The Algorithm of Chaos - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

to following thoughts of strangers both funny or dull, stupidly pathetic, gross—all kinds of sorts and of any nation, from an Amazonian fish trapper to an accountant in a Shanghai bank—he could read their thoughts thanks to the in-build translator certainly present in the software processing the raw data they angle out of the noosphere. Translation were done at a deeper than purely linguistic level from languages both present and extinct. You hardly can imagine a thinker contemplating in English the latest tax introduced by the Pharaoh Treasury for the war against the fucking Assyrians (excuse my French but so stands in the transcript).

They were nor marshaled in distinct trains, the thought were not, you had to suss them out from entangled knots and bunches, scrappy fragments, and whatnots, that waited for V to unravel them and compile into a coherent picture which undertaking fitted well his mindset, hence – addiction…

But now V was enjoying other things – a pleasurable day and nice-looking girl by his side. She felt his fleeting glance and turned her head to meet his eyes. They’d surely make a fine team.

‘The other day,’ said Leya, ‘I saw your friend in the elevator. The one I’ve learned your name from. He doesn’t know me, went out at your floor. I heard from my landing the new tenant told him they know nothing of you.’

The ever-present puzzle for V these days. Another piece to it.

‘Thank you, Leya,’ said V, ‘you’re a priceless treasure’.

His hand reached for her shoulder to press it tenderly. V was appalled, he never thought of such a move, his hand gave him no notice of its intentions. Some arrogant insubordination… And one more puzzle for V.

* * *

14

…if only were I blessed with a son!. A scion begotten of my loins, a heir to my desultory thoughts…

my most dedicated parenting would make of him a paragon of prowess and impeccability…

alas! the household’s more like a chicken coop a-cackling, laughing, screaming at each other. All they: the venerable matron Dona Catalina as barren as the dismal infertile lands around, yoked in one wedlock with myself, and my sister, an inveterate widow of high morals and stingy tongue, and my relieving comforter and support in these days of my declining faculties, my only child, the freebie juicy fruit from that blonde in Lisbon, my war trophy in the campaign for making the Peninsula one whole state…

…the Portuguese were simply going thru motions, resisting to the subjugation with the lassitude of a whore sprawled on the hay in barn by a brawny yokel. ‘Get off me, bastard! No! Don’t! Never before I pull my skirt up!’ Which unwillingness to fight for their freedom allowed more time for our fiery affair. O, she was a hot bitch, my fair lady of Lisbon! And cute too, managing to hand me, in due time, the basket with a baby, my natural daughter, Doña Isabel, the load thereof. Yes, 20 years on Trinity Sunday… As shrill as the rest of them in this bedlam including her maid, Maria…

How could possibly a man of my meager means at this most precarious in the world history age provide for a funny farm of this sort? Yet, keeping to holy truth, they know their distaff trade, at times only their skillful needlework wards hunger off this old house’s threshold. Sewing all day long when Providence sends a client…

…he’d turn a man of valor with my advice and guidance, my ungotten son. Mark well, boy! Two trades surpass any other among all the earthly professions by the gallantry of their nature. Soldier, the first and upmost. Soldier, whose ultimate end is to give peace to people. Soldier, who pays for that gain with the blood from his wounds, with the lost limbs of his, perhaps, with his own life. To bring peace for people is his duty, the goal of his chivalrous vocation. Overcoming all the hardships, duress, impediments thrown in his way.

Scholar comes second. It is he who gives light to mankind, teaches them, enhances comfort obtainable in their lives, puts news powers within their reach, while himself paying the harsh price for advancement by his unceasing toil, and sleepless nights, and scanty meals, till he himself dies in his tracks. Soldier and Scholar are truest characters who cater for the human beings.

In both the code of honor is verily noble, a not surprising fact though because each Spaniard is a descendant of this or that glorious knight. Be it a peddler or a vagrant barber they’d always claim a hero of the Reconquista among the roots in their family tree if not a cook of Charlemagne’s…

…at present, the duties of knight grew less in number than they had used to be. Serve God, my son, and serve your King. As simple as that. Even if the throne is seated by an asshole stuck to the place firmer than a jar applied by a physician to his patient’s side. The ken about salutary benefits of heated suction was there since the times of yore. Serve him in earnest as I served that old fart Philip, retarded moron…

…what a great plan conceived I in the years of captivity! Not only the port fortress together with the viceroy Hassan-Pasha's palace but half of Moor lands could be regained. Given the numbers of the Christian slaves, prisoners of war for the most part, among the city population, you needed one dark night to leave a shipload of weapons on the shore. The accomplishment of the God-inspired plan would be on us, the prisoners. I did send King a thoroughly detailed petition with a Christian ransomed thru the monks Redemptorists. No response, however, by the suggested means and signals…

Five years in the bondage five attempts to escape. Two times the vicious viceroy ordered to throw the noose about my neck. Pasha was