Azamat reached into his military surplus bag and extracted a folded sheet of what appeared to be standard Moscow tourist map. As he spread it across the workbench, pushing aside circuit diagrams and component bins, the others noticed peculiar markings in red and blue ink crisscrossing the streets.

  “Gorbushka market. Tuesday.” He tapped a circled location with a trimmed fingernail. “American traders will be there. Western block, near the CD sellers.”

  The markings clarified into something more significant—patrol routes with timestamps and annotations in Azamat's neat Cyrillic script.

  “FSB changes rotation at 10:55. Creates a fifteen-minute window.”

  He pulled a creased specification sheet from his pocket and smoothed it beside the map, revealing a technical diagram of a 3Dfx Voodoo accelerator card.

  “We need this. The exact model. Nothing else will integrate with Irina's VideoMixer circuit.”

  His finger tapped the paper twice, eyes bright with certainty.

  Azamat led them deeper into Gorbushka Market's snarl of pathways—a labyrinth smelling of damp concrete, sharp solder fumes, and the ozone tang of stressed electronics. Dima sidestepped a puddle shimmering with oily residue, his boots scraping grit. Above, makeshift tarpaulin roofs sagged with collected rainwater, dripping onto worn plywood counters.

  “FSB rotation is soon,” Azamat muttered, checking his digital watch. “Forty-seven minutes.”

  The market awoke around them: the rattle of metal shutters, the spit of static from overloaded power strips chained stall-to-stall, the rhythmic clatter of keyboards under test. Tinny Russian pop leaked from a cassette player, competing with vendors' cries of “Посмотри, посмотри!” Irina clocked a trader stacking counterfeit Intel chips, her hand tightening instinctively.

  A Kyrgyz contact flicked Azamat an almost imperceptible nod towards a gap between kiosks. “Silk Road,” Azamat whispered, guiding them into a passage where Russian fragmented into Uzbek, Kyrgyz and Kazakh.

  They squeezed past tables piled with circuit boards bearing faded military stamps, the air thick with the scent of vacuum-packing grease. Fingers rustled through plastic component bins. A wave of warmth washed over them from a stack of glowing CRT monitors before the chill bit again.

  “Western block ahead,” Azamat said. “Americans. Near the CD traders.”

  The passage opened onto a broader lane, where the smell of frying shashlik mingled with stale cigarette smoke. Near a defunct payphone, a man in a cheap suit feigned indifference, his eyes scanning methodically.

  “Spotter,” Irina murmured, turning towards a bootleg software display, her fall of dyed hair shielding her face.

  “His break's at 10:17,” Azamat confirmed, glancing at his timepiece again. “Gives us our window.”

  A surge of bodies pinned them against a stall laden with knock-off phone accessories reeking of cheap plastic. They pretended interest in the tangled chargers, Azamat tracking the crowd, Dima tracing Cyrillic letters on a flimsy box. The tide ebbed. Azamat nodded, pushing off. He navigated the inner corridors, exchanging nods, a “Salam, Nurlan-aga” to an old Kazakh trader whose gold teeth flashed in reply.

  “Not today,” Azamat declined a grease-stained package, switching back to Russian. “Different business. Colleagues.” He gestured at Dima and Irina.

  Dima eyed nearby military-grade ЗиЛ diodes in their original, CCCP-stamped packaging. Azamat deflected the unspoken query, turning to another vendor. “Sophia Mikhailovna! Your son's exams?”

  “Top marks!” Pride lit her face. “New faces?”

  “Our technical consultant,” Azamat motioned to Dima, “and software specialist,” nodding at Irina.

  They plunged deeper, Irina noting Azamat's coded handshakes and whispered mentions of “special stock”.

  “Americans, section six,” Azamat's voice dropped. “Three traders. Tall one, glasses—he has genuine 3Dfx. Others sell fakes.”

  “Your proof?” Dima's brow furrowed.

  “Solder profile's wrong on the memory. Fakes run hotter too—tested them myself.” Azamat tapped at his temple.

  Irina stepped between them. “Alright, lads. Azamat knows the terrain, Dima knows the tech. I'll handle compatibility chat. Let's move.”

  They paused near two Korean vendors arguing over a box of RAM modules.

  “Three minutes,” Azamat said, checking his watch again. “We hit the east entrance just as the spotter nips out for a smoke.”

  Dima eyed a leather-jacketed man by a phone booth. “You know their habits?”

  “Patterns.” Azamat shrugged. “Three years watching. Makes life easier.”

  He steered them towards a bootleg CD stall, feigning interest while counting down the seconds. “American unpacks shipments at eleven sharp. Perfect time.”

  Nearby, Dima picked up a discarded circuit board, his calloused fingers tracing the solder joints.

  “Only Katya could spot a fake this quickly,” he murmured, admiration softening his voice. “Her interrupt handlers… seventeen cycles saved per VBlank. Fifteen years I've built circuits. Never seen Z80 code breathe like that.”

  “Magic,” Azamat agreed, sliding resistor bins across a stained counter. “Five hundred ohm, one percent. Two hundred.”

  The vendor snorted. “Eight hundred.”

  “Four fifty.” Azamat kept his eyes on the components.

  “Insulting. Seven hundred.”

  “Five hundred. Plus the ceramic caps next week.” Azamat’s Bishkek lilt hardened into Moscow consonants.

  The vendor scratched his stubble. “Six hundred. Final.”

  “Five fifty.” Azamat produced his wallet. “Keep these separate.”

  A grunt sealed it. As crisp notes changed hands, Azamat turned to Dima. “And her memory mapping—three clock cycles instead of twelve. How?”

  “She thinks in Z80,” Dima said, shoulders tense against the market throng.

  The vendor pocketed the rubles, scooping resistors into a paper bag with nicotine-stained thumbs.

  “When she debugs,” Azamat folded his receipt precisely, “mapping flow without tracing… It's…” He trailed off, searching for the word.

  They slipped between kiosks into a service passage. Rust-flecked pipes wept onto the concrete, the narrow space offering momentary refuge.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “About Katerina_Z80,” Azamat began, his voice low, hesitant. “About… Katya.”

  Steel crept into Irina's gaze.

  “Т?ш?нб?й жатам,”—I am confused—a flicker of Kyrgyz escaped before he switched back. “The code comments, signed 'Katerina.' But her father…” He tapped the resistor bag nervously. “He used a different name. A man's name.”

  “Careful, Azamat,” Irina warned, her Dublin accent sharpening.

  The bag crinkled in his grip. “The mind behind that code—Katerina. That's who I respect. But who… who am I working with?” Uncertainty, not accusation, lined his face.

  Dima’s hands, scarred from years of soldering, went still. His eyes met Irina's, a flicker of recognition dawning. He worried the wool of his Zenith scarf. “Strange thing… Minister Volkov was on Channel One last week. Kremlin ceremony.” He frowned, wrestling with the memory. “He presented his heir. Looked nothing like…” He trailed off, perplexed.

  “The timing sequences… Unbelievable. Pre-emptive multitasking on a Z80!” Technical awe warred with confusion. “But why would someone…?” He stopped, catching Irina's look. “There’s something we don't understand, isn't there?”

  Irina steered them towards a stall stacked high with bootleg CD-ROMs, the vendors' overlapping shouts providing cover. She leaned against the display, scanning the crowd.

  “Right,” she began, keeping her voice low. “We're talking about someone who isn't here. I don't like it. But better we clear the air now than make things awkward for her later.” She met their eyes. “You both respect the work. Her skill. That's what matters, yeah?” A nearby guard strolled past. Irina waited until he moved on. “Ask what you need to. Then we drop it and get back to the project. Katya wouldn't want us dissecting her life.”

  She led them further into the maze, the noise swallowing their words.

  She monitored movements between the stalls. “The medical books label it transsexualism. Form F64.0.”

  Azamat's brow knitted as he absorbed the information, the effort evident on his face.

  “Look,” she said, splashing through a puddle. “This isn't some new Western import. People like Katya… they've always been here. Just… hidden.” She scanned the surrounding stalls. “The person you met, the one who writes that incredible code? That's Katya. Katerina.”

  “But born…?” Dima began, faltering.

  “Born in a body that doesn't fit who she is inside,” Irina said simply. “She is the woman who writes that code.”

  They reached a grimy corner masked by a vendor shouting prices for pirated software.

  Azamat’s eyes widened slightly. “Is that why the code… it's like she sees two layers at once? Parallel processing?”

  A ghost of a smile touched Irina’s lips. Trust Azamat to find a technical metaphor. “Her talent is her own, Azamat. Like your skill finding parts isn't about being Kyrgyz.”

  Dima studied the scuffed toes of his boots. “But the minister… on TV… called her his son.”

  “A mask,” Irina said quietly, glancing around. “For survival. You know this city. What happens if you don't fit?”

  They walked past knock-off phone fascias, crunching over discarded plastic. Silence hung between them.

  “Back in Dublin,” Irina's voice softened, her accent thickening slightly, “at Trinity… ways existed. People who understood. Here…” She gestured vaguely at the oppressive grey sky visible through gaps in the tarpaulin. “Here, it's shadows.”

  “The graph paper,” Dima said suddenly. “Is that why? So she can hide the code if he walks in?”

  “Partly,” Irina confirmed. “Her life is… compartmentalized. Katerina exists in the code, on LiveJournal, with us. Elsewhere…”

  “She pretends.” Azamat shifted his bag strap. He nodded slowly. “Like me with my accent sometimes. But… gods, a thousand times harder.” His own adjustments felt trivial now.

  “A thousand times,” Irina echoed.

  “So… changes? Doctors?” Dima asked, flushing slightly. “Sorry, is that… invasive?”

  Irina met his gaze. “Think, Dima. The risks. Doctors willing to help? They risk everything. And her? With his connections?” She leaned closer. “One rumour… she loses it all. Family, position, safety.”

  Azamat let out a slow breath. “The stakes…”

  “Exactly,” Irina said. “Dangerous doesn't begin to cover it.”

  The market noise seemed distant now, despite the surrounding chaos.

  “The comments,” Dima mused. “Always 'Katerina.' I just thought it was a handle.”

  “It's her name,” Irina stated. “The one she chose.”

  Azamat nodded, resolve settling on his features. “Then Katerina she is. The Z80 genius.” He checked his watch. “Right. Eight minutes until the American's shipment arrives. Let's get into position.”

  As they navigated deeper into the Western block, Dima cleared his throat awkwardly.

  “That memory manager… never seen code like it. That’s what matters.”

  Irina offered a faint, understanding smile. Trust Dima.

  Azamat turned sideways, his gaze distant for a moment. “My grandmother… she told stories. People who lived between worlds. Between genders. Thought to see things others couldn't. Respected. Sometimes.”

  Irina let out a short, sharp breath. “Doesn’t stop the bastards in charge deciding who’s who, does it?”

  “Code works,” Dima repeated, his focus narrowed. “Or it doesn’t.”

  Azamat gave a slight nod. The brief exchange hung in the air, settling between them like the persistent drizzle that had begun anew, drumming a metallic rhythm on the stall roofs above.

  Azamat halted. His hand clamped onto Dima’s arm, arresting their movement.

  “On the right—fesbeshniki.”

  Two men in cheap leather jackets moved with unnatural purpose through the throng. Their close-cropped hair and vigilant expressions identified them as clearly as uniforms would have.

  They dispersed without a word. Irina drifted toward a display of bootleg Windows XP discs, modifying her posture to alter her silhouette. Dima turned to a component bin, feigning interest in a tray of Soviet-era resistors.

  Behind a pillar, Azamat pretended to study his purchase receipt whilst keeping the officers in his peripheral vision.

  The market's rhythm transformed with the approaching men. Conversations hushed. A woman selling pirated music tapes casually tucked her questionable inventory beneath a newspaper. The persistent haggling diminished to a murmur.

  Dima's calloused fingers, normally so precise, fumbled through electronic components, accidentally dropping one against the metal tray with a soft clink. He grabbed another piece, nearly toppling the entire display. His gaze flitted between the officers and the circuit board he now held upside down. A bead of sweat traced a path down his forehead. He shifted his stance, adopting an uncharacteristic slouch, but the stall owner eyed him with sudden suspicion.

  Three stalls away, Irina flipped through CD jewel cases with a cultivated nonchalance, shoulders angled to keep the officers in view. Her jaw tightened when one stopped to interrogate a Kazakh trader. She recalculated potential exits through the labyrinthine market while maintaining her casual browsing.

  Rainwater dripped steadily from a rusted support beam. Azamat held his breath as the officers passed within metres. The taller one’s gaze swept over him, lingered for a fraction of a second, then moved on. Azamat released the breath slowly, his face impassive, the receipt now creased into a tight wad in his fist.

  A heavy quiet followed the officers as they continued their deliberate progress toward the Western block.

  Only when they disappeared around a corner did Azamat straighten. He smoothed the receipt and tucked it away. Emerging from his hiding place, he caught Dima's attention across the aisle. A sharp, definitive nod—the gesture of a man who'd crossed some internal threshold—signaled his readiness.

  Dima replaced the circuit board carefully, his usual composure restored. He stood taller, relaxing his shoulders as he headed toward the rendezvous point.

  Irina stepped out from behind a rack of cables, her sharp eyes scanning the path for any remaining threat. She rejoined them, her stride confident, chin tilted slightly upwards.

  “The Americans will be setting up now,” she said simply.

  They fell into step, moving towards their objective, the earlier tension replaced by the familiar language of voltages, pinouts, and the merits of competing 3Dfx rendering pipelines.

  Wisps of steam curled from three chipped teacups while the vendor sluiced boiling water across loose leaves. Azamat pressed a few small coins into the vendor's palm, concluding their triumphant morning at Gorbushka. The Voodoo card, swaddled in anti-static film and tucked into Dima's backpack, crowned their greatest acquisition.

  “Forty nanoseconds,” Dima muttered into his tea. “Memory timing makes or breaks it.”

  Rain drummed against the corrugated metal awning above them, carving out an acoustic pocket for their discussion. Beyond their shelter, Gorbushka pulsed with life—vendors barking prices, customers bargaining, bootleg CDs slipping between hands.

  “The throughput problem,” Dima mused, unfolding a sheet of graph paper. “If we push the Z80 to twelve megahertz from ten, then add Katya's preemptive task scheduler—”

  “The Pentagon would melt,” Azamat interjected, grinning. “Unless…”

  “Unless we use my cooling mod,” Irina cut in. “A Pentium II heat sink fits perfectly.”

  Dima blew ripples across his tea, his perpetual scowl softening momentarily. “Like pieces of the same machine, aren't we? My circuits—” he nodded toward Azamat, “—your black market miracles, Irina's architecture…”

  “Katya's assembly wizardry, and Vitya's algorithmic virtuosity,” Azamat added, raising his chipped cup. “Four parts, one machine.”

  Irina clinked her cup against his. “Different methods, one vision.”

  “Back home we speak of mountain climbers,” Azamat said, his accent deepening. “Many paths scale the slope, yet all eyes fix upon the peak.”

  They drained their cups in peaceful quiet, the earlier conversation about Katya settling into place—through shared purpose rather than complete understanding—through code, circuits, and creation.

  Dima shifted his backpack, the Voodoo card's weight pressing against his spine. “Workshop on Tuesday evening? Vitya and Katya will want to inspect our prize.”

  Azamat's chin dipped in affirmation. “The Pentagon V3 Ultra tolerates no delay.”