From: (Dmitry Sokolov)

  Newsgroups: relcom.comp.sys.pentagon

  Subject: HD64180 processors - urgent need

  Date: 14 Nov 2002 18:47:32 +0300

  Organization: Moscow TV Factory #4

  X-Trace: srv03.rosnet.ru 1016125652 21442 195.161.41.102

  Comrades,

  Does anyone know where to source Hitachi HD64180 processors in Moscow?

  Need minimum 3 units in working condition. Factory original only, no Chinese substitutes. Our project requires the 10MHz variant with ceramic package. Previous supplier from Mitino market disappeared last week. Willing to pay fair price for genuine parts.

  D.S.

  From: (Azamat Izmaylov)

  Newsgroups: relcom.comp.sys.pentagon

  Subject: Re: HD64180 processors - urgent need

  Date: 14 Nov 2002 20:13:05 +0300

  References: <>

  Organization: None

  X-Trace: srv05.cityline.ru 1016131985 15773 195.128.67.219

  > Does anyone know where to source Hitachi HD64180 processors in Moscow?

  I might be able to help with this. Have access to 5 units, factory fresh, ceramic package, 10MHz as requested. Japanese manufacture, not mainland copies. These came through official channels with proper documentation (can verify on meeting).

  Email to arrange a meeting.

  Azamat

  Each painful tick of the electric wall clock's minute hand abraded like sandpaper against Azamat's nerves. Stolovaya “Druzhba” reeked of cabbage and industrial-strength cleaner, yanking him back to university canteens, before his electronics venture. Well, before he started building it, at least.

  Fluorescent lights flickered across institutional green tiles, worn to concrete in high-traffic paths. Gagarin smiled down from a faded portrait behind the serving counter. A decal proclaimed: “The Worker's Nutrition is the Foundation of Production!”

  The door swung open with a blast of cold air. A burly figure in factory uniform entered, and Azamat straightened, recognizing Dima by the factory badge on his pocket and the battered thermos in his grip.

  “Дима! Over here!” He sprang halfway from his seat, waving.

  Dima's eyes swept the room, narrowing at Azamat. He trudged toward the table, steel-toed boots marking damp prints on the floor. His red and white Zenith Moscow football scarf blazed against the drab grey work clothes.

  Galina Mikhailovna emerged from behind the counter, balancing two aluminium bowls of steaming borscht in her weathered hands. She slammed them down, purple-red droplets spattering the table's surface.

  “Eat,” she commanded. “You both need it.” Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked against tiles as she shuffled away.

  “You ordered already?” Dima sank onto the bench opposite Azamat.

  “No need.” Azamat grinned. “Galina Mikhailovna reads minds.”

  He thrust his hand across the table. “Azamat Izmaylov. You asked about processors.”

  Dima's brief handshake pressed a rough palm against Azamat's. His football scarf caught the chair's edge, and he tucked it back with knowing care.

  “You brought the specs?” Dima ignored the soup before him.

  Azamat nodded, diving into his messenger bag. “Everything you requested. The HD64180s match exactly—ceramic package, 10MHz, ideal for your project.” His words rushed out, accent slipping with mounting excitement. “I verified each one myself.”

  Dima lifted an eyebrow, finally grabbing his spoon. “Show me.”

  Azamat glanced over his shoulder before sliding a small plastic case across the table. Around them, factory workers shovelled food with mechanical efficiency. Tinny pop music crackled from a radio behind the counter, almost inaudible through the clatter of metal trays and utensils.

  “These cost triple in legitimate shops,” he whispered, leaning forward. “If you can find them at all.”

  Dima's oil-stained fingers opened the case, examining each processor with critical eyes. Fluorescent light glinted off the ceramic packages, spotlighting his weary face.

  “Their source?” he murmured.

  “I know people who know people. That's my business,” Azamat replied, tapping his notebook.

  He flipped open the battered datasheet, its pages creased from years of hurried consultations. Dima's mechanical pencil scratched against paper with brisk, deliberate strokes. His timing diagrams unfolded in precise symmetry, pulses and edges aligning like workers at a May Day parade. Azamat watched, transfixed by the neatness—those worn fingers moving with the steadiness of someone who coaxed function from failing equipment.

  “Look here,” Dima tapped a junction in his diagram. “The external memory refresh cycle misaligns unless you slow the arbitration by several clock cycles.”

  Azamat frowned, thumb tracing a faded margin note. “Throttling arbitration chokes the DMA. This chip exists to—” His voice snagged, vowels softening, less Moscow. “—maintain throughput without… uh, bottlenecking.” He cleared his throat, forcing his Russian back into a Muscovite cadence.

  Dima's pencil lead bit into the page as he modified his diagram. “If we were working with a normal bus, yeah, but we're not.” He rotated the paper sideways, sketching another set of waveforms. “Ever heard of the К1800?” His eyes flicked upward.

  “The Soviet ECL logic chips? From the old Elbrus and BESM systems?” Azamat blinked.

  Dima nodded once, face stone-still. “They used those in late-stage Elbrus-2 designs. The timing constraints exceeded anything we face here, but engineers found ways around it. Pull in those principles—tight signal propagation, preemptive signal gating—and you stabilise the DMA without losing cycles.”

  “You've worked with Elbrus-2 logic?” The stolovaya's heat enveloped them, cabbage and stewed meat scents clashing with their technical discussion.

  “Factories get rid of old stock over the years. Some finds its way to the right hands.” Dima adjusting his football scarf where it bunched around his collar. “Think I just build television circuits?”

  “I thought you built them better than anyone else,” Azamat said, unable to suppress a smile.

  Dima snorted. “Want these processors to perform as specified? You can't just slap them onto a board and hope for the best.” He pushed the datasheet toward Azamat, jabbing at a particular section. “Learn how they breathe.”

  Azamat's elbow caught the aluminium tray's edge. The kompot glass rocked, tilted, spilled. Red liquid flooded across the table, staining Dima's acetate sheets before trickling off the edges.

  Dima's mouth tightened into a line. A slow exhale escaped through his nose as he lifted the soaked sheets, holding one against the fluorescent light. Crimson bled into the film's surface, clouding the carefully drawn circuit traces in a way that made Azamat wince.

  “This,” Dima muttered, angling the acetate, “demonstrates why drinks and work don't mix.” He flipped the sheet, studying liquid pooling in the etched lines. “Notice? Oxide contamination. A little moisture, and suddenly your trace conductivity is ruined.”

  Azamat mopped at the puddle with his napkin. “I'll replace them.”

  “The factory stocks plenty. Time spent drawing matters more than acetate.” Dima dropped the ruined sheet and dug into his bag. “Speaking of numbers—” He extracted a battered Soviet Электроника calculator, its brown casing polished smooth. “Let's examine your deal.”

  Azamat watched Dima punch in costs, calloused fingers moving with intent. Numbers flickered across the display before settling. “Your per-unit price?” Dima asked, eyes fixed on the keys.

  Azamat retrieved his Casio calculator—smaller, sleeker—shielding it beneath the table edge. “Twenty-two thousand each,” he said, fingers dancing across the keypad. “Fair market value.”

  Dima's eyebrow lifted as he turned the Электроника display outward. “Not fair. Convenient—for you.”

  “I round to lucky numbers. Simplifies the books.” Azamat flashed a mischievous smile.

  Dima scoffed, his stern expression cracking. He swiped his hand across his trousers, smearing fresh marks over the permanent coolant stains. “Lucky numbers,” he muttered. “You know, the factory quotas work the same way.”

  “How?” Azamat glanced up from his Casio.

  Dima reclined, crossing his arms. “Salvage targets, component budgets—nobody cares about exact numbers. Just hit ‘acceptable’ figures that shine on paper. You're playing the same game.”

  Azamat drummed his Casio against the tabletop. “So,” he mused, “if I price things just right, and you—let's say—‘adjust’ your inventory figures…”

  “Shrewder than you appear,” Dima said, nostrils flaring.

  “Business is engineering with money,” Azamat quipped, grinning.

  Galina Mikhailovna appeared beside them, a plate of pirozhki balanced on her palm like an offering. “For the engineers,” she declared, placing it between them. “No charge. You need strength to fix whatever junk you're tinkering with.”

  “Your timing never fails, Galina Mikhailovna.” Azamat beamed at her.

  Dima dabbed at his kompot-stained acetate sheets and grunted. He snatched a pirozhok, tearing into it with the voracity of a man used to meals dictated by factory whistles.

  Azamat hesitated before taking one and watched Dima pull a battered “Gruzinsky No. 36” tin from his bag. The name clicked. Once, it had held tea—cheap, bitter, Soviet tea—now the guardian of coins and crumpled banknotes. Dima counted the exact payment in silence. Not a kopek more, not a kopek less—currency sketching boundaries.

  Azamat penned Dima's name in his notebook. Business meant business, but names carried weight. His eyes flicked to the kompot-stained schematic drying at the table's edge. “So, this seals our contract?”

  A whisper of laughter escaped through Dima's nose. He creased the acetate, securing it behind his football scarf's thick knit. “Something like that.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  From the workers' section by the window, a man in oil-streaked overalls eyed the exchange, then clinked his tea glass against the table—silent approval radiating across the room.

  A woman in factory whites shifted her tray, carving space for her colleague fresh from shift. Quiet gestures speaking volumes. Azamat absorbed the dialogue, recognising the fellowship that existed here, built over years of shared toil.

  Galina pivoted away. “Eat now. Dead men close no deals.”

  In the tarnished brass elevator panel, Azamat checked his reflection, straightening his knockoff Calvin Klein tie for the third time. At least the forgery looked convincing under these dim lights.

  The Restaurant Belarus occupied the top floor of a Stalin-era building. Its reputation for discretion attracted business transactions requiring legitimacy’s veneer.

  “Akylduubol, Azamat,” he whispered in Kyrgyz, the language of his private thoughts. Be smart. The mirror reflected a gaunt face, carved hollow by a fortnight of instant ramen and worry.

  His fingers brushed the jacket’s inner pocket. The CPU specifications burned there like contraband—which technically they were. Three years of meticulous saving transformed into silicon and circuitry, locked in a climate-controlled storage unit across Moscow. His bank balance mocked him, vacant as broken promises.

  The lift shuddered to stop at the eleventh floor. Azamat recalculated the margins behind closed eyelids. Double market rate might seem excessive elsewhere, but for military-grade components in sanction-strangled Moscow? Triple might be justifiable. Quadruple crossed into the territory of insult.

  His phone vibrated—Aijan’s message from yesterday still unanswered.

  Need to transfer tuition by Friday. University says final notice. Love you, big brother.

  Two weeks. Fourteen days before his sister’s future collapsed. No further extensions of her scholarship would be entertained by the university in Bishkek—their most recent letter spoke with brutal clarity.

  “Mentuuraemesbolsom, al okubaitokhtotot,” he breathed, touching his forehead to the cool metal wall. If I’m wrong, she stops studying.

  The doors creaked apart, exposing a corridor where Soviet minimalism strained toward European elegance. His mother’s voice crystallised in memory as he straightened: Never let them see the struggle, only the strength.

  He strode forward, burying anxiety beneath a businessman’s confident stride. The processors must sell at the right price. His sister’s education balanced precariously on his bargaining prowess.

  No pressure, then.

  Just her future against his bluff.

  A blonde hostess, her posture ramrod-straight, led him through the main dining area. Where Party officials once planned five-year quotas over cognac, oligarchs’ bodyguards now lounged, their bulging jackets failing to conceal Makarov pistols.

  “Your colleagues await, gospodin.” She gestured toward a private room.

  He nodded, maintaining neutrality. Colleagues. The word resonated—professional, respectable. It belonged in his envisioned business future.

  The heavy oak door swung open to decades of stale cigarette smoke. Yellow-tinged crystal chandeliers dangled like nicotine-stained teeth. Dark wood panelling consumed the meagre daylight filtering through gauzy curtains. A portrait of Lukashenko stared from one wall—the restaurant’s tribute to its namesake country.

  Three men stood as he entered. Their suits—proper wool, not Cherkizovsky Market’s polyester blends—marked them as genuine money. Acron procurement managers, with spending authority for one of Russia’s largest chemical companies.

  “Izmaylov!” The eldest, balding with thick glasses, extended his hand. “Punctual. Good sign in business.”

  Azamat matched his grip carefully—neither dominant nor submissive. Just as practised.

  “Thank you for the opportunity,” he replied, rounding his vowels to diminish his Central Asian inflection. “I believe our arrangement will prove mutually beneficial.”

  Vasiliev, grey-haired with liver-spotted hands, poured from a crystal decanter. Amber liquid caught the light, each glass measured precisely.

  “Armenian cognac. Ararat. Twenty years old,” he slid a glass toward Azamat. “Not the Georgian rubbish they serve downstairs.”

  The cognac’s oak and dried fruit aroma spoke of luxury beyond Azamat’s means. He sipped, observing Vasiliev.

  “Our Perm facility situation proves… challenging.” Vasiliev lowered his voice. “American SCADA systems control the ammonia synthesis. Installed in ‘95. The manufacturer no longer exists.”

  “Bankruptcy?”

  “Absorbed by competitors. Replacement parts cost…” Vasiliev’s fingers drummed. “Western prices. Euros. Our budget remains in roubles.”

  “Three production lines failed last month,” the second manager interjected. “Nearly killed two technicians when pressure valves malfunctioned.”

  Azamat savoured another sip, suppressing his mounting excitement. Their exchanged glances, Vasiliev’s trembling voice—these men weren’t shopping for options. They exuded desperation.

  “And the Ministry?” Azamat asked.

  Vasiliev’s expression hardened. “Demands domestic sourcing. But Russian equivalents don’t exist.” He leaned forward. “We need those HD64180 processors. Compatible with existing infrastructure. Immediately.”

  Azamat nodded, his countenance fixed in a mask of professional concern.

  He lifted the Hitachi HD64180 from its anti-static packaging with jeweller’s precision. Chandelier light caught the ceramic casing, casting amber reflections across the crisp tablecloth. The muted incandescent glow transformed the component into something mystical—fitting for an object worth more by weight than gold to these men.

  “This,” his accent slipped through with excitement, “is what you requested.”

  The deep enigmatic purple of chromium-doped alumina gleamed—unmistakable to connoisseurs. Not modern plastic encasement, but ceramic housing tough as sintered sapphire. Smooth as digital-age promises Russia never quite received. Gold traces shimmered beneath like precious veins in stone.

  Vasiliev adjusted his glasses, leaning closer. His colleagues fixated on the small rectangle promising salvation for their factory.

  Under the table, Azamat’s fingers tapped calculations against his thigh. He weighed figures—margins, risks, markups—while studying the desperate men. Their need outweighed his: three lines down, two near-deaths, an unhelpful ministry.

  Negotiating leverage tilted sharply his way. Percentages flashed: 200%, 250%, perhaps 300% markup? He worked to bury opportunity’s thrill as golden inlays caught the light.

  The youngest manager—thirty-ish, expensive haircut failing to hide a receding hairline—opened a leather notebook. His Mont Blanc scratched through neat columns of figures.

  “Production losses from last quarter alone…” He turned the notebook toward Vasiliev. “Seven million roubles.”

  Vasiliev scrutinised the figures through thick lenses before meeting Azamat’s gaze.

  “For twenty processors, we offer 24,000 US dollars.”

  Azamat’s pulse quickened despite his steady expression. His mind raced through calculations. Twenty-four thousand divided by twenty: twelve hundred per chip. He’d paid six hundred each. A hundred percent markup—shy of his hoped 250%, yet magnificent. Converted to som, the profit would fund Aijan’s university fees in Bishkek for three semesters, plus dormitory and textbooks for her medical studies.

  His sister’s face flashed in his mind—free at last from that café job.

  “The market rate exceeds this offer substantially,” Azamat said, masking his thrill. “These articles remain pristine. Factory-fresh. Not a scratch.”

  The figures in the young manager’s notebook caught his eye. Seven million roubles in production losses. Their need permeated the room.

  “Thirty-three thousand reflects fair value,” Azamat said, choosing his lucky number. “Perfect integration with your systems. Zero reprogramming required.”

  Such profits would fund Aijan’s entire degree. No more exhausted late-night calls. No more surviving on instant noodles after sending money orders.

  Vasiliev’s jaw clenched. His eyes darted to his colleagues.

  “Thirty,” he declared. “Thirty thousand US dollars. Final offer.”

  Fifteen hundred per processor. A 150% markup. Two years of Aijan’s tuition secured, plus a proper winter coat. Perhaps even her own laptop.

  Azamat nodded with calculated reluctance.

  “Thirty it is,” he said, offering his hand.

  He lifted his cognac glass, savouring victory, when movement caught his eye. A waiter adjusted a flat-screen television—a Sony worth a small fortune in his world—bringing it to life.

  Minister Volkov dominated the screen, his silver-grey hair immaculate, United Russia pin glinting as he addressed the Federation Council. Even silent, authority radiated from him.

  “—critical matter of technological sovereignty,” scrolled beneath his image.

  The young manager tracked Azamat’s gaze and flinched. “Ah, our esteemed Minister of Defence Industry. Perhaps we should—”

  “No, leave it,” Vasiliev cut in, expression darkening. “I want to hear this.”

  The waiter raised the volume, Volkov’s baritone filling their private room.

  “Russia cannot remain dependent on Western components with political strings,” Volkov proclaimed, striking the podium. “Our engineers, our factories must produce domestically. Every foreign chip is a vulnerability in our infrastructure!”

  Azamat gripped his cognac glass tighter. Three managers of critical infrastructure negotiating for the very foreign chips Volkov denounced—the irony stung.

  Vasiliev met his eyes with a wry smile. “Minister Volkov excels at speeches. We excel at solutions.” He touched the processor on the tablecloth. “Reality and rhetoric rarely align here, Izmaylov. Remember that in Russian business.”

  “Thirty thousand,” Azamat confirmed. “Three deliveries, ten ICs each.”

  Volkov’s patriotic speech continued while Azamat considered how many dollars he could convert to som before his sister’s tuition deadline.

  The camera swept across the chamber to the dignitaries behind Volkov. A row of stone-faced officials nodded along in a well-drilled display of patriotic pride. The empty chair beside Volkov—traditionally reserved for a spouse—served as a silent reminder of the widower status cultivated by the Minister; part of his image of self-sacrifice.

  Next to the empty chair sat a thin man in his late twenties, features too delicate for the severe cut of his suit. Volkov’s son shrunk into himself, eyes fixed beyond the camera’s view.

  At Volkov’s proclamation about “Russian technological sovereignty,” the chamber erupted. His son recoiled, composure cracking momentarily.

  The reaction struck Azamat. That careful withdrawal, the masked discomfort—he recognised it from his own mirror practice, smoothing Central Asian tones into Moscow-standard Russian, perfecting the neutrality that survival demanded.

  Azamat pulled his focus from the screen, puzzled by his connection to this privileged official’s son.

  Vasiliev glared at the television as Volkov continued.

  “Beautiful words from beautiful offices,” he muttered into his cognac. “He preaches sovereignty while our factories depend on parts predating Yeltsin.”

  The young manager squirmed, eyeing the door.

  Vasiliev leaned closer, voice low. “Count the Russian-made processors compatible with our systems. Zero.” His finger rested on the HD64180. “Meanwhile, Perm’s cooling towers teeter one control failure from disaster.”

  Vasiliev’s hand shook as he reached for his cognac. These managers felt the wall against their back.

  “The Ministry gives speeches. We keep things running.” Vasiliev drained his glass.

  The youngest manager fidgeted with his cufflinks, his gaze darting between the processor and Azamat. His expensive haircut caught the light as he leant forward.

  “Ironic timing,” he said, tapping a manicured fingernail against the ceramic package. “Saw Volsky on television yesterday. The Silicon Tsar himself, promising Kvant will make foreign chips obsolete by next quarter.” A nervous laugh escaped him. “Same announcement as last year.”

  Vasiliev snorted. “Volsky’s been promising domestic replacements since Yeltsin was sober. Meanwhile, his Kvant factories can’t produce anything reliable enough for industrial systems.”

  “He’s certainly close with the Ministry these days,” the young manager added. “His daughter’s wedding last month—everyone was there. Volkov, the United Russia leadership…”

  “Proximity to power and actual capability are different matters,” Vasiliev dismissed, tapping the processor. “This works. Volsky’s prototypes don’t. It’s that simple.”

  Azamat stretched his hand across the polished wood. Vasiliev’s calloused palm pressed against his—decades of deals sealed through Soviet collapse and capitalist rebirth evident in his grip.

  “Thirty thousand American,” Vasiliev murmured, despite the private room. “First delivery next Tuesday. Location in due course.”

  Numbers blazed through Azamat's calculations. Thirty thousand dollars. Fifteen hundred per processor. Three years of medical school for Aijan, guaranteed. He pictured their next late-night call—her voice strong and clear, no more stifled yawns between sentences, no more drowsy silences after double-shifts at the café as she struggled to focus on their conversation through her fatigue.

  The junior manager tapped notes into a slim silver PDA and nodded to Vasiliev. Azamat slipped the sample processor into its anti-static packaging, fingertips lingering on the ceramic housing.

  An unfamiliar sensation replaced his usual excitement at profit—deeper, more insistent. Three processors meant three thousand dollars lost. Another term of Aijan enduring that café manager’s unwanted attention.

  Yet certainty bloomed. Three CPUs would stay, their worth measured beyond currency.

  “To mutually beneficial partnerships,” Vasiliev raised his glass.

  “To partnerships,” Azamat echoed, amber liquid gleaming.

  Vasiliev extracted a leather portfolio, spreading agreement papers across the table between cognac glasses.

  “Standard terms. Payment schedule, delivery protocols. Nothing unusual.” He slid a fountain pen across the polished wood.

  Azamat scanned the Cyrillic text, fingers drumming beneath the table. Thirty thousand dollars. His sister’s future secured.

  As Azamat leaned forward to sign his phone buzzed in his pocket. He withdrew the Nokia 3310 halfway.

  ROSTEC. HD64180 - 1800USD/UNIT. IMMEDIATE PURCHASE. CONTACT URGENTLY.

  His fingers tightened around the phone. Rostec—the state corporation controlling defence technology development—missile systems, military communications, strategic weapons platforms.

  Three hundred more than Vasiliev’s offer.

  “Problem?” Vasiliev’s pen hovered above the signature line.

  Azamat muted the phone, slipped it into his pocket, and took the pen from Vasiliev.

  “No problem.” He signed with a flourish.

  The heavy oak door of Restaurant Belarus thudded behind him. Moscow’s night chill cut through his thin jacket after the dining room’s stifling heat. On the granite steps, he inhaled deeply, tasting diesel exhaust and approaching rain.

  Thirty thousand dollars cycled through his thoughts. A fortune—enough to secure Aijan’s medical school future, to free her from that café manager’s lingering stares.

  A taxi splashed through a kerb puddle. His reflection rippled in the dirty water—a young Kyrgyz man in an ill-fitting suit playing at Moscow business. The image shifted, overlaying with the minister’s son from the television screen: those uncomfortable shoulders, that careful blank expression, those camera-shy eyes.

  He retrieved his wallet, finding Aijan’s photo. She beamed beneath Bishkek sunshine, university acceptance letter gripped tight.

  The restaurant door burst open with laughing businessmen. Azamat replaced his wallet and navigated the steps, avoiding puddles.

  Freedom bore different costs. Aijan’s price: thirty thousand dollars to study without exhaustion. His: three processors diverted from profit. But the minister’s son—what price did he pay?

  The young man’s flinch at the chamber’s applause replayed in Azamat’s mind. A tiny, involuntary movement—but Azamat knew its meaning. Some cages spawned from poverty, others from expectation. Some visible, others lurking behind Kutuzovsky Prospekt addresses and tailored suits.

  His phone buzzed—Dima messaging about tomorrow’s meeting. Project Chimera. Three processors never to appear in Vasiliev’s inventory.

  Light spilled from the restaurant’s windows. Inside, men like Vasiliev bargained in roubles and dollars, measuring freedom in currency. The Moscow night embraced him as Azamat reckoned in a different exchange rate altogether.