Beneath a leaden gray haze, the waves of the Black Sea crashed violently against the cliffs, churning up layers of foam and completely cutting off this desolate island from the outside world.
A dozen or so seagulls circled overhead, their shrill cries piercing through the thick reinforced concrete and soundproof glass to reach the secret military biochemical research institute buried deep within the mountain.
Inside the Black Sea Institute, several groups of researchers hurried back and forth. At the end of the corridor lay the director’s office; a gear-shaped emblem was embedded in the slightly ajar door, through which a faint, yellowed glow of old light seeped out.
“Filaret, are you sure we want to keep going like this?”
The voice drifting from the office made Filaret’s heart lurch.
He knew he had fallen into a dream again—back to that day in 1979.
Twelve years had clearly passed, yet this memory still haunted him relentlessly, like a cheap black-and-white film playing on autopilot—the moment he closed his eyes, it creaked and turn in his mind.
Perhaps his subconscious still refused to confront that painful past; whenever he had this dream, he felt like an exiled prisoner, his soul floating in mid-air, numbly watching history repeat itself over and over.
Back then, the National Defense Committee had poured the entire “Five-Year Plan” budget into tank production lines, slashing the research institute’s funding by half and imposing strict power rationing. As a result, the vast director’s office was lit by a single, solitary lamp, its dim light barely illuminating the portrait of Lenin on the wall. The air was thick with a mixture of the acrid smell of kerosene lamps and the pungent odor of chemicals.
Two people sat facing each other in the room. One was his younger self from twelve years ago, Director Filaret; sitting across from him was his junior colleague and deputy—Ilya—ten years his junior.
“Hey, Filaret, are you sure we want to keep going like this?” Ilya asked again.
In the dream, Filaret held a petri dish in one hand and a notebook in the other, poring over experimental data on nerve agents. He didn’t catch exactly what Ilya was saying, but he snapped impatiently, “Ilya, if you’re here just to squander precious socialist resources, I suggest you shut up.”
“It’s just a matter of money, isn’t it? Something that could be solved with a single telegram…”
Ilya muttered under his breath, completely unaware that such a remark was political suicide. But to him, privilege was something he was born with.
“You know who my parents are. Even if they’re still mad at me, they wouldn’t just let me die.”
It was one thing not to mention Ilya’s parents, but the moment they were brought up, Filaret’s blood began to boil.
Ilya seemed to have been blessed with all of God’s favor, possessing a refined face with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes that exuded an air of nobility. And indeed, he came from the “nomenklatura” (the Soviet privileged class); his father was a high-ranking military officer and his mother a retired figure skater, both of whom were regulars at the Kremlin.
It wasn’t just that this young man came from a distinguished background; he was also exceptionally gifted, which gave him the leeway to be willful. At the age of fourteen, he was admitted to the Moscow State Institute of International Relations—the Soviet Union’s most prestigious and sought-after institution of higher learning. However, for some reason, he was disciplined by the Institute just two months into his studies and transferred to the Academy of Sciences, infuriating his parents.
By a twist of fate, Ilya became utterly fascinated by scientific research. After graduating from the Academy with outstanding grades, he followed his senior, Filaret, to join this state-secret research institute, where he truly found his calling.
In contrast, Filaret remained a commoner, forced to work twice as hard to seize any chance of advancement. Although he earned his doctorate at an astonishing pace and took charge of the institute before turning forty—making him, in name, both senior and superior—he ultimately paled in comparison to the ambitious Ilya.
Filaret frowned deeply and flatly rejected Ilya’s proposal: “Are you kidding? All Soviet citizens are equal; there are no class privileges.”
Seeing that Ilya hesitated, he repeated himself firmly.
“Everyone is equal in the Soviet Union; there are no class privileges. I’m working, so you shouldn’t be idle either. Either go walk the dog, or take over my half-finished spy robot dog—all access permissions are open to you.”
The two men shared a Caucasian Shepherd, now elderly but still full of energy. It seemed to have heard its owners mention it in the office, as it kept scratching at the door and barking incessantly.
Ilya opened the door to let the dog in, ruffling its fluffy, warm coat, and said defiantly: “I hear the CIA has already developed spy dragonflies—lightweight and stealthy. How can a spy robot dog compare? We’d be better off adopting an idea I had back in my student days: try grafting a live dog’s brain onto military equipment via computer signals, then send the dog into battle to kill enemies in place of soldiers.”
Ilya dismissed Filaret’s research findings with disdain, but the moment his own wild ideas were mentioned, his eyes lit up. He twirled a pen between his fingers, its tip spinning so fast it left trails of afterimages in the air.
“My project is far more interesting—though the professor only mentioned it in passing at the time, the more I think about it, the more feasible his concept seems. I’ve even designed the device already. All that’s left is to run the experiment. Are you really not going to listen to my detailed explanation?”
“The power supply is extremely tight; we don’t have any spare resources for you to waste!”
Facing rejection time and again, Ilya’s expression darkened, and he grew visibly displeased.
“That’s exactly why I’m asking you: are we really going to keep going like this? Don’t you think all this is getting more and more pointless?”
“What exactly are you trying to say?”
“I can’t help but feel that, while we like to say we’re dedicating ourselves to science for the glory of Red Square, in reality we’re no different from street magicians pulling tricks—essentially, we’re both deceiving God.”
The more he spoke, the more agitated he became, and he simply couldn’t stop.
“Look, we’re working with the people’s hard-earned money, ostensibly researching human potential and biochemical weapons, but as it stands now, the higher-ups are just bluffing—they’ll never actually go to war with the United States. So apart from submitting a few reports every so often, what value do we have here? Can Marx’s ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need’ really be realized?”
Hearing this, Filaret’s expression darkened completely.
“The road may be long, but it will surely be realized!” He retorted sternly to Ilya. “‘The productive forces of society are, first and foremost, the power of science.’ What pioneer has not endured hardship? I suspect you’ve been corrupted by the decadent ideas of capitalism, which is why you refuse to sacrifice your personal interests to pave the way for the nation’s future.”
“At least capitalism allows ordinary Americans to savor hamburgers and guzzle coke…”
“Enough! If you keep slandering the system, I’ll report you to the KGB as a counterrevolutionary.”
“Facts are facts—what’s there to hide? I don’t believe that the director of a research institute in the West would have to steal canned food from the cafeteria every day to send back home. When the cook caught that somebody, he went all the way and fired the cook, driving him to despair and hanging himself…”
Filaret, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, slammed his fist on the table and sprang to his feet, glaring at Ilya with bloodshot eyes: “Are you done yet?! What gives you the right to accuse me like this? If it weren’t for you lot—you fucking nomenklatura—waving the communist banner in public while secretly enjoying special privileges…”
Ilya was startled by the man’s ferocious expression; Filaret was also taken aback by the rage that had burst from his own mouth, and the two stared at each other in silence.
A deathly silence fell over the office. It took Filaret a while to compose himself. He pulled out a “Papirosa” cigarette and bent the long paper filter with trembling fingers. After lighting it, he held the cigarette between his lips, puffing smoke as he stared at the heavy, dark red velvet curtains and the portrait of Lenin on the wall. It was a long while before he broke the silence again.
“There’s a limit to everything, even joking. Comrade Ilya, I was just joking a moment ago, and you were definitely joking too, weren’t you?”
The third time he mentioned “joking,” he enunciated the word heavily, as if speaking it for the benefit of an invisible outsider, his gaze fixed intently on Ilya, forcing him to take a stand.
Ilya reluctantly let out an “Oh” and fidgeted morosely with the fountain pen in his hand.
“Look at you—relying on a bit of cleverness to act like a slacker all day long. You’re not a kid anymore, yet you’re playing with a pen like a child! Don’t forget, the state is watching our every move. If the Ministry of Defense sends an inspector who sees you acting like this, loses trust in us, and subsequently cuts our staff and budget, I’ll never let you off the hook!”
Seeing that this easygoing senior had taken the initiative to back down and change the subject, Ilya instantly felt relieved.
“Filaret, I just suddenly thought of a new research idea. Let me tell you…”
Filaret was at a complete loss with this junior. He stubbed out his cigarette, closed his notebook, and walked out without looking back, still holding the petri dish. He sighed, “Here we go again. You’re all talk, and in the end, you leave everything for me to clean up. We’re severely underfunded; many projects have been stillborn.”
Ilya gave the Caucasian shepherd dog beside him a light pat. The dog, receiving the command, immediately wagged its tail and followed Filaret, clamping its jaws onto the hem of his lab coat and stubbornly refusing to let him leave.
“Come on! I’ll share some black caviar with you to spread on bread. My family sent it through special channels; there’s still half a bottle left. We can share it tonight…”
“I told you no special privileges!”
“But I’m craving it. It’s so different here from Moscow—there’s less and less meat, I can’t get full, and the food has absolutely no flavor…”
Filaret had been working day and night and was now starving too.
He interrupted Ilya impatiently: “At least the supply ship arrived today—there are fresh beets, potatoes, carrots, and onions. The cafeteria’s making your favorite borscht tonight. I’ll give you half of mine; you should be able to fish out a piece or two of beef with some gristle. This is the best the institute has to offer—shut your mouth!”
“Hehe, Filaret, you’re such a grumpy old man at heart. You complain about me being a nuisance, but deep down, you look out for me the most. Remember back when I first started college? I was much younger than everyone else and couldn’t make any friends—it was only you…”
Just as Ilya was about to drag him along and keep talking nonstop, Filaret, who was walking ahead, suddenly let out a cry of “Ouch!”
“You arrogant, spoiled brat! It’s one thing to brag about being a child prodigy, but why did you pinch my arm?”
“It wasn’t me… Ouch!”
Ilya sucked in a sharp breath, his words cutting off abruptly.
His feet felt as if they were nailed to the spot, and his voice began to tremble violently: “F… Filaret…”
Filaret turned around impatiently: “What is it now?”
“The spider you’re keeping… That damn spider… It’s over. We’re in big trouble…”
Filaret looked down and was shocked to find that the lid of the petri dish in his hand had slipped off at some point, leaving it completely empty—the hairy spider, the core material used to develop the neurotoxin and carrying a deadly venom, was gone.
Filaret’s face instantly turned as white as a sheet.
Experimental materials could be cultured again, but the problem was that the spider carried a deadly toxin. Once the toxin entered the bloodstream, it would rapidly suppress the cardiovascular and nervous systems, causing the victim to suffocate to death in excruciating pain.
Where had the spider gone? It had to be caught immediately!
He looked at Ilya in terror, and Ilya was staring back at him in despair.
No matter how reckless and audacious this young man might be in his daily life, deep down he was still a pampered young master of the Red Nobility. Now he was so terrified he was on the verge of tears, his right hand was trembling as he reached out.
The hairy spider was right there in Ilya’s palm, already crushed to a pulp by his instinctive grip. But it was all too late—just before it died, the spider had bitten through his palm. A trail of thick, sticky blood was slowly seeping from the wound, trickling down the lines of his palm toward his fingertips.
“I must be seeing things… I thought it was just an ordinary bug and wanted to brush it off for you… Filaret, help me…”
The two stared at each other in bewilderment. The next moment, as if simultaneously realizing some terrible consequence, their expressions changed drastically, and the office instantly fell into a suffocating silence.
Everything that happened after that unfolded too quickly. Screams, barking, the clatter of shattering glass, and the sound of frantic footsteps all intertwined into a chaotic cacophony.
Someone—no one could tell who—was screaming hysterically, their voice hoarse and unrecognizable: “Turn on the power to Lab 6 immediately! Turn it up to maximum!”
“Director? Deputy Director? What’s going on?” came the anxious shouts of a technician from the hallway. “What on earth is this…”
“But wait, didn’t the equipment in Lab 6 still need to pass safety inspections…?”
“Shut up! Do as I say! Now!”
As the doors to Lab 6 slammed shut, a deep, rumbling roar soon filled the room—the sound of some massive, high-powered machine coming to life.
“Rumble… sizzle… sizzle…”
The machine overheated rapidly, sparks flying everywhere, until finally, with a deafening explosion, billowing white smoke erupted. A piercing alarm immediately tore through the night sky.
“Beep—beep—beep—”
The entire research facility lost power in an instant, plunging into utter darkness.
When Filaret finally came to his senses and gasped for breath, he saw, by the dim light of the kerosene lamp, the young man on the operating table with his eyes tightly shut, his face as pale as a corpse, lying completely still.
Filaret’s head was splitting, and he felt a chill run through his body. He tremblingly reached out a finger to check for Ilya’s breath.
Thank God, there was still a faint breath. He was still alive.
But he was merely alive. The neurotoxin had mercilessly destroyed Ilya’s brain, reducing him to a vegetative state. He showed no reaction to light, sound, or touch—no different from a corpse.
No matter how frantically the technicians pounded on the door outside the lab, Filaret kept the door firmly locked. He knelt by the bed, staring blankly at Ilya’s still-youthful face, his mind a blank.
The delicate balance that had existed between them had crumbled to dust overnight. Yet moments later, Filalette’s frantic heartbeat miraculously calmed, and his mind cleared with an eerie clarity. He didn’t know if this was a defense mechanism triggered by extreme stress, or some dark thought so hidden he dared not dwell on it.
Only then did he realize that, in the chaos of the moment, his arm had been savagely bitten by the once-docile Caucasian Shepherd, leaving two rows of bloody teeth marks that went deep enough to expose the bone. That vivid, blinding red stung his eyes deeply.
His stomach churned violently; he retched dryly and looked away.
It’s over, he thought. I probably won’t be having that borscht tonight.
In reality, Filaret’s eyelids twitched slightly, and the people and events of his dream instantly crumbled and vanished like a sandcastle.
He snapped his eyes open and sat motionless on the bed for a long while before turning to look at the wall clock. It was exactly six o’clock in the morning.
The paint on the walls had long since peeled away. A poster of Lenin was barely clinging to the exposed, rough concrete, its edges severely curled from years of dampness, the face in the portrait blurred and indistinct.
“Hah… I really can’t go back now. I’m truly not young anymore; I can’t even sleep soundly… and always dreaming about the past.”
Filaret gave a self-deprecating wry smile, then got up and washed as usual, as if nothing had happened.
The man in the mirror had gray-white hair; no matter how he combed it, he couldn’t find a single strand of black. The years had carved deep furrows across his forehead and the corners of his mouth. Behind his rimless glasses, Filaret narrowed his eyes slightly as he carefully shaved the stubble from his chin.
As the razor glided along his jawline, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a tiny spider crawling slowly across the sink. His hand trembled, and the sharp blade instantly sliced into his skin, causing beads of blood the size of soybeans to gush out.
Quick as a flash, he grabbed the bottle of medical alcohol beside the sink and sprayed it repeatedly. The little spider writhed in agony a few times in the potent alcohol before flopping onto its back, motionless.
Filaret let out a long sigh, pressing his hand against the bleeding wound on his face as he stared at his bloodstained palm in the mirror. His gaze gradually shifted downward, his expression dark and inscrutable. Then, with utter revulsion, he shot a glare at the spider’s corpse and ground out the cold words through clenched teeth.
“Damn spider… I never want to see that disgusting thing again in my life.”
He pressed the intercom button on the bathroom wall: “Worker-01, is breakfast ready? Come clean Room W09.”
However, there was no response on the other end of the intercom. Filaret frowned and called out several more times, raising his voice: “Worker-01? Worker-01?”
The robotic assistant, who was usually at his beck and call, was now completely silent. Only a faint static crackle came through the intercom, yet the green light indicating the system was operational continued to flash. A look of suspicion flashed across Filaret’s eyes, and his brow furrowed even deeper.
“It must be malfunctioning again. What a headache. I’ll deal with it after I finish my important business…”
The “important business” he referred to was the insanely ambitious research project he had devoted most of his life to: “Brainwave Signalization.”
In other words, he intended to use electric shocks to completely convert a living person’s brainwaves—including memories, emotions, and will—into electrical signals for preservation. In this way, physical death would no longer mark the end of life.
After the tragedy occurred, he hastily submitted a report of apology to the National Defense Committee, framing Ilya’s paralysis and the power outage at the research institute as an accident:
“...There is currently no antidote for this new neurotoxin. With no other options left, I took the risk of activating the ‘Brainwave Signalization’ device—still in the research and development phase—in an attempt to preserve Comrade Ilya’s consciousness. However, due to equipment malfunction and power grid instability, the effort failed at the last moment. … I hereby request special funding to continue research and development; this technology will undoubtedly possess immeasurable strategic value in the fields of medicine and military affairs in the future…”
It was precisely thanks to the grand vision outlined in this report that he managed to cling to his position as director, pacifying the chaotic institute and keeping it barely afloat.
Unfortunately, the good times did not last. That incident had alarmed high-ranking government officials, and the institute’s funding grew tighter year by year. Compounded by the successive deaths of Ilya’s wealthy parents, the institute was left completely cut off from its financial lifeline.
Few researchers remained, and those who stayed were filled with resentment, privately spreading rumors that Filaret had murdered his gifted junior out of jealousy. In the end, Filaret simply dismissed everyone, leaving only a dilapidated robotic assistant, “Worker-01,” to hide away on a deserted island, repairing machines and refining technology all by himself.
Just then, the robot assistant “Worker-01” hobbled over. Its components were either rusted or pitted, its outer shell covered in rough patches, with numerous colorful wires exposed. Its long-neglected joints were constantly leaking murky engine oil.
It held a tray with a rusty mechanical arm, and on the tray sat a bowl of steaming borscht.
The soup was a dark red, resembling congealed blood. A few pieces of overcooked, severely discolored potatoes bobbed up and down in the broth like the wreckage of a sunken ship.
Filaret didn’t even want to look—just the sweet-sour, pungent smell was enough to make his stomach churn violently.
“What the hell is this?!”
He roared in fury, violently overturning the tray, and the scalding soup splashed all over Worker-01.
The robot short-circuited instantly, its body convulsing violently a few times. As it scrambled backward in panic, it tripped over its own mechanical legs and fell awkwardly into the pool of dark red soup on the floor. It thrashed about, struggling, while emitting a series of choppy, dry electronic beeps: “Beep… error… must drink… borscht… every day…”
“God! How many years ago was that?! Borscht is the thing I hate most in this whole world!” Filalette kicked the robot on the ground hysterically. “Useless scrap metal! Defective product! Damn it… I can’t get through to the Defense Committee, my written requests have gone unanswered, and the supply ship is taking forever to arrive! And you actually used up all the last of our dried vegetables and canned tomatoes to make this damn soup!”
He delivered a few more savage kicks, then barked an order for it to clean up the mess. Immediately afterward, he left the struggling robot behind and walked alone down the long, pitch-black corridor—long since cut off from power—feeling his way in the dark toward Laboratory 6.
He gave the circular metal dial on the wall a hard twist, and the heavy mechanical lock emitted a dull, grating screech. As the thick blast-proof door slid open slowly, a cold, blinding white light poured out.
All the power remaining in the research institute was concentrated in Laboratory 6, supplying the “brainwave signal conversion” experiment day and night. A massive, intricately structured, bizarre machine nearly filled the entire chamber. A dense network of wires and tubes crisscrossed the air like a giant spiderweb, each connecting to one of two glass petri dishes at the center.
These two transparent petri dishes were just large enough to hold an adult. Ilya, who had been in a coma for twelve years, was currently submerged in the nutrient solution on the left.
Gazing at this machine, Filaret often felt it resembled a giant steel spider lurking at the heart of the research institute. It bound their fates together with its icy web, leaving neither of them any escape; they could only rot together within this rusted iron cage.
He stepped expressionlessly into the control pod and culture chamber on the right, his movements numb yet practiced as he flipped the switch. The bulky vacuum tubes gradually glowed with an orange-red light, and high-voltage arcs soon engulfed the two glass chambers. White light flashed wildly, emitting a dense, crackling sound like popping beans.
“Voltage and power set to maximum… very good. Let’s run the standard parameter check to see if the test subject has…”
He muttered to himself without hope, as usual, his peripheral vision instinctively glancing toward the glass chamber on the left.
For a split second, he suspected he was hallucinating.
Ilya’s eyes… why were they open?
Startled, he rubbed his eyes hard and looked again. This time, he saw it clearly.
Ilya’s eyelids, which had been tightly shut for twelve years, were indeed open, staring coldly at him through the glass without blinking.
Those were eyes that had once been as deep and azure as the ocean, always glistening with ripples of light when he smiled. Yet at this very moment, not a trace of light could be found in the young man’s gaze—only endless darkness. Those lifeless pupils locked precisely onto Filaret, reflecting his aged, terrified face.
That hollow gaze sent a bone-chilling shiver racing up Filaret’s spine.
He had shut himself away in this hellish place, waiting in solitude for twelve years. Now that a miracle had finally arrived, this should have been a moment grand enough to earn him the Order of Lenin; yet at this very moment, Filaret’s heart was filled with nothing but boundless terror.
Staring in horror at his junior classmate, who had returned from the dead, his legs went weak, and he involuntarily stumbled backward until his back was pressed firmly against the inner glass wall of the control cabin, with nowhere left to retreat.
Ilya not only opened his eyes but even began to move. His arms, withered like dead branches from years of paralysis, were now being raised with great difficulty from the viscous nutrient solution. Under Filaret’s gaze, they slowly clenched into fists, then, blow after blow, pounded heavily against the inner glass wall.
“Thud… thud…”
As the dull thuds echoed through the sealed chamber, Filaret finally broke down and screamed. He frantically pushed open the control room door and fled Laboratory No. 6 in utter disarray, as if escaping a bloodthirsty monster that had just awakened from hell.48Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDq0ng5EwbE
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