Planet

prologue

Officially, our planet was still called Earth. Unofficially, it was the Planet of Triumphant Idiocy. But we, its inhabitants, used a shorter and more fitting name: "Planet of the Fuckwits."

The irony was that each of us was a genius. An absolute one. We had conquered hunger, disease, aging, and death itself. We had harnessed the quantum foam of the vacuum and made the void dance to our tune. From nothing, we learned to make everything. Absolutely everything. Gold? Here. Diamonds? Sure. A fried mammoth steak with truffles? Five seconds – and your "Quantum Kitchen Cube" (model "Self-Setting Tablecloth 3000") would be emitting a divine aroma.

We had become gods. And, as befits gods, we immediately started squabbling.

Not over resources – there was enough for everyone. Not over territory – everyone sat in their own perfect, eternal bunker. We fought over ideas, grudges, old hatreds, and simply because we were bored. Why enjoy eternal life in the fresh air when you could enjoy eternal life watching your enemy's micro-drones turn your neighbor's micro-drones into quantum dust?

The military industry, which no longer needed to churn out tanks and bombs, had moved into the micro-world. Nano-drones. The size of a mosquito. Whole swarms, clouds, mists of these little killers, carrying not explosives, but cocktails of neurotoxins and psychedelics, capable of trapping an immortal body in a ten-year catatonia or forcing it to incinerate itself.

Going outside? Suicide. Your immortal organism would heal the bites faster than they were inflicted, and your consciousness would go insane from the pain and poisons in seconds. Nature, that very same pure and beautiful nature we had saved, had become a battlefield where no human foot had trodden for ages. We sat in our burrows and watched it through the cameras of our own and others' drones, waging an eternal, pointless war.

My name is Archie. I am immortal, I have everything, I live in paradise. I sit in my bunker and watch as an alarming message from the neighbors crawls across the screen: THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPS OVER THE LAZY DOG. WILL YOUR QUANTUM SYNAPSES SHORT-CIRCUIT FROM THIS ANALOG INSULT?

I took a bite of the perfect croissant my replicator had just created and pondered. What if they were right? What if all our genius was just an invitation to an eternal dick-measuring contest of fuckwits?

chapter 1. the itch you can't scratch

The message vanished from the screen. Attack repelled. Our "bees" had destroyed the last of the "wasps" with their psychedelic itch. Silence. Boredom. The perfect croissant on the plate seemed like a silent reproach.

"Home, log the entire incident under log number 734-B, category 'Minor Misunderstanding,'" I commanded. "Logged,Archie," replied the pleasant baritone of the ArtInt (Artificial Intelligence) that managed my personal paradise. "Threat level: zero. Suggest resuming the 4D pod of 'Pacific Orca Pod Roaming' or continuing the virtual tour of the restored ruins of Paris." "Turn it all off,"I grumbled.

The screens went dark. Silence fell in the bunker, broken only by the barely audible hum of the "Singularity-Core" on my belt – the very thing that granted me immortality and endless energy. I walked over to the main wall, which in transparency mode was supposed to show the landscape. Now it was matte, impenetrable. Behind it, just meters away through concrete and titanium alloys, teemed that very "fresh air" we had supposedly done all this for.

"Home, show me the outside world. The real view."

The wall obediently became transparent. Or rather, it launched a live feed from the external cameras at maximum resolution. The picture was flawless. Lush greenery, dewdrops on blades of grass, a forest rustling somewhere in the distance. The Garden of Eden. Completely untouched. And utterly inaccessible.

My gaze fell on a perfect branch of a perfect tree a meter from the wall. And I spotted it. A small, metallic one, the size of a mosquito. One of our patrol drones. It hung motionless in the air, scanning the space for threats. It was part of the system that protected me. And it was also part of the system that kept me in this cage.

And then a new wave hit.

Three signals. Again. But this time it wasn't a warning, but a notification from the neighboring bunker. Not hostile, but… entertaining. Apparently, the occupant of Bunker №734, the one who had sent me the "quick brown fox," decided to share his military trophies.

A window popped up on the screen. A recording from his personal observer drones. High resolution, great sound. I watched as a swarm of our "bees" engaged in a deadly dance with his "wasps." Flashes, micro-explosions – it looked like a dance of fireflies in a twilight forest, if fireflies killed each other.

And then the camera found a target. An enemy drone, one of ours, shot down in a previous skirmish, lay on the leaf of a giant burdock. It was damaged, but its core was still showing signs of life.

The camera zoomed in. Someone's curious observer drone, controlled by my "neighbor," carefully, with surgical precision, opened the casing of the damaged machine. And I saw something that stunned me.

Inside, among the nano-circuits and micro-capacitors, a real, living spider had settled. It had woven a small, perfect web there, adorned with droplets of morning dew. It was alive. It was thriving. This tiny, fragile, analog creature was living inside the product of our highest technological genius, which we used to send each other psychedelic insults.

The spider was real. It was part of that nature we were so worried about and so afraid to disturb, having locked ourselves in concrete. And we, the immortal creators, were just fuckwits watching a battle of robot insects on a screen.

The transmission cut off. The neighbor had apparently had his fun. I stood and looked at my perfect, empty, sterile room. "Home,"I said quietly. "Listening,Archie." "My back itches." "Activating protocol'Quantum Homeostasis.' Analysis… No threat to skin integrity detected. Psychosomatic reaction to an external stimulus. Recommend a meditation session or—" "Disable the protocol,"I interrupted. "I want to feel my back itch."

The ArtInt was silent for a second. For it, this was nonsense. An immortal body shouldn't experience discomfort. "Warning:disabling the monitoring system may lead to…" "DO IT!"I snarled.

The quiet hum of my Singularity-Core changed its tone. And I felt it. A faint, nagging, utterly irrational itch between my shoulder blades. The kind you can't scratch.

It was the most alive sensation I'd had in the last fifty years. And it was driving me insane.

chapter 2. protocol "soul-searching”

The itch between my shoulder blades was persistent, alive, and utterly unbearable. I squirmed in my chair, trying to scratch my back against the chair back. Useless. The sensation was deep, muscular, so… organic. So real.

"Home, activate protocol 'Relaxation.' Muscle tone, back muscle group." "Complying,"the ArtInt replied indifferently. A second later, a light vibration ran across my back, relieving the spasm. The itch vanished. It was replaced by the familiar feeling of sterile, micrometer-perfect comfort. I almost vomited from this perfection.

I had lost. The system had won again. It left no room for anything that could throw me off balance. Not even for a simple, stupid itch.

"Home, show me the archive records." "What period interests you,Archie?" "The period when we weren't fuckwits yet.When these things," I tapped the casing of my Singularity-Core on my belt, "first appeared. Show me how it was."

The wall came to life. A hologram immersed me in the past. I saw not myself, but some guy in clothes made of rough, real fabric. He stood in a field under a real, not simulated, rising sun. In his hands, he held the first commercial "Singularity-Core." It was the size of a suitcase and hummed like a swarm of bees. The guy held the device up to an old electric car, and it came to life, its headlights flaring brightly. The man's face was lit by a smile of absolute, unspoiled happiness. He was shouting something, hugging his wife, spinning his little daughter around. They were dirty, sweaty, alive. They were happy because they had conquered need. Necessity.

And what had I conquered? I had no need. I only had want. To want entertainment. To want thrills. To want to prove my bunker was cooler.

"Home, disable the hologram." The picture disappeared.The silence began to press on my ears again. That guy from the field… He would have looked at me, at my sterile bunker, at my micro-drone war, and called me a fuckwit. And he'd have been right.

"System notification," the ArtInt suddenly sang out in its serene voice. "Bunker №734 has initiated protocol 'Diplomatic Channel.'"

I flinched. "Diplomatic channel"? That was new. We usually stuck to anonymous insults and drone attacks.

"Accept." No face appeared on the screen.There was only a text chat. Anonymity was preserved. Bunker 734: Your silence today speaks volumes. Didn't like our fox? I smirked.My neighbor wasn't entirely devoid of something remotely resembling a sense of humor. Archie (Bunker 11): The fox was magnificent. As was your spider. There was a pause on the other end.A long one. Bunker 734: What spider? Archie: The one living in the wreckage of my drone on your burdock leaf. A real one. Flesh and blood. Another pause.Longer this time. Bunker 734: …I didn't see any spider. And then it hit me. He hadn't seen it.His observer drone had recorded the trophy, dissected it, transmitted the data. But the "neighbor" himself hadn't even noticed that detail. He was watching the drone fight, not the life that had quietly and brazenly crept into the thick of our idiotic war.

He was the perfect resident of the Planet of Fuckwits. And I… I had started seeing spiders. Bunker 734: If you want new tactics, I can send you the logs of the recent skirmishes. No psychedelics. Pure analysis. He was offering to play our eternal war-game together.To become allies against some third party. Entertainment for the next fifty years.

I looked at my perfect, clean room. At the plate with the perfect, half-eaten croissant. I felt that itch again. This time somewhere deep inside. In my soul. Or in what was left of it. Archie: I'll pass. Bunker 734: Seriously? Bored, huh? Archie: Terrifyingly so. Bunker 734: Got it. Then get ready. Tomorrow I'm launching a new batch of 'mosquitoes.' With a new barrier-penetration algorithm. It'll be fun. Archie: I don't doubt it.

The channel closed. He was pleased. He had a goal for tomorrow. And I had an itch.

"Home." "Listening,Archie." "Activate protocol…"I hesitated, not knowing what to call this new state of mine. "Protocol 'Soul-Searching.' And turn off all external sensors. I don't want to be disturbed. No drones, no neighbors. Full quarantine."

"Warning: disabling security systems for an extended period increases the…" "DO IT!"My voice sounded hoarse and unnaturally loud in the sterile silence.

The hum of the systems changed tone, becoming deeper, more muted. I was left alone with myself. For the first time in decades. Without holograms, without broadcasts, without the threat from outside.

The silence was deafening. And the itch inside was becoming more unbearable. I walked over to the wall and touched the cold, perfectly smooth surface.

Somewhere out there was a spider. A real one. And I was in here. In my perfect cage. The biggest fuckwit on the whole planet.

Chapter 3. The Neighbor

The silence after the connection with Bunker 734 broke was deep and ringing. I sat in my sterile capsule, and the phrase "I didn't see any spider" echoed in my skull like an obsessive, idiotic refrain. He hadn't seen it. The most interesting, most alive object in decades—and he'd ignored it, focused on the battle of scrap metal.

I was furious. Not at him. At myself. That this anonymous neighbor, this Lex (I'd mentally named him that), was the perfect product of the system. And I was the defective one. A broken device that had started seeing glitches in the perfect matrix.

The itch between my shoulder blades returned, this time as a reminder of my defectiveness. "Home,"I exhaled, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Reopen the channel to Bunker 734. Voice only. No video."

The "Diplomatic Channel" was more of a game convention than real diplomacy. A sort of "white flag" in our eternal war. Using it for a serious conversation was unheard-of stupidity. I was prepared to hear a new stream of witty abuse.

The channel opened with a light hiss. "What,changed your mind? Already bored without me?" came the voice. It wasn't what I expected. Not electronically distorted, not arrogant. It sounded tired. Almost as tired as my own. "The spider,"I said, dropping all pretense. "It was the size of a grain of rice. Grey, with long legs. It had spun a web between the power contact and the nano-processor of your trophy. Dew was glistening on the web."

The other end went still. All I could hear was the steady hum of his life support systems, just like mine. "You file reports on every downed drone?"Lex finally said. His voice was laced with disbelief and mild contempt. "That's an illness, mate. A mania." "No,"I said, feeling myself blush. It was childishly absurd. "I just… saw it. By accident." "By accident,"he repeated the words as if rolling an unfamiliar fruit on his tongue. "We all have a hundred and fifty data channels per second, neuro-interfaces filtering information down to basic patterns of 'friend-foe,' 'threat-safety,' and you… accidentally saw a spider." "Yes!"I nearly shouted, feeling a genuine, live emotion for the first time in a long time—a shameful-aggressive desire to prove I was right. "It was alive, damn it! Real! Doesn't that… doesn't that get to you?" "What'gets to me' is that the new mod of 'wasps' has improved its camouflage against natural objects," Lex replied dryly. "Thanks for the intel. I'll prepare new sensors for the next attack."

I realized we were speaking different languages. He saw tactical information. I saw—life. "Don't you ever think…"I hesitated, knowing how heresical the next phrase would sound, "…that we might have been wrong?"

Silence on the other end stretched. I thought he'd cut the connection. "Wrong about what?"His voice was quieter, as if he'd leaned closer to the microphone. "About the quantum resonance calculation? The choice of armor alloy? What exactly?" "Not that!"I clenched my fists. "About all of it! About this… this eternal game! We sit here, we have everything, and we…" "Wage war,"he finished for me. "Yes. It's logical. Immortal entities with unlimited resources either create or destroy. We got bored of creating. Only destruction remains. It provides… a stimulus." "A stimulus?"I snorted. "Sending each other psychedelics and stupid insults?" "What do you suggest?"Steel crept into his voice for the first time. "Gather everyone in a clearing and sing 'Kumbaya'? Go outside, where you'll be attacked not only by the neighbors' drones but also, I don't know, bears that have probably evolved into super-bears by now? No thanks. I have my comfort here, my safety, and my war. That's enough for me."

He was unwavering. A perfect cog in the machine of eternal conflict. "So you'll just sit there until…until you get bored?" I persisted. "Archie,"he used my name for the first time, and it sounded like a verdict. "We all got bored a hundred years ago. War isn't a result of boredom. It's the only thing that saves us from it. It's the last entertainment. Don't spoil it."

Click. The connection terminated. I was left alone in the humming silence, feeling a complete and utter failure. I had tried to reach someone who didn't exist. There was nothing left of the human in Lex—just the bare, polished-to-a-shine algorithm of an eternal soldier.

And in that moment, I realized the depth of our fall. We weren't gods. We weren't titans. We were children who had locked themselves in the safest sandbox in the world and were now throwing sand at each other until the end of time.

And outside, in the real world, a spider lived. And it didn't care about us at all.

Chapter 4. The Network Ghost

The silence after the talk with Lex was heavy and thick. He was right. Perfectly, systematically, hopelessly right. War was the last entertainment for bored gods. Any attempt to break its rules looked like madness.

But what if I was already mad? What if this "itch" wasn't a mistake, but a symptom? A symptom that I could no longer play their game.

I couldn't sit still anymore. I paced in circles around my perfect prison, touching cold, soulless surfaces. My fingers slid over the tabletop spawned by the replicator, over the holographic panels, over the casing of the belt with its dormant Singularity-Core—the symbol of my immortality that had become a curse.

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