Planet ONISAC

Chapter 1. The Blind Bet

There was no time here. It had been abolished as unnecessary, just as medicines are abolished when they can no longer save.

Windows were missing, as were clocks. Only harsh white electrical light beat into the eyes, creating unnaturally sharp shadows.

In the center of the room, blinded by the electric light, stood a table. The rest of the space drowned in thick shadow that smelled of dust and stale tension.

Four people sat at the table.

The one who sat at the head placed his palms on the green baize.

His fingers, long and nervous, felt the nap of the fabric, as if trying to read a text written in Braille. But the baize was empty.

— Bets are made, — he pronounced. His voice sounded confident, with those velvety, commanding notes that brook no objections.

He looked straight ahead, but his gaze, covered by a cloudy whitish film, passed through his interlocutors, through the walls, resting on nonexistent horizons.

He had not seen reality for a long time — and therefore believed only in his own visions.

— Gentlemen, the wheel is launched. I feel its rotation.

The woman sitting at his right hand nodded hastily. She fixed her eyes on his lips, catching every movement, every twitch of the facial muscles.

An expression of fanatical devotion and slight fright was frozen in her eyes.

She was not afraid of his orders — she was afraid of the moment when the orders would cease, and she would have to think for herself.

— Absolutely correct, — she said, too loudly for such a small room. — The rotation is flawless. We are all ready.

We await your signal.

She heard neither the humming of the lamp overhead nor the creaking of chairs.

For her, the world was a silent film in which only the orders of the one sitting at the head had meaning.

If he had said "we are falling," she would have nodded with the same enthusiasm.

The third participant — a young man with a tired, intelligent face — sat opposite.

He looked not at the Master of the table, but at the baize, and saw what the Blind Man did not see and the Deaf Woman did not notice: the table was tilted, there was no roulette wheel on it – only an inclined plane leading nowhere.

For the first time, he clearly felt that even the geometry of the room was against those present.

Here, neither chance nor justice existed — only the illusion that they were possible.

The man opened his mouth to stop the madness, to shout: "You cannot win, the rules are physically violated!".

But only a wheezing, pitiful croak escaped his throat. His tongue, as if pressed down by an invisible seal, did not obey.

He banged his fist hard on the table.

Feeling the vibration, the woman instinctively flinched and decided that he was simply expressing impatience. The Blind Man at the head of the table merely smiled at his own thoughts.

— I hear the excitement, — he pronounced with satisfaction, mistaking the knock of despair for an expression of agreement. — Excellent.

But to win, we need capital. Where is our resource?

All three turned their heads to the fourth corner of the table.

There, in a deep, sagging armchair, sat Someone. It was an old man so ancient that his skin resembled parchment, and his posture — a pile of discarded clothes.

He did not move. His eyes were open but looked into the void, his ears were overgrown with gray hair, his mouth was half-open.

He was here. And he was not here.

The old man was locked in the black, soundproof, and silent cocoon of his own body. He did not know that he was in the "Onisac’s" room.

He did not know that sitting opposite him were those who had decided to dispose of his fate.

In his dry, knotty hand was clenched a single object. A heavy, dull-shining round piece. The last chip.

The Blind Man reached across the table, his fingers moving predatorily in the air, groping for the target.

— It is time, — he whispered. — Make the contribution.

The old man trembled barely noticeably, and this trembling in the timeless room sounded louder than any scream.

Chapter 2. The Mechanics of Extraction

The Blind Man's hand, groping along the baize, finally stumbled upon the cold, dry hand of the old man. The Fourth flinched.

In his world, this touch was like an electric shock — the sudden intrusion of an unknown entity into absolute darkness.

He clenched his fist even tighter, so that his knuckles turned white, instinctively protecting the only thing that connected him to reality.

— He is being stubborn, — stated the Blind Man, without changing the benevolent expression on his face. — Holding onto the past.

This is typical of those who do not see the perspective.

For the Blind Man, the past was an enemy. He had long forgotten his own, and others' pasts irritated him like dust settled on a perfectly pure idea.

He pulled the old man's fist slightly towards himself. The fist did not yield.

The woman on the right leaned forward. She did not hear the Blind Man's words, but she saw the tension of the veins on his hand and the elder's resistance.

In her eyes, widened by a constant desire to please, one conclusion could be read: rebellion. The old man is breaking the rules. He is hindering the Game.

The Deaf Woman stood up. Her chair flew back with a crash, but she did not notice it.

— He is blocking the bet! — she shouted, looking at the Blind Man and awaiting his approval. — Should I intervene?.

The Blind Man, hearing the sharp movement of air and her shrill voice, winced but nodded approvingly.

— Help him make the right decision. We must manage to place the bet before the wheel stops.

The woman walked around the table. The Mute jumped up. He understood what was about to happen.

He saw how the old man's hooked fingers dug into the metal of the chip, as if this were not a game, but a matter of life and death.

The Mute knew that the old man was not "being greedy," he was simply terrified. He grabbed the woman by the elbow.

The Mute knew: if he could squeeze out even a sound — he would not be heard anyway.

In this room, sound was not a means of communication, but proof of powerlessness.

He shook his head, opening his mouth soundlessly, trying to articulate: "Don't! It hurts him!".

The Deaf Woman stopped for only a second and glanced at the Mute with contempt.

She did not hear his ragged breathing, did not hear the pitiful creak of the old chair under the old man.

She saw only a distorted face and grasping hands.

— Don't interfere! — she cut him off, shaking off his hand. — You were always a weakling. The Master ordered the bet to be made.

She threw her whole body weight onto the old man. Her breathing was calm, almost measured — this is how people breathe when doing habitual work.

For her, the infliction of pain was a routine procedure.

The old man thrashed soundlessly in the chair. For him, what was happening was hell: invisible demons were tearing him apart.

The Deaf Woman dug her well-groomed nails into his fingers, methodically, one by one, prying them open.

— Just like that, — the Blind Man said encouragingly, listening to the struggle. — A little more persistence. It is for the common good.

When we break the bank, he will be the first to thank us.

At that moment, the blind deaf-mute old man finally realized that he was holding onto not a chip — the last thing that was his.

He was holding onto the feeling that his life still belonged to him alone.

A joint crunched. The Mute squeezed his eyes shut. The old man, in his eternal deaf night, unclenched his fingers. Pain proved stronger than instinct.

The round heavy object slipped out of his palm and rolled across the green baize. Clink. Clink. Clink.

The sound was strange: instead of the dull thud of expensive plastic on soft felt, there rang out the rolling strike of metal against a resonating wooden tabletop.

The Blind Man covered the object with his palm. His face lit up.

— Got it, — he exhaled. — Now listen to me carefully. We are betting on zero.

He pronounced this like a prayer, having long lost faith in God, but still believing in luck.

The Mute opened his eyes. He looked at the object under the Blind Man's hand.

He looked at the crippled hand of the old man, and then at the Deaf Woman, who was fastidiously wiping her fingers with a napkin.

And he realized that the game was over before it had even begun.

Chapter 3. Heads or Tails

The Blind Man wound up. The gesture was theatrical, sweeping — this is how the fates of empires are decided, staking everything one has.

— Zero! — he shouted. — All on zero!

He unclenched his fingers. The object flew from his hand, hit the surface of the table, and spun.

The Mute blinked. The world blinked with him.

In that instant, the green baize under his gaze rippled.

The deep emerald color faded, became covered in greasy spots and a mesh of fine cracks. The velvet vanished.

Instead, sticky, worn oilcloth with a faded floral pattern emerged. At first, the warm, humid smell, mixed with frying fat, was faint.

And then it hit like a wave. The illusion crumbled, revealing real life.

The lamp overhead flickered and buzzed, transforming from a designer light fixture into a bare bulb without a shade, covered in flyspecks.

The walls narrowed, the noble gloom was replaced by the grayness of cheap wallpaper peeling at the seams.

The spinning object slowed down. It was not a chip. It was a heavy silver 1921 "Morgan" dollar — the only value remaining to the blind deaf-mute old man from the times when he still remembered something.

The coin hit the edge of an empty tin can serving as an ashtray and froze tails up.

The four sat in the cramped kitchen-living room of a trailer sheathed in cheap siding. Outside, beyond the thin wall, the cicadas of Arkansas were shrilling, and an old air conditioner hummed, trying in vain to disperse the stifling, humid air.

The Father (The Blind) sat in a faded tank top, staring with unseeing eyes into the working fan.

He did not see the yellow stains on the ceiling, did not see the cockroach crawling along the edge of the sink.

In his world, he had just made the greatest investment.

— Bet accepted, — he wheezed, leaning back on the spine of the shaky chair. — Now we just have to wait. The market will turn.

I feel the vibration of success. America is a land of opportunity for those who are not afraid to take risks.

The Mother (The Deaf) stood at the stove. She was flipping cheap burger patties.

Grease hissed and splattered onto her hands, but she did not react.

She heard neither the monotonous muttering of the Father nor the whimpering of the Grandfather. She simply performed a function, mechanically, like a wound-up doll.

When the Son tried to knock on the table, drawing attention to the old man's swollen hand, she did not even turn around.

She had long become deaf to problems that can only be solved by money that does not exist.

The Son (The Mute) sat opposite the Father. He looked at the silver dollar lying amidst ketchup stains.

He knew that this dollar would go not to "investments," but to lottery tickets or to cover debts that the Father had incurred by signing papers without looking.

The Son wanted to scream that the house was mortgaged, that Grandfather needed a doctor, not violence. But he remained silent.

In this house, as in this state, smart people were not liked. They were considered "wise guys".

Silence was his only inheritance — and his only protection. That is why he learned to be silent in order to survive.

In the corner, on the sagging sofa, huddled the Grandfather (The Fourth). He cradled a broken finger.

A veteran of a forgotten war, he had left his sight and hearing in a crater from an explosion half a century ago.

And his voice he, like his grandson, rejected himself — he simply fell silent, realizing that it is impossible to shout through from his deaf absolute darkness.

Now he was not a hero, but simply a body from which the last cents were being squeezed.

For him, neither Arkansas nor America existed. Only pain and darkness.

The air conditioner twitched, as if trying to warn them about something. But here, no one pays attention to warnings.

Suddenly, the picture on the old TV standing on the refrigerator flickered. An emergency broadcast from Washington was on.

The camera showed the Senate podium. People in expensive suits were deciding the fate of the nation. And the Son saw with horror the mirror reflection of their kitchen.

As if the TV were not broadcasting news, but peeping at them and broadcasting the family's fate live on air.

One senator, looking over heads (Blind to reality), confidently proclaimed: — We see prosperity!.

We see light at the end of the tunnel! We only need a few more resources from the population to start the wheel of the economy!.

Congressmen (Deaf to pleas) nodded, ignoring the protesters outside the windows of the Capitol. They did not hear the chanting of the crowd, they heard only their instructions.

Experts in the studio (Mutes), invited for analysis, sat with their microphones turned off. They were given airtime, but not sound.

And the announcer in the background summarized: "To implement the new plan, full mobilization of pension fund assets and social guarantees will be required.

This is a necessary bet. A bet on the future".

The Son shifted his gaze from the screen to the silver dollar lying on the table. Then to the Father, who was nodding satisfactorily, listening to the TV.

The circle closed. They had not left the casino. The whole world was this casino.

And the Grandfather in the corner — blind, deaf, mute, and robbed — was the personification of those at whose expense this game is always played.

The Father reached for the remote and turned up the volume. On the table, like a shard of an alien era, lay the silver dollar, motionless.

But in the Father's eyes, it was still spinning.

— Do you hear, son? — he said, smiling into the void. — They are talking about us. We are in the game.