Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Experiment number fifty-three. Testing multitasking and distribution of attention between complex processes. The first process is preparing dinner at home, soon the father will come home from work, it's better if there is something to eat, otherwise he will, as usual, warm up the semi-finished product in the microwave, open a can of beer and sit in front of the TV. No, you need to eat well, especially since you bought food, fresh vegetables and seasonings along the way. So now I'm standing at the kitchen table making lasagna. And what? Better than supermarket pizza, which is essentially a pale pancake with leftover cheese and scraps of cheap sausage that taste like chewed paper.

The second process, which runs parallel to the first, is the management of ants, of which there were surprisingly many under the Hebert house. An anthill is not a lot of fun, it's a strict hierarchical structure, with its own problems. For example, in every anthill there is a supply of eggs that do not just ripen, like chicken eggs, for example. No, ant eggs are controllable. That is, it lies in its storage and lies there, no one hatches anywhere and is in no hurry. But as soon as we need additional workers or soldiers, or a new queen is needed, the nanny workers immediately bring into the light of day exactly the right eggs and awaken them from stasis. A couple of days and they hatch. Ready soldiers or workers, or anyone at all. Ants are great experts in their narrow specialization. What are seamstress ants worth, for example? Huge jaws with a jaw-dropping ability to grab and sew together large leaves to form a tree house. Although, given their specialization, they should rather be called stapler ants, they summon leaves and hold them together, the Indians even use them in staples to stitch the edges of a wound - brought it to the wound, the ant snapped its jaws and that's it. All that remains is to tear off the phone and check the wound like this.

And this evolutionary flexibility is in the blood of ants, ants are perhaps the most variable species, there are flying ants, there are bullet ants, whose poison contains a neurotoxin that causes paralysis and numbness even in humans, there are stray African ants that eat everything your way. But what can I say if ants make up 25 percent of the total biomass of terrestrial animals! One species is a quarter of the weight of all animals! So, the presence of large ant masses under urban development was not unexpected.

All that stopped the anthills in my field of attention from constant growth was limited resources. Each anthill grew as much as it could get food, this is a common rule in the wild. However, these are unusual times for the anthills under our house. I gave them access to the basement of our house, where I placed low ditches with sweet syrup, because glucose is the basis for energy metabolism. Also, large blow flies from the nearest waste dump were constantly delivered to the entrance to the anthills. For what it's worth, the city was full of blowflies. And now my anthill was busy actively absorbing food and had already awakened eighty percent of all clutches of spare eggs. All available queens were also activated, and they quickly laid new eggs.

For what? I needed all the ants I could get. Firstly, the workers were no longer looking for food; there was more than enough food in the anthill. They worked in the lowest floors of the anthill, exactly where it was hardest to work... Apparently at one time a river flowed there and layers of applied soil remained, individual grains of sand of which were suspiciously heavy. After the first samples that my ants brought to the surface, it was decided that these heavy particles should be produced by all working individuals. Now the glass test tube on my bookshelf already contained about two hundred grams of gold dust. And this sand looked completely normal, as if it had been washed in the river. Now, if Taylor had the power of an Alchemist and made chemically pure gold, then questions might arise at the pawnshop, but here... well, she lathered and lathered. She found a gold-bearing river somewhere in the mountains, maybe not herself, but someone else, washed it and brought it for sale. Considering the speed at which the ants carried grains of sand, one could relax regarding money for living.

Of course, it's not enough for serious expenses, and it will raise questions, but if you live modestly, without buying new houses, sports cars and Tinkertech, it's quite enough.

Here is the second process - controlling the ants that were developing a vein of gold sand. The third process is what I opened all the egg clutches of anthills for, namely evolution. The best models for experiments in genetics and evolution have always been the Drosophila fruit fly. Because these flies live only twenty-four hours, therefore seven generations can be replaced in a week. Scientists were not very successful in fixing particularly successful traits; they were forced to either roughly interfere with the process at the level of genetic manipulation, or create conditions to which the flies adapted.

But! I didn't have such problems. They take ants and not just soldier ants, but soldier ants with the most terrible poison. No, no, it was a dead-end project. The queens are taken - they can fly and they have a little poison. The most poisonous and hardy individuals are selected from them, and they immediately reproduce - as many queen eggs as possible. The eggs awaken immediately, in accelerated mode. Within a day I already have several hundred of these aggressive and poisonous queens... and the same thing happens to them. The most poisonous, the most aggressive, the most resilient are selected. They are given the task of reproduction... and so on in a circle until I get a super-strong and super-poisonous individual that also flies. That is, right now I already have such individuals, they are tens of times more poisonous than ordinary ants with their formic acid, they have highly developed jaws and especially strong chitin of the body, but evolution continues. Hm. Perhaps this should be called forced evolution, or evolution on steroids? What in ordinary life would have taken several decades and which would have required extremely specific external conditions - I did it in two weeks. But this is not the limit! Nature is amazing, especially if you give it a specific and clear task, I wonder what the end result will be? Most likely it will be a very strong but not very large individual, with a neurotoxin, one portion of which will paralyze an adult man. Or kill him. And... it's better if this portion does not spread through a bite or sting, spraying it through the air like bombardier ants is the best solution.

Already now I see the limitations and weaknesses of my strength; on the one hand, I am omnipresent and capable of stopping armies on the march and in attack, and on the other hand, I just need to put on a beekeeper's suit and that's it. Insects won't do anything to it. Even without such a suit, if my enemies know about my strength, then they will simply... dress properly. Gloves, a jacket, thick jeans, boots, seal the joints with tape, a hat on your head, a scarf wrapped around your face and motorcycle goggles over your eyes. That's it, my cards are broken. No, sooner or later my insects will gnaw a hole in my suit, but sooner or later they will beat the crap out of me. Or they'll shoot you.

So, I think, I'm simultaneously controlling the ants in a gold mine, stimulating fertility and egg laying, choosing the most poisonous and hardy among the newly hatched and putting lasagna in the oven, so - where do I get these thoughts? Am I really going to fight the local capes? For what? I have money... there will be money. I can buy myself an apiary and supply such honey to the market that I will earn billions in a matter of years, why should I deal with capes? All I need is money, a quiet life, I have everything, I'll send my dad to retire, buy him a golf course, or whatever he likes? Baseball? I'll buy him my team.

No – it's like someone's voice is ringing in your head, it won't work. Don't you see what's going on in this country? It's precisely these billionaires that either Cape robbers come to, or Slaughterhouse Nine will show up. If you just want to survive, let alone succeed, you need to become strong. Isn't that why you raise super-ants? And also sent two nests of wasps on the path of accelerated evolution towards neurotoxins?

Self-defense, I shrug, I really need all the strength I can to protect myself and my loved ones... even if I don't have much of it right now. And for this we need super-ants with neurotoxin and killer wasps.

Insects on the street warned me that someone had approached our house. The smell of oil, the vibration of the engine... it's the father. I look at my watch. Fifteen minutes and the lasagna will be ready. He will have time to wash his hands and sit down at the table.

I dry my hands with a towel and turn to the door. Taylor's father is not my own, a strange person who has taken the place of his daughter. And Taylor herself treated him... coolly. Somewhere she even blamed him for what happened - from the death of her mother to the bullying at school. Subconsciously, but she was guilty. He's an adult, he's the one responsible in her head for everything that happens, so why did he allow her mother to die - that's what she thought. Unconsciously, of course, somewhere deep inside. Such feelings need to be experienced and let go, you cannot carry them around in the depths of your soul, they will devour your personality. But the father himself, Danny Hebert, did everything to distance himself from his daughter. He practically stopped communicating with her, as if his soul froze with the death of his wife. The incident with the locker only aggravated everything; it was hard for him to realize his own helplessness and, as a result, he was ashamed to look into her eyes. I, in turn, am making efforts to ensure that this family becomes a normal family, and not a visual aid on how not to lead family life.

- Welcome home, dad! - I say as soon as Danny steps over the threshold. He was tired, his face was drawn and dark. He silently nods and even makes a courageous attempt to smile, but his eyes betray him.

- Dinner is about to be ready! – I inform him: - You can change clothes and wash up while the lasagna arrives.

- You shouldn't have bothered yourself, Owl, - he shakes his head: - it would be better if she did her homework. I still bought pizza at the market on the way.

- This pizza of yours is just a piece of cardboard, - I say, placing my hands on my hips: - the cat cried out of nutrients there. - And then - I tried, I made lasagna, so the good stuff shouldn't go to waste?

- Of course not, - he smiles, and this time he succeeds: - I'll be happy to taste your cooking. - It just wasn't worth the effort. How are you doing at school, Little Owl?

- Well then. - I sincerely consider this a waste of my precious time, - I answer, - and I'm going to throw it to hell. Do you know that at my age you can already get a job as a waitress? There are cafes that can hire me. An extra dollar in the house won't hurt.

- We already talked about this, Taylor! - he shakes his head: - as long as I am able to earn money, you will study. Because…

- It's good for your career, yes. Okay, - I sigh, knowing that I won't be able to convince him: - I understand everything. - I'll have to hang around this school.

- But in general, how is it... no one else offends you? – he looks away. Yes, traumatic memories for everyone in our family.

- No, in this sense everything is fine, - I answer, remembering the distorted face of Sophia Hess. Perhaps I will need to be more careful, this psychopath can arrange for me the Night of St. Bartholomew and the Morning of the Streletsky Execution. And... in fact, this is exactly what I was going to do in the evening - to inflict justice and do good multiple times. As Jules Winneffield used to say - and I will take great vengeance on them with furious punishments on those who plan to poison and harm my brothers, and you will know that my name is Lord when my vengeance falls on you

- Are you sure everything is all right? – Danny presses a little with his intonation and, probably, old Taylor would now just flare up in irritation, they say, a caring dad has been found, where have you been all these years?

- It's okay, - I reassure him. Being an adult is hard work, and when you have a teenage daughter, and this is what happened to your wife, it's not at all. Danny himself is on the verge of survival, every new day is a challenge for him, so it's not for me to judge him. Moreover, the lasagna is ready. And below, in the warm halls of the maternity room of my anthill, Catherine de Medici has just hatched, the queen of the fifth generation of aggressive and poisonous creatures, which can hardly be called ants.

Formicidae Taylor Poisonous - is what I'll call them. Well, or more modestly, for example, the Scourge of God. Or there...what did they call locusts in the Bible? Eighth Plague of Egypt? Hmm, not bad either, I must admit that the guys are okay with pretentious names. Here! If I become a hero or a supervillain, I'll put on leggings and a cape with a half mask - I'll take the name Eight! Let them think what it means, otherwise now half of the capes have a name that hints at an ability, so why is that so? If you are Brutus, choose the name Fairy of Spells, and then kick him in the face with a Kick in the Face spell! Still a surprise. Or if you're a flying creature like Purity, take the name Mouthbreaker so that everyone thinks you're a melee fighter. Although... it will only work once, and then they will laugh. But it's still fun.

- Lasagna is ready! - I announce, pulling on kitchen mittens to take out a hot baking sheet: - wash your hands and sit at the table, dad!

- Going! – Danny responds and comically runs into the bathroom. I spread the lasagna, simultaneously noting in my head that the fifth generation of poisonous queens turned out to be few in number, half died due to their own toxins. Well... we'll have to breed an individual with immunity... now, let's continue breeding, it will be better in the third generation. It must be.

Tomorrow I'll skip school, I'd better go to the pawnshop, check the quality of the gold dust, I'm sure it's gold, but how many impurities are there? Well, I'll find out the price at the same time and make contacts. Money won't hurt, I need a laptop, a cell phone, normal clothes and... a lot of things. My ants are eating like crazy, I'll buy them a bag of sugar. Still, evolution is a voracious business. I'm also experimenting with riders; the idea itself seems quite interesting to me - laying eggs in a person. If you do this quietly enough, then while the larva is under the skin, a person can at least swim in dichlorvos, and I will know where it is. In addition, the idea is not just a beacon larva or an indicator larva, but a larva that at the right moment can begin to multiply right inside a person, penetrating organs and devouring them. Of course, it would be nice to get something like Cordyceps for people to control them through nerve impulses and... so, stop! Where do you get these thoughts from? In general, why the hell should I manage people? A beacon larva will be enough... well, perhaps with a neurotoxin in a special organ, so that if anything happens, it will simply poison, and not devour internal organs, starting to control consciousness... some kind of horror. Yes, I'll do that once and they'll immediately write out a local Murder Warrant for me... no, no, no.

Of course, I can launch an experimental line of evolution of riders in that direction... but I won't use it! Never! Why would I launch evolution towards a larva, which, like an Alien, will devour a person from the inside, if I'm not going to use it? What about scientific interest? Is this possible in principle? Here.

I cut lasagna and start the evolution of the riders that my anthill has sheltered. Hm. I need someone for experiments. Okay, stop. Again, where do these thoughts come from?! No experiments on living people! Hmm... that is, you can use the dead? What is this, where does it all come from? Okay, I have an obvious psychosis, my thoughts go somewhere where it's dark and scary... or maybe to hell with it?

- Dad! – I shout: - the lasagna is getting cold! - What will you have tea with? - a trick question, because Danny usually didn't drink tea in the evening. However, now he has no choice.

- With lemon and sugar, like in Doctor Zhivago! – he responds from the bathroom and I smile.