For many years, the best minds of humanity, scientists, philosophers, priests, pondered what a human being is, and could not come to a common opinion. Maybe a human being is a monkey with an AKM and a scalpel? Or a mind? Or a plucked bird, mockingly thrown at Plato by the great alcoholic and onanist Diogenes: "Here he is, Plato's man." Or maybe that Rastaman was right, who after another ba:ŋa, grinning with thirty-two smoked teeth, and squinting his red eyes like tomatoes, expressed the banal wisdom: "You don't have a soul, you are a soul, and you have a body."
In the end, the only criterion for whether someone is a human being is that this someone is recognized as a human being by other people. This is a definition in itself. Sipulka. Nothing, if you think about it more deeply.
Okay, a person, maybe too complicated a question. And who am I or You, my dear friend?
Am I a set of electrical and chemical signals in four pounds of protein and lipids hidden in seventy kilograms of meat and bones, which in turn are covered with a layer of keratinized and dead cells?
And what if this body is removed, the arms, legs, genitals, internal organs are taken away, leaving only the head, as in the experiments of Dr. Brukhonenko? Will I still be myself?
If not, then at what point will I cease to be me and become someone else?
If yes, in the case when the self is preserved without the body, then defining the flesh as part of me is superfluous.
If the body is superfluous, we will remove the face and scalp, take out the eyes and disassemble the skull into twenty-three bones and even take out three pairs of auditory ossicles.
Will the skinned brain remain me if, for example, it is placed in a nutrient solution and the nerve endings are connected to artificial eyes, ears and a body?
At what stage of such disassembly will I disappear, and a mysterious stranger will occupy my abode, assembled from neurons and their processes?
Okay, if the brain in the jar is still me, then let's move the level of abstraction and deconstruction further from the original organism.
Let's start replacing the brain itself, detail by detail, replacing it with artificial elements. At what step will my personality become different?
And if we manage to completely replace the brain with an artificial one, and I remain?
Maybe I am just the memories of me about me?
Memory is so unreliable and shaky. Just ♫ an echo (Anna German's song - Echo of Love. I haven't figured out how to attach links yet, and I'm not sure that a link to a Russian site will be recognized at all. Sorring, dude) of the past. I no longer remember the faces of my yard friends, the smoothness of the fur of my long-gone pet, the embraces of dead relatives and the taste of the lips of my first girl.
What if I don't exist at all, just like a person in general?
I am a thing in itself, and that which exists only in itself does not exist at all.
You k-know what I-I-I will answer you, my dear friend, y-y-you drink too much vodka. V-v-vodka has a bad effect on the brain, especially prone to such a defective t-teaching as solipsism. Are you a thing in itself? You don't exist?
The sergeant was stocky and well advanced in years, not yet in his fifties, but already on the threshold. Unlike the fashionable S on the other side of the barricades, he did not smoke a cigar and did not wear a wide-brimmed hat. He preferred simple cheap "Belomorput'".
But now his strong yellow teeth under his gray moustache were clutching a joint of newspaper, carefully stuffed with tobacco from the butts of his former wealth. Do you know where the line is between you and n-n-not you? P-p-pain. Pain separates you from the world around you. It, my dear pain, s-shows that you still exist. Taking another deep drag, the sergeant, affectionately called Akakich in the department (his grandfather had such a fantasy, and his dad was so patient that he did not change his name), poked the still-smoldering joint into the back of the philosopher's hand.
The verbose lover of alcohol pulled his hand back, but with a slight delay, maybe the ethanol wandering in the body slowed down the reaction, but also everyone in the volunteer corps knew that the resocialized often had their pain conductivity suppressed along with the memory wipe. Sometimes the white coats were too zealous in this adaptation to the conduct of military operations, and the ex-people forgot to take their hand out of the fire, accidentally bit off their tongues, and the absence of a couple of fingers was generally considered the standard for involuntary participants in military operations on the side of the Eurasian Socialist Union. W-w-well, about the r-r-reassemling, uh-you go and talk to our e-e-enemies. PENDOSES, - the sergeant began to stutter and threw the word out of his throat to prevent hesitation. They send the b-b-brains in jars to be slaughtered, but w-w-we have honest soldiers, some volunteers, and some resoc. But all in the same trench. And all who survive will r-r-r-return to c-r-civilian life as a king. F-f-five thousand for the e-e-exit. All criminal cases have been dropped. All debts have been c-c-closed.
Yes... Noubunaga, whose name was too complicated for his fellow soldiers and so they called him simply Nikita, stretched like a cat. The Japanese Soviet Socialist Republic can't gotten rid of the remnants of the yakuza since 1945. And his heavily tattooed skin showed that this soldier was most likely a resocialized criminal. On the other hand, despite his love of hand-to-hand combat, the fighter was practically intact. And all the fingers, and the eyes, and the ears. A few scars don't count. Everyone had minor wounds. Maybe he was a volunteer. Especially since they were defending Shikoku. The defeated JSA, the Chinese and the Europeans didn't plan to put up with the loss of the last base on the archipelago, and the locals, completely fed up with the previous invaders, signed up as volunteers in droves. After all, the Soviet Army gave everything they needed. Food, clothing, shelter in bad weather and the opportunity to kill former occupiers. So maybe he joined voluntarily. Especially since the rule "Don't remember, don't tell and don't ask" forbade directly finding out who belonged to what category of servicemen. Definitely not a conscript. Conscripts were almost never used in the Asian theater.
The Nipponian smiled only with his eyes, his oval, slightly yellowish face never showed any emotion. Even when the sword he first appeared with in the squad crunched, cutting off the head of a captured European Janissary, he did not grieve. He simply buried the blade fragments, as if they were a person, and now walked around with a Cossack saber, having additionally lengthened the handle with electrical tape for a two-handed grip of the blade.
As soon as we drive the bastards out of our sima-sima, I wir demobirize. I wir go to a cor-farm in the mountains. I wir grow tea.
Why execute the Janissaries? Well, first of all, provisions are dropped to the front lines only for the fighters. What are we going to feed the prisoner? Secondly, every unclean one from the Caliphate has an bomb-collar. He is not a long-lived person anyway. As soon as the effendi returns from the mission, he will count the remains of his unit, and press the buttons of everyone who did not return. The EK people often under-report explosives, save for them or steal them. Or they just have all thumbs.. I've seen enough of the Janissaries with their heads half torn off. They suffer, scream, sometimes just have a deep burn, sometimes. It's better to execute. And Nikita is a great master of chopping off heads. Once we captured a convoy of Janissaries in hibernation, he and Andryukha Bandera bet on who would chop off more heads, they argued. Nikita won, but he broke his sword.
Conversations between colleagues in front of a campfire are the best sleeping pill. Of course, if you're really boozed. The Corsican maniac Napoleon once said that a soldier who can't fall asleep to the sound of guns doesn't want to sleep. But in the days of the French dwarf there were no 16-gauge (40 mm) grenade launchers - by the way, the standard weapon of the first-line janissaries. And from behind, the effendi of purity drive forward their inferior fellow citizens with sniper shots and exploding collars.
And the Chinese in the days of the French-Impy did not use genetically modified dogs as land torpedoes. The external appearance of an ordinary cur, a mongrel, perhaps too well-fed for a war-torn area, is not detected by a metal detector, but if you suddenly open one, you will see that under the skin of the biter there are multiple teratomas filled with fangs. When the creature dies, rapid autolysis is activated, the tissue turns into methane, and the carcass literally explodes in about an hour with fire and shrapnel, and sometimes just bursts, throwing rotting meat into the environment.
The Americans generally have iron. Deep in a tank or jeep of a human stump. Without arms, without legs, a typical samovar (derogatory term for people without limbs). The Amers optimize the costs of materials, their equipment is compact, the cabin is miniature. I have rumors that pilots in aviation are generally only head. I have not seen JS flyers, I do not know, but their planes are really tiny. An adult wouldn't fit in there.
And why do I need these thoughts before going to bed? How are my relatives? I only managed to put them on a transport to the mainland when the Americans treacherously attacked the Soviet settlements in Honshu, and that night a simple Soviet doctor spent the whole night and the whole next day finishing off the endless wounds to the endless stream, at first, when it seemed that it would not last long, any minute now, and the hordes of star-spangled machines would tremble and run, driven on by an red-bayonets. Therefore, he treated everyone, gave time to any military or civilian. Towards the end of the night, I began the culling. Reses moved to the end of the line. They must pay with blood for their previous crimes against the Soviet government and the working people. After, I stopped providing assistance to the seriously wounded. Their chances are small, and it is better to spend time and medicine on those who are more fortunate. By the end of the last day I had completely passed out under the tears and lamentations of a mommy who had dragged a badly burned baby. Uncle Sam's troops had finally decided to strike with a tactical atom right at the soldiers dug in at the outpost, among whom there were many civs who had been late for the evacuation.
In the fifth month of the war, almost all of Japan had passed into the Soviet control zone, Shikoku was the last border, and even the Chinese and Europeans who had joined as allies to JS did not change the picture of the fight. The arm of the reinforcements was too long, the naval convoys were mercilessly sunk by Soviet submariners. And for Asians, after that incident in the Wuhan laboratory and the subsequent nuclear quarantine of territories with populations, everything was very bad.. The Kuomintang declared that they still had at least two hundred million people, but the comrades from Zhongguo gongchan boldly thought that the fifteen-million communistic Taiwan was much more populated than material China. And by the way, many respected Chinese communists were now fighting in the Soviet army against the bourgeois Chiang Kai-shek. And as for dogs, they are, of course, terrible creatures, but only in dense urban development. As luck would have it, the defense on this small island of the Japanese archipelago was held in the city. The JA army, it is clear, had a more difficult time with their clumsy machines, and their infantry and marines were advised not to engage in combat until they had complete air superiority. All according to the precepts of Uncle Douhet. The Europeans, with their meaty attacks, also rolled back each time, leaving behind them the corpses of the Janissaries torn to pieces by large-caliber bullets. Even suicide bombers couldn't cope. We just made those crazy idiots in green headbands priority targets. Yeah, what the hell is this crap getting into my head, I should think about my family. The neighbor on the next bunk, probably considering that I had fallen asleep, or maybe he didn't care, started jerk furiously. A young body requires an outburst, and no war gets in the way. What a lecher. But little by little the weight of the day made itself felt.
A cozy apartment in a four-story house. A neighbor, a veteran of THAT war, is sitting on a bench. A one-legged old man is smoking a pipe. There are several old ladies nearby. Among them is an old captain, a real buck. We need to quickly cross the path to the threshold before they bombard me with questions about hemorrhoids and knee pain. Sakura trees shower the fragrant asphalt with pink petals. So beautiful. So fleeting. Much better than old ladies with their questions.
The Eurasian Union is the most wonderful state on Earth. Yes, Japan is a new Soviet territory, not all the remnants of the past have been eliminated yet. Local moon-faced women still, twenty years after the bloodiest war in the history of mankind, do not see anything wrong with brothels. The Japanese cell of the CPSU tried for a long time to overcome this affliction of the Republic, and ... then not to care a brass farthing. They simply imposed a tax and began to record job as work experience. Just like in the Caucasian department they ignore the local tradition of bride kidnapping, and in the Polish department they turn a blind eye to the fact that all the collective farms are headed by the descendants of magnates. Well, the guys are managing agriculture, and let them rule.
Again the dream turned into a nightmare. The thin chipboard door separating our home from the landing is ajar. Sashka, the little hooligan, went to the store again and forgot to lock it. But they have nothing to fear in the safest and most peaceful country, do they?
It is dark in the cramped hallway, and the door made of corrugated glass does not solve the problem. The floor is stained with something sticky. Soup or something was spilled. Every morning I recorded that the vision came again, but in the dream I never remembered the continuation. Even though I saw it many times. In the cozy living room, the wife and children in puddles of red. A strange man is kneeling, his hands and face are smeared. Anger clouds my vision. Why do I have a hammer? Why a hammer. I run up to the killer and hit him, hit, hit, hit... You should not live. Resocialization is too soft for such a beast. Die, die, die...
A strange dream always made me wake up, and five months of incessant battle taught me not to scream, not to jump. Just open my eyes. In the corner, a sergeant works with papers by the light of a homemade lamp. He hardly sleeps, sometimes the infantry got some tanker chocolate. Especially since tanks are not particularly needed on the Japanese TOO.
The absurd dreams were slipping away, the nightmare was stupid, contradicting reality. Relatives boarding an ekranoplan to Nakhodka. The family is dead, in pools of blood in the middle of the family nest. The first time I dreamed about this was after my first human. Or not a human. Together with other SA fighters, we were able to shoot down a Phoenix, an American bipedal cyborg with a flamethrower, with an RPG. We hit a Yankee next to our T-64, the Amer jumped from above onto the Soviet machine what is supported the infantry. Brave bastard. He tore off the hatches and burned the crew. When we dug open the American's shell, there was a black girl, big-lipped. No arms, no legs. All covered in some kind of shit like grease. Naked. One of the fighters, even a sergeant, I think, suggested gang bang her. But our lieutenant grabbed the TT. Such a thing is unacceptable for a Soviet soldier. Here a sniper bullet covered the lieut. Our soldiers looked at each other, and the desire to f...ck the carcass from JSA disappeared. We threw it on a burning Soviet tank. How it squealed. And it stank like BBQ.
Only three on the wristwatch . IIf only a couple more hours of sleep... but drowsiness is vanish into thin air. The sergeant is a seasoned soldier. They say he volunteered for the Korean War. Was on the side of the Americans, against the hordes of Chiang Kai-shek. When Chiang had endless streams of people. However, the wonderful law "do not remember, do not speak and do not ask" limited the opportunity to find out the truth directly from Akakievich. And if suddenly he is a res, he himself does not know whether he is telling the truth, or only thinks that he is telling the truth. Seeing me awaken, the squad leader held out a square wrapped in aluminum foil. Involuntarily pulled his hand back. Our sergeant is a fool after all, and his solipsistic jokes are stupid. You won't be able to fall asleep now anyway. You'll help with the calculation of ammunition and provisions for our reinforcements. They've sent new ones into "slavery" to us. I think, all after the brainwashing, w-w-well, you'll see for yourself. Still, ure a doctor, you can handle it. And I'm will crawling down to the positions, I'll see if everything is okay.
A black lump goes into my mouth, hands are shaking slightly. This is ok. The dim light of the homemade lamp has become brighter. Now I can clearly see the records of the boss. That's where he f...ckup. I correct it and quickly recalculate everything before dawn. Send the data by radio.
The U2 rattles, a cheap plane will drop provisions to the our forward position in accordance with my figures. Second engine's sound, and I hear parachutes again. Reses are often dropped on positions like cargo. Their brains can master the intricacies of controlling a para, but what's the point? They are not taken into real troopers. Commanders tried use it at first, but reses lose marbles after a few jumps, if their heads are not thoroughly cleared. And those who are deeply processed cannot be allowed near weapons. Too slow, clumsy. The brain is flexible, everything returns to normal in a few years, but who will give time to walk leisurely in a war?
Newbies. As is typical resov. Juicers, almost all with gangster tattoos. Some with fresh shiners. Shaved clean. Morse certificates tattooed on the back of their heads. Something new. Definitely an accelerated course. I must watch for such a one now. After a flash nearby, he will remember that he recently robbed the factory cash register or used guys as a gumps, and will arrange friendly fire. By the way, in the alley about a hundred meters away, the eyes are glowing, maybe an ordinary dog, but more likely a huaŋu. Demon spawn do not like people, and they simply hate other dogs and always kill when they meet them. The huge adrenal glands of the scum make them simply insanely fast and strong at a critical moment. And the fact that after a couple of years of life they have the ligaments and muscles of fifteen-year-old dogs is not a problem. However, I suspect that few of the mongrels survive two years. Just in case, he aimed and loaded a burst from the PPSh. The Kalashnikovs were quickly used up, and the army again switched to weapons from thirty years ago. At least, the rank and file units. Luckily, we have a sea of papashes in our warehouses, and the third pistol cartridge (7.5 mm, roughly equivalent to 7.62×25 mm TT) is still the most popular pistol cartridge... in the world. There was a squeal in the alley, but I didn't check it. The beast, even if badly wounded, is very dangerous.
After lunch, the chocolate bar was metabolized, and I wanted to sleep. Serj, remembering the help and, apparently, feeling a little guilty for interrupting my drunken monologue yesterday, sent me to take a nap. Sleep is good, sleep is necessary. I dove into Morpheus as into a whirlpool. Only the nightmare caught up with me again, this time with a continuation.
dreamed not only that my family died and that I got even with the bandit, but also that I was being judged for it. Well, that's fair. A man who is unable to control self emotions is not worthy of a communist future. It's good that isnt real, If I'm not sleepy - I'm completely different.
The shots woke me up, apparently, enough of lying around. The enemies agreed on a general assault, first a wave of Hualu, and as soon as they finished with the dogs, Pershing came at us.
Heavy thing. The place where the crew could work is occupied by powerful engines, heavy armor and an increased supply of rounds. Three crippled carcasses somewhere in the middle of the structure and automatic loader - that's the entire tank crew. Nearby are the Janissaries, as always in ceremonial red pants, snow-white, albeit dusty and soaked with sweat, shirts. There are no suicide bombers belted with explosives, only fighters. Their weapons are lousy, but powerful. The Effendi again not come out onto the ballefield, they are watching from afar with binoculars and sniper rifles the actions of their clients.
The tank's trak ran over one of the dead dogs, and with a light clap the puppy splashed their guts on the escorts, gases were already starting to accumulate, but the corpse did not become a bomb. Disgusting, if you think about it. The barrels on the both side started working.
Next to him is a squad, a young commander, rooky, just out of training, leading the squad. A lieutenant in a sergeant's position. Maybe he's that bad, or maybe there's no one else but him. A Pershing hit nearby us. An unpleasant sensation, I tell you, my liver seemed to have been shaken up. A shrapnel tore the neighbor's lieut stomach apart. He roars, tears sound. He wants to give away his gold wristwatch, the other hand tries to tuck in his intestines. "Soldier, please get out me of here." Smelth of shit, an officer is not long for this world. I'm telling you as a doctor.
And when the shooting slowed down, the shelling is start, there was no time for the wounded. Either the enemy's artillery preparation was late, or ours mixed up the coordinates and covered their own. Oh, these artillerymen, brown crap. By the way, Liarnitsyn served in the artillery. As they say, Like priest, like people.
Tinnitus, like a nasty mosquito, drowned out all the sounds of the world. Nikita, with a pale face, bandages the lieutenant, but he's wasting time, he didn't take the watch, the shiny thing is still in lieut's bloody hand. Nikita unlikely was yakuza has undergone a brainwashing. Too correct, although they say that those who have undergone resocialization are the most reliable builders of the communist future, if, of course, is not turn to bonker. A newbie res sat down next to me. Juice is leaking from the bald guy's ears, nose and eyes. His whole face is covered in blood, he looks so much like the dick that I hammered in my sleep. The world disintegrates like a kaleidoscope and assembles into a new picture. During the day I am a respected Soviet doctor, yes, without a family and not the most sociable, and in the evenings I walk around the suburbs of cozy Sapporo. In the light of day I treat human diseases, and under the sun of the night I treat the diseases of humanity. What a wh...es den. Resoс is not applied to them. Moscow old farts think that this is a local tradition, and it will end with the advent of communism. They only mark their work record in the work book, at least it's good they still won't take them into the party. Even their f...cking kids, if they take root from the f...ker, are full-fledged Soviet babies. They are taught at school, sent to Artek or Hotel Warnemünde in the summer. As long as they study well. They are even accepted into the Komsomol. The mother is a whore, and the son salutes in front of the busts of Lenin and Takamatsu Nobuhito. Banging a hammer on the head with peroxide curls. You will no longer spread vice in My Soviet Motherland.
In the neighboring house, there is a guy, an officer, by the way, from our settlers, married such a woman, adopted her first child they had as his own, and made a second one. Yes, the woman left the street, but the dirt... The dirt can't be washed off so easily. A difficult case. At night, an exemplary husband sleeps at home, no one will tell the doctor the officers' duty schedule. And this narrow-eyed slut is now a saleswoman in the store. However, she was a sellout, and now... Even a Soviet salesman is still a profiteer.
A cozy four-story house. An old man is sitting on a bench, probably a veteran of THAT war. A one-legged old man is smoking a pipe. Several old women are nearby. Among them is a WAR hero - a real buck. We need to quickly overcome the path to the threshold, before they overwhelm me with questions about hemorrhoids and knee pain. Cherry blossoms shower the fragrant asphalt with pink petals. So beautiful. So fleeting. Much better than old grumps with their questions.
The most wonderful country on Earth. A thin chipboard door separates the apartment from the landing, slightly open. The tenants forgot to lock the door. But they have nothing to fear in the safest and most peaceful country, do they?
It is dark in the cramped hallway, and the corrugated glass door does not solve the problem. The floor is spotlessly clean, and the shoes are folded on the shelf. In the cozy living room, a prostitute is reading a book to her bastards, the older boy is jap, and the younger girl is white as a dandelion. Anger clouds my eyes. Why do I have a hammer? Why a hammer. The woman smiles at first, but realizing that this is not her cuckolded husband, she tries to jump up. I run up to the vicious ones and beat them, beat, beat, beat... You should not live. Resocialization is too soft for such people. Die, die, die... The court... The Soviet court is the most humane in the world. They will understand that I did everything right. In the hall, that officer, the husband, now the widower of the slut, I clearly see that he does not really look like my ward, the new res from the detachment. So, a bit similar.
I announce the verdict of the Civil Collegium of the USSR Court of the city of Sapporo.
The verdict
In the name of the Union of Eurasian Soviet Socialist Republics.
The Civil Collegium of the Court of the USSR of the city of Sapporo consisting of:
...
Chikatilo Andrei Romanovich, born in 1936,
— all of the crimes provided for in Article 102 of the Criminal Code of the JSSR
...
We sentence to the highest measure...
Resocialization.