Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

“I’m not talking about that,” Torne brushed her thought aside.

In the kitchen he dove into a temporally modified steak that kept it from having an acetone taste. Marta sat down to coffee with him in a conciliatory way, though she knew, that given the current condition of her stomach, it unavoidably would lead to heartburn. He tried not to look at her, because with his inner sight he still saw that beautiful woman, whose physical shell stirred faith in the existence of ideal beauty. Torne played dramatic roles in the local theater. Art was considered antiquated and on the backdrop of all kinds of cybershows had fallen into decline long ago. On that day, when they “zeroed” Marta, he was returning home from rehearsal a bit earlier than usual. He wanted to surprise her, but found her – already 80 – lying on the grass. It happened that she had walked out of the building to get the mail from the postman, and instead of a newspaper, she got the muzzle of a chronomatizer under her rib and lost fifty biological years. With the massive influx of temporal robberies, the police had nearly stopped investigating similar incidents. In order to receive a portion of underwritten biotime from the government, you needed to pass through nine circles of hell of red tape. You didn’t have the time or strength for that. After the attack, Marta had several hours to live, but Torne

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