Struggle. Prisoners of Darkness [Владимир Андерсон] (fb2) читать постранично

Vladimir Anderson Struggle. Prisoners of Darkness

Prologue

No one remembers the time when we were free anymore. Once upon a time, long ago, there was a war between us humans. We didn't know we'd have to face anyone else. We thought we'd conquered nature, split the atom, mastered space. And then they came… And all our equipment, all our "artificial minds" refused to work… not for us, but for anyone at all: they simply failed. All our achievements became nothing in an instant: missiles, computers, distribution systems, what's more… half of everything became junk. And the shuttles and satellites… who knows what happened to them. Maybe they fell into the ocean, or maybe they are still flying… in fact, nobody is interested in it now….

And all because of some crystal. None of the humans have ever seen it, of course, but the plagues (the very ones who consider themselves our masters) have always propagandized its power and greatness, claiming unimaginable size and intelligence Yes, it's alive. What's more, according to them, he's the one who told them to start the war, and then opened

the portal, after which he jammed all our electronics. Jesus, we're down to one firearm and a couple thousand tanks that survived World War III.

Some put their hope in KAZ (active protection complex; armored vehicle defense, which works on the principle of throwing metal balls in the direction of a flying shell), but it was so little, as well as forces, and the enemies were so many that. God, why did we fight each other?

There's what's left

Why the plagues needed us is quite clear — raw materials, material and labor. Now they pump our oil, our gas and coal, and everything else is also ours and only by ourselves. Here we are slaves and have no rights, that is, not that to our oil or gas, but to ourselves and our children. And how many of us are left? I don't know. maybe a third or a quarter of a

billion. Who cares, as long as there is enough for production?

People are finally equalized in rights. Nonsense, but that seems to be possible when there are no rights at all. When everyone has to work for the chums.

There are those who disagree with this — the Maquis (in honor of the once former rebels). They hide somewhere, they are few in number, but they attack, though rarely. We are all with them, but we see perfectly well that we can do nothing now.

After the conquest of the plague divided all several groupings by continents, and already there formed into several columns. The largest grouping is Eurasian. It consists of four columns: Iranian, Indian, Chinese and Slavic (in the last one everyone was shifted, so in some way it became as before).

Gavriil Zheleznov (for chums he is 643075A2) was the commander of the 381st working soma (in their language "soma" — slave). In the soma he was called no other way than "Gora". Sometimes even in a direct manner. The nickname was justified for a number of reasons: firstly, his orders were always given clearly and unambiguously, secondly, his decision, at least outwardly, could not be shaken by any arguments, thirdly, the very appearance (taller than two meters, heavier than a hundred kilograms, and his face face — a combination of wrinkles and folds, however, not tense muscles),

and, finally, most importantly, the permanence of his position. On this he became a legend. The thing is that it was impossible to hold the position of A (commander, which is written at the end of the serial number) for fifteen years: in case of failure to fulfill the plan, the plagues killed, in case of fulfillment — the Maquis or those who cooperated with them, and such, for some reason, always found. But Gabriel did both with strikingly correct alternation. Some let him live because they thought he was sometimes capable of exceeding the plan. Others, on the contrary, hoped for purposeful "hackwork".

What remains to be noted is his "blood". His great-grandfather was in the war (the name of it his grandfather didn't want to tell his father), and his grandfather was in the war (no one gave it a name), and his father was in the war (no one saw the end of it). Despite such a list, the plagues were unaware of this. They were also unaware that people still have names and surnames, marry, though only in their minds, remember the past and their ancestors, believe in God and deep down cannot live without freedom. They were only interested in the result, and they considered the study of people unworthy of their power.

Work. Now it meant literally everything, and it all existed in the understanding of the plagues, how they would decide to feed and how much sleep they would allow.

A mine, a rig, a mine — all the habitats of an unwilling man.

The 381st catfish worked in a coal mine in Makeyevka, Donbass, along with the 420th, 647th and 253rd. It is impossible to explain what it is like to work in a coal mine, you can only feel it.

Thoughts of a free slave

March 25th, 2170.

Today, the 381st catfish got sorted and cleaned.

"So, did you get any sleep?" — Gavriil joked, approaching his deputy Konstantin Bogatoy (number 5396413B2; category "b" — deputies). The latter was glad to hear such a joke, because all the other jokes he had heard concerned his surname.

"You know… How I'd like to get into a fight with you," he replied doubly: plagues were killed on the spot for fighting, but it was an easy death.

"Should I take it in a positive light?"

"And only with her. All day long I think about death…"

"Good. Even great for the start of the work week. That we have a plan."

Konstantin opened his decrepit yellow-and-black (half charcoal, half clay) notebook and tried to read something. "Okay. If the 420s make it to 11-all and the 647s make it to 13-all, we'll have to clean all 24."

"Is there a deal on the 'exit'?"

"Output" was "left" cargo, which the plagues did not know about. That is, it was extracted, but it was not registered anywhere — it was given to "blacks" (in other words, "doomed" workers, who were put into separate pits with a small layer of coal and in three cases out of four were never taken out of there; only two of them were really saved).

"No," the deputy proclaimed.

"All right, I'll handle it myself. Keep an eye on things here. I'll be back in twelve minutes." "Got it."

Gora motioned toward the 2 way.

The sorting room was a large hall with a total area of 30000 square meters (100x300) and a height of 3 meters, so that the plague was easier to observe. In addition, there was electric (though weak) lighting in the form of bulbs covered by a thin grid. In spite of these "conveniences" it was the most difficult to work in the purification room: the plagues were too visible. Every time one looked at that gorged face breathing fresh air through the mask, listened to that disgusting laughter spewed by yellow throat and pale green snake tongue and realized that it would go on forever — it was a real torture.

Rounding the corner, the commander looked around the room — empty for now, just two chum booths on either side; Groups A and B wake up early for five minutes to study the plan.

Entering the "coal face hall" (the room where direct mining was done), two figures came into view: Dominik Brazik (number 572644A2) and Piotr Dożyk (number 323372B2). Their faces were not grim with the gravity of the task at hand, but they were squinting from sleep.

"What, didn't sleep?" — Gabriel greeted the miners. He liked to inspire the people with such remarks, arousing anger and rage in strictly limited quantities (and it didn't matter who it was poured out on, the main thing was that it would help them survive). Today, the plagues were only allowed to sleep for 4 hours, as opposed to the usual 8; generally speaking, this was the only thing humans were lucky with — the plagues needed 16 hours of sleep, and they thought it was similar to humans, so they cut it down to 8.

"Sleeping. — whispered Dominic to the approaching commander, "Those bastards got in the way. Don't know what's causing all these surprises today?"

"It's not hard to understand," said the deputy. — They've got their hands full."

"Two boots to a pair. How lucky they are to work together. — thought Gora. — Even their eyes are the same… Dark blue with spark and hate. How come they haven't been caught yet?"

"What do you think Gora?" "What can I say… Assholes…" Everyone laughed in unison.

"From words to action. — Gabriel continued. — Here's a question…"

Their foreheads tensed, their eyes