Anyone want to know about Russian Sci-fi universes?

[K. A. Pital]

Okay... consider that a present, since I'm having a lot of free time on my hands...

METRO - the English translation. Chapter 1
Dmitriy Glukhovskiy, 1998 – 2004

For Masha

METRO

Dear Moscowers and guests of the capital!
The Moscow Metropoliten is a high-danger transport enterprise.

He who would have enough courage and patience to look into the dark for his entire life shall be the first to see the flash of light.
Khan

Chapter 1

- Who’s there? Hey, Artem! Check it!

Artem reluctantly rose from his place near the bonfire and, pulling the SMG over his back, stepped into the dark. Standing on the very edge of light, he demonstratively clicked the lock as loud and strong as possible, and shouted hoarsely:

- Halt! Password!

Fast, abrupt steps reached his ears from the darkness, where a minute ago were heard strange rustle and deaf muttering. Someone was moving back into the depths of the tunnel, frightened by Artem’s hoarse voice and arms rattling. Artem quickly returned to the bonfire and uttered to Petr Andreevich:

- Well, there was something... It didn’t name itself and ran off.

- Well you scatterbrain! You were told: no answer – shoot immediately! How the hell would you know who’s there? Maybe, the black are stealing up to us!

- No, I think it wasn’t human at all... Sounds were very strange - even it’s steps were not human. You think I can’t recognise human steps? And then, if this were the black, would they ever run away like that? You know, Petr Andreich - all the last times the black immediately rushed forward and attacked the patrol with bare hands, going on emgees to their full height! But this one fled immediately… it’s just some cowardly creature.

- Whatever, Artem! You’re a bit too smart, I guess! There’s an instruction - you act on the instruction, and not discuss! Maybe this was a scout. Maybe he saw that there’s few of us, and then they’ll attack with superior forces... Maybe we’ll be killed in a moment, maybe they’ll cut our throats and then slaughter the entire station, as it happened with Polezhaevskaya, and all because you did not cut the bastard down in time... You be more careful, boy. Next time you do something like that, I’ll make you chase that thing down the tonnel!

Artem shivered, imagining the tonnel after the seven hundred and fifty meter and that he would really have to go there some time. The thought was terrifying. Nobody dared to go past seven hundred fifty meters. The patrols on handcars went as far as six hundred and, after shining a floodlight on the boundary post from the trolley and making certain that no mutant trash crossed it, returned in a hurry. Scouts, strong muzhiks, former marines - even they stopped on seven hundred thirty, hid the burning cigarettes in the palms and froze, clinging to their night vision devices. And then slowly, quietly went back, without moving eyes away from the tunnel and never, ever turning their back on it.

The watch where Artem was stood on the five-hundredth meter, fifty meters from the boundary post. But the boundary post was checked once a day, and the last inspection was an hour agon. Now their post was the farthest line, and in those hours, which passed from the time of the last checking, all creatures, which the patrol could frighten off, surely began to creep up again. Attracted by the flame, by the people...

Artem sat back on his place and asked:

- So what happened to Polezhaevskaya anyway?

Even though he already knew this blood-chilling story and heard it countless times from merchant travellers on the station, he nonetheless wanted to listen to it again, as children can’t resist to hear once again the terrible fables of headless mutants and baby-stealing vampires.

- To Polezhayevskaya? You didn’t hear? A strange story... Strange and dreadful. First their scouts started vanishing without a trace. Departed to the tonnels and never returned. True, their scouts are youngsters, no match for ours, but their station is a bit smaller, too, and not that many people live there... I mean, used to live. So… where was I? Ah, the scouts started to perish. One of their patrols went – and did not come back. First they thought that they are just being late – they have a tonnel that bends and loops, you know, just like we do, - Artem felt uneasy at these words. - And neither the watchposts, nor people from the station could see anything, no matter whatever lights they used. So the patrol didn’t come in half-an-hour, a hour, two hours. It seemed, there was nowhere to perish, in that tonnel –they only went as far as one kilometer; no one is allowed to go further, and the scouts themselves are not fools, you know... Well, they didn’t return, so the station sent another patrol to search for them. They shouted around the tonnel and looked almost everywhere, but all in vain. The scouts vanished. And it’s half the trouble that no one saw what happened. The worst was that no one heard anything… Not a sound. And not a trace.

Artem already began to regret asking Petr Andreich about Polezhaevskaya. Petr Andreich was either more informed or he just thought it up, but he told the story in such details which have not even been known to the traders, however great was they mastery of telling fables and stories. And these details made skin go goose-flesh, and even at the bonfire it felt uncomfortable, and every noise, however harmless they might’ve sounded, disturbed their imagination.

- And then, well, they heard no shooting, and thought that their scouts ran away from them – maybe they were dissatisfied with something on the station, and so decided to leave. Well, they thought, good riddance. If the scouts want easy life, want to wander around with rabble, with some anarchists, let them be. That’s what they thought. It was easier to think that way. Calmer. But in a week another group of scouts vanished. Those didn’t even have to go beyond seven hundred! And again the same story. No sound, no trace. As if they went right down through the earth. Now they were getting nervous. It’s not okay if two groups disappear in a week, you know. You have to take action. By that I mean, you know, measures. Well, they made a fortified position, a cordon on three hundred. Hauled bags with sand, installed a machine gun, searchlight – well, according to all rules of fortification. Then sent a messenger to Begovaya – they were in a Confederation with Begovaya and Ulitsa 1905 Goda. Sometime before Oktyabrskoe Pole was also with them, but then something happened happened there, no one knows precisely what, some sort of emergency, and you could not live on the station anymore, so everybody abandoned it… ah, well, but this is unimportant. They sent to a messenger to Begovaya - to warn that something wrong is happening, to ask for aid in case something happens. As the first messenger reached Begovaya, not even a day passed – Begovaya were still thinking what to do – another one comes running, lathery, sweaty, and says that their entire fortified cordon perished without a single shot. All were cut. And as if they were knifed in the sleep, you know, that’s the dread! But how the hell could they fall asleep after all this fear, not speaking of the strict orders and the instructions! After that Begovaya understood that if they don’t do shit, soon they will have the same shit on their station. So Begovaya equipped an special force - about hundred people, with machine guns, grenade dischargers, all professionals, veterans... That, of course, took quite a bit of time, about a day and a half. Sent away the messengers, promising help. And after a day and a half, they sent this force to aid. But when the soldiers entered Polezhaevskaya, there wasn’t a single living soul. And not a single body either, only blood everywhere. And that’s it. And hell knows who did it. I personally don’t believe people could do that at all.

- But… what happened to Begovaya? - asked Artem with an alien voice.

- Nothing. They saw what happened and blew up the tonnel, which led to Polezhaevskaya. I heard, there’s about fourty meters blown up, without the machinery you can’t break through – even with the machines, you know, it’s a hard feat, and where will you get these machines, eh? It like fifteen years already completely rotten, that machinery…

Petr Andreich became silent, looking into the fire. Artem gave a low cough and acknowledged:

- Well… Yeah, I should have shot it straightaway... I fooled around.

A cry was heard from the south, the side of station:

- Hey there, on five hundred! Is everything okay?

Peter Andreich put hands in a mouthpiece and shouted:

- Come closer! There’s a problem!

From the tunnel which led to the station, shining with flashlights, three figures approached - probably watchmen from three hundred fifty meters. After approaching the bonfire, they switched off the lights and sat near the fire.

- Hello, Petr! Are you here today? Heh, and I was thinking, who’s gonna go to five hundred today? – said the eldest of them, taking a cigarette out from the bundle.

- Listen, Andryukha! One of my fellows spotted somebody. But didn’t make it in time to shoot... It ran off into the tonnel, to the north. He says, it wasn’t like a human.

- Not like a human? So what’s it like then? – Andrey turned to Artem.

- Well, I didn’t exactly see it... I only asked for password, and it immediately rushed to the north. But it’s steps were not human – very light and frequent - as if it had not two feet, but four...

- Or three! - Andrey winked and smiled to Artem, making a frightful face. Artem choked over that, recalling stories about the three-legged people from Filevskaya line, where part of the stations lay on the surface, and the tonnel went shallow, so that there was almost no protection from the radiation. From there all three-legged, two-headed and other freakish monstrosities crawled into the rest of the Metro.

Andrey inhaled the fumes of his cigarette.

- Well, folks, cause we came anyway, we can just stay here for a while. If some three-legged trash comes along again, we’ll help you out. Hey, Artem, ‘ve you got a teapot here?

Peter Andreich stood up, poured into the crumpled smoky teapot some water from the canister and hung it above the fire. The teapot began to tremble in few minutes, boiling, and from this sound, so home-feeling and cozy, Artem felt warmer and calmer. He viewed the people around the bonfire – all of them strong men, hardened by the life down here. These people could be trusted, could be relied on. Their station always had a reputation of one of the most safe and stable on the entire line – all thanks to the people who gathered here. And all of them were bond by warm, almost brotherly relations.

Artem was already in his twenties, yet he was still born there, above, and he wasn’t so pale and scrawny as all those who were born in the Metro, which never dared to show up on the surface, fearing not only radiation, but also the incinerating sunlight, disastrous for the underground life. But Artem himself at a relatively conscious age was above only one time, only for an instant – and radioactive background was enough to murder the excessively curious in a few hours, leaving them no chance to walk around and see the strange new world lying above.

His father he didn’t remember at all. His mother was living with him until he was five, on Timiryazevskaya. Everything seemed to be going fine back then, life was stable and calm, until Timiryazevskaya was devastated by a swarm of rats.

Rats, enormous gray wet mutant rats, gushed out of one of the dark lateral tonnels once without any warning. This lateral tonnel went off from the main northern tunnel into imperceptible depth, where it turned into a complex interlacing of hundreds of corridors, labyrinths filled with horror, icy cold and disgusting stink. This tonnel departed to the reign of rats, the place, where not the most desperate adventurer dared to step. Even a stray wandererer without any maps or plans would sense, like an animal, the black and terrible danger in it, and it would go off from the gaping maw of its entrance as from the gates of a plague-infected city.

No one disturbed rats, no one entered their territory. No one dared to destroy their boundaries.

And then they attacked.

Many people perished that day, when the living flow of gigantic rats so large that no one has ever seen such size anywhere in the Metro, flooded and broke through the fortified cordons, and the station, burying the defenders of the station and it’s population, muffling by a pile of their bodies the dying howls of victims, devouring everything on its way. Dead and living people, its killed fellows - blind, inexorable, moved by incomprehensible force, the rats pressed onward.

Few were still alive. Not women, old men or children - not one of those, who are usually to be saved first - but five strong men, who could outrun the deadly flow. They could only escape because they were on a motorized car, that stood near the watch in the south tonnel. When they heard cries from the station, one of them rushed to see what happened. The station was already done for, when he saw it from the end of the tonnel. At the entrance he could already distinguish the rat bodies, which were flowing over the platform, and turned back, knowing that he could not help the defenders of the station in any way. But just as he turned, someone pulled his hand. He saw a terrified woman, who pulled his hand and shouted, attempting to overpower the cries of the dying station:

- Save him, soldier! Pity him!

And then he saw that she is pushing a child’s hand into his palm – and so he gripped the child, without thinking that he saves a life, but out of reflex - because she called him “soldier” and asked to have pity. And carrying the child, he raced with the first rats, raced with death - forward, to the tonnel, where the his comrades’ trolley awaited on the watch, shouting them to start the engine. They had a motorcar, one for ten surrounding stations, and so they outran the rats, who went on and on. The trolley went past the half-desolate Dmitrovskaya, where several hermits dwelt, and the men shouted “Run! Rats!”, understanding that these people would not make it in time to save themselves. And driving up to the cordons of Savelovskaya, which, thanks god, had a peace treaty with them at the moment, they started braking so that the watch would not open fire mistaking them for racketeers.

- Rats! Rats come! – they screamed.

And even then they were ready to continue running through Savelovskaya and further, asking the watch to let them pass, on and on, until the grey mass of rats would not flood and slaughter the whole Metro.

But thanks to god, on Savelovskaya there was a weapon that saved them and the station, and, possibly, the entire Serpukhovsko-Timiryazevskaya line. As the they came closer to the station, shouting of the grey death that is chasing them, the watchmen on the station hurried to bring and uncover some imposing weapon at their post. This was a flamethrower, probably self-made by local tech-heads, primitive, but very powerful. As soon as they heard the sound of rats coming closer and ever-increasing gnashing of thousands of rat claws, watchmen set the flamethrower in action and burned until the fuel ran out. The roaring orange flame filled the tonnel ten meters ahead, and it burnt the rats without ceasing, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, and the tonnel was filled with stink, awful stink of burnt meat and fur and wild rat screeches... But after the back of the Savelovskaya watchmen, who became famous heroes on the entire line, stood the cooling-down trolley, ready for a new run, and on it - five men, who rescued themselves from the station Timiryazevskaya, and the one child they saved, a boy. Artem.

The rats backed off. Their brainless will was broken by one of the last inventions of human military genius. Man always knew how to kill better than any other living being.

And so the rats have returned to their enormous reign, the actual size of which nobody knew. And all these labyrinths, which lay on the incredible depth, were so mysterious and strange and, it would seem, completely useless for the work of Metro. And even despite the assertions of authoritative people, it was hard to believe that all of them were built by people, simple underground builders.

One of these authorities even was, in the times before, the engine-driver's mate of an electric train. There were very few of them left, and they were held in great respect, because at first they were the only ones not lost and not frightened being out of the convenient and safe capsule of train in the dark tunnels of Moscow metro, in these bowels of megapolis. And because that all the station held this man in great respect and taught the same to their children, Artem had memorized him for the entire life. A thin, exhausted person, pined in the long years of underground work, wearing a worn and dingy metro worker uniform, which long ago lost its glossy stylishness, but still put on with great pride, like the ceremonial uniform of a retired Admiral, still inspiring awe in ordinary mortals. And Artem, back then just a boy, saw in the frail figure of drivers mate unspeakable power...

And of course! Indeed the workers of the metro were for all rest like native guides for the scientific expeditions in the dense jungle. People believed in them, completely relied on them, for their survival completely depended on the knowledge and skills of these men. Such people often became leaders of the stations, when the system of centralized control fell apart, and the Metro from a complex object of civil defense, a giant anti-atomic air-raid shelter, intended for the rescuing a part of the population in case of nuclear attack, became immersed into chaos and anarchy. Stations became independent, sovereign ministates with their ideologies and regimes, leaders and armies. They warred with each other, united in federations and confederations, today becoming the metropoles of the erected empires and tomorrow being devastated and colonized by yesterday's friends or slaves. They made short-term agreements against a large threat, but as soon as this threat passed, with the newfound strength to rip out each others throats. They selflessly squabbled over everything: living space, food - protein yeast plantations, fungi plants, which required no daylight to grow, for the hen-coops and hogfarms, where pale underground pigs and sickly chicken were raised on colorless underground mushrooms, and, of course, for the water – that is, for the filters. Savages, who could not repair the filter installations at their own stations, dying from the water poisoned by radiation, assaulted with beastlike fury the strongholds of civilized life, stations, where generators and small primitive hydroelectric power plants were running smoothly, where the filters were regularly maintained and cleaned, where, cultivated by careful female hands, the white caps of agarics bored wet soil and fed up pigs grunted in their enclosures. They were led to this desperate assault by the instinct of self-preservation and the old revolutionary principle – take away and divide. The defenders of satisfactory stations, organized in combat-effective units by former professional servicemen, repelled the attacks of vandals to the last drop of blood, assumed the counteroffensive, in battle for every meter of interstation tonnels. Stations accumulated military power in order to answer any raids with punitive expeditions, in order to push out their civilized neighbors from vitally important space, if nothing could be achieved peacefull, and finally in order to rebuff all the evil which crawled out from holes and tonnels. Rebuff all the strange, deformed and dangerous creatures, each of which could lead poor Darwin into desperation by their explicit inconsistence with all the laws of evolutionary development. But however strikingly different they were from the creatures that people were used to, either transformed from the inoffensive representatives of urban fauna into devil incarnates under the invisible disastrous rays, or always dwelling in the depths, and only now disturbed by man, they were nevertheless a continuation of life on Earth, too. Distorted, malevolent, but nevertheless a life. And thus they were subordinate to the master principle, which governs everything organic on the planet.

To survive.

Artem accepted a white enamelled cup, in which was their own, station special tea. It was, of course, not genuine tea, but liqueur from dry fungi with additives, because real tea was incredibly rare, it was spared and only used on holidays, and it’s price was dozens of times higher than of their fungus liqueur. However, they took pride even in their station broth, and called it "tea". At first, strangers hated it, but then got used to it and even loved it. The fame of their tea spread beyond their station, and merchants moved to VDNH. At first - risking their own skin, one by one. But their tea quickly became a hit along the entire line, and even Hansa became interested in it, and so large caravans to VDNH (VDNH – Vystavka Dostijeniy Narodnogo Hosyaistva, Exposition of the Achievements of the National Economy, the station has the same name; one of the deepest stations of Moscow Metro – Stas) started crossing the tonnels, going after their magic liqueur. And money came. And with money - weapons, firewood and vitamins. And life. And since they began to make this tea at VDNH, their station began to strengthen, thrifty, practical people from the surrounding stations and railways began to move. It was their prosperity. People of VDNH were also very proud of their pigs and told legends, that this is the place where all pigs of the Metro came from - when at the very beginning some daredevils reached the half-wrecked pavilion "Hogbreeding" on the Exhibition and drove a herd of hogs to the station.

- Hey, Artem! How’s Sukhoi (his nickname means “Dry” – Stas)? - asked Andrey, sipping the tea slowly and zealous blowing on the cup.

- Uncle Sasha? He’s allright. He just recently returned from a trip along the line with our guys. With the expedition. But you know that, right?

Andrey was about fifteen years older than Artem. He was a scout, actually, and rarely stood in watches closer than five hundred meters, and even if so, he always was the commander of cordon. He was put on three hundred meters, into cover, but nonetheless he was drawn to the deep, and used the first false alarm as an excuse to get closely to the darkness, closer to the mystery. He loved the tonnel and knew it well, all it’s offshoots up to the one thousand five hundred meter mark, and where exactly they lead, all that he knew by heart. But at the station, among the farmers, among the plodders, traders and administration, he felt uncomfortable, unnecessary. He could not make himself loosen the ground for the fungi, or, worse, feed fat pigs with these fungi, staying on his elbow in the manure at the station farms. And he could not trade, he couldn’t stand petty tradesmen, he was a soldier, a warrior, and believed in his heart that this is the only worthy way for a man. And he was proud that he, Andrey, has protected all these feeble, stinking farmers, and fussy merchants, smug adminstrators, children and women. Women were attracted by his power, by his complete, hundred percent self-confidence, confidence in his future and the future of those around him, because he could always protect people around. Women promised love and comfort, but he only felt comfortable after fifty meters, when the lights of station hid behind the turn. But the women never followed him there.
And so, getting warmed-up from the tea, he took off his old black beret, wiped his whiskers, wet from the vapor, with a sleeve, and started to question Artem greedily about the news and gossips brought from the last expedition to the south by Artem’s step-father - the person, who pulled out Artem nineteen years ago on Timiryazevskaya, could not abandon the boy and brought him up.

- Well, even if I did hear something, but why don’t you tell us about it, Artem? Is it hard for you to tell, huh? - insisted Andrey, knowing that Artem actually wants to tell once again all the stories of his step-father and enjoy seeing everybody listen to him with their mouths open.

- Well, you probably know where they went, - started Artem.

- Somewhere south, all I know. They’re too classified, your walkers! - smiled Andrey. - The special tasks of the administration, well, you know! - he winked to one of his people.

- Blah, nothing secret, - Artem quickly disregarded the claim. - Well, the purpose of their expedition was reconaissance, collecting information... I mean reliable information, ‘cause all these foreign merchants, who twaddle on our station, can’t be trusted – maybe they’re merchants, or maybe provocateurs, spreading misinformation.

- The merchants can’t be trusted at all, - growled out Andrey. – They’re greedy people. How do you know him? Today he sells you tea to Hansa, tomorrow he sells you, with all your stuff. Who knows, maybe they are gathering information here, too. I trust no foreign and no local merchants.

- Andrey Arkad’ich, you’re a bit unfair to our local guys. They’re okay. I know almost all of them. They’re just people. Just love money more than others. Want to achieve something, maybe, - Artem attempted to defend the locals.

- Yeah, right! That’s what I’m speaking about. Love money, they do. But who knows what they do when they go out in the tonnels? Can you be sure that they won’t be recruited by someone’s agents on the first next station? Can you?

- Whose agents? Whose agents are they working for?

- Here’s what, Artem! You’re young and there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know. Listen to the elders, you might live longer that way.

- Well, someone has to do the job! Without the merchants we’d cuckoo here without any ammunition, with homemade rifles, shot the black with salt and drink our own tea, - Artem came with a witty comeback.

- Hey, hey, newborn economist... Cool down. You better tell where Sukhoi has been. How are the neighbors doing? On Alekseevskaya? On Rizhskaya?

- On Alekseevskaya? Nothing new. Just growing their fungi. What is this Alekseevskaya? Just a khutor... They say, - Artem lowered his voice to indicate that this is classified information, - they want to join us. And Rizhskaya, it seems, doesn’t mind joining too. They’re under pressure from the south. They are moody, everyone is whispering of some threat, all fear something, but what they fear - no one knows. Either some empire grows from the other side of line, or they fear the Hansa expansion, or something else. And all these farmsteads – Rizhskaya and Alekseevskaya, are sticking to us.

- So what do they want precisely? What are they proposing? – Andrey became interested.

- They want to form a federation with a general defense system, strenghten the boundaries from both sides, constant illumination in the interstation tunnels, organise a police, close or use up lateral tonnels and corridors, handcar transport, telephone cable, all free territory use up for the fungi... Collective economy, to aid each other if in need.

- So where were they earlier, huh? When all this crap went on us from Botanicheskiy Sad, from Medvedkovo? When, at last, the black stormed on us? – Andrey grumbled.

- Hey Andrey, don’t put us off with your speeches! - interfered Petr Andreich. - There are no blacks so far - good. But it’s not like we won over them, no. They have something internal, I guess, that’s why they are quiet. Maybe they’re accumulating forces. So that union will not be useless, especially with our neighbors. Good for them, good for us.

- And then we’ll have freedom, equality, and brotherhood! - spoke Andrey ironically, bending fingers .

- So you’re not really interested in it? – asked Artem with a grudge.

- No, I am interested, go on, Artem. We’ll end this dispute with Petr Andreich some time later. It’s our common debate, can last forever, you know.

- Well then. So I heard that our head agreed. Has no fundamental objections, just has to discuss the details. Soon there will be a congress. And then – a referendum.

- Ah yes, a referendum. People will say yes – it means yes. People will say no - it means, people didn’t have enough time to think. Let the people think again, - taunted Andrey.

- So, Artem, what’s happening beyond Rizhskaya? – asked Petr Andreevich, paying no attention to Andrey’s jokes.

- What’s beyond? Prospekt Mira (Peace Avenue). Well, Prospekt Mira, that’s no big story. They’re on the Hansa boundary. The Hansa, my stepdad says, is still at peace with the reds. No one remembers the war anymore, - said Artem.

Hansa was the nickname of the Commonwealth of the Stations of the Ring Line. Crossing all other lines, these stations were vital points of trade routes, joined by the tonnels of the Ring Line. Almost from the very beginning, they became the marketplace for all traders, getting incredibly rich in a short while. Soon they understood that their riches would become the envy of others, and took the only possible decision. They formed the Commonwealth. It's official name was “Commonwealth of the Stations of the Ring Line”, but the people called them Hansa – someone once pointed out a neat likeness with an alliance of trading cities in the Middle Ages Germany. The word was quite fit, and the nickname stuck. At first, Hansa included only a part of the Ring Line stations. The unification was not momental. The so-called "Northern Arc" at first included stations from Kievskaya to Prospekt Mira, the other fraction consisted of Kurskaya, Taganskaya and Oktyabrskaya. And there were lots of negotiations, everyone wanted to get more for himself. Later Paveletskaya and Dobryninskaya joined the Hansa, and the "Southern Arc" emerged. But the key obstacle to joining this ring of power was in the Sokolnicheskaya Line.

“Here’s the reason, - Artem’s step-father used to tell him. - Sokolnicheskaya Line was always special, people say. If you look at the Moscow Metro Map, it always draws attention. Straight as arrow, red as blood on all maps. More than that, all the station names are connected with Red and Communism - Red Village (Krasnoselskaya), Red Gates (Krasnye Vorota), Komsomolskaya, Lenin Library (Biblioteka im. Lenina). Somehow this line drew everyone who dreamt of re-establising the Soviet past. Preobrazhenskaya Ploschad' (the Transformation Square – a word game, it's also the biblical "Transfiguration", because the word used in the station’s name is from old, archaic Russian) was the first station to officialy re-endorse communism and the socialist type of government. It's neighboring stations did so in a short while, some of them revolutioneered against own governments, and it went on. All the war veterans, former communist party men, the ever-thriving lumpen-proletariat gathered on the revolutionary stations.

At first they created a commitee which was responsible for propaganda of revolution and communism in the whole Metro, with an almost Lenin's name - "Interstational". Interstational prepared revolutioneers and propagandists, sending them further down the line into enemy territory. At first there was almost no conflict, since people on the poor Sokolnicheskaya line were literally starving. Their leadership could not provide food, and so they awaited changes that should bring justice. Or, in their view, equity. The Line, burning on one of the ends, was soon engulfed in the red flame of revolution. Thanks to the luckily-undamaged bridge over the river Yauza between Sokol'niki and Preobrazhenskaya Ploschad' the communcations were steady. At first the short bridge had to be crossed only overnight on fast trolleys, but later it was hermetized and deactivated by forces of self-sacrificing workers ("smertniki" - hard to find an exact translation, this means someone who accomplishes smt. through death). The stations received back their old names: Chistiye Prudy became Kirovskaya, Lubyanka became Dzherzhinskaya, Okhotny Ryad became Prospekt Marksa (Marx Avenue) and later Ploschad’ Sverdlova (Sverdlov Avenue). Some of the more neutrally-named stations were renamed anew: Sportivnaya became Communisticheskaya (Communist), Sokol'niki became Stalinskaya (Stalin's), Preobrazhenskaya Ploschad' became Znamya Revolutsii (Banner of the Revolution). And so this line, commonly dubbed “Red” by the Moscowers, who used to call all the stations by their colors, was now officially called the Red Line.
But the revolution went no further.

By the time the Red Line became a solid state and began claiming stations from other branche lines, the cup of patience was running over. Too many people remembered, what the Soviet power was. Too many they saw in propaganda squads sent by Interstational throughout the Metro metastases of the tumor, which threatened to destroy the entire organism. And no matter how the agitators and propagandists from Interstantsional promised the electrification of entire Metro, asserting that in conjunction with the Soviet regime this will give communism (this Leninist slogan, shamelessly exploited by them, was hardly more urgent at any other time in history), people beyond the limits of the Red Line were not tempted by the promises, but caught the interstational rethoricians and expulsed the into the Soviet state.

Then the Red leadership decided that it’s time to act decisively. If the rest of the Metro does not fire up with the revolutionary flame by itself, it can be ignited. The adjacent stations, alarmed by the strengthened Communist propaganda activities, came to a similar conclusion. Historical experience clearly proved to them that there is no better carrier of the Communist virus than a bayonet.
And then there was thunder.

The coalition of anti-Communist stations, led by the Hansa, which was cut in half by the Red Line and craving for the completition of the Ring, took the challenge. The reds, of course, did not expect such organized resistance, and overestimated their own forces. The easy victory, which they awaited, was nowhere to be seen.

The war was long and bloody, and it fairly pulled about the not-that-numerous population of the Metro. It went for as long as a year and half, and it consisted primarily of positional comabt, but with obligatory partisan sorties and diversions, with the obstruction of tonnels, shooting of prisoners, several cases of atrocities from both sides. This was a real war with troop operations, encirclements and breakthroughs of encirclements, with its feats of arms, with its generals, with its heroes and its traitors. But its main feature was the fact that none of the belligerents could move the front line on any significant distance. Sometimes, it seemed, one side gained superiority, taking some adjacent station, but the enemy strained himself, mobilized extra forces - and the scales went on the other side again.

This war wasted resources. Took away the best of people. War exhausted people.

Those still alive were getting tired of it. The revolutionary leadership unnoticeably changed its ambitious purposes to very modest ones. If the propagation of socialist authority and Communist ideas throughout the entire Metro used to be the primary goal of the revolutionary war, now they wanted at least to take under their control that which was for them the holy of holies - station “Ploschad’ Revolutsii” (Revolution Square) - because of its name, and because it was closer than any other station of the Metro to the Red Square, to the Kremlin, whose towers were still crowned by ruby stars, if we were to believe to a few brave men, ideologically strong to the degree, which was necessary for to go up and look how the Kremlin is doing. Well, that, and, of course, there, on the surface, next to the Kremlin, and in the very center of Red Square, was the Mausoleum. Nobody knew if Lenin's body was still there. Even if it was not brought out before the life above ceased to exist, it surely decomposed during the years without proper care. But during the long years of the Soviet power the Mausoleum ceased to be simply a tomb and became something valuable in itselfa, a symbol of the succession of authority. From it’s top the great leaders of the past oversaw parades and ceremonies. For it longed most the present leaders. And there were rumors, that precisely from the station, from its service rooms, went secret pathways into the secret laboratories within the Mausoleum, and from there, to the coffin itself.

The Red controlled the station Ploschad’ Sverdlova, the former Okhotny Ryad, fortified and made into a bridgehead for assaults on Ploschad’ Revolutsii.

A few crusades were blessed by the revolutionary leadership in order to free this station and tomb. But its defenders also understood it’s importance for the Red, and they stood to the last man. Ploschad’ Revolutsii turned into an impregnable fortress. Most severe and bloody combat was seen in the tonnels leading to this station. Most of the people fell there. Were there new Alexander Matrosov’s, who stopped machineguns with their chests, and heroes, who blew up themselves on grenades on enemy emplacements, and the use of forbidden flamethrowers against the people... And all in vain. The station was taken for a day, but the next day, without any time to make fortifications, it was taken back in a counter-offensive.

The same thing, but mirrored, went on Biblioteka im. Lenina (Lenin Library). The reds defended against the coalition forces which repeatedly attempted to knock them out. Station had enormous strategic value for the coalition, because in the case of a successful assault it would be possible to break the red line in two sections, and also gave passages to other three lines immediately, and all three – which did not intersect the Red Line anywhere else. Only there. It was to them a lymph node, which, being struck by red plague, would open access to the vitally important organs. And to prevent this, the Lenin Library was to be taken at any cost.

But as unsuccessful were the attempts of the Red Line to take the Revolution Square, so were the attempts of the coalition to knock them out of the Library.

The people, meanwhile, got more and more worn out. Desertion began already, and increasingly more frequent were the cases of the fraternization, when both soldiers threw weapons and went to embrace the enemy, but in contrast with World War I, this gave no benefit for the Red. Revolutionary fuse slowly came to naught, and Communist enthusiasm faded. No better than this were the matters on the side of the coalition – fearing the constant threat to their lives, people left the central stations and went to settle on the outskirts. The Hansa was growing weak and deserted. War struck almost lethally the trade business, merchants searched for roundabout paths, important commercial ways became desolate.

The politicians, who were less and less supported by the soldiers with each new day, had to find a way – and a swift one - to finish the war before their weapons get turned against them. And then, in strictest secrecy and on the ground of a required in such cases neutral station, met the leaders of opposing powers: comrade Moskvin from the Soviet side, and from the side of the coalition Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of the Stations of the Ring Line Loginov with Tvaltvadze, President of the Arbat Confederation, which included all stations of Arbatsko-Pokrovskaya line between Kievskaya and the long-suffering Ploschad’ Revolutsii.

The peace treaty was signed quickly. Sides were exchanged rights at the station. Red line obtained at its complete disposal the half-wrecked Ploschad’ Revolutsii, but granted to the Arbat Confederation Biblioteka im. Lenina. Both for sides this step was difficult. The Confederation lost one member and, together with it, all possessions to the northeast. The Red Line became a broken line, since directly in the middle it now appeared the station which was not under it’s control, and it cut it in half. And despite the fact that both sides guaranteed each other the right for free transit passage on former territories, this distribution could not but disturb the Red... But the offer of the Coalition was too tempting. And the Red Line took it. Hansa, of course, benefited the most from the agreement, which removed any obstacles to closing the Ring, and so broke the last obstacles on the way to prosperity. They also agreed to keep the status quo, the prohibition of agitation and propaganda activity in the territory of former enemies. All in all, everyone was satisfied. And now, when the guns and politicians became silent, came the turn of the propagandists, who had to explain to masses that precisely their side achieved the salient diplomatic successes, and, in the essence, it won war.
Years passed from that memorable day, when the peace treaty was signed. Status quo was kept by both sides. Hansa percieved in the red line a favorable economic partner, the Red Line left its aggressive intents: comrade Moskvin, the Secretary General of the Communist Party of the Moscow Metropoliten im. V.I. Lenina, dialectically proved the possibility of constructing the communism on one separately taken line and a made the historical decision about the beginning of that construction. Old hostility was forgotten.

Artem memorized this story well, as he tried to memorize everything his step-father told him.

- It is good that the slaughter ended... - said Petr Andreevich. – One and a half year you couldn’t step on the Ring – encompassment everywhere, checking documents a hundred times. I had some business back then, and there was absolutely no way round the Hansa. So I went through to Hansa. And they stopped me on Prospect Mira straightaway. I was awfully close to being shot right there at the wall.

- Really? Hey Petr, you never told us about it... How did that happen? – Andrey became quite interested.

Artem drooled, as he saw the banner of storyteller impudently pulled out from his hands. But the story promised to be interesting, so he didn’t meddle.

- How-how... simple. They took me for a red spy. I come out from one of the tonnels on the Prospekt Mira, which leads to our station. But Prospekt Mira is also under the Hansa. Annexed, so to say. Well, it is not that strict there – after all, it’s a marketplace, a commercial zone. Well, you know, in the Hansa it’s everywhere like this: the stations, which are located on the ring itself, they’re like their house, in the passages from the ring stations to the radial ones there are borders with customs and passport control...

- We know all that, what’s the point of this lecture... You better tell what happened to you! – interrupted Andrey.

- Passport control! - repeated Petr Andreevich, knitting his brow sternly. Now he had to tell about it, as a matter of principle. - At the radial stations they have fairs, markets... There they let strangers pass. But through their borders – no way. I came out on Prospekt Mira, had half a kilo tea with me... I needed ammo for AK. Thought to change some. But they had martial law at the time. No ammunition trade. I asked one merchant, another - all made excuses and went off – away from me. Only one of them whispered: "What ammo, you idiot… Get your ass out of here, they must’ve reported you already. That’s my friendly advice ". It said thanks and went slowly back into the tonnel, and right at the way out a patrol stops me, whistle from the station, and another patrol comes along. Documents, they said. I gave my passport, with our station’s stamp. They examined it and ask: “So where’s you permit?”. I’m going surprised: “What permit?”. So they explain that permits are compulsory, and there’s a table right at the entrance, that’s like the office, and they issue permits. Check personality, identity, your goals and decide whether they should grant you pass or not. Started up this goddamn bureocracy, stupid rats…
As for how I went past this table I dunno... Why these blockheads didn’t stop me? And now I have to explain that to the patrol. And there’s a boldie guy in camouflage, and says: he slipped! He sneaked! He crept! He filtered! Turns over the pages of my passport - and sees a stamp from Sokolniki. I used to live there, on Sokolniki... He sees this stamp and his eyes fill up with blood, like a mad bull before a red tag. He pulls out his gun and roars: “Hands on your back, fucker!” Training, eh. Grabs me on the shoulder and pulls through the whole station to the checkpoint in pathway to the ring station, to his captain. And says: “You just wait till I get the permission from the authorities – and I shoot you against the wall, spy”. I felt really shitty and tried to talk him off: “What spy? I’m a trader! See, I just brought some tea from VDNH.” And he goes, “I’ll cram your mouth with this tea and press it hard with this gun to fit some more in”. I feel that I didn’t convince him and if his superior says “yes”, they’ll lead me to two hundred meters, put my face against the pipes and make some excess holes in me, that’s like, martial law justice. Crap, I thought... We approach the checkpoint and this boor goes to ask, what’s the best place to shoot me in. I look at his captain, and like a stone fell of my heart – Pashka Fedotov, my classmate, we’ve been good friends for years after school, but after that lost each other.

- Motherfucker! You scared the bejeesus out of me! I’ve thought, basta, the end, they killed you... - Andrey made an acid joke, and all people round the bonfire on five hundred meters roared with laughter.

Even Petr Andreevich first glanced angrily at Andrey, but didn’t manage to keep serious and burst in laughter. Laughter rolled out into the tonnel, giving birth to distorted echo somewhere in its depths - frightening hooting completely unlike the laughter itself. And listening to it, everyone became silent.
And then from the depths of the tonnel, from the north, those same suspicious were distinctly heard - rustles and easy fast steps.

Andrey, of course, was the first who heard it. Instantly silent, he gave the rest a sign to keep silent too, took his AK and jumped up from his place. Slowly led off the lock and, pushing the bullet to the end, he quietly, sticking to the wall, moved along it from the bonfire into the tonnel. Artem rose, too, he wanted to see, whom he missed that time, but Andrey turned around and hissed angrily, and Artem obediently sat down.

After pushing the gun against his arm, Andrey stopped at the place, the darkness thickened, and the light of the bonfire weakened completely. He fell on the ground and shouted: “Light!”
One of his people, who held a powerful accumlator lamp ready, assembled by local skillful individuals from the old automobile headlight, switched it on, and the lightbeam, bright and white, ripped the darkness open. An obscure silhouette appeared for second in their sight, snatched out from the gloom - something very small, unharmful by the looks, and it ran off immediately to the north. Artem couldn’t bear anymore:

- Shoot it! It’s going to run away!!

But Andrey did not shoot, he bent forward, stepped into the dark and vanished out of sight. Petr Andreevich rose, holding his gun, and shouted:

- Andryukha! You’re alive or what?!

Those sitting in bonfire whispered in alarm, clanging locks echoed in the dark. But he finally seemed appeared in light of the lamp, rose from the earth, shaking down his jacket and laughing.

- Yeah, alive, alive! - he pressed through the laughter.

- What’s so funny? - asked the alarmed Petr Andreevich.

- Three feet! And two heads! Mutants! Black sneak! They will cut us all! Shoot, or it will leave! How much noise you guys made! You’re best, really! - Andrey continued to laugh.

- Whatever, why did you not shoot it? I mean, my fellow’s young, it’s okay for him... But how did you miss it? You’re not a boy... Do you know what happened to Polezhayevskaya? - asked Petr Andreevich angrily, when Andrey returned to the bonfire.

- Heard about your Polezhayevskaya ten times already! - Andrey brushed him off. – It was just a dog! Even a goddamn puppy, not a dog... It’s the second time trying to get closer to your fire, to light and warm. You nearly killed him, and now you ask me why am I so kind to it? Flayers!

- How should I’ve known it’s a dog? – Artem seemed offended. – It was making such sounds… And then, people say, they saw a rat the size of a pig here recently, – he winched. – Half a cartridge went into it with no effect…

- Yeah, go on and believe all those fairytales! Here, wait... I’ll get you your rat! - said Andrey, threw the gun across the arm and went from the bonfire into the dark.

In a minute they heard his whistle. And his voice – he called quietly, with affection: "Come here... Come here, small one, don’t be frightened!"

He persuaded someone long enough, about ten minutes, calling up and whistling, and finally he loomed in the shade again. As he returned to the bonfire, he smiled triumphantly and opened the jacket. A puppy fell out of there – shivering, pitiful, wet, totally dirty, with sticked fur of undeterminable colors, black eyes filled with terror and little ears. Being on the ground it immediately attempted to flee, but Andrey gripped it with his hand and flattered it’s hair. Then Andrey took of his coat and covered the dog.

- Let the poor thing warm up. He’s very cold... – said Andrey.

- Get rid of him, Andryukha, he’s got fleas for sure! - attempted to persuade him Petr Andreevich. – Maybe even worms... Or some other infection - you catch from it, then bring it to the station.

- What’s up with you, Andreich! Stop humming. Look at him! – he lifted his coat and demonstrated the friendly-looking dog once again. – Look in his eyes, Andreich! These eyes cannot lie!

Petr Andreich looked in the dog’s eyes skeptically. His eyes were filled with fear, but they were doubtlessly honest dog eyes. And Petr Andreich softened his judgement.

- Okay, young naturalist… Let me see if I have something for him to chew on, - muttered Petr and searched in his backpack.

- Yes, look for some stuff. Maybe he’s worth something. Maybe he’ll grow into something. Like a German shepherd, - said Andrey and moved his coat with the puppy closer to the fire.

- But where did it come from? On the other side, you know, there are no people. Just the black. Do the black hold any dogs? – suspiciously asked one of Andrey’s people, emaciated-looking man with tousled black hair, who was silently listening to others until now.

- You’re right, Kirill, - answered Andrey seriously. – The black don’t hold any animals, as far as I know.

- So how do they live? What do they eat? – asked the second man, who came with Andrey, with a dull voice, touching his unshaved chin.

It was a tall, broad-shouldered and strong man with a bold head and thick eyebrows, wearing a long and well-made leather cloak – a real rarity nowadays – and he looked like someone who had plenty in his life.

- What they eat? Well, they say, the black eat all kinds of shit. Dead meat. Rats. Humans. They’re not really gourmet guys, you know… - spoke Andrey with disgust.

- Cannibals? – asked the bold man without any amazement, and it seemed that he had faced cannibalism before.

- Cannibals… They’re monsters. Coddle. Hell knows what they are. Good that they don’t have any weapons, and we’re holding so far. So far. Petr! Remember how we took one of them captive half a year ago?

- I recall, - said Petr Andreevich. – Sat for two weeks in the lock-up, didn’t drink our water, didn’t touch our food, and died that way.

- You didn’t interrogate him?

- He doesn’t understand a word of ours. We’re speaking Russian, but he’s silent as a fish. We beat him up – he’s silent. Give him food – he’s silent. Growled from time to time. And howled before his death so that the entire station woke up.

- So where did that dog come from? – reminded them Kirill.

- Who knows. May have ran off from them. Maybe, they wanted to eat it. There’s just a few kilometers here, right? Maybe it’s someone’s. Went from the north and met the black. And his dog could escape in time. Hey, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Look at it – does it look like a monster? A mutant? Just a little dog, nothing special. And it comes to people. Think, man – it must be brought up, not in the wild. Why would it go round the fire for hours then?

Kirill went silent, thinking about Andrey’s arguments. Petr Andreevich poured some more water into the teapot:

- Anyone want more tea? Let’s have a last go, soon our relief should arrive.

- Tea sounds good! I’m in, - said Andrey. Others were in, too.

The teapot was boiling in a moment. Petr Andreevich poured a few more cups and asked:

- Don’t brag about the black, men… Last time we were sitting just like that, speaking about them – and they came by. And others told me, that happened to them too. That, of course, may be coincidence, I’m not superstitous, but what if it’s not? What if they feel? Our watch is almost done, we don’t need any crap right now.

- Yeah, right… it’s not a good idea bragging about them, - Artem voiced support.

- Come on, be a man! We’ll make it! – Andrey tried to cheer Artem up, but he didn’t sound very convincing.

Just a mere thought about the black made even Andrey slightly tremble, even if he tried to conceal it. He feared no man on Earth – neither bandits nor anarchist-murderers nor the soldiers of the Red Army. But monsters he loathed, and it’s not like he feared it, but he couldn’t think of it as calmly as he could think of any threat which was connected to people.

Everyone was silent. Silence filled the air around the bonfire. A heavy, dark silence, which was only interrupted by the quiet cackling of fire and deaf, muted growls from farthest reaches of the northern tonnel – as if the Moscow Metro were the giant bowels of an incredible monster. And these sounds made them feel eerieer than ever.

[K. A. Pital]

Explanation: I "necro" the thread, because people were interested in the "METRO" universe, and there are good news for non-Russians: METRO is coming out as a massive RPG computer game. Dmitry Glukhovky recently struck a deal with the development team of the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. to make his post-apocalyptic myth into a game. The post-apocalyptic fan community in Russia is thrilled and rejoicing, because the project gains popularity.

Just check out the 4A GAMES website under the "METRO 2033" project: http://www.4a-games.com/

Screenies:
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/2b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/1b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/4b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/5b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/6b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/7b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/8b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/9b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/11b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/13b.jpg
http://www.4a-games.com/downloads/17b.jpg

Enjoy! Next thing all fans wish for is a "METRO" movie should popularity continue to rise, it very well could be made.

[K. A. Pital]

Also, the first ever gameplay video, where you can observe the graphics and an attack by mutants on a station's block-post. This is from a game expo.
http://minifiles.ag.ru/videos/15650/metro2033.wmv.exe

[K. A. Pital]

Holy crap

All this video from a pre-alpha version shown in Leipzig:
The trailer for "METRO 2033"
It's 150 MBs. And it rocks. It really does. It's almost as a METRO movie trailer...

[K. A. Pital]

Some awesome illustrations right from the trailer (clickable for larger versions):
A wounded stalker | A monster, probably from Paveletskaya, "the visitor"

A living berth between the columns of a Metro station | Another one

A habitable station's main hallway | An abandoned train carriage

A stalker is being preyed on by a flying humanoid mutant
[url=http://www.ljplus.ru/img/h/i/himmelwerf ... ailer7.JPG]

[DrMckay]

the Metro one sounds interesting... where would I be able to access an English translation of it???

[weemadando]

WTF? Stalker is BACK on the radar! YEAH!

[Patrick Degan]

I know all about russian sci-fi superiority. While back we held a sci-fi marathon where we watched a lot of sci-fi both good and bad.
This one particular movie was made in russia in the 60's but before watching that we viewed two american 60's sci-fi movies.

Now the americans are sent to investigate the great unknown with snazzy uniforms and rayguns. That's it. No spacesuits, no survival gear, not even fricking flashlights. I shit you not. In one of the movies our intrepid heroe had to build torches for illumination.

Now, our russian friends that are sent to investigate venus get: Spacesuits (with built in accessories, like flashlights and radios), a hovering vehicle to get around, belt full of tools and in general all sorts of stuff you'd want to have if going to venus. The best was yet to come. When our brave spacefarers are attacked by evil venusian lizard men, they do not resort to fancy beam guns or blasters, oh no. They draw makarovs and show those lizardmen that boys from the motherland take shit from nobody.

This particular gem of a movie was actually dubbed in english and a female character was introduced to widen appeal. I don't remember the title at the moment, but I'll try to dig it up, if somebody is interested.

-Gunhead

Sounds a bit like First Spaceship To Venus.

[phred]

I guess Jehova's Witnesses became cannibals after the Cataclysm.

"Hello sir would you like to learn about the...BRAAAAINS! BRAAAAINS!"

Actually, the post lists them;

Jehowa’s Witnesses
Supreme power: pastor

A JW sect is living just off Hansa border in a small train carriage. They seem to have some sort of farming and even wealth; their carriage is electrified. They welcome strangers from Hansa and elsewhere, although they are trying to indocrinate you into their religion with the usual fundie zeal. They are well-armed, too. Most of their preaching is a staged replay of old Televangelism shows. It’s unclear whether their train, which they call “Watch Tower”, is capable of moving across the Metro, but it seems so.

its understandable, JWs took alot of shit from the communists for their beliefs. they even got their own series of propaganda films

[K. A. Pital]

Okay...

It's been awhile since I have presented something new. I was trying to find something both kind of obscure yet captivating. And now I was also looking for something with a possible English translation.

Luckily, I have caught just that on occasion. A work about a new Utopia, yet one (modestly) within the realms of modern science. The key question is - are human really ready? Read and find out.

Russian Sci-Fi bulletin #3, 22.09.06

Universe:

Nanotech Network ("Сеть Нанотех") - named by the first novel and by far the only novel in the (presumed) series.

Genre: nanotech alt-history sci-fi.
I could've labelled it a "nano-communism" work, but since the author strongly objects to the use of that term, I would provide his own reasoning on the matter from his webpage
the author strongly objects to the use of the term "nanocommunism", and has the following to say about it:

I prefer the term "techno-communism", which only implies that communism can be pursued through comprehensive technological development, without singling out any particular technology.

A short and probably incomplete list of "communism-enabling" technologies might look like this:

1. Networking and Communications Technologies: to enable free access to information
2. Transportation technologies: to enable easy access to limited resources - living space, raw materials, energy.
3. Space Technologies: to make limited resources - living space, raw materials, energy - into almost unlimited resources, and alleviate environmental problems by moving industry into space (expanding "environmental' resources)
4. Fusion Power Technology: to make energy an almost unlimited resource.
5. Technology of Immortality: turning the most limited resource - lifetime available to a human being - into an unlimited resource (This is very important! Mortals compete with each other because they cannot wait for their turn to use a limited resource - they just don't have enough time to stand in line. Real communism will probably only begin after the introduction of immortality. This is not as impossible and far-off objective as one might think. There are already people among us who have a good chance of becoming immortals. See a description of a possible technological shortcut to immortality in my paper on the Modular System of Immortality at http://webcenter.ru/~lazarevicha/wg_e.htm.)
6. Nanotechnologies: to make all of the above technologies freely available to the general public.

(out of a [url=http://webcenter.ru/~lazarevicha/letters/barbrook.htm]debate with one of the readers of Nanotech Network who happened to be Dr.Richard Barbrook which is available on Lazarevich's homepage)


Author:
Lazarevich, Alexander (Лазаревич, Александр) - the author is more widely known in Russia for his apparently earlier work "The Worm", although "Nanotech Network" is also getting pretty popular now as it seems to me, especially in the computer journal's communities.

His webpage, aside from his highly interesting sci-fi, also contains a huge encyclopaedia on the Modular Theory of Immortality and various other things that are related to the development of human civilization.

There's not much I can say here because there's an English translation right there, and the author described his own ideas far better than I do.