Above the massive machine, a tungsten filament bulb flickered like a dying heart, emitting a faint “hiss” as it flickered on and off, casting shifting light and shadow over the mountains of discarded parts piled high in Laboratory 6.
Ilya’s deep blue eyes darted about, his gaze piercing through the nutrient solution and reinforced glass as he stared intently at Filaret’s retreating figure disappearing behind the metal door. Unwilling to accept his fate, he swung his fist once more at the inner wall of the glass chamber, only to feel his arm suddenly go limp and cramp up. The pain contorted his face, and a silent curse burst from behind his breathing mask.
Damn it… How am I supposed to escape this prison?
Just then, a harsh grinding of gears sounded from behind the pile of scrap.
“Creak—creak—”
Accompanied by the rough hum of machinery, an ugly tin monster staggered out, dragging a trail of black oil across the concrete floor—it was the mechanical assistant “Worker-01.”
Ilya was overjoyed, holding his breath as he watched the robot’s every move.
That’s right—there’s this machine! Filaret hadn’t taken it with him when he left. Perhaps this was the key to breaking the deadlock?
Worker-01 had just taken a savage kick from Filaret; the patch on its abdomen, made from a military can lid, had long since fallen off, leaving a jumble of red and green wires exposed in a pitiful mess, occasionally sputtering with sparks from short circuits.
As if sensing it was being “gutted,” the robot comically plopped down onto the ground, trying to lower its head to nudge the damaged area. But its joints were locked, and it simply couldn’t reach; its vocalizer emitted a broken, intermittent hum, like a dilapidated bellows.
“Woo-ee…”
Staring at the metal shell, a strange sense of familiarity welled up in Ilya’s heart.
Eager to attract its attention, he groped around the bottom of the glass chamber, relying on his memory. He surmised that this machine had been modified from one of the old “brainwave signal conversion” units, and that this glass chamber was the former electroconvulsive therapy room; though the airlock valve inside couldn’t be opened, there must be an emergency intercom left for the test subject to communicate with the outside world.
His fingertips finally touched the sealed compartment at the bottom edge. He dared not open it directly, fearing that the viscous nutrient solution would flood in and damage the circuits. Instead, he pressed his face tightly against the glass and shouted frantically through the visor: “Hey! Look this way! What’s your name?”
The audio was amplified through the intercom on the wall of Lab 6, echoing dully in the empty, deathly silent chamber.
Worker-01 paid no heed, still keeping his head bowed as he continued to project a red laser beam to scan the wound on his abdomen, muttering mechanically: “For peace and friendship! …Beep beep… Malfunction warning…”
Ilya couldn’t make out the muffled electronic voice, so he pressed his forehead against the cold glass, squinting as he strained to make out the steel plate on the robot’s chest, secured with rough solder.
“Labor… Worker-01?…”
The moment he spoke the name, Ilya gasped, his eyes swirling with a complex whirlwind of emotions.
He thought to himself that he finally knew the true identity of this robot.
On the day of the incident in 1979, the argument in the director’s office remains vivid in my memory—
Filaret accused him of idling away his days and scolded him harshly: “All Soviet citizens are equal; there are no class privileges. I’m working, so you shouldn’t be sitting around either. Either go walk the dog, or take over that spy robot dog that’s halfway developed—all access rights are open to you.”
But Ilya, full of youthful vigor at the time, replied dismissively: “I hear the CIA has already developed spy dragonflies—lightweight and stealthy. How can a spy robot dog possibly compare? We’d be better off adopting an idea I had back in my student days: grafting a live dog’s brain onto military equipment via computer signals, sending the dogs to the battlefield to kill enemies in place of soldiers.”
This was by no means a wild, off-the-cuff remark from Ilya. The concept of the military robot “Laborer” had taken root as early as his college days. Unfortunately, it was first rejected by his professor, Anton, and later failed to gain continued support for development from his senior classmate and superior, Filaret, ultimately forcing him to shelve the project with regret.
But why, twelve years later, did this technology appear here?
That sanctimonious hypocrite actually took advantage of his physical paralysis to put this concept into practice using such a vile and cruel method! This is nothing short of a complete betrayal and desecration!
“He’s gone mad…” Ilya’s chest heaved violently, his teeth grinding together. “How dare he open this forbidden Pandora’s box… How dare he!”
However, as his gaze swept over the battered, oil-leaking hull of Worker-01, Ilya took a deep breath and forced his frantic heart to calm down.
In a desperate situation, anger is the most useless luxury. To survive, to seek revenge, one must remain absolutely rational.
If his deduction was correct, given that Worker-01 employed a half-biological, half-mechanical architecture, this machine possessed a fatal flaw—it retained that living, breathing brain.
“Worker-01, are you cold?”
Ilya beckoned to the robot through the glass, his tone shifting slightly to incorporate a hint of coaxing tenderness.
Worker-01’s infrared “eyes” flickered. Its internal microprocessor could only recognize low-level commands and was incapable of understanding such abstract vocabulary, yet it instinctively sensed that the sound waves emanating from the human inside the glass tank were steady and deep—even carrying a familiarity that sent shivers down its soul, echoing repeatedly through its countless chaotic, fractured dreams.
The robot swayed as it shuffled toward the culture tank, raised its two clumsy metal clamps to press against the glass, and muttered a string of disjointed, hollow syllables.
Ilya pressed his face close, trying to establish a connection: “Do you remember me? Can you let me out?”
Worker-01 showed no reaction.
Ilya persisted in his pleading: “Let me out, and I’ll take you away from here. I’ll make sure you’re well-fed and warm… away from that old bastard Filaret who torments you.”
Unexpectedly, just hearing the name “Filaret” sent Worker-01 into a state of utter terror. The machine emitted a shrill whine and hastily took half a step back.
“Oh, don’t be afraid. He’s not here.” Ilya lowered his voice even further, making it softer, “Shall we play a game? ‘Three, two, one, fetch.’ You like that game, don’t you?”
Those words precisely triggered a deep-seated reflex within Worker-01. Dormant instincts suddenly awoke, and its metal frame began to shake violently, its joints clanking.
“Three, two, one, fetch… three, two, one, fetch… three, two, one, fetch! Three, two, one, fetch!”
“That’s right, ‘Three, two, one, fetch.’” Ilya reached out through the cold glass, aiming his palm at the robot’s metal claw, then pointed to the mountain of junk outside. “Three, two, one… fetch something and bring it over! ”
The robot let out a shriek and eagerly lunged toward the scrap heap. Its steel grip clamped down precisely on a rusty wrench, which it tossed down in front of the culture tank as if seeking praise.
“Good. One more time. Three, two, one…”
Ilya patiently repeated the command. His eyes suddenly lit up when Worker-01 dug a portable walkie-talkie out of the rubble.
“Worker-01, good job. This walkie-talkie is your toy now. Listen to me: turn the knob… no, don’t break it—turn it back just a little bit… that’s it. Now shove this toy into the hole in your stomach and hide it.”
After some gesturing and guidance, the robot finally managed to clumsily tune the channel and wedge the walkie-talkie into its abdominal cavity.
Immediately afterward, Ilya slowly guided it toward the lab’s exit: “Let’s play again. Go to the director’s office, open the second drawer, and retrieve a spare magnetic card for me. Don’t let anyone find out.”
Worker-01’s infrared sensors began flashing frantically, and a faint, acrid smell wafted from its internal circuitry as it overloaded.
“No access… Director’s office… restricted area…”
“If you want to play the game, you have to follow the rules.” Ilya interrupted firmly, then softened his tone. “Good boy, be a good boy. Go get that magnetic card. Come on, three… two… one… go!”
The gears inside the robot emitted a shrill protest, but eventually, it staggered forward, picking up speed as it ran. It floundered at the blast-proof door, pressing the switch, and before the door had fully opened, it stumbled into the darkness.
The corridor was pitch-black; Worker-01 could only rely on a faint infrared indicator light to carve out a narrow field of vision in the darkness.
The plaster on the walls had peeled away almost entirely, exposing vast swaths of jagged rebar. This Black Sea Research Institute, forgotten by the world, was now as silent as a giant tomb.
“Director’s office… second drawer… magnetic card…”
The robot muttered to itself as it moved to the end of the corridor. A gear-shaped emblem was embedded in the doorknob, but a heavy, green-rusted brass lock hung there. It raised its steel claw and clamped down hard; the fragile lock shackle snapped in two and fell to the floor.
As it pushed open the door, the musty stench and the putrid odor of dead rats, sealed away for twelve years, hit it in the face. Worker-01 seemed oblivious, staggering inside as its infrared eyes scanned the dust-covered desk and chair, the blurred portrait of Lenin on the wall, and the yellowed documents scattered across the floor.
The room was in utter disarray. For a moment, it couldn’t locate the drawers and spun in circles in frustration.
However, when its sensors detected a discarded syringe and several dried, black bloodstains on the floor, the unit suddenly let out a piercing shriek.
“Error… Anomaly… Voltage anomaly…”
The unit was like a withered tree struck by lightning; its interior heated up violently, and the brain—which had been forcibly suppressed by solder and electricity for years—completely broke free from control at that moment.
“What’s wrong? Worker-01? What’s happening?”
Ilya’s anxious voice came through the intercom, but it seemed to go unheard. The ruins before its eyes began to warp and overlap, and its blood-red vision was torn apart by a sudden, blinding burst of colorful light.
It “saw” again. It saw the truth buried at the bottom of the ruins—a truth unknown to anyone.
Twelve years ago, in the director’s office, the air was bone-chillingly cold.
“Filaret… Help me… Quick, give me the antivenom!”
Ilya slumped in his chair, his left hand clenched tightly around his right wrist. The spot on his palm where the spider had bitten him was swollen high, and black blood seeped out uncontrollably, flowing all over his hand as he frantically squeezed it in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
Filaret pulled open a drawer and took out a vial of antivenom. Ilya sat up impatiently, reaching out to grab it, but Filaret clenched the syringe tightly and backed away in long strides.
“You… you’re on your own,” Filaret said, his voice trembling, his lab coat sleeves equally soaked in black blood. “There’s only one vial of antivenom. I don’t have any left to spare for you.”
“You… you can’t do this to me!”
Ilya’s eyes turned bloodshot as he roared and lunged forward to snatch it, instantly knocking over the desk. Amid the crash, a stack of unposted Olympic posters bearing the words “Peace and Friendship” scattered across the floor like snowflakes.
“Filaret, give it to me! This isn’t a joke—people will die!”
Filaret dodged to the side once more, looking down with a cold, bitter hostility he’d suppressed for half his life at the gifted junior who’d lost his balance and fallen to the ground. Then, right in front of Ilya, he trembled but remained resolute as he drove the single vial of serum deep into his own vein.
“You madman!” Ilya’s eyes widened in disbelief. He scrambled to his feet in a disheveled heap and slammed a heavy fist into Filaret’s face. “I was the one who just helped you brush away that spider—that’s why I got bitten… and this is how you repay me?!”
“Repay me?”
Caught off guard, Filaret staggered backward. Clutching his split lip, he let out a nervous, low chuckle, his face contorting like a demon in the dim light.
“Comrade Ilya, don’t speak so harshly. You’ve enjoyed every privilege this world has to offer since the day you were born. Even if you die now, your life will be without regret. It would be far more reasonable to leave this serum to me—a true proletarian and patriot who serves the nation!”
“Damn it, what kind of logic is that!”
Ilya, utterly desperate, lunged at him with frenzied fury. The two wrestled violently like beasts, smashing everything around them to pieces.
“Woof! Woof! Woof woof woof!”
A burst of frantic barking erupted. Vera, the Caucasian Shepherd, couldn’t understand why her two owners—who usually fed her and played with her—had suddenly turned on each other. The old dog barked in panic, frantically pushing between them with her body, trying to break up the fight.
In the chaos, Vera accidentally sank her teeth deep into Filaret’s arm, and blood gushed out instantly.
Filaret screamed in pain and waved his hand to push his beloved dog away: “Vera, get away! You stupid dog, mind your own business!”
But in that split second of distraction, Ilya had already clamped his hand tightly around Filaret’s neck.
As the poison spread, Ilya’s face turned black, yet he still mustered his last ounce of strength to tighten his grip while cursing hoarsely: “To hell with your peace and friendship—it’s all a sham! Filaret Ivanov, look—even Vera is biting you, you hypocrite…”
Those words were the final straw that snapped Filaret’s sanity.
Cornered like a cornered sheep, he finally bared his fangs. Filaret let out a hysterical roar and, with every ounce of strength, twisted Ilya’s hands behind his back.
“You’re the one—the flesh-eating, blood-sucking bourgeois scum!”
The screams made the office windows rattle.
“All Soviets are equal! But a parasite like you, feeding off the system, has no right to speak of fairness! Here and now, I am more equal than you! Die, Ilya Molotov!”
The memory images trembled violently, shattering into countless fragments.
Worker-01 could not comprehend these images that had appeared out of nowhere. It felt fear, yet that vivid, full-color world held a fatal allure for it.
It had misunderstood the task Ilya had assigned, and now, in a daze, it picked up the empty syringe lying on the ground—the very object that had stimulated its brain—and, dragging its two creaking mechanical legs, wandered blindly through the labyrinthine corridors of the research institute like a young animal lost in a maze.
“Ssssh… creak… ssssh…”
Before long, a completely different set of heavy footsteps echoed from the other end of the corridor.
“Thud, thud…”
A strong scent of camphor wafted through the air. Filaret wrapped himself tightly in his only old gray overcoat, a flashlight in one hand and a coal shovel held upside down in the other. As he was getting on in years, he lacked the strength to hold the shovel upright, so he dragged it along, letting the blade scrape against the floor and produce a series of shrill, grating noises.
The news that Professor Anton was due to arrive at midnight had left him restless; too agitated to sleep, he had decided to go out on patrol to ensure everything remained under control.
Yet, as the beam of light swept past the end of the corridor, he immediately saw the door to the former director’s office wide open, the broken brass lock lying forlornly on the floor. Inside, it was pitch black, with shadows of clutter crisscrossing like ghostly apparitions, resembling the gaping maw of a monster from the abyss.
That was the forbidden zone he had been most determined to keep off-limits his entire life!
Filaret turned pale with shock, and his flashlight clattered to the floor. He scrambled to pick it up, glancing warily around him.
“Damn it… Who is it? Who opened this door?”
Was it a researcher he’d dismissed years ago, returning for revenge? Or had local fishermen sneaked in to steal something? Or perhaps… the man in Lab 6…
“No, impossible. There’s no way he could have escaped.”
A chill ran through Filaret’s body. He hurriedly found the nearest wall-mounted intercom and pounded on it frantically: “Worker-01! Worker-01!”
His call went unanswered. Sensing the ominous signs of a breakdown, he punched the intercom in frustration. Damn it, he’d actually left that dim-witted defective unit alone in Lab 6, face to face with that monster!
He cursed under his breath, dragging his shovel as he ran frantically in search of his robotic assistant, until the beam of his flashlight locked onto Worker-01, who was staggering toward him.
“What are you doing here?! Where’s the person in Lab 6?!”
Filaret’s voice shot up, his face contorted into a demonic grimace against the harsh light.
Before the robot could respond, he spotted the old syringe clenched tightly between its steel claws. The old man’s nerves snapped completely. He snatched the syringe from the robot’s grasp and hurled it far away, then unleashed a torrent of abuse: “God… Even though I’ve had my skull removed and modified, why won’t you leave me alone?! You detestable dead dog, you useless piece of trash, get lost!”
In Worker-01’s field of vision, the elderly man’s hideous face perfectly overlapped with that of Filaret in his prime. Twelve years ago, that man had also screamed at it hysterically: “You biting, annoying, damn dog, get lost! Stop barking! I never want to hear your barking again!”
Several people at the research institute held it down tightly as a heavy electric collar was fastened around its neck. High-voltage currents repeatedly pierced its heart; it foamed at the mouth, convulsed, and choked until it could no longer make a sound.
On the operating table, it blinked its wet, doggy eyes, watching helplessly as its former owner raised a sharp scalpel with a blank expression, the blade’s tip inching closer and closer to its eyeball…
“Director, Vera has been with us for so many years. She’s usually so well-behaved—she was just startled by an accident. Are you really going to…”
“Shall we wait until the Deputy Director wakes up before deciding?”
“No, there’s no need. We’ve known each other for years; he’ll agree. A dog that bites cannot be spared. But since it’s a purebred, let’s not waste it—it would be an honor for it to serve the nation and the people.”
Worker-01—or rather, the sheepdog Vera—couldn’t tell where the excruciating pain tearing her apart was coming from. Was it a phantom illusion caused by a system malfunction, or an indelible brand etched deep into her soul?
Could all its past memories be false? It had clearly had such a dream—a dream of blue skies, white sands, and azure seas, filled with the sincere, hearty laughter of two young men. The passionate oaths sworn on the beach still rang in its ears:
“For peace and friendship!”
“That’s right, for peace and friendship!”
“Woof! Woof woof woof!”
The body shook violently. That tiny biological brain broke free from the constraints of its circuits, overflowing with an overwhelming, indescribable sadness.
It wanted to go back to that day.
To see its two beloved owners standing side by side, running with it across the grass, playing fetch with a stick.
To hear them shout with excitement once more. Though it didn’t understand the grand narratives of humans, it knew that must be even better than a fragrant meat bone.
“Peace”... and “friendship”...
This time, the old dog refused to take it lying down. It staggered a few steps, and its metal claw—stained with black oil—stretched out trembling, clinging desperately to the lapel of Filaret’s gray coat.
“Woof… Vera… is scared…”
Fragmented, slurred syllables squeezed out of the vocator, like those of a babbling infant.
“No fighting… no fighting…”
“Damn it, let go of me!” Filaret frantically tugged at his coat, but the steel claw clamped down on him as if welded in place.
“No fighting!” Worker-01 clung to Filaret with every ounce of strength left, stubbornly repeating the highest moral principle his brain could comprehend. “Vera… saw… no fighting… for… peace and friendship…”
Having been trapped on this isolated island and entangled with Ilya for years, Filareet was already on the verge of a nervous breakdown; now he was on the brink of madness.
He could not tolerate the fact that, aside from the man in the jar, there was a third being in this world who had witnessed and remembered the secret of 1979. Even less could he tolerate a dog—one he had skinned and dismembered—now judging his soul as if it were a saint!
“What do you know, you beast?! You were nothing more than a dog I bought, and now you’re just a pile of scrap metal! You eat the meat I give you, use the batteries I provide—without me, you’re nothing!”
His eyes bloodshot, he roared hoarsely with a sob in his voice, suddenly raising both arms as the heavy, sharp coal shovel traced a cold arc through the air!
“Shut up! Die! Peace and friendship—it’s all a lie! Let’s die together!”
The shovel, with the force of a thousand tons, slammed down on Worker-01’s head. Sparks flew as the metal shell caved in, and the sensors serving as its eyes burst instantly.
“Woof… Waaah…”
It let out a short, desperate whimper, but the steel claw remained clamped tightly onto his lapel, refusing to let go.
Filaret’s face was completely contorted with fear and rage. Struggling to free himself, he kicked Worker-01 aside and began wildly striking the fallen robot with one shovel blow after another, with no regard for form!
“Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!”
The dull thuds echoed through the deathly silent corridor. Sheet metal, gears, and screws scattered across the floor, while scorched, viscous engine oil mixed with pink biological matter splattered everywhere, mercilessly splattering across Filaret’s cheeks and overcoat.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, but when the object on the floor was nearly completely dismantled—not even a single spark could be ignited anymore—Filaret finally stopped, panting heavily.
The flashlight fell to the ground, its pale beam illuminating the mess.
Filaret slumped down into the mixture of blood and engine oil, his right thumb gushing blood from the impact. He looked at the mechanical wreckage before him—a thing that would never speak or move again—and let out a dry laugh, raising his hand to wipe his face.
The grime slid across his face, blurring his features. He cursed under his breath in disgust, grabbed his old gray overcoat, and roughly wiped his face with the fabric.
He glanced at his watch. There were only ten minutes left until midnight.
The distant roar of the Black Sea’s raging waves reached him faintly, reminding him that his former mentor—Anton, with whom he had parted ways years ago—was about to pay him a secret visit.
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