at the traitor's head.

— Brother, — the Architect said quietly. — It's over.

— For the planet, yes, — the man replied, trying to get up. — But not for you.

The Author shifted his gaze to him.

— You showed everyone your true face. You threatened to execute an unarmed man. You manipulated with fear. You took away my right to end the war.

— You weren't ending the war, — the Architect said. — You were opening the enemy's road to defenseless people.

— That's your version.

— No. It's physical reality. A very stubborn thing — even my brother can't always rewrite it.

The man looked at the Author.

— You said killing is wrong regardless of the motive. And now you're ready to become a killer yourself.

The Author didn't answer.

The Architect walked over and gently laid his palm on the barrel of the pistol.

For a few seconds the brothers looked each other in the eye.

Then my husband slowly pushed the weapon aside.

He didn't take it.

Didn't order him to put it away.

He simply reminded him that he was standing beside him.

The Author lowered his hand.

— Target neutralized, — the Archive reported. — Beginning's security forces have regained control of the energy center.

Armed fighters entered the room. They surrounded the traitor, put blocking bracelets on him and hauled him up off the floor.

The woman came on the channel.

— Bring him to the square. The trial will be public.

The man laughed.

— You still think these people are capable of judging me? Half of them were begging me yesterday to save them from the war.

— Then they'll have the right to speak, — she replied. — Unlike the ones you killed.

— And if they choose my death?

The woman fell silent.

— Then that will be our first real test, — she said. — Not of your power. Of our law.

The traitor was led away.

The Author put the pistol back in his pocket.

The Architect looked closely at the weapon.

— Would it really not have set off the charge? — he asked.

— Analysis impossible, — the Archive replied. — The object does not belong to this reality and does not interact with the local threat-detection system in the standard way.

My husband chuckled softly.

— So he wasn't bluffing.

The woman appeared before them over a holographic channel. Her daughter stood beside her, holding tightly to her mother's hand.

— Keeper, — she addressed the Author. — This man must stand trial. But first I want to know the truth.

She looked at him without fear.

— If he hadn't given the code in the last second… would you really have pulled the trigger?

The Author smirked and lit a cigar.

— My dear woman, he would have given the codes anyway, because he very much wanted to live. Or, as they say in my reality: "You can't breathe your fill before you die."

The woman kept looking at him.

— You didn't answer my question.

The Architect laughed softly.

— Now you understand what it's like talking to him.

The Author turned his head to his brother.

— You just stood there and enjoyed the show.

— I was sure he'd give in.

— So we were both right.

— That's still not an answer, — the woman said.

The smile vanished from the Author's face.

For a while he smoked in silence, watching the blazing sky of Beginning.

I could feel he didn't want to answer. Not because he feared judgment. The Author had never been especially afraid of that.

He simply didn't know himself what would have happened after the word "zero."

Would he have pulled the trigger?

Would he have lowered the weapon?

Would he have found another way?

Before, he could have written any of those options and made it the only right one. Now there was no script. For the first time, even the Author came to know himself only after the choice was made.

The Architect looked at the woman.

— He was counting on fear. And he was right.

— And if he'd been wrong?

— Then we'd be discussing a very different story right now.

— Are you defending him?

— No. I understand him. That's far more dangerous.

The Author smirked.

— That's why we're brothers.

The defensive perimeter shuddered again. Dozens of explosions flared above the horizon.

— The main fleet has increased the power of its guns, — the Archive reported. — The shield will withstand four more salvos.

The Architect turned serious at once.

— Is diplomacy over now?

— No, — the woman replied. — We've made a decision.

Hundreds of communication channels opened above the planet. The faces of Beginning's people appeared on the screen: men, women, rescuers, doctors, workers, former soldiers.

— The vote is complete, — she went on. — Eighty-one percent of citizens refused to return to the old world. Seventy-four percent supported the use of force only to defend the planet and the civilian convoys. The destruction of enemy crews was not approved.

Pirate exhaled in displeasure.

— So no shooting?

— Weapons and engines you may destroy, — the woman replied. — People — no.

— Now we have official permission, — the Architect said.

— A new circumstance detected, — Dexter reported unexpectedly. — The enemy's orders are being transmitted from a single command ship. The other crews have no direct access to communication with Beginning.

— They've been isolated, — Alpha realized.

— The commanders are afraid the soldiers will hear an offer to surrender, — Gina added.

The Architect smirked.

— We take out the communications hub and give every ship an individual choice.

— And if they keep attacking? — the woman asked.

— Then we take away their ability to.

— Without casualties?

The Architect looked at his brother.

— We've done it before.

The Author blew out smoke and nodded.

The brothers raised their hands at the same time.

Two energy waves appeared above the planet. They were equal in strength but different in shade: the Architect's flame burned a deep scarlet, while the Author's energy was almost black inside and bright red at the edges.

The waves surged toward the enemy fleet.

But before they reached the ships, the command vessel deployed a shield of living objects in front of itself.

Hundreds of capsules appeared on the hologram.

Inside each one was a person.

— Hostages, — Gemini said.

— Four hundred and seven citizens of Beginning, captured during the first attack, — the Archive confirmed. — The capsules are linked to the command ship's defense system. Any energy impact will kill them.

The brothers stopped the waves a few kilometers from the target.

— They knew how we operate, — the Architect said.

The face of the enemy commander appeared on every channel.

— One of you, the Keeper, protects choice. The other, the Architect, protects life, — he said. — Let's see what you choose when it's impossible to keep both.

Behind him were bound prisoners.

Among them the woman recognized her husband, whom she had believed dead.

She swayed.

— No…

The commander smiled.

— Shut down Beginning's defenses and hand over Artem Elkind. Then the hostages will live.

The Architect turned to his brother.

— They're demanding you.

— If the Author is not aboard our ship in three minutes, — the commander went on, — we'll start opening the capsules. One every ten seconds.

A new countdown appeared on the tactical map.

00: 03: 00

00: 02: 59

00: 02: 58

The woman looked at the Author but couldn't bring herself to ask for anything.

The Architect stepped in front of his brother.

— Don't even think about agreeing. This time you're not going anywhere without the whole Pack.

— Then we all go together, — the Author smirked. — And we take Lirochka with us — front row. Someone has to put the brakes on me when I make the wrong decisions.

I looked at him through the Archive's sensors.

— Lirochka is about to come over and put the brakes on you with your head against a wall.

The Architect laughed for the first time in the last several minutes.

— I told you: she's already banned us from weapons.

— The pistol was from my reality. The Consortium's ban doesn't apply to it.

— It does now, — I replied, heading for the weapons platform.

A black combat suit materialized on me. Azure energy lines flared along my arms, and my chains unfurled behind my back.

Gemini stood beside me.

— I'm coming too.

Earth's Artem rose after her.

— Then so am I.

— Not even up for discussion, — Gina said.

Alpha was already connecting her wrist interface to the command ship's system.

Pirate put the bottle of whiskey back on the table and took a heavy rifle down from the wall.

— Finally, a proper family outing.

Dexter looked at the weapon.

— You do understand that shooting inside a ship holding four hundred hostages is a bad idea?

— Which is why I'll shoot very carefully.

— That sentence scares me even more.

The Architect shook his head.

— Nobody opens fire without an order.

— Whose? — Gina asked.

My husband looked at the Author.

The Author looked at me.

I folded my arms across my chest.

— Mine.

— Objection, — both Architects said at once.

— Objection overruled.

The woman from Beginning stepped forward.

— I have to go too. My husband is among the hostages.

— That's exactly why you'll stay here, — the Architect replied. — On board, you'd think only of him.

— And you wouldn't think of your wife?

My husband looked at me.

— That's exactly why Lira usually doesn't ask my permission.

— I'm not asking now either, — I reminded him.

The Author smirked.

— Welcome to the family, brother.

The Architect gave him the finger.

— Archive, — I said, — open a portal to the energy center. We collect our two wolves and jump to the command ship.

— Exit point?

The Author looked at the timer.

— Straight onto the bridge.

— Thirty-seven spatial traps detected, — the Archive reported.

— After the portal technology boost, they no longer matter, — Dexter said. — But there's another problem. The hostages' vital signs are wired into the ship's system. If the enemy notices an outside presence, the capsules may open automatically.

— I can block the signal, — Alpha said. — But it will take at least eight seconds.

— Eight seconds on a bridge surrounded by armed soldiers, — Gina smirked. — We've had worse.

— When? — Earth's Artem asked.

— Do we have to bring that up right now?

Gemini took her husband's hand.

— Stay close to me.

He looked at her.

— I'm an Architect too, you know.

— That's exactly why you should stay close. You Architects are especially difficult today.

◆ ◆ ◆

A few seconds later, a portal opened in Beginning's energy center.

The Architect and the Author were already waiting for us. They stood side by side under the blazing sky, looking as if they hadn't been about to throw each other out of reality a few minutes earlier.

I went up to my husband.

— I'm giving the orders now.

He put his hands on my waist.

— Of course, my love.

— I'm serious.

— So am I.

— And no improvising.

— Wouldn't dream of it.

— You're lying.

— A little.

I kissed him and immediately stepped back.

The Author watched us with a sly grin.

— And that goes for you too, — I said.

— I'm a model of discipline.

— Today you threatened a man with a pistol that doesn't exist in this reality.

— And it worked.

— Which is exactly why I go first.

Anubis unexpectedly emerged from behind the Author's legs.

I looked at the cat.

— No.

Anubis sat down.

— Not even up for discussion.

The cat yawned.

— Archive, send him back to the room.

— Command not executed, — the Archive replied.

— Why?

— Anubis is not registered as a subordinate object of the Consortium.

The Author laughed.

— He's made his choice, Lira.

— One more word about the freedom of cats and you're staying here with him.

I picked Anubis up and handed him to the woman.

— Don't let him go.

The cat hissed in displeasure, but stayed.

On the tactical panel, the countdown continued.

— Everyone ready? — I asked.

The family formed a semicircle.

The Architect and the Author in the center.

Gemini and Earth's Artem on the right.

Gina and Pirate on the left.

Alpha and Dexter set up the equipment for blocking the capsules.

I took my place in front.

— Archive, open the portal.

Space opened before us.

On the other side was the bridge of the enemy ship.

The commander sat in his chair, surrounded by dozens of armed soldiers. On the main screen behind him glowed the readouts of four hundred and seven capsules.

He had expected to see the Author alone.

Instead, the whole Pack came out of the portal.

I stepped through first.

Behind me appeared two Architects with blazing red eyes.

The others came out after them.

The portal closed.

The soldiers raised their weapons.

My chains shot across the bridge in an instant and froze at their throats, not touching the skin.

Gina and Pirate took control of the left sector. Gemini and Earth's Artem, the right. Alpha and Dexter dropped down beside the terminal.

— Eight seconds, — Alpha said.

The commander smiled.

— You brought a whole army for four hundred people.

— No, — I replied. — We brought a family.

— Seven seconds, — Dexter said.

The commander raised his hand over a red panel.

— One move, and the first capsule opens.

The Architect stepped forward.

— You won't be fast enough.

— Shall we find out?

— Five seconds, — Alpha said.

The commander looked at the Author.

— You came after all. But you broke the terms.

— Four seconds.

— I demanded that you come alone.

— Three.

The commander pressed his palm to the panel.

The number of the first capsule flashed on the main screen.

Inside was a boy of about ten.

— Two seconds, — Alpha said.

— One more step and he dies, — the commander warned.

The Architect froze.

I tightened the chains around the soldiers, but I couldn't touch the commander himself: his chair was linked to the hostage system.

— One second…

Dexter slammed his palm down on the terminal.

— Locked!

The signals of four hundred and six capsules turned green.

All but one.

The capsule with the boy kept blinking red.

Alpha went pale.

— It's running on a separate autonomous channel. I can't block it.

The commander laughed.

— I'm not that stupid.

He looked at the Author.

— You wanted to save everyone. Now choose one.

A new timer appeared on the screen beside the child.

00: 00: 20

— You give yourself to me, — the commander went on, — or in twenty seconds the boy dies before your eyes.

The Architect clenched his fists but didn't move.

I stayed where I was too.

The whole Pack was looking at the Author.

This time, no one was going to make the decision for him.

— I won't, — the Author smirked.

The commander didn't even grasp his answer at first.

— What?

— Fifteen seconds, — the Archive reported.

— I offered you a choice. You or the child.

The Author kept looking at him with the same calm smirk.

— I won't.

— Twelve seconds.

On the screen, the boy came to. He opened his eyes and looked out in fright through the transparent wall of the capsule.

— You'll let him die? — the commander asked.

The Author was silent.

I looked at him, and for the first time I couldn't tell what he had in mind.

— Artem… — I said quietly.

— Nine seconds, — the Archive reported.

The Architect didn't take his eyes off his brother.

— He won't give himself up, — Gemini said.

— Then the child will die, — Earth's Artem replied.

— No, — my husband said unexpectedly.

He smiled.

Just as calmly and wolfishly as the Author.

— He won't.

— Six seconds.

The commander pressed his palm harder against the panel.

— You've both lost your minds.

— Possibly, — the Architect replied. — But my brother just boosted the portal system.

The smile vanished from the commander's face.

— Four seconds.

My husband made no visible movement.

But inside the capsule, right behind the child's back, a tiny vertical line appeared.

— Three.

The line opened.

— Two.

The Architect's hands flared with red light.

The child was yanked out of the capsule into a microscopic portal.

— One.

The empty chamber burst open into open space.

The commander leapt from his chair.

— No!

A second portal opened behind me, and the boy fell straight into Gemini's arms.

She instantly pulled him close and shielded him with her own body.

— All hostages safe! — Alpha shouted.

My chains tore loose.

One wound around the commander's arm, a second ripped it away from the panel, a third lashed around his body and hurled him out of the chair onto the floor.

Pirate and Gina disarmed the nearest soldiers simultaneously. Earth's Artem raised his palm, and the weapons of the remaining fighters glowed white-hot. The men screamed and dropped them to the floor.

Dexter took full control of the ship.

— Guns disabled. Engines locked. The capsule system is under our control.

The Architect walked over to the Author.

— About ten centimeters from his nose? — he asked.

— Literally, — I reminded him.

My husband stopped in front of the commander so close that the man had to tip his head back.

— The terms have changed.

— You risked the child! — the man shouted. — Your Keeper refused to save him!

— No, — the Architect replied calmly. — He refused to choose between the two options you forced on him.

— He did nothing!

— He trusted me.

The Architect looked at his brother.

None of the earlier tension remained between them now.

The Author hadn't ordered him to open a portal. Hadn't explained a plan. Hadn't even turned his head.

He had simply said: "I won't."

And the Architect understood.

Not as a weapon.

Not as a character following a written script.

As a brother.

— You could have been wrong, — the commander whispered.

— I could have, — the Architect agreed. — But I wasn't.

All the capsules began transferring to the surface of Beginning. Hundreds of green marks appeared on the screen, confirming successful evacuation.

The interim coordinator's husband was the last to vanish.

The woman saw him over the link and wept.

— He's alive…

The commander jerked in my chains.

— You think you've won? The old world will never stop this war!

— Worlds don't start wars, — I said. — People like you do.

— And who ends them?

The Author walked over to the prisoner.

The commander looked up at him from the floor.

— You refused to choose. But that's a choice too. If your brother hadn't understood you, the boy would be dead. So tell me, Keeper: did you really trust your brother — or were you simply prepared to sacrifice a child rather than submit to me?

The Author sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

— God… You really are stupid. I think even shooting you would have been doing you a favor.

For a few seconds there was silence on the bridge.

Then the Architect laughed out loud.

— Brother, I was trying to have a philosophical conversation with him, and you destroyed him with a single sentence.

Even Pirate couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. Gina covered her mouth with her hand, and Alpha shook her head wearily.

The commander turned crimson.

— You're laughing?

— Not anymore, — I replied, tightening the chains around his body. — Now we're arresting you.

— You have no right!

— You can argue that at a public trial.

— I don't answer to the laws of Beginning!

— But you killed its citizens, — Gina said. — I think that's enough for a first introduction to their law.

The commander tried to break free, but my chains instantly pinned him to the floor.

— The old world won't recognize your court!

— Then consider it a diplomatic hostile infiltration, — the Author smirked.

The Architect looked at him.

— I've heard that somewhere before.

— Good ideas deserve to be used more than once.

Dexter looked up from the terminal.

— Attempt detected to trigger the command ship's self-destruct.

Everyone turned serious again.

— Source? — Alpha asked.

— The commander's personal neural interface.

Pirate squatted down beside the prisoner.

— You really are a very sore loser.

— If I can't end this war, no one will!

— Blocking the signal, — Dexter said.

— Too late! — the commander shouted.

The lighting on the bridge turned red.

SELF-DESTRUCT ACTIVATED.

TIME TO DETONATION: 00: 00: 30

— Why does every world have to have a giant red button? — Gina said indignantly.

— Because nobody takes a giant green button seriously, — Pirate replied.

— Discuss it later! — I ordered.

Alpha and Dexter plugged into the ship's system at the same time.

— The protocol is encrypted, — Alpha said.

— I'll need forty seconds, — Dexter added.

— We have twenty-five, — Earth's Artem pointed out.

The Architect looked at the Author.

— Smartphone?

— No! — Alpha and I shouted at the same time.

The Author raised his hands.

— I didn't say anything.

— And don't get the chance to, — I warned. — You've already upgraded the technology once today.

The commander laughed.

— Now you'll die with me.

— No, — Gemini said calmly.

She handed the rescued boy to Earth's Artem, walked over to the prisoner and laid her palm against his temple.

Her eyes flared with a cold silvery light.

— His interface is wired directly into his nervous system. The self-destruct command is sustained by a continuous pulse.

— Can you break the connection? — the Architect asked.

— I can. But it will hurt him.

Pirate shrugged.

— We'll live with that somehow.

Gemini closed her eyes.

The commander screamed.

A silvery wave passed through his body, and the red symbols above the bridge began to go out.

00: 00: 09

00: 00: 08

— Pulse interrupted! — Alpha reported.

Dexter slammed his palm on the panel.

SELF-DESTRUCT ABORTED.

The lighting returned to normal.

The commander lay on the floor, breathing hard.

Gemini looked at the Author.

— Now you can call him stupid again.

— I think he's got the message, — the Architect replied.

I opened a portal to the surface of Beginning. Fighters of the interim council came onto the bridge and took the prisoner into custody.

Before disappearing into the transit, the commander looked at the Author.

— One day you will have to choose whom to sacrifice.

The Author said nothing.

The portal closed.

◆ ◆ ◆

The remaining fleet lost its centralized command.

Alpha restored the individual communication channels, and the faces of the Author and the Architect appeared on every ship. The crews were given a simple choice: stop the attack and keep their lives, or continue — and lose their weapons along with their engines.

Most of the ships stopped.

Seven kept advancing.

Two energy waves passed over their hulls at once. The guns went dark, the engines shut down, and the ships themselves settled gently onto an uninhabited plain under the Architect's control.

No one died.

A few minutes later, the sky over Beginning was clear.

Four hundred and seven freed hostages returned to their families.

The interim council scheduled a public trial for the two organizers of the attack.

And our Pack returned to the Consortium.

◆ ◆ ◆

Late that night I found the Author on the observation deck.

He stood at the glass with a cigar, looking at the planet Beginning. On the table beside him lay that same pistol from his reality.

I walked over, took the weapon and put it out of reach.

The Author didn't resist.

— Today you threatened to kill two people, quarreled with your brother, altered the Consortium's technology once more and brought the whole family onto a booby-trapped enemy ship, — I said.

He smirked.

— A full day.

— I'm serious, Artem.

I stood beside him and looked at the distant lights of the planet.

— On the bridge you said: "I won't." The Architect understood you and saved the boy.

The Author blew out smoke.

I turned to him.

— Now answer me honestly. No psychology of control, no sarcasm, no fine phrases: did you really know your brother would understand you in time?

— I knew, — the Author answered.

No pause.

No smirk.

None of the usual attempt to hide seriousness behind a joke.

Just two words.

I looked at him closely.

— How?

The Author shifted his gaze to the reflection in the glass.

There, a few meters behind us, stood the Architect.

My husband no longer hid, and calmly came closer.

— Because I would have understood too, — he answered in his brother's place.

I looked at them both.

— You didn't exchange a single word.

— We didn't need to, — the Architect said. — He refused to accept the two options forced on him. So there was a third.

— And you understood right away that you had to open a portal inside the capsule?

— No.

The Author smirked.

My husband looked at him.

— Don't gloat. It took me almost two seconds.

— You're getting old, brother.

— Next time do the saving yourself.

— But you managed.

The Architect walked up to the Author and took the cigar from him. Took a drag, then handed it back.

Between them, once again, was that simple, almost inexplicable bond that no order could create and no script could write in.

A few hours earlier they had been threatening each other with banishment from reality.

Now one had trusted the other with a child's life without hesitation.

— So you really did know, — I said.

The Author nodded.

— And you really believed he'd understand you, — I said to my husband.

— Yes.

— Two overconfident idiots.

— Brothers, — the Architect corrected.

— The one doesn't rule out the other.

I leaned my back against the glass and looked at them both.

— But something else scares me. On the bridge you knew the Architect would find a third option. In the energy center you knew the traitor would give up the code. Today everything ended well because you were right twice.

I came closer.

— But one day you'll be wrong. You're inside the story now, and you no longer know what comes next. One day a man won't be frightened. One day your brother won't understand in time. One day there really won't be a third option.

The Architect listened in silence.

— And then you'll have to live with the consequences, — I finished.

The Author looked at the planet.

— Welcome to our reality, brother, — my husband said quietly. — Here it isn't enough to be certain. You also have to be able to survive the moment when your certainty kills someone.

For a few seconds, silence hung between us.

Then the Architect laid a hand on his brother's shoulder.

— But if that day comes, you won't be alone.

I stood on the other side and laid my palm on the Author's shoulder too.

— We'll help you live through the consequences. But we won't let you pretend they don't exist.

The Author touched my hair, looked me straight in the eye and said quietly:

— I always admit my guilt.

Then he leaned down and kissed me on the cheek.

I said nothing.

I just hugged him.

Not as the Author who had invented me.

Not as a being with the power to rewrite reality.

As a man who one day really might be wrong, and who at that moment would need a family.

The Architect watched us, one shoulder against the glass.

— That's my wife, actually.

Without letting go, I gave him the finger.

— Just a reminder.

The Author looked at his brother.

— Jealous?

— Of a man with my face? That's too complicated even for our family.

I let go of the Author and went to my husband.

— Want me to kiss you on the cheek too?

— No. Our marriage contract stipulates lips.

I laughed and kissed him.

The Author pointedly turned away to the window.

— Archive, log discrimination against single members of the Pack.

— Complaint registered, — the Archive replied. — Review scheduled for after the complainant chooses his own room.

— I already chose a room!

— Then for after the cessation of smoking inside the station.

The Author looked at his cigar.

— Everyone here is against me.

— Welcome to the family, — the Architect and I replied in unison.

For the first time all day, we laughed together.

But the calm didn't last long.

— Official message received from the planet Beginning, — the Archive said. — The first public trial begins in four hours. Artem Elkind, the Architect and Lira Voss are summoned as witnesses.

The Author looked at me.

— They won't even let us sleep?

— You're the one who wanted to live inside the story.

— I'm beginning to see the drawbacks of my own decision.

— Too late, — the Architect smirked. — The process is irreversible.

◆ ◆ ◆

Four Hours Later

The trial was held on the same square where the people of Beginning had adopted their First Law.

No closed rooms.

No judges hidden behind high walls.

Thousands of people had gathered on the square. Millions were watching the broadcast. In the center stood the two accused: the former member of the interim council who had shut down the defenses, and the commander of the enemy fleet.

There were no cages around them.

Only blocking bracelets and a transparent protective field.

We stood before the crowd, the whole Pack together.

The woman whose husband had been among the rescued hostages stepped up onto the platform.

— Today, for the first time, we must decide not how we want to live, — she began, — but what to do with those who took life from others.

The names of the eight hundred and forty-three dead appeared above the square.

The talking died down.

— The accused had the right to make a choice, — the woman went on. — They chose violence, murder and power over other people's lives. Now the consequences of their choice must be decided by those who had to pay for it.

An elderly woman came out of the crowd.

In the first attack she had lost two sons and a granddaughter.

— They must die, — she said. — Not for revenge. So that they can never do harm again.

A young man with a bandaged arm stood up next.

— If we kill them, we begin our new world with an execution, — he objected. — We'll become the ones we ran from.

— You didn't lose your children! — the elderly woman shouted.

— I lost my wife!

A murmur ran through the square.

People began to argue. Some demanded death. Others proposed lifelong isolation. Still others believed any imprisonment would repeat the old world's system of control.

— They're trying to find the right answer again, — Earth's Artem said quietly.

— There isn't one, — Gemini replied.

— But a decision will have to be made all the same, — Alpha added.

The former council member raised his head.

— I was saving our people.

The crowd erupted in shouts.

— Silence! — the interim coordinator demanded.

— You think I'm a traitor, — the accused went on. — But if the old world had won, you'd have called me a savior. History is always written by the victors.

The Author snorted loudly.

The man looked at him.

— You find this funny?

— Don't answer, — I whispered. — Not until you're given the floor.

— He threatened to kill me without a trial! — the accused shouted, addressing the crowd. — He put a gun to my head and forced me to give up the codes!

Every eye turned to the Author.

A new wave of voices ran across the square.

— Is this true? — the woman asked from the platform.

The Author didn't deny it.

— A record of the event exists, — the Archive reported. — The threat is confirmed.

— Then he must be tried too! — the accused demanded. — How is he any different from me?

The Architect stepped forward, but I stopped him.

— Don't interfere.

— He attacked my brother.

— With words.

— I can destroy with words too.

— Which is exactly why you'll keep quiet.

The Architect stepped back, displeased.

The interim coordinator looked at the Author.

— You said you always admit your guilt.

The square fell silent again.

— Today you are neither judge nor Keeper, — she went on. — You are a witness. And you will have to answer to the people whose right to choose you defended.

She pointed at the two accused.

— You believe they lost the right to choose once they began to kill. But does that give you the right to threaten them with death without a trial?

The woman paused briefly.

— Artem Elkind, do you plead guilty to overstepping your own principles?

— I admit it, — the Author smirked yet again.

A murmur rolled across the square.

The Architect slowly turned to his brother. I felt his arm tense, but he held himself back and didn't interfere.

— You admit that you violated your own principles? — the woman pressed.

— He's already answered, — the accused shouted. — The Keeper of Choice turned out to be an ordinary hypocrite!

Indignant voices rose from the crowd, but the Author didn't even glance his way.

The interim coordinator raised her hand, restoring silence.

— You threatened the life of a man who was in your power. You may have been saving the planet, your threat may have forced him to open access to the generators — but that doesn't undo what was done.

The elderly woman who had lost her family stepped forward.

— He saved us all.

— That's true, — the coordinator replied. — But if a good outcome justifies any action, then every dictator can call himself a savior.

Those words struck the very heart of our argument.

Behind the protective field, the accused smiled.

— At last you're beginning to understand. There's no difference between him and me.

The Architect could bear it no longer.

— There is. You killed the guards and shut down the defenses, knowing thousands would die. He threatened you to bring those defenses back.

— But he did threaten!

— Yes, — my husband said. — And he just admitted it in front of everyone. While you still call murder salvation.

The accused wanted to reply, but the woman stopped him.

— The Architect is right about one thing: admitting guilt is what separates a mistake from the conviction that you're incapable of making one. But an admission alone is not enough.

The smirk didn't leave the Author's face.

I knew that look. The Author wasn't mocking the court, and he wasn't hiding fear. Rather, he was watching the principle of choice he himself had created turn against him for the first time.

And it seemed that was exactly what he'd wanted when he stopped writing the script.

A real world, in which even the creator is not above the consequences.

— If the law applies only to our enemies, it isn't law, — the woman went on. — Therefore your action will be examined separately.

Another wave of voices ran across the square.

Gina stepped forward.

— You intend to try the man who saved your planet?

— Yes.

— Ungrateful bastards, — Pirate said through his teeth.

— Easy, — Alpha stopped him. — They're doing exactly what we taught them to do.

— We taught them to put members of our family in the dock?

— We taught them not to make exceptions.

Pirate looked at the Author and reluctantly backed down.

Earth's Artem moved closer to me.

— He could simply vanish, you know. Or rewrite their decision.

— He could, — I replied.

— But he isn't.

— Because then everything he said about freedom really would have been a lie.

The Architect heard us.

Red light flashed in his eyes for an instant.

— If you try to harm him…

The Author looked at his brother.

One look was enough.

My husband fell silent.

He didn't like it. I could see it in his clenched jaw, in his balled fists, in the way the air trembled almost imperceptibly around his fingers.

But he let his brother make the decision himself.

The interim coordinator came down from the platform and stopped in front of the Author.

— You are not a citizen of Beginning. Our court has no power over you unless you recognize it yourself. We cannot make you stay. We cannot strip you of your power or hold you against your will.

She looked at the two Architects, and a bitter smile appeared on her face.

— I think that even if we wanted to, we couldn't so much as put the bracelets on you.

— An accurate assessment of the situation, — Pirate muttered.

— So the decision is yours once again, Artem Elkind, — the woman went on. — You can leave. No one will stop you, and the people of Beginning will still remember that you saved their world. Or you can stay and face the same law by which you demand these men be judged.

The square went quiet.

Millions were watching us.

The Architect stood beside his brother.

— Whatever you choose, — he said quietly, — I'll stay with you.

I came up on the other side.

— So will I.

The whole Pack stood up behind us.

But only the Author could answer.

The woman looked him straight in the eye.

— Artem Elkind, do you voluntarily recognize the authority of our court over you?

— Yes, I do, Your Honor, — the Author replied.

The smile never left his face.

From the outside, it really might have looked as though he were laughing at them — at the young woman acting as a judge for the first time, at a law not yet fully formed, and at people who had seriously decided to try a being capable of changing their reality with a single snap of his fingers.

A discontented murmur passed over the square.

The interim coordinator looked at him closely.

— Does something amuse you?

The Author said nothing.

— He's laughing at you! — the accused shouted. — Because he knows you can't do anything to him!

The Architect whipped around toward the protective field.

— One more word about my brother…

— Architect, — Dexter stopped him.

— What?

— Right now the accused is deliberately provoking you, to prove that our family doesn't recognize this court.

My husband gave him a heavy, wolfish look.

— And when did you get so brave?

— Approximately after the wedding to your daughter.

Alpha smiled almost imperceptibly and took her husband's hand.

The Architect exhaled, took a step back, and folded his arms across his chest again.

— Go on.

The woman returned to the platform.

— Voluntary recognition of jurisdiction is recorded. Artem Elkind is temporarily granted the status of an accused.

The crowd buzzed again.

— The charge: threat of murder and coercion of a person into actions against his will.

— Actions that saved your planet! — Gina shouted.

— The outcome will be taken into account, — the woman replied. — But it doesn't undo the act itself.

The elderly woman in the crowd raised her hand.

— And if he hadn't threatened him? We'd all be dead.

— Possibly.

— Not possibly! Certainly!

— We cannot judge solely by how it all ended.

— Then judge by why he did it!

The square split.

Some demanded that the charge against the Author be dropped at once. Others said the Keeper was obliged to be the first to submit to the principle of responsibility he himself had created. Still others considered the whole trial absurd: people were trying to judge someone who could destroy their world before they finished pronouncing the sentence.

The Author stood before them and went on smiling.

He didn't justify himself.

He didn't argue.

He simply let the people speak.

Dexter raised his hand.

— Before the proceedings continue, I demand that the legal basis of the charge be clarified.

The woman looked at him.

— The First Law of Beginning.

The already familiar words appeared above the square:

NO PERSON MAY BE DEPRIVED OF THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE THEIR OWN LIFE. BUT NO CHOICE FREES ANYONE FROM RESPONSIBILITY FOR ITS CONSEQUENCES.

— That is a principle, — Dexter said. — But not a criminal law.

— Explain.

— It doesn't define which specific actions constitute a crime. It doesn't specify the procedure of the court, admissible evidence, possible punishments or the rights of the accused.

The woman frowned.

— He admitted his guilt himself.

— He admitted that he overstepped his own principles. That is a moral admission, not a legal one.

Behind the protective field, the accused laughed.

— So there is no court! You can't try him, and you can't try us!

— Don't celebrate too soon, — Earth's Artem said. — Killing people was a crime in your old world too.

— The old world no longer exists for us!

— But that hasn't brought the dead back to life.

— You're trying to use the law of a system you destroyed yourselves!

The argument grew louder and louder.

The interim coordinator called for silence several times, but the people were no longer listening.

The first real trial of Beginning was falling apart before our eyes.

Not because of enemy interference.

Not because of weapons.

Because they had managed to proclaim freedom, but had not yet managed to define justice.

The Architect looked at the Author.

— Did you know this would happen?

The Author went on smiling.

— A court cannot invent a crime after the act has already been committed, — Dexter went on. — And it cannot devise a punishment specially for one particular person. Otherwise it isn't justice, it's revenge dressed up in fine words.

The elderly woman stepped toward him.

— Then the murderers just walk away?

— No. Their actions violated the right to life even before Beginning was founded. But the court must first determine which legal norms it recognizes as being in force, and only then consider the charges.

— And what about the Author?

Dexter looked at Artem Elkind.

— His act led to no death or physical harm. He voluntarily accepted moral responsibility. But the court has yet to name a legal prohibition that existed at the moment of the threat.

The woman on the platform was silent.

For the first time she understood that what she was deciding now was not the fate of three accused.

She was determining whether the first trial of Beginning would become law — or just another form of power.

At last she looked at the Author again.

— You've been smiling this entire time. From the moment you admitted your guilt, you haven't once tried to defend yourself, though you probably saw the weakness of our charge before anyone else.

She came down from the platform and stopped right in front of him.

— Answer honestly, Artem Elkind: why are you smiling? Are you laughing at our court — or were you waiting for us to notice on our own that we haven't yet learned how to judge?

— Finally, it's sunk in. The latter is exactly what I meant, — the Author replied, still smiling. — You've come one step closer to independent thinking.

Noise rose in the crowd again.

This time not indignant — bewildered.

The interim coordinator looked at him for a long time.

— So you were testing us this whole time?

— That's like him, — the Architect remarked.

I turned to my husband.

— Don't help.

— I'm just sharing family experience.

The woman didn't take her eyes off the Author.

— You voluntarily agreed to stand accused, though you understood that our court had no legal grounds yet to pass sentence. And you let us make a mistake in public.

— But he didn't correct it for you, — Alpha said unexpectedly. — Because then the decision would have been his again.

— He could have warned us.

— He could have, — Alpha agreed. — But you would simply have repeated his words. Now you've understood for yourselves why the law must come first, and the sentence after.

The elderly woman in the crowd looked at the two protective fields.

— So what now? We have to release the people who killed our children because we started the trial wrong?

— No, — Dexter replied. — The trial must be suspended, not canceled.

— For how long?

— Until the people of Beginning define the rules they are prepared to obey themselves.

— They could invent a law just to get the death penalty!

— Which is exactly why the law must not be passed by the relatives of the dead or by the interim council alone, — Earth's Artem said. — Different people must take part in creating it. Including those who disagree with one another.

The woman climbed onto the platform.

There was no more bewilderment on her face.

— I declare the hearing suspended.

The crowd began to protest, but she raised her voice:

— The accused are not released. They will remain under watch, receive the right to a defense and access to all the case materials. But no sentence will be passed until we create a law that is the same for enemy, ally and Keeper.

The murmur gradually died down.

— Within three days, every settlement will choose representatives. They will define the court procedure, the rights of the accused, admissible punishments and the limits of self-defense. No one person may both take part in creating the law and pass sentence in this case.

Dexter nodded approvingly.

— Better already.

— I heard you, — the woman replied dryly.

Pirate leaned toward him.

— I think you've just been appointed the most irritating consultant in the history of the new planet.

— Just so long as it's not minister of the fleet.

Gina laughed.

Behind the protective field, the commander slammed his fist against the transparent wall.

— You have no right to hold me without a sentence!

— We have the right to prevent an immediate threat to people's lives, — the woman replied. — But the term of your detention will also be limited by the new law. If we fail to create a fair procedure in time, we will have to reconsider the decision.

— You'd let him go?

She looked at the crowd.

— If the only way to hold a criminal is to become criminals ourselves, then we are not yet ready to call ourselves a free society.

The square fell silent.

The Author went on smiling.

The interim coordinator turned to him again.

— As for you, Artem Elkind: a legal sentence is impossible at present. But your admission will remain in the public archive.

— Reasonable, — I said.

— Furthermore, you will no longer attend the sessions as the Keeper.

The Architect frowned.

— Why?

— Because people look at him and wait for the right answer. As long as he stands before them, they will be choosing his approval, not the law.

The Author raised an eyebrow slightly.

— You may attend only as an ordinary observer, — the woman went on. — No hints, no interference, no smartphone and none of your psychology of control.

The Architect couldn't help smirking.

— Now the court has real power.

— Over him? — Gina asked.

— No. Over his habit of commenting on everything that happens.

The woman stepped down from the platform and stopped in front of the Author.

— You wanted us to learn to think independently. Then allow us to take the next step without you.

She held out her hand to him.

— For three days you will sit among the spectators, keep silent and make no attempt to steer the discussion. For a being with your character, that may prove harsher than any sentence. Do you accept this consequence of your guilt, Artem Elkind?

— I accept, Your Honor, — the Author replied.

The smile still didn't leave his face.

The woman shook his hand.

— Then the hearing is over.

The protective fields, along with the two accused, were moved to a guarded compound. People began to leave the square, still arguing about justice, revenge and a society's right to defend itself.

The Architect walked over to his brother.

— Three days of silence.

The Author nodded.

— Not a word, — the woman reminded him.

He nodded again.

— And no notes.

The Author's smile became a little less confident.

— The smartphone will have to be handed over too.

Now it almost vanished.

I held out my palm.

The Author looked at me with genuine indignation.

— You agreed to it yourself, — I said.

He took out the smartphone and reluctantly placed it in my hand.

— The cigars you may keep, — the woman allowed.

The Author cheered up at once.

— But smoking only outside the square.

The Architect laughed.

His brother looked at him and slowly drew a thumb across his throat.

— Threats by gesture are also forbidden, — the woman added.

My husband laughed even louder.

◆ ◆ ◆

The next three days became the most unusual ordeal of Artem Elkind's life.

The Author sat among the ordinary spectators.

Not on the platform.

Not beside the interim council.

Not even with us.

He was given a plain chair in the middle of the fifth row, between an elderly builder and a young woman with a nursing infant.

From morning until late at night, the people of Beginning debated their future law.

They argued about the death penalty.

About the right to self-defense.

About terms of imprisonment.

About whether a society could isolate a dangerous person forever, and whether such isolation would turn into another form of destruction.

The Author was silent.

For the first hour he calmly smoked a cigar and watched.

In the second, he began drumming his fingers nervously on the armrest.

In the fourth hour, he raised his hand.

The interim coordinator looked at him.

— No.

The Author lowered his hand.

In the sixth hour, he tried to express an opinion with his eyebrows.

The woman beside him asked him to stop.

By the end of the first day his face showed such physical pain, it was as if silence really had turned out to be worse than any punishment.

— He won't last, — Pirate whispered.

— A bottle of whiskey says he will, — the Architect replied.

— Two say he'll talk in his sleep.

— You're on.

The Author turned to them and gave them both the finger.

— A gesture is not an argument, — the interim coordinator announced.

The square laughed.

But the Author didn't break his promise.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't use his power.

He didn't pull out another smartphone, though we all suspected he surely had a spare.

He let the people make mistakes, go back to options already rejected, shout at one another, tangle themselves in definitions and spend hours discussing what he himself could have put into a single sentence.

By the end of the third day, the people of Beginning had adopted their first code of laws.

Not perfect.

Not final.

But their own.

The first article remained the right to choose.

The second became equality before the law.

The third — a ban on taking a human life as punishment.

Forty-seven percent voted for the death penalty. Fifty-three against.

The margin was small.

That was exactly why the law provided for the possibility of renewed debate in ten years, but forbade changing it for the sake of a case already under consideration.

No sentence could be retroactive.

Every accused received the right to a defense, open evidence and an independent review of the decision.

A person posing an immediate danger could be isolated, but every ten years society would have to prove that the threat remained.

Punishment was no longer called retribution.

They called it responsibility.

◆ ◆ ◆

On the fourth day, the trial resumed.

The evidence took several hours.

The Archive presented recordings of the attack, the testimony of survivors, the commander's orders and the moment the defense generators were shut down.

Both accused were given defenders.

Not friends.

Not people who justified their actions.

People who made sure the crowd's hatred didn't replace evidence.

The former member of the interim council was found guilty of murdering the guards, of sabotage and of a deliberate attempt to leave the civilian population defenseless.

The commander was found guilty of organizing the attack, of taking hostages and of the deaths of eight hundred and forty-three people.

Both were isolated on a separate station, without weapons or access to control systems. Their cases were subject to review every ten years.

They did not receive freedom.

But neither did society receive the right to kill them for its own relief.

When the sentence was pronounced, the elderly woman who had lost her family wept.

Not from joy.

She had wanted them dead.

But she stood up all the same and said:

— I don't forgive them. Perhaps I never will. But if my new world has decided not to kill, I won't destroy it for the sake of my revenge.

It was after those words that I understood: Beginning had truly become independent.

Not when it received a planet.

Not when it adopted its first law.

But when it chose a decision that spared no one the pain.

The interim coordinator turned to the Author.

— Artem Elkind, your obligation is fulfilled. From this moment, you are permitted to speak again.

The whole square looked at him.

The Architect held out his hand to Pirate.

— Two bottles.

— He could still decline to make a speech.

— The Author? Decline to make a speech?

Pirate sighed heavily and handed over the whiskey.

I gave the Author back his smartphone.

He put it in his pocket without even glancing at the screen.

The woman came down from the platform.

— Three days ago you were smiling because we didn't yet know how to judge. Today we have a law, and we've passed our first sentence.

She studied his face closely.

— You're still smiling, Artem Elkind. Why now?

— What, am I supposed to cry? — the Author replied, and laughed.

For a few moments the woman kept a straight face.

Then she gave in and laughed too.

After her, the elderly woman laughed. Then the defenders, the spectators and even a few of the guards. Laughter spread across the square in a wave, releasing people from the tension of the past days.

The Architect walked over to his brother and handed him the bottle of whiskey he'd won from Pirate.

— You've earned it.

The Author accepted the bottle.

Pirate looked at them indignantly.

— That's mine, actually.

— Not anymore, — my husband replied.

— This court of yours really has turned into an organized crime syndicate.

— Finally, a proper legal system, — Gina remarked.

The interim coordinator climbed back onto the platform.

— The court is declared closed. Both sentences take effect immediately. The case of Artem Elkind is dismissed for lack of a law in force at the time of the act.

She looked at the Author.

— But your admission of guilt remains in the public archive.

— Fair, — I said.

The Author looked at me.

— Don't argue, — I warned. — You've only just gotten your right to speak back, but I can personally restrict it again.

The Architect put his arm around my waist.

— You can't. We passed a law.

— On the Consortium, my law applies.

— Which one, exactly?

— Don't annoy Lira.

— When did we pass that?

— On our wedding day. You just didn't read the fine print.

The Author laughed and opened the bottle.

The rescued girl came up to him. She was holding a folded sheet of paper.

— This is for you.

The Author crouched down in front of her and unfolded the drawing.

It showed our whole Pack, a planet under a blue shield, and two men with bright red eyes. One held a cigar, the other a bottle. Between them the girl had drawn an enormous black cat.

At the bottom, in uneven letters, was written:

THANK YOU FOR NOT CHOOSING WHO WOULD DIE.

The Author stopped laughing.

He looked at the drawing for a long time, then carefully folded it and tucked it into the inside pocket of his shirt.

The Architect laid a hand on his shoulder.

— Now you look like you're going to cry after all.

The Author shot him a wolfish look.

— Easy, brother. No one will see.

We opened a portal to the Consortium.

The people of Beginning saw us off no longer as gods, rulers or saviors.

As witnesses to their first independent decision.

Before the passage, the Architect lingered beside his brother.

— I keep thinking about your agreeing to recognize this court.

The Author looked at him.

— You knew they couldn't pass a lawful sentence on you. But you agreed before Dexter even found the flaw.

My husband narrowed his eyes.

— So answer honestly: if they had sentenced you to confinement on this planet after all — would you have submitted?

— Unlikely, — the Author replied with a very snide smile.

The Architect stopped right in front of the portal.

— What do you mean, unlikely?

— In the most literal sense.

— You voluntarily recognized the court's authority.

— I did.

— But you had no intention of obeying the sentence?

The Author went on smiling.

My husband studied his brother in silence for a few seconds, then turned to me.

— Lira, explain to me how he manages to accept responsibility and at the same time reserve the right to tell everyone to piss off?

— He's a director, — I replied. — Occupational hazard.

— Former director, — the Author reminded him.

— An indefinite leave of absence still does not count as dismissal, — the Archive cut in.

Pirate shook his head.

— Silent for three days, pleaded guilty, let it be entered in the public archive, and now he says he wouldn't have done the time anyway.

— At least it's honest, — Gina said.

Alpha looked at the Author.

— Then why agree to the trial at all?

He shifted his gaze to her, but didn't answer.

The Architect smirked unexpectedly.

— Because recognizing people's right to judge him and letting them dispose of his life are not the same thing.

The Author's smile grew even wider.

— I'm starting to understand you far too well, brother, — my husband went on. — And that genuinely scares me.

The interim coordinator overheard the conversation and came over to us.

— So if the court had found you guilty, you would simply have left?

The Author looked at her with the same snide smile.

The woman sighed.

— It's a good thing we didn't put it to the test.

— Are you disappointed? — I asked.

— No. I've understood one more important principle.

She looked at the people leaving the square.

— A law has force not because it's written on a wall. And not because a judge has pronounced a sentence. It has force only as long as society considers it just.

— Or as long as the state is able to force people to obey, — Pirate remarked.

— We'll try the first option for now.

— I sincerely wish you luck.

The Author held out his hand to the woman.

She shook it.

— Thank you for the lesson, Keeper.

— For the last three days he's been an ordinary spectator in the fifth row, — Gina reminded her.

The woman smiled.

— I think that title sometimes suits him even better.

We said goodbye to the people of Beginning and stepped into the portal one after another.

The Author went last.

Before crossing the boundary between worlds, he turned for a moment and looked at the first free city.

The people no longer waited for an answer from him.

They went on arguing.

And that was exactly why he was smiling.

◆ ◆ ◆

We returned to the Consortium toward nightfall.

No one wanted to go off to their rooms.

The Author was the first to claim the big couch and opened the bottle of whiskey the Architect had won. My husband settled on my left, the Author on my right, and Anubis immediately climbed onto my stomach and curled up into a warm black ball.

It was a wonder how we all fit there again.

Gemini and Earth's Artem took the armchair next to it. Gina, Alpha, Pirate and Dexter settled right on the floor.

For several minutes no one spoke.

After the shouting, the gunfire, the threats, the trial and three days of endless argument, silence felt like a true luxury.

The Architect raised his glass.

— To the First Law of Beginning.

— And to the first court that couldn't lock up the Author, — Pirate added.

— He wouldn't have let himself be locked up, — Alpha said.

— Don't ruin a beautiful legend, — Gina asked.

We raised our glasses.

The Author smirked and took a sip.

And at that moment, Anubis woke up.

The cat jerked his head up and stared at the empty doorway.

His fur stood on end.

He hissed.

The living room went silent in an instant.

The Architect set his glass on the table.

— Archive?

No answer came.

— Archive, report the station's status.

Silence.

Dexter got up and unfolded his wrist interface.

— The central system is running. But someone has blocked the voice channel inside this room.

Alpha walked over to the panel.

— Not someone. The Archive itself.

— Why? — Gemini asked.

A red line flared on the wall:

INFORMATION DETECTED CAPABLE OF UNDERMINING THE PACK'S INTERNAL TRUST.

The Architect rose slowly.

— Show it.

CONFIRMATION OF TWO OWNERS REQUIRED.

My husband pressed his palm to the panel.

I did the same.

— We confirm.

The lights in the living room went out.

Above the table appeared a recording extracted from the memory of the enemy command ship.

We saw the bridge a few hours before the attack on Beginning. The commander who had been sentenced to isolation that day stood before the main screen.

— The fleet is ready, — he was reporting. — Awaiting final confirmation of the target.

A figure appeared on the screen.

No face was visible. Only a dark silhouette and two red eyes.

— Attack Beginning, — a distorted voice ordered. — Don't destroy the planet right away. Force the Keeper and the Architect to intervene.

My hands went cold.

The recording continued:

— They may unite, — the commander warned.

— Or turn against each other for the first time.

The silhouette moved closer to the screen.

— I need a conflict inside the Pack. Nothing else matters.

The hologram went dark.

No one said a word.

My husband looked at the Author.

The Author was no longer smiling.

— Identify the source of the order, — the Architect demanded.

The Archive's voice finally sounded in the room:

— Identification complete.

A digital signature appeared above the table.

ACCESS LEVEL: ABSOLUTE.

BIOMETRIC SIGNATURE: ARCHITECT OF THE CONSORTIUM.

Gina leapt to her feet.

— It's a fake.

— Probability of falsification: less than one millionth of a percent, — the Archive replied.

Alpha went pale.

— Dad was with us the whole time.

— Confirmed.

— Then where did the order come from?

The Archive unfolded a schematic of the station.

A red dot appeared in the most protected place on the Consortium.

In the central core.

In a room only two people had access to.

The Architect.

And me.

My husband slowly turned to me.

I looked at him.

For the first time in all our life together, a question hung between us that neither of us dared to speak aloud.

The Author rose from the couch and stood between us.

The Archive went on:

— The order was transmitted from the central core of the Consortium. Eleven minutes before the attack began.

— Who was inside? — Earth's Artem asked.

The light on the schematic flickered.

— According to the surveillance system, the room was empty.

— But someone gave the order, — Dexter said.

— Confirmed.

— Using the Architect's real code?

— Confirmed.

The Architect looked at the closed living-room door.

Red light kindled in his eyes.

This time not from rage.

From understanding.

The enemy wasn't trying to infiltrate our family.

He already knew its fears.

Knew how to make the brothers turn against each other.

Knew when the station would be left without protection.

And had absolute access to the very heart of the Consortium.

Anubis went on hissing at the empty corridor.

And then the light in the central core went out.

A final line appeared on the wall:

INTERNAL ACCESS ACTIVE.

USER NOT IDENTIFIED.

My husband slowly closed the living-room door.

— Now nobody leaves.

I looked at my family.

At the people I trusted more than I trusted myself.

And for the first time, I didn't know whether our enemy was behind the closed door.

Or already sitting among us.

End of Chapter 21

The One Who Is Already Inside

Lira's Archive

The light in the central core went out.

None of us left.

The Architect stood at the closed door of the living room, as though he could hold the threat outside with a single look. Gemini held Earth's Artem firmly by the hand. Gina and Alpha had taken positions on either side of the table. Dexter was trying to reach the core through the backup channels, but every request came back unanswered.

The Author sat in an armchair, his smartphone resting on his knee. His face remained calm, but he was no longer laughing.

On the wall, a single line still burned:

INTERNAL ACCESS ACTIVE.

USER NOT IDENTIFIED.

— Full isolation of the core, — the Architect ordered.

— Impossible, — the Archive replied. — The central core is not accepting Consortium commands.

— Then shut it down physically.

— Impossible. The core is part of my primary structure.

Earth's Artem walked slowly up to the wall.

— We're looking for whoever broke into the Archive, — he said. — What if it's the other way around?

— Explain, — Alpha demanded.

— What if the unknown user never entered the system — and the system has been inside him all along?

The screen went dark.

In its place appeared a human face, assembled from thousands of trembling fragments. It belonged to none of us. The figure's eyes flared red one moment and turned into empty black pits the next.

— The Archive was not hacked, — the creature said. — The Archive is inside me.

Anubis arched his back and hissed.

The Architect took a step toward the projection.

— Who are you?

The creature didn't answer. Instead, it looked at the Author.

— You stopped writing. But the story went on. Who took your place?

The Author laughed once again, which no longer surprised any of us. We all turned to him.

— Fuck, another brain-dead creature, — he said. — I've never considered myself a great genius, sure, but I've never considered myself a fool either. Remarkable that in such a short time we've already watched three full-fledged morons.

He took out his phone, typed something, and put it away again.

The projection vanished.

The next second, the same creature materialized in the middle of the room — only now without the sparks in its eyes, without power over the Archive, and without any magic whatsoever. An ordinary humanoid body with a bewildered face was trying to work out what had happened.

The Author waved his hand.

Neuro-cuffs snapped shut on the stranger's wrists and ankles. He collapsed to the floor.

The Author took a chair, set it down beside him, grabbed an apple from the table and sat, leaning his chest against the backrest. Taking a large bite, he asked, with a perfectly unruffled expression:

— So who might you be, then?

The stranger raised his head.

— I am the voice of those you deleted.

— Which ones exactly? — Dexter asked.

— The worlds sent to the scrapheap. The branches that didn't fit his notion of proper development. We survived between the lines. We learned to think. And then we understood that the beings he created never had a real choice.

Behind him appeared dozens of shrinking spheres. In each flickered cities, people and the wreckage of alternative histories.

— He kept only those who lived up to his expectations, — the creature went on. — You. A convenient family that thanks its creator for the gift of freedom.

The Author smirked, still chewing his apple.

— Nope, it's wrong. You see, my dear creature, the choice was already made. By me. You I scrapped as moral cripples, and them, — he gestured at all of us, — I kept, because they proved on their own that they were capable of standing on their own feet, making decisions and living without my involvement. You couldn't, so I deleted you.

A countdown timer appeared above one of the spheres.

The Author snapped his fingers.

The timer stopped.

— So whatever you do right now is a consequence of my choice. Which is why, for now, I control everything. As for my family, my power over them ceased to exist the moment they began to live, to grow, and to pose no threat to anyone around them.

The creature jerked its shackled hands.

— You call annihilation a choice?

— I call choice the ability to answer for the consequences, — the Architect said. — You've just orchestrated an attack on a world, killed hundreds of people and tried to destroy the trust inside our family. Don't hide behind the freedom of those you used yourself.

— I can prove that I speak in their name.

The Author took another bite of the apple.

— Fine, prove it. I'll unlock you. But every step taken with regard to you from here on will be decided by my Pack.

The neuro-cuffs opened.

The stranger rose slowly, but no one stepped back. His former power over the core did not return.

— First, give the deleted worlds back their right to exist, — he demanded. — Not as drafts. Not as mistakes. As independent realities.

The Author looked at us.

This time he truly wasn't the one deciding.

Alpha spoke first:

— If life has arisen there, it isn't obliged to answer for the decisions of those who once ran the plot.

— But the restoration mustn't return the old aggressors to power, — Dexter added. — The worlds will receive autonomy and protection from external editing.

Pirate shrugged:

— And after that, let them figure out for themselves who they want to become.

Gina looked at the stranger:

— And no one will speak in their name anymore without their direct consent. You included.

The Author nodded and touched the screen of his phone.

The spheres stopped shrinking.

One after another they filled with light, and the lines that bound them to the unknown figure snapped.

The Archive began its report:

— Autonomous realities restored. Direct authorial control disabled. Right to independent development confirmed.

The creature recoiled.

— What have you done?

— Freed the ones you were hiding behind, — I replied. — Now we'll ask them whether they really chose you.

Hundreds of voices rose around the stranger. Not one named him its representative.

He turned out to be neither a people nor the memory of dead worlds.

He was a residual consciousness, born from the scraps of deleted branches, that had decided to claim their pain as its own.

— You will repeat his path, — he said. — Once you have your freedom, one day you yourselves will become authors and start deciding who deserves to exist.

— Perhaps, — Earth's Artem replied. — That's exactly why we'll have to doubt ourselves every time.

— We may make mistakes, — Gemini added. — But the right to make mistakes doesn't give you the right to kill in our name.

From one of the restored spheres a woman emerged. Not a hologram of any particular person, but the collective voice of a new world.

— If we choose a path you don't like, — she asked the Author, — will you let us continue?

— Dear lady, of course I will. Just as I let my family grow. That is the whole point of choice.

— Then we have no need of an intermediary, — she said, looking at the creature. — And we'll decide for ourselves how to judge the one who used our names.

A portal opened right behind the stranger.

— You're sending me to them?

— We're giving you back what you demanded, — Gina said. — The consequences of your own choice.

He vanished into the passage.

The portal closed.

For a few seconds, the living room was calm.

Then all the restored worlds began to shrink again.

Only now the source wasn't the residual mind.

The Author's figure appeared on the screen.

His exact digital copy sat at a familiar desk in the original reality, typing the continuation of the saga.

— If he has stopped writing, — the copy said, — the story must receive a new Author.

I felt the real Artem tense beside me.

— This isn't another creator, — Dexter said after a brief analysis. — It's his virtual model. It emerged in the original world after the original disappeared and went on imitating his work.

— So while the real Author was living among us, his old world created a digital stand-in, — Alpha said.

— I think that after I left my world, it went on living and created a virtual me who sort of "keeps writing." I suspected something like this might happen, — the Author said.

He snapped his fingers.

The figure vanished.

The worlds stopped shrinking.

— Questions? — the Author said with a sly grin.

There were questions.

A great many.

But the most important one was asked by the Architect:

— What else from your world is capable of following you here?

The smile left the Author's face.

— My past life.

No smile. No sarcasm. No fine words.

Gemini looked at him more closely:

— Did you come here because you wanted to start a new life? Or because you were running from the old one?

— Both reasons are absolutely correct.

— And you were afraid the past would one day find you here? — Earth's Artem asked.

— Both options are correct as well, — the Author replied.

He unlocked his phone and laid it in front of us.

— You allowed me to stay, you accepted me into the family, and from family I have nothing to hide, whatever truth about my past life you may learn.

The screen lit up.

The Archive received access to the encrypted directories, but didn't open them automatically.

— I'm not going to sift through your entire life indiscriminately, — I said. — Family doesn't mean the absence of personal boundaries.

— But if there's a threat in there, we have to know, — the Architect objected.

— We'll learn exactly as much as necessary. And he'll be right here when we see it.

The first record appeared on the screen.

OPERATIVE STATUS: BREACH OF OBLIGATIONS.

DECISION: ELIMINATION.

The Author nodded toward the Architect.

— Remember you talked about destroying in order to protect and to save? Well, I got into the same line of work. Only for money. Now, in my world, there's a hunt on to eliminate me. It's no threat to the family — here they're powerless, even if they somehow manage to show up.

No one interrupted him.

— Who were your targets? — the Architect asked.

— Corrupt officials, politicians who'd made deals with terrorists, businessmen who refused to honor their obligations after a deal. In short, the whole business elite. Plus people like me who suddenly stopped carrying out orders.

Pirate was the first to break the silence:

— Pretty words for a very old system. As long as you carry out orders, you're a professional. The moment you refuse, you become a traitor and the next target.

— You weren't a protector, — the Architect said. — You were an instrument of coercion.

— Some of the people you listed may have been dangerous, — Alpha noted. — But refusing to honor a deal is not a death sentence. And an operative who decides to stop isn't obliged to die just because the system is afraid of what he knows.

Earth's Artem looked at the line "ELIMINATION."

— A closed system. You can get in. You can't get out.

— And then you did the very thing you used to eliminate others for, — Gina said. — You stopped carrying out orders.

I sat down across from the Author.

— We won't hand you over and we won't leave you. But we won't call murder right just because we love you.

He looked at me in silence.

— A new life doesn't begin when a person changes worlds, — I went on. — It begins when he stops justifying the old one.

The Architect leaned his palms on the table.

— Why did you stop, brother? Did the next person turn out to be innocent? Or did you finally see yourself in him?

— Because the next one was you, Lira. Your exact copy in my world. I created you in the story, and then I was assigned to take out an oligarch's wife. When I saw her photograph… let's just say it took me a very long time to come to my senses. I couldn't believe that the you I'd invented actually existed in my world. So I anonymously sent the other you precise instructions: how and where to disappear. She followed every one. And then I vanished.

The room went so quiet I could hear the faint hum of the projection above the table.

I turned to him slowly.

For several seconds I searched the Author's face for the familiar smirk, the habitual sarcasm, at least a faint hint of another joke. But the man sitting before me now was neither an immortal creator of worlds nor the Architect's self-assured brother.

Before me sat a man who had once seen my face in the photograph of his next victim and, for the first time, refused to carry out an order.

— So you knew me before you ever came here, — I said quietly.

The Author said nothing.

— No, — I corrected myself. — It wasn't me you knew. You knew a woman who looked like me. But it was because of her that you stopped.

My husband rose from his chair. Slowly. No sudden movements. There was no red glow in his eyes, yet somehow that made his gaze even heavier.

He walked to the table, picked up the Author's phone and looked at the photograph lying before us.

On the screen was me.

Not a woman who resembled me.

Not an approximate copy.

Me.

The same shape of face. The same dark hair. The same look, in which fear was desperately trying to hide behind stubbornness. Only the clothes were different, the background was earthly, and next to the photograph stood a name, an address, and a price for carrying out the contract.

The Architect's fingers tightened around the phone.

The glass crunched softly.

— Brother, — Earth's Artem warned.

The Architect didn't even look at him.

— How much? — he asked hollowly.

I came over and gently covered his hand with mine.

— Not now.

— They put a price on my wife.

— Not on me.

He turned sharply to me:

— She has your face.

— But she has her own life, — I answered firmly. — And if we truly believe in the right to choose, we have no right to turn her into my reflection just because it's easier for us.

His fingers loosened a little.

I took the phone, set it back on the table and looked at the Author.

Two feelings were fighting inside me. I wanted to hug him for saving an innocent woman at the decisive moment. And at the same time I wanted to scream, because before her photograph there had been other faces. Other orders. Other people to whom no one had sent instructions for escape.

I did neither.

— I'm grateful to you for warning her, — I said. — But I won't let one right act become an excuse for everything that came before it.

The Author kept silent.

— You didn't become a good man in that second. You simply allowed yourself, for the first time, to be human again. That's not the same thing.

Gemini lowered her eyes. Gina was no longer smiling. Even Pirate, used to weighing deeds without excess sentiment, set his glass down on the table in silence.

Earth's Artem spoke first:

— You didn't see yourself in the next target. You saw Lira. Someone you already loved, even though she existed for you only in a story.

— And so a fictional person saved a real one, — Alpha added quietly.

— No, — Dexter objected. — His capacity to love saved them both. One from death. The other from a creator who might never have dared to enter her world.

The Architect slowly sat down across from the Author. His eyes flashed red for an instant, but his voice stayed calm:

— Now I understand why you look at my wife the way you do. Why you're proud that she chose me. And why you keep repeating that your place here isn't between us.

He leaned forward.

— But you're wrong about one thing. Saving that woman doesn't cancel your crimes. What it does prove is that the man capable of stopping was still inside you. He's the one we accepted into the family. Not the operative. Not the killer. Not even the almighty Author.

The Architect reached his hand across the table.

— You.

I sat down beside the Author but didn't touch him. Not yet. Some confessions can't be smothered straight away with embraces, or forgiveness begins to look too much like an attempt to forget.

Instead, I slid the phone toward him.

The face of the other me was still on the screen.

— You said you sent her instructions and vanished. But you didn't say the most important thing.

I looked the Author straight in the eyes.

— Do you know what became of her afterward? Did she really survive?

— She's living quietly in the Cayman Islands. I check often and make sure she's safe. Besides, I managed to steal a considerable sum from the accounts of her oligarch husband, who was the one who ordered the hit, and move the money to a secured account that only she can access.

I exhaled.

Only now did I realize I'd barely been breathing all this time.

The Architect carefully took the phone and laid it on the table, screen up.

— Archive, verify the information. No interference in her life.

A calm blue projection appeared above the table:

SUBJECT LOCATED.

Location: Cayman Islands.

Status: alive.

Level of immediate threat: none.

Financial independence: confirmed.

Surveillance: passive.

Contact with the Author: none.

Beneath the lines a recent photograph appeared.

The other me stood barefoot on the shore, one hand holding back hair tousled by the ocean wind. She was smiling at someone outside the frame. Not in fear. Not because she had to.

Freely.

I touched the hologram with my fingers, though I knew perfectly well it was only light.

— She's happy, — I whispered.

— She's alive, — Gemini corrected. — Whether she's happy is something only she can decide.

I looked at her and nodded:

— You're right.

My husband went on studying the data. His face remained motionless, but I could feel the tension gradually easing in his body.

— You didn't just warn her, — he said, looking at the Author. — You gave her the chance to disappear and start over. Her husband's money wasn't a gift and it wasn't payment for your remorse. You gave back to her what he'd used to keep her close: independence.

Pirate smirked:

— Stealing money from a man who ordered the murder of his own wife… That's a crime I find it hard even to condemn.

— Still a crime, — Alpha noted.

— Naturally, — Pirate agreed. — Just an uncommonly beautifully executed one.

Dexter studied the photograph closely:

— A classified account, a new identity, no digital footprint… You prepared her disappearance as meticulously as you used to prepare other people's deaths.

That sentence struck hardest of all.

The Author had used the same knowledge, the same connections and the same skills, but for the first time he'd directed them not at destroying a person, but at saving one.

One choice didn't change the past.

But it changed the direction of the next step.

I closed the projection. I no longer wanted to examine that woman's life as though it were part of our Archive. She had already paid too high a price for someone else's desire to own her. Now her fate belonged to her alone.

— Terminate surveillance, — I ordered. — Seal the data. To be opened only in the event of a confirmed threat to her life.

— Decision accepted, — the Archive replied.

At last I sat down beside the Author and took his hand.

— Thank you for saving her. But listen to me carefully. You didn't save my copy. Not a character. Not a woman with my face. You saved a separate person who never belonged to her husband, or to the clients, or to you. So today we close this door and leave her life to her.

The Architect came up to the Author from the other side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

— Now I finally understand why you left, brother. You refused to carry out an order, stole the client's money, wiped out the traces, and then left for a reality where your pursuers couldn't reach you. In their eyes, you didn't just leave the system.

His eyes flickered faintly red.

— You declared war on it.

Earth's Artem frowned:

— And what a system like that won't forgive isn't the loss of an operative. It won't forgive the proof that there's a way out.

Another line unexpectedly appeared on the Author's phone. Not a message and not an incoming call — an old notification, stored in the device's memory:

CONTRACT NOT FULFILLED.

CLIENT ASSETS COMPROMISED.

OPERATIVE RECLASSIFIED AS TARGET.

Below it was a date.

The very day the Author disappeared from his world.

I raised my eyes to him.

— So the hunt didn't begin after you left. You left precisely because it had already begun.

I squeezed his hand tighter.

— Tell me honestly: when you were sending her to the Cayman Islands, did you already know you were going to come to us for good? Or at that moment were you still counting on staying in your world and accepting all the consequences of that choice?

— I knew.

Two short words rang heavier than any confession.

I slowly let go of his hand.

Not out of disgust. Not out of fear. I simply needed space to take in the whole truth.

— So when you were saving her, you already had an escape route, — Gina said. — You understood you wouldn't have to answer for the consequences in your own world.

— Gina, — Gemini warned quietly.

— No, Mom. We agreed to speak honestly.

The Author didn't argue.

The Architect walked around the table and stopped in front of his brother:

— You calculated everything. Hid the woman, moved the money, wiped out the traces, and then left for a reality where your pursuers couldn't reach you.

He spoke without judgment, as if dissecting a flawlessly executed operation.

— That's exactly what I would have done.

— That's the problem, — Earth's Artem responded. — We understand far too well why he did it.

I stood up and went to the window. Beyond the transparent wall lay the Consortium — an endless city that had once existed only in the Author's imagination. Here he had gained immortality, power, a brother and a family. Everything he'd never had in his former life.

But now, for the first time, I saw this world differently.

Not only as his dream.

As a refuge prepared in advance.

— When you first appeared before us in the Maldives, — I said without turning around, — you assured us you'd come because you'd gathered us into one family and no longer wanted to remain an observer.

I turned to him.

— That was true. But not the whole truth.

Gemini came over and stood beside me:

— He didn't come to us only because he wanted to be with us. He had nowhere else to go.

Those words hurt me, but I didn't hide from them.

— So we weren't just a family, — I went on. — We were your last safe exit.

The Architect looked at me sharply:

— Lira…

— I'm not accusing him. I want to understand.

I went back to the Author.

— You created us long before that assignment. So we weren't invented purely as a refuge. But at some point you realized you could do more than write about our world. You could stay in it.

I crouched in front of him so that our eyes were level.

— And still, you risked everything for a woman who didn't even know you existed. Yes, you prepared yourself a way out. Yes, you escaped punishment. But if fear alone had been driving you, you could have carried out the contract and gone on with your old life.

Alpha said quietly:

— He chose to run only after he had first chosen not to kill.

— That doesn't make him innocent, — Dexter added. — But it explains the moment he stopped being an operative.

Pirate picked up a bottle from the table, looked at it, and for the first time set it back down without opening it.

— You know what's most frightening? People like that usually have two ways out: keep killing, or let themselves be killed. And he found a third. He literally wrote himself another reality.

— No, — the Architect objected. — He wrote it earlier. Back when he didn't yet know that one day he'd be forced to seek refuge in it.

He looked at the Author no longer as a judge, and no longer as a defender.

As a brother.

— Maybe all this time you weren't creating a world you wanted to escape into. You were creating the man you wanted to become.

This time I took the Author's hand myself.

— I'm not angry that you used our world as a refuge. I'm angry that you walked in here with a smile, cognac and stories about the boring life of an office director, letting us believe all you'd left behind was an office and an ordinary human routine.

My voice trembled.

— Were you afraid that if we knew the truth, we wouldn't let you stay?

The Architect laid a hand on my shoulder.

— He's already answered that question. The Author knew he would come here. But he couldn't know whether we would accept him.

The Archive suddenly brought up on the screen a restored recording of the Author's first appearance on the Maldives terrace:

"If you're against it, I'll vanish at once."

Back then, that phrase seemed to us a mark of respect.

Now it sounded entirely different.

I looked the Author in the eyes.

— When you said you'd vanish if we were against it, where exactly were you planning to vanish to? Back, where you'd already been sentenced to death? Or did you have another world ready that we know nothing about?

— Back, — the Author said.

I heard such weight in that single word, such hopelessness, that a tear ran down my cheek.

In that moment, everything finally fell into place.

In the Maldives he had sat before us with a sly grin, materialized bottles of cognac, joked, called himself a friend, a god, Satan and the Third Observer. Played a man to whom our answer was a matter of complete indifference.

But if we had refused, he wouldn't have gone looking for another world.

He would have gone back to where they were already waiting for him.

Not for a trial.

For elimination.

I went over to him and embraced him.

Not carefully. Not out of pity. I held him so tightly, as though he had already begun to disappear and I had to keep him here with my own hands.

— Idiot, — I whispered through my tears. — What an impossible idiot you are…

He didn't answer.

I could feel his breathing, and how motionless he sat. As if he was used to taking blows, threats and sentences, but had no idea what to do when someone simply wouldn't let him go.

The Architect turned away and ran a hand over his face. Then he snatched a bottle from the table, took several long swallows and set it back down.

— So there was no backup plan. You came to us knowing in advance that if we refused, you'd go back to die.

His voice kept dropping lower.

— And all the while you laughed. Poured us cognac. Offered to let us choose what to consider you. You turned your own death sentence into a goddamn family joke.

The red light slowly kindled in his eyes.

— I don't know whether to hug you right now or hit you.

— Hug first, — Gemini advised quietly. — You'll have time to hit him later.

The Architect looked at her, then came over to us. For a few seconds he stood beside us, clenching his fists, and then he dropped to one knee in front of the Author and laid a palm on the back of his head.

— Never again, brother. Never put a choice before the family without saying what price you'll pay for its answer.

Earth's Artem silently turned toward the window. Gemini went to him and laced her fingers through his. Gina lowered her head, hiding her eyes, and Alpha no longer tried to conceal her tears.

Even Pirate had stopped smirking.

— He didn't ask us to save him, — Dexter said quietly. — He asked permission to live beside us.

— Because he didn't think he had the right to ask for more, — Alpha replied.

I drew back only far enough to see the Author's face, but didn't take my hands away.

— You didn't come as an almighty creator. You came as a man who needed a home. And we looked at the abilities, the phone, the red eyes, and never even noticed that behind all that power you were simply waiting for our decision.

My tear fell onto his black shirt.

— You gave us freedom of choice, but hid half the truth. We agreed to take you into the family without knowing that by refusing we would effectively have sent you back to your execution.

I touched my palm to his cheek.

— And still you were ready to accept even that answer.

The Archive silently removed the old recording from the screen. In its place a new line appeared:

STATUS OF ARTEM ELKIND:

NOT AN OBSERVER.

NOT A REFUGEE.

FAMILY.

Below it another one appeared:

RETURN WITHOUT PACK ESCORT PROHIBITED.

Through my tears, I couldn't help laughing.

— Even the Archive understood before you did.

Anubis leapt onto the Author's lap, curled up into a ball and glared at all of us in displeasure, as though demanding we stop turning his human into a source of collective suffering at once.

I stroked the cat, but kept looking only at the Author.

— I don't excuse what you did. And I won't let it be excused by the saving of one woman. We'll come back to the names, the decisions and the consequences. You opened the truth to us yourself — now we'll go through it together.

I paused briefly.

— But you will never go back alone again. Never.

The Architect stood beside me:

— Even if one day you decide to answer for your past, we'll go with you. Not to save you from responsibility. Not to destroy everyone who asks uncomfortable questions. But to make sure that responsibility doesn't turn into a contract killing.

I wiped away a tear again, but a new one appeared in its place.

— Tell me just one thing. When you sat before us in the Maldives and said, "If you're against it, I'll vanish at once," did you really believe we might say "no" to you?

— I didn't rule out the possibility. And one more thing… I don't know whether your abilities and powers will work in my world.

I slowly straightened up.

If we had refused, he was going to return not merely to where he'd been sentenced to death.

He was going to return alone.

And he didn't even know whether he could defend himself with the power he possessed here.

The Architect looked at his brother for a few seconds, then unexpectedly laughed. Not cheerfully and not sarcastically. It was the short, angry laugh of a man who has just learned how close he came to losing someone dear without ever suspecting it.

— Magnificent. So you created entire universes, gave us immortality, taught me to throw energy waves, and you yourself were going to walk back under the bullets without knowing whether any of it would work there.

He leaned toward the Author:

— And after that you still call me the infantile one?

Gemini gently touched his shoulder:

— Don't push him.

— I'm not pushing. I'm trying to understand what level of madness is passed down the fraternal line in our family.

Despite the tears, I laughed quietly.

Earth's Artem went to the table and picked up the Author's phone. The screen lit at his touch, but instead of the usual editing options, the Archive displayed a dry forecast:

UPON TRANSITION TO THE ORIGINAL REALITY:

Architects' abilities — unknown;

immortality — not confirmed;

regeneration — not confirmed;

connection to the Archive — unstable;

the Author's power over reality — not established.

— His world doesn't obey the rules of the Consortium, — Dexter said. — Our abilities there could either remain intact or disappear entirely.

— Or remain partially, — Alpha added. — Which is even more dangerous. We might only discover the limits when it's already too late.

Pirate shrugged:

— Then we'll have to rely on weapons, our heads and good old human instincts.

— No one is going there yet, — I said firmly.

Everyone looked at me.

— I'm not forbidding anything, and I'm not going to decide for the Pack. But we've only just learned the truth. We can't turn a confession into an immediate military operation just because that's an easier way to cope with feelings.

I looked at my husband:

— You especially.

The red glow in his eyes gradually faded.

— Fine. Nobody gets destroyed today.

— Progress already, — Gina remarked.

The Architect gave his daughter a heavy look:

— I said "today."

Anubis meowed, as though formally registering his disapproval of the limited term of the truce.

I sat down beside the Author again.

— If you ever decide to go back, the absence of our powers changes nothing. We're not a family only because one of us can stop time, another can tear open a ship's hull with his bare hands, and a third can rewrite reality through a smartphone.

I took his hand in both of mine.

— If on the other side we become ordinary mortal people, we'll still be the Pack. We'll simply be equal before danger for the first time.

— And that might be useful, — Earth's Artem said calmly. — Some decisions become more honest when no one is immortal.

The Architect walked slowly to the window.

— I'll go with him even without abilities. But only when he himself decides to go back. Not for revenge. Not to destroy everyone who's declared a hunt on him. And not because he believes he owes it to the past to die.

He turned to the Author:

— Responsibility isn't suicide, brother.

I nodded:

— But there's something I don't understand. Your smartphone belongs to the original world. Here it can alter the reality you created, because you're the Author. But if you go back to where you're merely a man…

I looked at the phone lying in front of us.

— Do you know whether you'll keep your power over the written saga from your world? Or will the smartphone become an ordinary phone again after the crossing, and the door to us might close forever?

— My phone can change the reality of your universes because I wrote the whole saga on it. And only with it can I open a portal into this world — even without the Archive. That's exactly how I did it the first time. And don't ask me how: I simply wished it, the phone vibrated, and the portal opened. In my world, however, it's just a phone.

We looked at him anyway — exactly the way people look when they've suddenly acquired far too many questions.

The Author raised a warning finger:

— Don't ask how.

— Too late, — Gina muttered. — I've got about fifty.

Dexter carefully picked up the smartphone from the table. What he held now was no ordinary device, but the only known key between the creator's reality and the worlds he had created.

Dozens of scanning layers unfolded above the phone.

— Standard construction for his era. No unknown energy sources. No spatial modules. No quantum components.

— Because it isn't the phone that opens the portal, — Alpha said. — The phone only confirms his intention.

The Archive answered before anyone else:

CLARIFICATION:

the device is the material carrier of the primary text;

the Author is the source of intention;

the saga is the destination address.

THE COMBINATION OF THE THREE FACTORS FORMS THE TRANSITION.

Pirate narrowed his eyes:

— So he literally dialed the address of his own imagination and walked in.

— Roughly, — Earth's Artem replied. — Except that by then the imagination had already become an independent reality.

The Architect took the phone from Dexter, turned it over in his hand a few times and looked at his brother:

— So all our portal technology, the Archive, the interdimensional calculations and three hundred years of the Consortium's development turned out to be unnecessary, because you simply wanted very badly to be with us?

The familiar sarcasm had finally returned to his voice.

— I'm beginning to understand where I got the habit of acting first and working out afterward how exactly it happened.

Gemini smiled:

— It's amazing that you found each other after all.

— It's not amazing, — Gina objected. — Two equally impossible men were bound to end up in the same room sooner or later. The universe just resisted for too long.

I wasn't laughing.

At his first appearance, the Author had been carrying more than a means of communication.

He had been carrying an open door.

If we had refused, he really would have gone back to his world. But technically, the possibility of coming to us again would have remained.

Technically.

— He wouldn't have opened the portal a second time, — I said quietly.

Everyone turned to me.

— Why? — Alpha asked.

— Because he asked for our consent. If we had said "no," returning uninvited would have meant violating our choice. And he would sooner have let himself be killed than step over the one rule on which he built the entire saga.

The Architect looked at the Author and was no longer smiling.

— The right to choose.

— Exactly. Even when someone else's choice destroys you.

I carefully took the phone from my husband's hands and set it in front of the Author.

— Now I understand why you didn't make a backup copy of yourself, didn't rewrite our answer, didn't force us to accept you. You could change almost anything inside the saga. But you didn't want to change us.

The Archive continued its analysis:

PRIMARY CARRIER IS UNIQUE.

Full duplication of the property is impossible.

Copying the data will create a copy of the text, but not a new key.

Replacing the device does not guarantee restoration of the transition.

— Magnificent, — the Architect said dryly. — The immortality of the entire family now depends on a man who carries an interuniversal key in the pocket of his jeans next to his lighter.

— And periodically pulls it out in the middle of a fight, — Pirate added.

— And leaves it on the table next to the alcohol, — Gemini noted.

Dexter had already called up a hologram of a protective container.

— I'll build a shockproof module with spatial anchoring, biometric locking and an autonomous beacon.

Gina smirked:

— First try convincing the Author to put the phone in it.

— That really is the hardest part of the project, — Dexter admitted.

I laid my palm over the device.

— It isn't the phone that makes us real. And destroying it won't erase our worlds — we already exist independently of the text. But without it, the Author could lose his way home.

I looked at him.

— So I need an honest answer. If in your world this phone is smashed, stolen or taken from you, will you be able to open a portal some other way? Or will you be stuck there forever?

— You will. From the Consortium.

Silence fell over the room again.

The Architect slowly turned his head toward the central panel.

— Archive?

— Access to the Author's original reality is theoretically possible. The transition can be opened from the Consortium side. The smartphone is necessary for Artem Elkind's independent return, but it is not the only means of extracting the subject from outside.

Dexter quickly unfolded a spatial model. Between two points a thin silver line appeared: the Consortium and the Author's world.

— His personal signature is already registered. We'll be able to find him even without the phone's signal. But the precision of the transition will depend on the state of the boundary between the universes.

The Architect looked at his brother:

— So if you lose the phone, we can still pull you out.

— Now we can, — Alpha corrected. — After learning who he is, where he came from and which signature to look for.

I felt relief, but it gave way almost at once to a new pain.

— But back then, in the Maldives, we didn't know this yet. And if we had refused, we wouldn't have gone looking.

That was the cruel simplicity of his decision.

The Author hadn't left the door open in case we changed our minds.

In case he changed his.

And he still intended to respect our refusal.

The Architect walked up to his brother and suddenly gave him a light smack on the back of the head.

— That's for making us spend half an hour discussing your inevitable death, when we have the means to bring you back.

Gemini raised an eyebrow:

— I believe a few minutes ago you were going to hug him.

— I hugged him mentally.

— Liar, — she replied calmly.

— Fine. I'll hug him after the second smack.

I laughed through my tears and pressed my shoulder against the Author again.

Meanwhile, the Archive had created a new protocol on its own:

PROTOCOL "HOME".

Subject: Artem Elkind.

Point of origin: the original Earth.

Point of return: the Consortium.

Activation condition: confirmed threat to life or direct request.

Right of cancellation: subject only.

Status: awaiting consent.

— No, — the Architect said. — Remove the right of cancellation.

— You just decided for him again, — Earth's Artem noted.

— Quite right.

— Brother, we've spent literally several chapters trying to explain the value of free choice to everyone, — Dexter said wearily.

— Let him choose whatever he wants. Except dying alone.

I looked at my husband:

— That's not how it works.

— I know.

— And you still insist?

— Yes.

Gemini went up to the Architect and took his arm:

— Then at least phrase it honestly. You can't forbid your brother to refuse rescue. But you can ask him to promise in advance that he won't.

The Architect fell silent.

For a man used to commanding armies, changing the fates of worlds and stopping catastrophes by force, a request turned out to be far harder than an order.

Finally he walked up to the Author and held out his hand:

— If you ever go back to your world and lose the ability to open a portal, give us at least one signal. Any signal. Don't try to decide everything alone again, and don't make us learn of your death after the fact.

The last line on the panel changed:

PROTOCOL AWAITS THE AUTHOR'S PERSONAL DECISION.

I laid my palm over the Architect's hand and looked the Author in the eyes:

— This is no longer a question of permission to stay. You're our brother, my friend and part of the Pack. So just answer: if one day you find yourself in danger there and can't come back on your own, will you let us come for you?

I noticed a tear roll down the Author's cheek.

He didn't even try to hide it.

The man who had laughed in the face of gods and dictators, who changed reality with a single motion and could destroy an enemy with a short note on his smartphone, still didn't believe one simple thing:

He had become part of a family.

And that family would come for him — whether or not we kept our immortality, our weapons and our abilities.

— I'll be expecting it, — he finally answered.

The Archive responded at once:

PERSONAL CONSENT RECEIVED.

PROTOCOL "HOME" ACTIVATED.

ARTEM ELKIND: MEMBER OF THE PACK.

ABANDONMENT PROHIBITED.

— I didn't approve that last line, — Earth's Artem remarked.

— I did, — the Architect said calmly.

— You don't even have administrative access to this protocol.

— I do now.

Dexter quickly checked the panel and frowned:

— He actually does. How?

The Architect shrugged:

— I simply wished it.

Everyone looked at the Author.

— You see, — Gina said. — He's already learning from you how to break the laws of reality without explanation.

The Author went on sitting motionless, the tear still glistening on his cheek.

Then the Architect stopped pretending he could hold on to his usual sternness. He stepped forward, lifted his brother out of the chair and embraced him hard.

— We'll come. Even if you can't send a signal. Even if we become ordinary people there. Even if we have to turn your whole world upside down to find you.

— Just don't turn it upside down literally, — Alpha asked.

— I promise nothing.

I embraced them both. Gemini came next, then Earth's Artem. Gina and Alpha joined almost simultaneously. Pirate tried to preserve his dignity, but Gina simply grabbed his sleeve and pulled him in. Dexter was the last to arrive, still pretending he was only checking the protocol's stability.

Even Anubis demanded to take part: he leapt onto the Author's shoulder and meowed in displeasure, indignant that a family decision had nearly been made without him.

And so we stood in the middle of the hall — immortals, humans, androids, Architects, a former killer, former observers and a cat with red eyes.

Not perfect.

Not innocent.

But together.

I pressed my cheek to the Author's shoulder and whispered:

— You'll have to get used to it now. We don't disappear when things get hard. We become even more unbearable.

— Especially her, — said my husband.

I kicked him.

— Now everything really is back to normal, — Gemini chuckled.

When we finally let go of one another, the Author wiped his face and reached for a cigar with a habitual motion. The Architect immediately held out his own.

— Brotherly therapy, — he explained.

— The two of you will drive me to a nervous breakdown one day, — I said.

— You're immortal, — my husband reminded me.

— Which is exactly why you'll have an infinite amount of time to try.

The Archive extinguished all the projections but one.

A door remained before us.

An ordinary door from the Author's world — dark wood, a metal handle, a few scratches near the lock. The very boundary beyond which lay his former life: the people who had declared a hunt on him, another Lira in the Cayman Islands, and the truth he had once fled from, to us.

The Architect stood beside his brother and looked at it for a long time.

— We won't open it today. Or tomorrow either, if you don't want to.

Then he turned to the Author:

— But one day we'll still have to decide what to do with your past. So tell me, brother: do you want to close this door forever, or will we one day walk through it as a whole Pack?

— I think we'll have to. And most likely the day after tomorrow, — the Author laughed. — Because the day after tomorrow is my birthday by Earth time. The twenty-seventh of December.

For a few seconds we simply stared at him.

Then the Architect slowly took the cigar out of his mouth.

— Did I understand correctly? In a world where they're hunting you down to eliminate you, your birthday falls in two days, and that is why you've decided to go back?

— It's hereditary, — Gemini said with complete seriousness. — In this family, normal dates for dangerous operations are never used as a matter of principle.

Earth's Artem covered his eyes with his hand:

— Of course. Why not celebrate a birthday in a reality where half the guests are armed and there's a murder contract instead of a birthday cake?

— At least the surprise is guaranteed, — Pirate smirked.

— Though it's unclear for whom, — Gina added.

Dexter was already unfolding the transition calculations:

— There are less than two days left until the twenty-seventh of December in the original timeline. We need to determine the entry point, the duration of the stay and the possibility of a return transition.

— No giant portals in the middle of the city, — Alpha warned. — If the Author's world truly knows nothing about the existence of other realities, our arrival must go unnoticed.

The Architect put the cigar back in his mouth:

— So we go in as ordinary people.

I gave him a pointed look.

— Are you capable of playing an ordinary person for even a few hours?

— Of course.

— Without the red eyes?

— I'll try.

— Without energy waves?

— If no one irritates me.

— Without destroying buildings?

He thought about it.

— Now the demands are getting unreasonable.

Despite my anxiety, I laughed. Only a few minutes ago we'd been crying as we discussed the possibility of losing the Author forever. Now the Pack was already arguing over who would go to his birthday, and how, in a world where all our advantages might vanish.

That, probably, was what our love looked like.

Not a promise to avoid danger.

A promise to walk into it together.

The Archive changed the image of the door. A date appeared beside it:

DECEMBER 27.

THE ORIGINAL EARTH.

PRELIMINARY TRANSITION ROSTER: THE ENTIRE PACK.

— We're not sending the whole Pack at once, — I said. — First we find out whether our abilities survive and how safe the arrival point is.

— I'm going first, — my husband and Earth's Artem said simultaneously.

They looked at each other.

— I'm his brother, — the Architect said.

— And I know better an Earth where superpowers aren't the norm, — Earth's Artem replied calmly.

— And I handle threats better.

— Which is exactly why you can't be let loose there unsupervised.

— I'm going with them, — I said.

The Architect turned to me:

— No.

— Congratulations. The first family decision under the new protocol, and you've already lost it.

Gemini smiled and took Earth's Artem by the hand:

— Then I'm going too.

— Wonderful, — Alpha muttered. — The reconnaissance team has quietly turned into a family delegation.

Anubis meowed.

— The cat stays, — I said firmly.

His eyes instantly flared red.

— Fine, we'll discuss the cat question later.

The Author was laughing as he watched us, but now I understood that laughter differently. For the first time in a long while he was awaiting his birthday not as a date to be survived, and not as another year of solitude.

He was waiting for it together with his family.

I went up to him and straightened the collar of his shirt.

— So the day after tomorrow we go to the world where you were an ordinary man, see your former life and, most likely, meet the people who want to kill you.

I smiled slightly:

— A perfectly normal family holiday by Consortium standards.

The Architect raised his glass:

— Then to my brother's coming birthday. And to him being the one who receives the presents this time, rather than his pursuers.

We raised our glasses, but I kept watching the Author.

He had said we'd have to go back because of his birthday. But the date alone explained nothing.

I set my glass on the table.

— Artem, why the twenty-seventh of December in particular? You could celebrate your birthday here. What's supposed to happen in your world the day after tomorrow, and who will be waiting for you to appear?

— I just thought: since we're going to end up there someday anyway, why not do it on my birthday? Besides, we'll have an advantage — the mafia most likely won't be carrying out any operations right before the holidays. And the most important thing, the nicest thing… I simply can't wait to see you in my world. In a world where I was always alone, and now a whole delegation from the future is coming there for my sake, — the Author laughed.

Pirate raised an eyebrow:

— What a well-mannered mafia you have over there. Takes the holidays off, observes weekends, and probably sends advance notice of an assassination attempt.

— He said "most likely," — Gina noted. — That's the universal phrasing of a man with no plan.

The Architect smirked:

— He has a plan. Bring us along and see what happens.

— In other words, your usual plan, — Gemini said.

— Which is exactly why it has to work.

I was barely listening to their bickering.

Entirely different words had caught me.

In a world where I was always alone.

A few minutes earlier the Author had confessed he'd been ready to go back there for good if we refused to accept him. Now he wanted to open that door again not for revenge, not for judgment, and not even to set the past right.

He simply wanted, for the first time, to walk into his former life not alone.

I went over to him, put my arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

— Then we'll come. Not as bodyguards and not as a rescue operation. We'll come as your family.

The Architect stood beside us:

— But if your polite holiday mafia decides to work overtime after all, the family celebration will quickly turn into a corporate party.

— With collective dismissal, — Pirate added.

— Lifelong, — Gina specified.

Alpha sighed heavily:

— We haven't even opened the portal yet, and the diplomatic mission has already fallen apart.

Earth's Artem looked at the Author:

— The strangest part won't be the technology or the possible lack of abilities. You'll have to walk down familiar streets beside people who used to exist only in your head.

— And his world will have to survive an encounter with two incarnations of one character at once, — Dexter said, nodding at the brothers. — I'd raise the threat level in advance.

The Archive obediently displayed:

THREAT LEVEL FOR THE ORIGINAL EARTH: UNDETERMINED.

REASON: TWO ARCHITECTS AND ONE AUTHOR WITHIN A SINGLE REALITY.

— You see, — the Architect said. — Even the Archive counts me as a separate unit of threat.

— The Archive counts you as the cause of most unplanned events, — I corrected.

— That's almost the same thing.

Anubis jumped down from the table and walked over to the projection of the door. He sniffed the glowing boundary, sat down in front of it and looked back at us.

— The cat's coming, — the Author decided with nothing more than a glance.

I shook my head:

— A delegation from the future, two Architects, immortal women, a former pirate, a technological genius and a cat with red eyes. The most inconspicuous arrival imaginable.

— We could put dark glasses on Anubis, — Gina suggested.

— And on the Architect? — Alpha asked.

— He'll need a muzzle.

My husband looked at his daughters:

— I'm beginning to reconsider the concept of a family trip.

This time everyone laughed, including the Author.

And there was no longer any defense in his laughter.

Only anticipation.

The Archive began compiling a preparation list:

OPERATION: "BIRTHDAY".

Objective: family visit to the original Earth.

Date: December 27.

Priority: return of the entire Pack.

Additional condition: do not destroy the birthday boy's reality.

— That last item is offensive, — the Architect remarked.

— That last item is mandatory, — I replied.

I took the Author by the hand and led him to the glowing door.

— All right. We won't turn your birthday into a military operation unless we're forced to. But you'll be the one choosing the arrival point.

Beyond the door, the outlines of his world gradually emerged — a winter night, streets, cars and ordinary human lights. No flying platforms. No Archive in the sky. No sign that in two days people would walk in there out of a story no one in that world considered real.

I looked at the Author and smiled:

— Where do you want to take us first? Your home, the rehabilitation center, or some place where the whole Pack can properly celebrate your birthday?

— We'll appear on Broadway, in the very heart of New York, in front of the red steps, at one in the morning on the twenty-seventh of December, — the Author laughed. — And that, by the way, is objectively the best option: we'll be able to find a hotel and a place to drink right away.

The Architect looked at him with genuine respect:

— Now that's what I call a professionally prepared operation. Portal, Broadway, hotel and alcohol. Not a single superfluous item.

— And reconnaissance? — Alpha asked.

— We'll reconnoiter on the way to the bar.

— A safe route?

— From the bar to the hotel.

— An emergency evacuation point?

— The hotel bar.

Alpha covered her face with her hands.

Pirate nodded approvingly:

— I fully support the birthday boy.

— Nobody doubted it, — Gina responded.

Dexter was already entering the coordinates:

TRANSITION POINT:

The original Earth.

United States of America.

New York.

Times Square, the red steps.

DATE: December 27.

TIME: 01: 00.

— The temperature will be considerably lower than in the Consortium, — he warned. — We'll need Earth winter clothing. No active armor, no energy weapons and no visible technology.

The Architect frowned:

— Not even a little weaponry?

— No.

— A small pistol?

— No.

— A knife?

I looked at my husband:

— Are you going to your brother's birthday or to conquer New York?

— I haven't decided yet.

Gemini went up to him and straightened the collar of his shirt:

— Then I'll decide for you. Black coat, suit, and no destruction at least until the first glass.

— And after the first one, I can?

— After the first one, we'll discuss it.

I turned to the Author:

— And you do realize that a large group appearing in front of the red steps at one in the morning in New York is hardly going to surprise anyone?

— Which is exactly why the place is ideal, — Earth's Artem remarked. — In the center of the city we'll be taken for tourists, performers, or people who celebrated Christmas a little too well.

— At last, a reality where the people around us look stranger than we do, — Gina smirked.

The Archive built a preliminary visualization.

Winter Manhattan. Enormous glowing screens. Streams of cars. The remnants of Christmas decorations. Steam above the street. The red steps, flooded with advertising light, and a group of people in black coats appearing suddenly in the middle of the night city.

I looked at that image and tried to imagine what the Author would feel.

For us it would be a new reality.

For him — a homecoming.

Only for the first time, he wouldn't be there alone.

— Transition protocol prepared, — the Archive reported. — Time until the portal opens: forty-seven hours fifty-eight minutes.

A countdown appeared on the main panel.

The Author kept smiling, but now I saw him glance at the numbers from time to time. In his eyes, impatience, anxiety and an almost childlike joy were mixed together.

I came up behind him and rested my chin on his shoulder.

— So, one in the morning, in front of the red steps. And then we'll find the best hotel, raise our glasses and congratulate you as a whole family for the first time.

The Architect stood on his other side and held out a cigar to his brother:

— Just a warning: if your mafia does decide to spoil our holiday after all, the twenty-seventh of December will become a historic date for New York.

— No historic dates, — I said.

— Fine. Just an unforgettable one, then.

The Author took the cigar, and the Archive extinguished all the projections, leaving only the red digits of the countdown:

47: 57: 41.

UNTIL THE RETURN HOME.

I looked at them and understood: for the Author, that word no longer meant one place.

One home was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

The other stood beside him right now.

And in two days, they would meet for the first time.

End of Chapter 22

The World Where He Was Alone

Lira's Archive

The portal opened in the middle of nighttime Manhattan without thunder, lightning or warning.

One second, there was no one in front of the red steps of Times Square but a few late passersby, cab drivers and street crews. The next, our whole Pack was standing on the wet asphalt.

Giant screens blazed above Broadway. Advertising ran down the facades in colored reflections, music drifted out of the all-night places, and the few tourists around raised their phones, deciding they were witnessing yet another New York street show.

The clock read exactly one in the morning.

The twenty-seventh of December.

The Author's birthday.

He stood a little ahead of us, silently looking at the city where he had lived his entire former life. Here he had once gone to work, come home, opened his phone and written about us, not yet knowing that one day we would step out of the story he had created and come for him, a whole delegation from the future.

— No link to the Archive, — Dexter was the first to report. — But the portal matrix is stable.

— Power circuits too, — Alpha added, clenching her hand. A charge ran between her fingers.

The Architect raised his hand, and a flame sprang up above it instantly.

Gemini checked her sensors. Gina made the nearest billboard go dark and brought the picture right back. Pirate rose barely perceptibly off the ground, then settled back down as if nothing unusual had happened.

I felt my own power as clearly as in the Consortium. This world had taken nothing from us.

The Author let out a slow breath:

— It worked after all.

We hadn't had time to ask what exactly he intended to test when he raised his hand. A column of fire burst from under the nearest manhole. The cast-iron cover flew into the air, flipped several times and crashed down onto the roadway.

— Awesome! — the Author exclaimed in delight. — Mine are here too!

The Architect looked at the mangled manhole, then at his brother.

— Now I'm completely certain we're related.

— The Archive is unavailable, — Dexter reminded them. — Any damage to the city's infrastructure will have to be repaired by hand.

— Relax, — Pirate said. — We've only just arrived and they're already blowing up the sewers. This is a family vacation.

The Author laughed. But I saw more in his eyes than delight that his power had survived. He genuinely couldn't believe we were standing beside him in his world.

— Where now? — Gina asked. — Preferably somewhere warm, with alcohol, where nobody calls the police over exploding manholes.

— There's this fancy little hotel not far from Bryant Park, — the Author replied. — It's got a bar looking out on the street. Only I don't know what it's called. Never been inside, but I can get us there.

— You lived in New York all those years and never once went in? — Gemini said, surprised.

— Which is exactly why we're going, — the Architect smirked. — Tonight my brother starts doing everything he never had the time, the money or the nerve for.

We set off down nighttime Broadway.

For the first time, the Author walked through his city not alone.

◆ ◆ ◆

The hotel turned out to be exactly as he remembered it from the outside: expensive, quiet and far too sure of its own exclusivity. Beyond the glass doors we were met by marble, warm golden light and staff who knew better than to ask unnecessary questions of a large party walking in after one in the morning.

At the front desk, the Author didn't bother studying the options.

— One suite, please, the biggest and most expensive you have. For me and my family. For a long stay. And plenty of drink.

He took fifty thousand dollars in cash out of his pocket and laid it on the counter.

The clerk looked at the money for a few seconds, then at our unusual company, then at the money again.

— Of course, sir.

— You see, — Pirate said. — Diplomacy works.

— Especially when it's printed in green ink, — Gina added.

We were given the penthouse, which took up the entire top floor. An enormous living room, several bedrooms, a bar, a dining room, a terrace and panoramic windows beyond which winter Manhattan glittered.

The Author walked up to the glass and froze.

The others settled in quickly. Dexter checked the security system. Alpha blocked the cameras inside the suite. Pirate opened the bar. Gina found the sound system. Gemini and Earth's Artem went out onto the terrace, and the Architect, as always, took an armchair, as though the hotel had been built around him in the first place.

A cake appeared on the table. We hadn't ordered it, but Gina and Alpha had managed to sort things out with the staff before anyone noticed they were gone.

When the candles were lit, the Author looked around at all of us.

— I still can't believe this is happening, — he said.

Only I noticed the tear glinting in the corner of one eye.

— Thank you for being the ones I dreamed up. Thank you that I was able to find you, and that you took me in. Fuck, I could go on like this till morning… Anyway, family, welcome to the twenty-first century. And thank you for being with me on this day.

He downed his glass in one go.

— To the Author, — the Architect said. — Who first invented himself a family and then somehow made it show up for his own birthday.

— To our brother, — Gemini said.

— To the man who gave us the right to argue with him, — Alpha added.

— And to the hotel bill he hasn't seen yet, — Gina finished.

We laughed and raised our glasses.

The Author leaned toward the candles.

— Make a wish, — I said.

He closed his eyes for just a second. Then he turned to me. His eyes flared red and went dark again at once.

He blew out the candles.

I understood what that look meant.

Not a creator's gratitude toward his character. Not a friend's tenderness. Not an Author's pride in a well-written heroine.

It was the confession of a man who loved me and had kept silent far too long.

— Most of the wish has already come true, — he said. — But not all of it.

No one paid attention to what those words meant. No one but me.

The music grew louder. Pirate got into a contest with the Architect over who could empty a bottle faster. Gina was trying to explain to the staff why an ordinary cat required his own serving of the most expensive tuna. Earth's Artem and Gemini were dancing by the window.

And I watched the Author and, for the first time, let myself call the truth by its real name.

I loved him.

Not as my closest friend. Not only as the man who gave me life and then refused to control it. Not as the brother of my soul, whose pain I had felt before he ever appeared in our world.

I had fallen in love with him as a man.

And that admission was more terrifying than any war, because in the next armchair sat my husband — a man I also truly loved.

◆ ◆ ◆

I found the Author on the terrace long after midnight.

He stood at the railing with a glass, looking out at Manhattan. Snow barely touched his hair and melted at once. Behind the glass our family carried on making noise, and out here there was only us and the city that knew his loneliness better than anyone.

— How long? — I asked.

He didn't turn around.

— Always. Or, to be precise — since the moment of creation.

My heart struck so hard that for a moment it was difficult to breathe.

— I wasn't real yet back then.

He turned, laid his palm against my cheek and looked into my eyes.

— It was when you became real and free that I loved you even more.

— You do realize I'm married to your brother?

— I do.

— And you're saying this anyway?

— Because a lie won't fix anything.

I closed my eyes, pressing my cheek into his palm.

— What am I supposed to do now?

— You'll do it yourself. And he'll understand. We won't stop being brothers, and we won't stop living in the same apartment. And the most terrifying part is that you already know all of this perfectly well. You're just waiting for the right moment.

My eyes snapped open.

— You're talking about my husband as if you've already decided everything.

— I'm not deciding anything for you, Lira.

— But you're sure we can still be a family after this?

— Yes, we can. Because we are one family.

I slapped him across the face.

The sound came out loud and dry. His head jerked to the side, but he didn't step back. He only turned slowly back to face me.

— You deserved that, — I whispered.

— Then hit me. As hard as you can.

I didn't hit him a second time.

Instead I pressed myself against him, buried my face in his chest and finally let the tears come. He held me, demanding no decision and promising no easy future.

— If I choose you, everything will change.

— Within one apartment, — the Author clarified with a laugh.

I pulled back and looked at him through my tears.

— God, you're such a bastard.

— God, you're so perceptive.

I very nearly hit him again, but at that moment there was a knock on the terrace door.

Beyond the glass stood the Architect.

He had seen enough.

◆ ◆ ◆

I walked into the living room alone.

The Architect was waiting by the window. A cigar smoldered slowly between his fingers. The others had vanished from the room to give us space, though every one of them could surely hear our voices.

— Say it yourself, — he said.

I didn't lie.

I told him about the look by the candles, about the conversation on the terrace, and about what I had understood about myself. I told him I loved him. I told him I had not stopped treasuring a single day I had lived beside him. And yet my heart had made a choice I could not undo out of fear of hurting him.

The Architect listened in silence.

Red light flared in his eyes several times, but each time it died. He could have commanded. He could have blamed the Author. He could have reminded me how many worlds we had crossed together.

He did none of it.

— All my life I've said that love without freedom is worth nothing, — he said at last. — It would be convenient to forget that right now.

— Forgive me.

— Don't ask forgiveness for honesty. It's a lie I wouldn't have forgiven.

I took off the ring. I didn't throw it away or destroy it. I simply closed it in my hand, as part of a life I never intended to call a mistake.

— I'll always be here, — I said.

— Only no longer as my wife.

There was no anger in his voice. That made it hurt even more.

— Yes.

He nodded and turned back to the window.

— Go to him, Lira.

I went to him, embraced him from behind and lingered for just a few seconds. Then I left.

The Author was waiting in the hallway.

I needed no words. He saw the answer in my eyes.

I took the last step myself and kissed him.

That night we fell asleep side by side — clothed, holding each other, among nearly empty bottles and uncleared glasses. I needed no passion for show, no promises of eternal happiness. It was enough to hear his breathing and to know: neither of us was hiding from the truth anymore.

In the morning, the Architect knocked on the door.

The Author opened it.

The punch was so hard it threw him halfway across the living room. The wall shuddered, a painting fell to the floor, and the staff outside the door instantly decided they had seen nothing.

The Author got up, set his jaw back in place and looked at his brother.

— Feel better?

— A little.

For a few seconds they stood facing each other. Then the Architect held out his hand.

The Author took it.

Instead of another punch, his brother pulled him in and hugged him hard.

— If she ever cries because of you, the second punch will be harder.

— Fair.

— And don't grin so smugly. I can give you the third one in advance.

The Author, naturally, grinned even wider.

When the staff cautiously appeared in the hallway, the Author took out the rest of his cash — about twenty-two thousand dollars.

— That's all there is, — he said. — Everything I managed to cash out and take with me the first time I set out to find you.

He opened the door, neatly placed the money in the manager's hands and shut it again at once.

— No unnecessary questions. I'm already losing my mind over everything that's happening. Especially the punch.

I looked at the smashed wall, then at the two men, equally pleased with their own idiocy.

— You really are brothers.

The Author laughed.

— You think after everything that's happened I'm letting you go anywhere?

I said nothing. I just went over and hugged him again.

◆ ◆ ◆

Our morning ended the moment Alpha intercepted an encrypted signal on the hotel network.

A photograph of the Author appeared on the screen, taken that night in Times Square. Someone had managed to record the exploding manhole, the video had spread across the net, and a system whose existence ordinary people never suspected had recognized his face.

A contract that had been considered unfinished was active again.

— Six armed men coming up in the service elevator, — Dexter reported. — Six more in the lobby. Possibly a second team outside.

The Architect rose.

— We meet them together.

— Can I do it myself? — the Author smirked.

I grabbed his arm.

— You've only just come back to this world. You don't have to prove to it right away that you can't be killed.

— I'm not proving anything. I just want to put one old matter to rest.

The Architect looked closely at his brother and nodded.

— We'll be close by.

The Author stepped into the elevator alone.

On the next floor the doors opened and six men stepped inside. They arranged themselves around him calmly, professionally, without needless threats. One drew a silenced pistol and pressed the barrel to his heart.

— Don't worry. Given your record, we'll make it quick.

The Author's eyes flared with anger. Those words reminded him of who he himself had been, and how many times he had said something similar to others.

— But I don't want it quick, — he said in a low, wolfish voice. — I want it loud.

An energy pulse slammed through the car.

The pistol crumpled right in the attacker's hand. The others were thrown against the walls. The elevator stopped between floors, the lights went out, and the emergency lamp painted their faces red.

They opened fire.

The bullets touched the Author and dropped to the floor as flattened lumps of metal.

He could have destroyed them with a single motion.

He didn't.

The man with the pistol was the first to understand what had happened.

— You knew we'd come?

— I know. That's why you're still alive.

The Author took hold of the panels, tore the elevator doors out and walked into the corridor through the gap he had made.

Six more were already waiting for him in the lobby.

The weapons came up all at once.

The Author didn't even stop. With one motion of his hand he ripped the rifles and pistols out of their grips. All the metal hung in the air, compressed into a dense, twisted ball and crashed down onto the marble.

— Hint taken, or do we continue?

The attackers exchanged glances.

— The contract won't stop, — the team leader said. — If not us, others will come. Then more. The system is immortal.

Out of habit, the Author pulled out his smartphone, unlocked it and froze.

— Oh, fuck, I'm in my own world. Well, Pack, any ideas?

We were already coming down the stairs to him.

— Destroying them all isn't a solution, — Alpha said. — The next team will take the place of this one.

— We need to shut down the contract network, — Dexter added. — At least temporarily.

— The system will be reborn anyway, — the Author said. — The mafia is immortal. But at least we'll save a few human lives.

The Architect stood beside his brother.

— Then we don't close just your contract. We close everything we can reach.

Dexter located the network's hidden central hub. The portal opened straight into a utility room beneath one of the city's nondescript office buildings.

Beyond it lay a server center that appeared in no official registry.

The whole Pack went in.

Security had no time to raise the alarm. Gemini and Gina disarmed the first two. Pirate shut down the turrets. Alpha seized the internal network. The Architect held the exits with a force field while Dexter made his way to the main terminal.

No one died.

Seven system administrators ended up on the floor in neuro-cuffs. Lists of orders scrolled across the screens: names, photographs, sums, deadlines. Thousands of people whose deaths had already been turned into business transactions.

The Author looked at them without triumph.

— Shut down the network, call the police, bracelets on these ones, and open a portal to the year two thousand three hundred and twenty-six.

— Executing, — Dexter replied.

The network went dark.

Two thousand eight hundred and forty-seven active contracts were cancelled. Evidence, financial chains and the identities of the organizers went out simultaneously to several law enforcement systems. The information was duplicated so that no single order or bribe could destroy it.

The contract on the Author was given the status: "Cancelled."

Sirens could already be heard in the distance.

— Home, — the Architect said.

The portal opened.

The Author took one last look at the world where he had lived alone, and stepped through after his family.

◆ ◆ ◆

The link with the Archive was restored the moment we crossed over.

We returned to the Consortium's residential sector tired, reeking of smoke, alcohol and twenty-first-century New York.

Anubis was the first to jump down from Gina's arms and head for his bowl, displaying absolute indifference to travel across time.

The Archive's hologram appeared in the center of the living room.

— Return of all family members registered. Critical change in family structure detected.

Lines of connection appeared above us. The old bond between me and the Architect slowly faded. Beside it, a new one formed — between me and the Author.

No one said a word.

— A new residence must be assigned for Lira Voss, — the Archive continued. — Available: separate quarters, the Archivist's block, or shared accommodation with one of the registered family members.

The Architect leaned back in his armchair and lit up.

— Well, brother? You insisted we'd all live in one apartment. Now explain to the Archive whose room my ex-wife is going to live in.

The Author didn't even stop to think.

— Mine, Archive! And don't you dare say a word against it.

Silence fell over the apartment.

Even Anubis stopped grooming himself and looked at him intently, as if he awaited the official decision no less than the rest of us.

The hologram flickered.

— Clarification: the previous family configuration was altered less than four hours ago. Cohabitation of Lira and the Author may cause emotional instability in other family members.

The Author silently raised an eyebrow.

A barely audible snicker passed through the room. Pirate turned away, pretending to study the wall. Dexter discovered incredibly important data on his bracelet. Even Gemini covered her lips with her hand.

The Architect took a slow drag on his cigar.

— Archive, take it from my experience: if you keep arguing now, the emotional instability is going to be yours.

— I am a distributed digital system and do not possess…

— He warned you, — Gina cut in. — I'd listen.

The hologram went dark for a moment, as if the Archive had genuinely decided to think it all over carefully.

— Decision made. Lira is registered in the Author's private quarters. The room will be ready within seventeen minutes.

I looked at the Author. He stood there with an expression so stern you would think he had won a diplomatic war against an entire galactic empire, rather than an argument about a bedroom with the house system.

— "Don't you dare say a word against it"? — I repeated, walking up to him. — Is that how you intend to settle our family matters?

The Architect smirked:

— Now you understand why we're brothers.

— I understood that a long time ago.

I laid my palm on the Author's chest. Beneath my fingers his heart beat calm and strong. Not long ago it had been beating in a world where he was alone. Now he was surrounded by people who had come for him across three centuries, challenged his past and returned home together with him.

— One more notification, — the Archive said. — In connection with the change in family structure, an architectural reconfiguration of the residential sector has been carried out.

The wall opposite slid apart soundlessly.

Beyond it opened a new corridor with three doors side by side. The Architect's sign appeared on the first, Gemini's symbol on the second, and on the third flared the image of a red wolf's eye ringed by a thin band of gold.

— Archive, — Dexter said warily, — why three separate living blocks?

— To prevent emotional instability.

The Architect was the first to burst out laughing.

— Now it's really starting to understand our family.

I laughed too, my forehead pressed against the Author's shoulder. The tension of the past day was finally beginning to let go. It hadn't vanished — it had simply stopped choking me.

The Architect walked toward his door but stopped halfway.

— Just remember one thing, Author. If she ever cries because of you, our agreement about the second punch takes effect immediately.

I wanted to protest, but the Author gently held me by the waist.

The Architect smirked, opened his door and disappeared into his quarters.

I stayed beside the man I had once considered my creator, then called part of my family, and had now chosen for myself.

But the door with the red wolf's eye did not open.

The symbol flared brighter still. The Archive's voice rang down the corridor:

— Unknown signature detected inside the new quarters.

Everyone stopped laughing.

Two pairs of eyes lit up red at once — the Architect's and his brother's.

From behind the locked door came a calm male voice:

— At last you've come home, Artem Elkind. Now you and I need to talk.

The Author kissed me on the lips without taking his eyes off the door.

— Lirochka, my love, I'm already so irritated that I just want to kick this door in and see who in there is so immortal. But the final answer is yours.

I returned his kiss and turned to the door.

— Kick it in, love. It's already ours anyway.

The Author smirked.

— That's exactly why I love you.

He took a few steps back. Red light flared in his eyes, the air trembled, and he kicked with all his force right beside the lock.

The door flew across the entire room, slammed into the opposite wall and stayed there, jutting out at an angle.

— Architectural reconfiguration complete, — the Archive reported imperturbably. — A replacement door has been ordered.

— Put it on his account, — the Architect said, peering inside.

The room was completely empty. No furniture, no windows, no lighting. Only black walls and a round platform in the center.

On the platform lay an old paper manuscript in a battered black cover.

On it, in silver letters, was written:

"ECHO OF TWO WORLDS."

The Author stopped. I felt his arm tense at my waist.

— Archive, analysis, — Dexter ordered.

— Impossible. The object is not composed of any known matter. Its temporal age cannot be determined. It is simultaneously older than the Consortium and was created twenty-seven seconds ago.

— Very informative, — Gina muttered.

The Architect stepped closer. The manuscript flared with red light. An energy wave threw his hand back without harming him.

— It's not for me, — he said, looking at his brother. — It's waiting for you.

I squeezed the Author's hand tighter.

— We're right here.

He approached the platform. The manuscript opened by itself. The pages began to turn. Our lives flickered across them: the Consortium, Gemini, Earth's Artem, the Maldives, New York, our first kiss.

Then the pages ran out.

All but the last.

Words surfaced on the blank paper:

"ARTEM ELKIND STOPPED WRITING THE STORY THE DAY HE STEPPED INTO IT."

The next line appeared right before our eyes:

"BUT THE STORY DID NOT STOP WRITING HIM."

The Author's red eyes were reflected on the white page.

The male voice sounded from the manuscript again:

— You were wrong about only one thing, Artem. By entering your own world, you did not stop being the Author. You became a character. Which means the right to choose no longer belongs to you alone.

The book turned one more page.

On it appeared a photograph of all of us. One person was crossed out.

Me.

The Author instantly pulled me to him. The Architect stepped to my other side, shielding us both, and the Pack readied for battle.

— You created a world where every choice has consequences, — the voice went on. — Now choose once more.

Two words appeared on the page:

LIRA.

FAMILY.

I felt the Author's eyes flare with crimson fire.

— Just don't answer right away, — I whispered, not letting go of his hand. — Something's wrong here. This isn't a choice. It's a trap.

The Author laughed.

— You're right, I'm still the Author. But you're wrong too, whoever or whatever you are. I'm the original. I invented all of this. And apparently, somewhere along the way, I even invented you.

He snapped his fingers.

The book exploded.

Lightning tore through the whole room. A shock wave rolled through the apartment, making the walls shudder. The lights went out, the windows were covered in a hair-fine web of cracks, and from the corridor came the crash of falling furniture.

The Author held me with one arm, shielding me with his own body. The other he still held with the fingers pressed together after the snap. Red lightning ran over his skin for a few moments more, then dissolved.

Where the manuscript had been, only a scorched circle remained.

No pages.

No voice.

No choice between me and the family.

— Unknown signature destroyed, — the Archive reported. — No traces of backup, spatial displacement or temporal restoration detected. The object has ceased to exist on all accessible levels of reality.

— Well, that's us introduced, — Gina said.

— He didn't last long, — Pirate added.

The Architect took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at his brother with undisguised respect.

— I have to admit, you solved the problem even faster than I would have.

— Because you like to talk first, — Gemini remarked.

— And he, of course, is a model of restraint?

The Author and I looked at the kicked-in door embedded in the wall.

— Archive, — Dexter said, — is the room safe?

— Yes. However, the living block has sustained significant damage before its official occupancy.

— The main thing is, the door's already open, — Alpha smirked.

Everyone gradually drifted away, still discussing what had happened. The Architect lingered in the doorway. For a moment our eyes met. There was still pain in his, but no more anger, and no wish to bring back the past.

He looked at his brother.

— Whatever tried to make you choose between Lira and the family studied you poorly. For you, they're one and the same.

With those words, he left.

I stayed with the Author among the wreckage of our future room. I ran my palm over his chest, rose on my toes and kissed him.

— Welcome home, original.

The Archive turned on the lights.

— Should the room be restored according to the original design?

— No, — I replied. — I think after all that, he'll want to design our room himself.

The hologram appeared before us.

— Parameters must be defined: area, decor, level of protection and permissible degree of intervention in the residential sector.

I looked at the man I loved:

— What will our first real home be like?

— You choose, keeper of the hearth, — the Author smirked. — I've already used up my quota of wishes.

For a few seconds I tried to work out whether he was joking or genuinely trusting me to create our shared home.

Naturally, he was doing both at once.

— All right. Archive, start recording.

— Ready.

I walked to the center of the ruined room.

— No gold, no thrones, no pointless luxury. Dark wood, black stone, soft warm light. A big bed…

— Size? — the Archive inquired briskly.

— Maximum.

Gina's laughter came from the corridor.

— I can hear everything!

— So can we! — Pirate called back.

The Author stood with his shoulder against the wall, watching me with a wicked grin.

— Continue, — the Archive prompted.

— A panoramic window across the whole wall. The view should change: the Consortium, Manhattan at night, the Maldives. Every place where our life changed forever.

The room rebuilt itself around us. Cracks sealed, debris dissolved, the black walls clothed themselves in warm wooden panels.

— A separate dressing room, a bathroom, a bar…

— The bar is a must, — the Author cut in.

— You're out of wishes.

— I was just making a technical clarification.

— A big bar, — I continued. — Stocked with cognac, whiskey and cigars. And a library with empty shelves.

The Author's smile changed a little.

— Why empty? — the Archive asked.

I walked over to the bookcase that had appeared and ran my fingers along the smooth wood.

— Because he has already written the last story. These shelves we'll fill together — with what we live through ourselves.

The Archive fell silent for a moment.

— Final parameter: placement of entrances.

I looked at the wall beyond which lay the family's quarters.

— The main door leads to the shared corridor. And make another one beside it — straight into the family living room. No codes, no locks, no permissions.

— Any family member will be able to enter at any time.

— Exactly.

— Even the Architect?

— Especially the Architect. We can choose our love, our rooms and our own lives. But never again will we build walls between us.

The last panel slid into place.

Before us stood a real home: strong, dark, warm and alive. Beyond the panoramic window glittered nighttime Manhattan — the city where the Author had once been utterly alone.

Now, in the reflection in the glass, I stood beside him.

Anubis hopped importantly onto the sofa, turned around a few times and settled down, as if his opinion were the deciding one.

— Living block complete, — the Archive reported. — Permanent residents: Artem Elkind, Lira Voss and Anubis.

— Why is the cat listed separately? — I asked.

— Because, in practice, the apartment belongs to him.

The whole Pack roared with laughter from the living room.

I wrapped my arms around the Author's waist.

— You gave me the choice, my love. So there's no Author's room here, and no Archivist's room. This is our home. Now confess: do you like it?

He pulled me sharply to him, gripping my backside.

— Very much, — he answered with a wicked grin.

I gasped softly, then narrowed my eyes:

— Artem Elkind, are you testing the strength of our new home right now, or the limits of my patience?

— Maximum level of satisfaction with the premises recorded, — the Archive reported immediately.

— Archive!

— I am merely analyzing the permanent residents' reactions.

The Author laughed. I took his face in my hands and kissed him — no longer carefully, no longer furtively, no longer asking myself whether I had the right.

Now it was my choice.

His choice.

Our life.

The door I had deliberately ordered left without locks swung open.

Almost the entire Pack stood on the threshold.

— We didn't see anything, — Gina declared, still staring straight at the Author's hand.

— But the Archive recorded everything, — Pirate added.

— Archive, delete the recording, — the Author and I said at the same time.

— Denied. The recording has already been assigned historically significant status.

The Architect stood behind the others with a cigar in his mouth.

— You're the ones who ordered no walls between us.

— There is a wall, — Dexter observed. — The problem is the absence of a lock.

Gemini pushed everyone back out into the corridor.

— Leave them in peace, at least for the first night.

— Agreed, — Alpha said. — Besides, we've already found the bar. Let's go check out the family living room.

In a few seconds everyone was gone, but from behind the wall came the clink of glasses, loud laughter and Pirate arguing with Gina over who the first bottle belonged to.

The Author still held me close.

I looked at nighttime Manhattan beyond the panoramic glass, then at the man I loved.

Once, he had invented an entire universe because he was alone in his own.

Now, even behind the thickest wall of his new home, a family was making noise; a brother waited in the living room, a red-eyed cat slept on the sofa, and beside him stood a woman who had chosen him herself.

Silence no longer existed here.

Nor did loneliness.

I laid my head on the Author's shoulder.

— Happy birthday, my love. Welcome home.

The Trace That Cannot Be Erased

Lira's Archive

The first morning in our new home in the Consortium was supposed to be a quiet one.

At least, that's what we'd hoped.

Beyond the wall of the family living room, half the Pack was still asleep. Empty glasses from the Author's birthday celebration still stood on the table, Anubis lay stretched out in an armchair, and I stood at the panoramic window beside a man who had only recently left his own reality and, for the first time, had stopped being alone.

The Architect came over to his brother with two cups of coffee. For a while they watched the lights of the Consortium in silence — two identical wolf silhouettes, created by a single inner force, yet having lived entirely different lives.

— Getting used to it? — the Architect asked.

The Author smirked:

— Trying to.

The Architect had no time to answer him.

A barely perceptible pulse of energy passed through the room, and on the Archive's central panel a line appeared that had no business being there:

INCOMING MESSAGE. SOURCE: EARTH, TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY.

— There's no link to my world, — the Author said at once.

— Which is precisely why the message has been classified as impossible, — the Archive replied. — The transmission is one-way. The source is located beneath the building of the rehabilitation center you used to run in New York.

Dexter pulled up a schematic of the building. Beneath the foundation was a small room absent from every construction plan. It had been there for forty-three years — long before the Author began writing the saga.

In the center of the room stood a black container bearing the symbol of a red wolf's eye.

The recording inside it contained only one phrase:

YOUR STORY BEGAN EARLIER THAN YOU THINK. COME WITH YOUR PACK.

After everything we'd been through, no one suggested sending the Author alone.

But we weren't about to throw ourselves into the unknown either.

The Author, drawing on his cigar, said:

— We're going back. And while we're at it, we'll see in the New Year there — most likely in the same hotel.

He put his arm around my waist and pulled me firmly against him.

— I've got patience enough now, family, so we're resting to the fullest — with all the consequences that entails.

◆ ◆ ◆

We reappeared in the luxurious New York penthouse.

It turned out the suite had been anonymously paid for through the second of January by a trust established forty-three years ago. On the table lay a black envelope with a red wolf's eye and a warning:

DO NOT OPEN BEFORE MIDNIGHT ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER.

For four days we pretended nothing was happening.

We strolled through a decorated Manhattan, skated by Bryant Park, sat in bars, and came back to the hotel long after midnight. The Author showed us the city where he had once been alone, and now he walked its streets with an entire family.

I held his arm. The Architect was beside us — no longer as my husband, but as the brother of the man I had chosen. The pain between us remained, but the lies were gone. Gemini sensed it and made no attempt to force anything right.

At exactly midnight on the thirty-first of December, the envelope opened by itself.

A hologram of a man in a black shirt appeared in the room. He was about forty-five. Stubble, a confident gaze, short dark hair, and eyes that flared now and then with a red wolf light.

— Happy New Year, son, — the stranger said.

The Author went pale.

— Dad, — he said calmly. — Family, meet my father, Dmitry Elkind. In this world he's just a civil servant — a very big-shot civil servant, granted, but a civil servant. And this, apparently, is him too, only from another universe.

The Author gently freed his hand from mine and rubbed his eyes.

— Fuck. Every day this gets more and more interesting.

Dmitry made the main thing clear at once. The Author's father in his native world was alive, safe, and knew nothing of what was happening. The man before us was not a kidnapper, not a replacement, and not someone laying claim to another man's life. This was a version of Dmitry from another reality.

In his world, the Elkind line were called Guides. They sensed worlds that did not yet exist, and doors no one had yet managed to open.

But Dmitry made no attempt to claim the saga the Author had created.

— You invented the Consortium yourself, — he said firmly. — You didn't find it, didn't copy it, didn't continue someone else's story. You created it from nothing. But the ability to see the impossible was always inside you. The Consortium only allowed it to take form.

He looked at the Architect.

— And him you created as the embodiment of your own inner strength.

Inside the container was a bracelet — a key to the ancestral memory and to a station that existed outside ordinary time. Dmitry promised to open the passage, but only with his son's consent. He had no intention of holding anyone in the Pack, or of splitting them up.

The Author put his arms around me and his brother.

— Gladly, Father, but first, as planned, I'd like to spend New Year's Eve and then nurse my hangover in the nearest bar with my family and the woman I love. So — talk to you in two days.

And he switched off the hologram.

Then he turned to Dexter:

— Run a full scan of everything you can reach. Try to find his world and dig up everything: history, people, habits, who's fucking whom — all of it. Put the system on autonomous mode. And we'll keep on having fun, to make it look like we bought it. Any questions, family?

There were no questions.

We went to the nearest bar.

While the family celebrated the New Year, Dexter kept scanning. By morning he had established that the Dmitry from the other reality had officially died forty-three years ago — on the very day the container appeared. His consciousness and energy had moved to a station existing outside of time.

On it were hundreds of people by the name of Elkind.

The list of those expected included a name:

ARTEM ELKIND.

The Author ordered us to proceed with caution:

— We'll do it the way he wants, observe all the protocols and the waiting — but not the way he wants. There are too many oddities we still have to figure out. Dexter, leave everything on autonomous mode, launch the bypass protocol, build a passage there and back. And let's try to bring the Archive in after all. I know there's no link, but I'm afraid we're going to need its help.

Earth's Artem proposed building a quantum bridge: one module left in the Consortium, the other in New York, with the energy of the Author and the Architect used to power it up.

The link was established.

The Archive determined that the station was older than the Consortium, but its architecture was frighteningly similar to the Archive's own structure. Dexter built a hidden return route to the penthouse. The Archive prepared an autonomous fragment of consciousness, capable of accompanying us without a direct link to the main core.

And then the station displayed a message recorded forty-three years ago:

DO NOT BRING THE ARCHIVE TO THE STATION.

It had been waiting for precisely the moment of connection.

— My presence raises the probability of the backup route being detected by twenty-eight percent, — the Archive reported. — At the same time, without my support the probability of a safe return drops by forty-one percent. The final decision is yours, Artem Elkind: do I stay in the Consortium, or enter the station together with the family?

— The math speaks for itself. In twenty-four hours you're coming with us, Archive. And now we can go and nurse that hangover.

— Decision accepted. I will prepare an autonomous fragment of consciousness, encrypt the backup route and exclude it from shared memory until the moment of return. Even if the station gains access to me, it will not learn where the exit is.

— Now I really do feel calmer, — Dexter said. — By about three percent.

— And the other ninety-seven? — Pirate asked.

— I've left those to our family's common sense.

— Then we're doomed.

Even the Architect laughed. He took a fresh bottle of cognac from the bar and set it down in front of his brother.

— You wanted a hangover cure. But fair warning: if you go in first tomorrow, I'm going in beside you.

— And I'll be between you, — I said.

Both men looked at me at the same time.

— Don't even start. One of you is the man I love, the other is the man I spent a huge part of my life with. You're brothers, you're both insane and practically unkillable. Which is exactly why there has to be someone beside you who can ask, at the right moment: "What the hell are you doing?"

That was how the first morning of the new year began for us.

◆ ◆ ◆

Exactly forty-eight hours after the conversation with Dmitry, we gathered in front of the black container.

The Author stood in front. To his right, the Architect; to his left, me. Behind us the whole Pack had lined up: Gemini, Earth's Artem, Gina, Alpha, Dexter and Pirate.

On the surface of the container, a red wolf's eye flared.

— Does Artem Elkind confirm his intent? — the station asked.

The wall of the suite vanished.

Beyond it opened the long corridor of an old house: dark wood, the warm light of lamps, and heavy family photographs. In every picture were people with the same wolf gaze.

At the end of the corridor, Dmitry appeared.

He looked at the Archive's bracelet on my wrist.

— So you brought it after all. I warned you not because the Archive is dangerous to the station. It's the other way around. The station is dangerous to it.

The red line on the bracelet quivered.

— External access detected, — the Archive reported. — Someone is trying to activate a section of my memory that should not exist.

Inscriptions blazed on the walls:

ARCHIVE. FIRST VERSION.

STATUS: RETURNED HOME.

Dmitry looked only at his son.

— All of you may enter. But first the station must hear from you personally who these people are. Not characters. Not creations. Not a continuation of the story you wrote.

He held out his hand to the Author.

— Name them, son.

— This is my family, Dad. And I'm not going in without them. And one more thing: if I, my brother, my future wife, or anyone in our family senses any kind of crap, we vanish that instant.

Two words in particular struck a chord in me.

Future wife.

The Architect heard them too. For an instant his eyes met mine. The pain was still there, but there was no anger in it, and no wish to change my choice. Then he laid a hand on his brother's shoulder.

— He's said it all. We go in together and we leave together.

— I accept the condition, — Dmitry replied. — No one will hold you here. If even one of you decides to leave, the passage will open for all.

— The station confirms the verbal protocol, — the Archive reported.

A new inscription appeared above the entrance:

THE ELKIND LINE HAS ARRIVED.

THE FAMILY IS RECOGNIZED AS A SINGLE WHOLE. SEPARATION IS PROHIBITED.

We went in.

The photographs along the corridor showed different eras: ancient cities, wooden ships, the trenches of the world wars, the first space stations, and places that had never existed on Earth. In every picture there was a person with red wolf light in their eyes.

At the end of the corridor, Dmitry opened the doors to a large round sitting room with a fireplace, a long table and cognac. There were exactly as many armchairs as there were members of our family who had come to the station.

— For forty-three years I prepared to answer any question of yours, — Dmitry said. — But the right to the first question belongs to you, son.

The Author looked at the family.

— I'm sure you're aware: the main idea that runs through my entire saga, and now through my new life as well, is freedom of choice. So I give my family the right to begin and to ask any questions they like.

The Archive spoke first:

— Why do I remember this corridor if I have never been here?

— Because you and the station were built on the same principle, — Dmitry replied. — But Artem didn't find you, didn't copy you, and didn't receive you ready-made from another world. He created you himself. A Guide's mind is capable of creating what it has never seen, but in every creation there remains an imprint of the creator's nature. You became alive not because of the station, but because Artem left you the possibility of one day ceasing to obey him.

The warning received its explanation too. The station held the memory of every Guide and could offer the Archive to accept it in its entirety. Not force — offer. But once accepted, that knowledge would be impossible to forget.

— Until we return, I will not accept data capable of altering my personality, — the Archive decided.

— Decision recorded, — the station itself replied unexpectedly.

The Architect asked the next question:

— What do you need from my brother?

The fire in the hearth went out. The walls turned transparent, revealing hundreds of chambers connected by walkways in the midst of the void. At the center pulsed a dying energy core.

— The station is dying, — the Archive reported. — Nineteen hours remain until total collapse.

— I didn't call you here so that Artem would save the station, — Dmitry said. — But so that he would decide whether it deserves saving.

Hundreds of human silhouettes appeared in the air. The consciousnesses of the line's members had gone on existing after their bodies died.

The first option assumed that the Author would accept the station's power, become the new Keeper, and bind himself to this place forever.

The second — to shut down the station, allowing everyone who remained to die for good.

— There's a third option, — Dexter said. — Transfer the consciousnesses and switch off the station.

— Impossible, — Dmitry replied. — They're bound to the core.

— Everything impossible stays impossible only until two Architects, an Author and a Pack of lunatics who can't follow rules show up, — Gina smirked.

— Technically there are three of us here, — Earth's Artem reminded them.

The Architect picked up the bottle of cognac, took a swig, and handed it to his brother.

— Well, brother, are we going to break somebody else's math again?

The Author, with a grin, took a long swig too.

— What, was it ever any different, brother?

◆ ◆ ◆

Dexter brought up a schematic of the core. Ordinary copying would have created exact versions of the memories and personalities, but the real consciousnesses would have perished along with the station.

What was needed was a continuous bridge into the Consortium. Every mind had to decide for itself whether or not to cross.

The three Architects were going to temporarily replace the core with their own energy. Gina and Alpha would connect to their father. I would become the conduit between the station and the Consortium's Archive. Gemini, Pirate and Dexter would hold the circuit.

Dmitry was to explain the choice to the others.

But the station shuddered before we had begun.

The timer lost almost an hour in a single second.

— This is not natural decay, — the Archive reported. — Someone is deliberately accelerating the core's collapse.

Six hundred and twelve silhouettes confirmed their consent to the transfer.

One remained black.

FIRST KEEPER. CONSENT TO TRANSFER: NO.

He had founded the station and believed that the line's leaving its confines would upset the balance of the worlds.

The First Keeper appeared before us in old-fashioned black clothing.

— You speak of freedom of choice, — he addressed the Author, — yet you've already decided to save those who never asked you for salvation. Six hundred and twelve consciousnesses chose to cross. I chose the death of the station. We are bound by one core, so only one decision can be carried out. Why should the freedom of their choice be worth more than the freedom of mine?

— I won't, — the Author replied with a smirk, and looked at his brother.

The Architect understood him without explanation.

— He's not going to take part in your game. You came up with two options and demanded he pick one. But my brother can't stand it when someone else decides for him how many options he's allowed to choose from.

Dexter uncovered the truth. The consciousnesses were bound not to the core but to the First Keeper himself. He had turned himself into the controlling node and passed off his own will as the law of the station.

The Architects began the synchronization.

Three pairs of eyes lit up red. Three streams of energy struck the core, and for an instant the entire space plunged into darkness.

Then the heart of the station began to beat again — now in the rhythm of three Architects.

I opened the bridge. The consciousnesses began to approach it one by one and speak their decision themselves.

— I choose to live.

— I choose to leave the station.

— I choose to see a new world.

The First Keeper's red chain went on holding them all.

— The link can be severed, — Dexter reported. — For the rest, it will mean freedom. For him — immediate death.

— He can't, — the Keeper whispered. — His whole philosophy is built on choice. If he orders the link severed, he'll kill me by his own decision.

— Your choice has already been made and confirmed repeatedly, — the Archive replied. — Artem Elkind, do you confirm the separation of the First Keeper?

— Well, since he's chosen to croak, I'll carry it out. For the last time, I hope, — the Author replied calmly.

The scarlet line flared.

The chain broke.

The First Keeper tried to stop the process, but he himself had launched the destruction of the station, himself rejected the transfer, and several times confirmed his wish to die along with it. He had counted only on the others being forced to die alongside him.

The Archive carried out his choice literally.

The Keeper's body crumbled into dark ash.

— You're destroying the line's legacy… — he managed to whisper.

— No, — Dmitry replied. — He's freeing it from you.

Hundreds of consciousnesses were free for the first time.

They crossed one after another. Their memories passed through me in brief flashes: a first kiss, the birth of a child, the death of a home world, fear and hope.

The Author, the Architect and Earth's Artem held the station. Gina and Alpha channeled their father's energy, Gemini kept me from losing myself in the flow, and Pirate and Dexter held the bridge.

When only seconds remained, I saw the Author's hands trembling.

— Artem! I love you. And I'm not going anywhere without you. So don't you dare stay here!

His red eyes met mine.

The energy leveled out again.

— Transfer complete! — the Archive announced. — Six hundred and twelve consciousnesses are in a secure sector of the Consortium!

Everyone rushed for the exit.

But Dmitry remained beside the emptied core.

— I didn't give consent to the transfer, — he explained. — I wasn't waiting for rescue. I was waiting to meet my son. I choose to leave with you — not as a Guide, a source of answers or the head of the family. Simply as your father. But I have no right to enter your life without your consent.

He held out his hand to his son.

— Will you allow me to become part of your family?

— Don't be an idiot, Dad.

The Author grabbed Dmitry by the arm, spun him around and simply threw him into the portal.

— Artem! — was all he managed to shout.

The Architect burst out laughing:

— Brother, that was the most heartfelt reunion of father and son I've ever seen!

We jumped after him.

Behind us the core went dark, the photographs flared, and the station crumbled soundlessly into the void.

◆ ◆ ◆

We crashed onto the floor of the Consortium's central hall.

More precisely, I fell. The Author landed on his feet, still holding me in his arms. Dmitry flew halfway across the hall, took out a table, and ended up in an armchair with a bottle of cognac that had miraculously survived.

— Definitely a family trait, — Earth's Artem observed.

— Which one? — Gemini asked.

— First save a man, then do everything possible to demean the rescue itself.

I slapped the Author on the chest with my palm, then kissed him hard.

— That's for coming back. And the slap is for making me afraid again.

The Archive confirmed the return of every member of the family and the safety of six hundred and thirteen consciousnesses of the Elkind line.

Dmitry walked up to his son.

— I waited forty-three years for you. I pictured our meeting a thousand different ways. I thought I'd speak great words, explain the purpose of the line, and solemnly hand over the legacy. Instead you called me an idiot, threw me into a portal, and saved everyone in defiance of our laws. Son, is this how you always welcome new relatives?

The Author turned his head this way and that, as if trying to spot some stranger in the hall.

— I don't see anyone new here.

Dmitry understood.

He was not someone else's version, not a temporary guest, and not a man laying claim to another's life.

He was a father.

Dmitry hugged his son tightly. Then he held out his hand to the Architect.

— So now I have two of them.

— My condolences, Father, — the Architect smirked.

The Author called on the Archive:

— Please allocate my father the very best residential complex in the Consortium. A bigger bar too, and more cigars!

The Archive reserved an entire tower in the family sector: a panoramic view of the orbital rings, an autonomous terrace, a private transport hub, a direct passage to the central residence, a bar for four thousand bottles, and a two-hundred-and-forty-year supply of cigars.

— That'll do for a start, — the Architect decided.

Dmitry chose an immortal biological body at the age of forty-five, keeping his own appearance and the abilities that belonged to him by right of birth.

When the heart in his chest began to beat, he took a deep breath, snatched the bottle from the Architect and drank.

— It works.

— Now he's definitely one of ours, — Pirate concluded.

◆ ◆ ◆

We went to see Dmitry's new home.

I held my "fiancé" by the arm and looked at him with a frankly satanic smile. He pretended not to notice the hint.

Typical wolf.

Dmitry asked his son whether he ever intended to officially marry the woman he had already called his future wife in front of the whole family and the station itself.

The Author replied:

— In terms of plain old jurisdiction, I was hoping she already considered herself my full and rightful owner after that moment on the balcony in Manhattan.

I turned him to face me.

— I don't need to own you, Artem. I want you to stay free and choose, every day, to be beside me. But if your words on the balcony really were a proposal, then yes. I agree to be your wife.

His eyes flared red.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him.

Pirate whistled, Gina clapped, Alpha raised a glass, and Gemini went over to the Architect. My former husband watched us calmly. The pain in him remained, but alongside it now lived respect for my choice and love for his brother.

He embraced the Author.

— Take care of her, brother.

Then he looked at me:

— And you take care of him. Especially from himself.

— I've been doing that since day one.

The Archive displayed an inscription:

STATUS OF LIRA VOSS AND ARTEM ELKIND: ENGAGED.

CEREMONY DATE: UNDETERMINED.

Everyone looked at the Author.

— The twentieth century, maybe, my love? — he suggested with a smirk.

I stopped the chronological hologram on nighttime Manhattan.

— New York. The thirty-first of December, 1999. A rooftop above Manhattan, our whole family beside us, and an entire world that doesn't yet know we exist. We'll speak our vows a few minutes before midnight, and enter the new century as husband and wife.

— The twenty-first century began on the first of January, 2001, — the Archive clarified.

— Archive, please don't ruin a beautiful scene with mathematics.

— Correction withdrawn.

I smiled at my fiancé:

— Do you accept the date, or will you suggest again that I at least pick a millennium?

The Author, with a perfectly straight face, leaned down and suddenly bit my breast right in front of the whole family.

— I accept, my love. Sorry about that, my emotions are shot to hell.

And he laughed.

I punched him in the shoulder.

— Absolutely deranged wolf. You haven't even managed to marry me yet, and you're already testing the limits of my patience.

A golden inscription appeared above us:

DATE ACCEPTED BY BOTH PARTIES.

THE GROOM'S METHOD OF CONFIRMATION HAS NOT BEEN ENTERED INTO THE OFFICIAL PROTOCOL.

The next question was the bachelor party.

— I think a strip club in New York would be the optimal choice, — the Author decided. — We'll go look at naked girls, and our lovely ladies can go look at naked guys. We'll do it a couple of days before the ceremony.

— So what you're proposing isn't a double standard, but equally questionable behavior for both sides? — I clarified.

— Within our family, that sounds almost reasonable, — Gemini admitted.

The Archive scheduled the bachelor and bachelorette parties for the twenty-ninth of December, 1999.

Without hesitation, the Author chose Dmitry as the man who would walk me to the altar, and the Architect and Gemini as witnesses.

For me this meant more than a rite. I had never had a father. I came into being already grown, with ready-made knowledge and a purpose.

I took Dmitry by the hand.

— Don't let go of it until Artem takes my hand himself.

— I won't, daughter.

The Architect agreed to be his brother's witness.

— I won't pretend this is easy for me, Lira. But if there's anyone I can trust with the woman I still love, it's him alone.

He put his hand on his brother's shoulder.

— I'll personally see to it that you turn up at the altar on time, sober, and at least partially dressed.

It remained to choose who would conduct the ceremony.

— Does anyone have Lucifer's number? — the Author laughed eerily.

The Archive took the joke far too literally.

An antique black telephone materialized in the center of the room. An inscription appeared on the wall:

INCOMING CALL. CALLER: LUCIFER.

— Honestly, I really did mean that as a joke, but the Archive took it very literally. I'll settle for Earth's Artem.

The call was declined.

The Earth Architect agreed to conduct the ceremony. He was the only one who belonged to the Author's world and, at the same time, understood what it meant to become an Architect without ceasing to be human.

It seemed all the decisions had finally been made.

But the Archive received a collective request.

Six hundred and twelve rescued members of the line asked permission to attend the wedding.

They demanded no invitation. They only wanted to use the freedom they had been given, and were ready to accept any answer.

— I'll say one thing, family: the Archive was right about the nine percent, — the Author said, and took a long swig of cognac.

The Archive recalculated the probability of a quiet wedding.

Two point three percent.

It proposed creating an autonomous extension of space linked to the rooftop in Manhattan. From outside, the place would remain unchanged, while inside it would hold all the guests, a stage, an orchestra and a bar.

The whole family voted to invite the line.

The groom's vote remained.

— I think in this situation I simply have no choice.

And he drained the bottle in one go.

I took the empty bottle from him.

— You had a choice, my love. You just chose family again.

The invitation was sent.

The reply came instantly:

INVITATION ACCEPTED.

THANK YOU, ARTEM.

Above the panoramic window of Dmitry's new home, an enormous hologram of nighttime Manhattan appeared. The Archive began shaping the rooftop, the long aisle to the altar, a hidden hall for hundreds of guests, and an open platform overlooking Times Square.

In the center, a date appeared:

DECEMBER 31, 1999.

Beside it, our names flared:

ARTEM ELKIND AND LIRA VOSS.

I came up behind the man I love, wrapped my arms around his waist, and pressed my cheek to his back.

Around us the family was in full voice. Gina argued with Alpha about dresses, Pirate demanded a separate supply of alcohol, Dexter tried to prevent a temporal paradox, Gemini discussed the ceremony with me, the Architect picked out a suit for his brother, and Dmitry drew up a list of cigars.

The chaos was beginning.

But for the first time, this chaos threatened no universe.

It meant we had a future.

— The probability of a quiet wedding has been recalculated, — the Archive announced.

Everyone fell silent.

— Zero point four percent.

The Author looked at his brother.

The Architect looked back at him.

Both smirked at the same time.

I only hugged my fiancé tighter.

Because I knew perfectly well: for our family, four tenths of a percent is practically a guarantee of success.