Struggle: The Path to Power [Владимир Андерсон] (fb2) читать онлайн

Vladimir Anderson Struggle: The Path to Power

Prologue

It's evening. It was getting dark, and it was time to go to bed. Masha was given a spacious room with three windows, two large oak cabinets against the wall, and a bed.

The girl was left alone, saying "Good night". It became so unclear to her what to do now that she was even a little afraid: her conscience would not allow her to disturb these kind people, and she did not know what to do.

First of all, what is a bed? Grandma took so much care in laying it all out: the sheet, the duvet cover, the pillowcases… What is all this? Can't you just lie down and cover yourself with a blanket? Put your hand under your head and sleep… Why climb on something? What's the pillow for? That's not what everyone in the mine is used to. And it's more comfortable this way.

The hosts had already gone to bed. Time was running out.

Masha never took off her clothes before going to bed, like everyone else at the mine, but now is different. It was all so clean, and her light jeans were half in the ground and no longer light at all, her gray jacket was wet, and she didn't want to get it all dirty with what Maria Sergeevna had obviously washed for so long.

Carefully placing her clothes on the dresser, Masha lay down on the bed and covered herself with a blanket.

Nice and easy.

"These people are right. It's much better to sleep this way," Masha thought.

That dim and mortal moonlight. It was carried all over the room, and in every corner it reflected a plague. The girl remembered her husband again. The vile yellow images of his dead body hovered before her eyes. How he had stopped breathing, and she had been left alone, without him.

And there's nothing you can do about it!

"Jesus. — Masha covered her eyes with her palms. — How can I live without him? Why did you take him and leave me…? I want to go to him. I can't live without him… Lord, why did you take him away?"

"I'm always with you. — it was that inner voice in the middle of my chest. — Mash, I'm always with you."

And neither the moonlight reflecting the plagues in every corner, nor this high bed with white sheets-nothing could suppress that voice. He spoke to Masha for half a minute, or half an hour, or half a night, and it seemed to her that it was an eternity. That it was the same eternity that could never end. Because in these moments he was beside her, and he was a part of her… Just like that dream, which gathered all her tiredness of the previous days and took her to itself until the morning.

Prefect

Weeks had passed since Maria's escape from the Disa sector, then another, then a month…

Life was different, different for everyone.

Gavriil Zheleznov decides who will work at which site. Gavriil Zheleznov decides how much is extracted per day. Who and how to punish and reward decides Gavriil Zheleznov.

The only direction from the chums is the monthly plan.

Now nothing happens in the whole group without the knowledge of the Mountain. The only two sectors that remained under the control of the chums: 2nd and 5th (the guards rested in the fifth sector, and the access to it was from the corridor connecting the purification room with the loading room — this area was closed off for the night).

Moreover, Gora had a separate office at the exit from the purification room to Sector 1. Even though he was rarely there, the fact of having a room for the prefect of the group was important, which, by the way, had a file cabinet with reports on all the advantages and disadvantages of mining with different tools in different conditions: to tell the truth, everyone knew it by heart and without any reports.

On April 27th, the prefect appointed his former soma to the cleaning sector. His place was by this time occupied by Kostya Rich.

Immediately after the instructions were given, Gora would retire to his office behind his oak desk and chair. This was a special maneuver: everyone had to think over their task and come back for explanations, if they needed them, and if they didn't need them, then get to work. But do everything quickly, or else Hora himself would appear with his iron dictatorial voice.

Sitting down in his chair, the prefect froze. Every day, for him, those few minutes of waiting were incredibly long. He was even thinking of abandoning the whole "big boss" and "unshakeable tyrant" strategy. The waiting was getting harder and harder with each passing second: he saw his dead son everywhere and how dozens of trains carrying tons of coal were passing exactly where he was buried. The constant bad thought that he could have found a much better place than that.

This time it was Volin who entered the room; his position as deputy allowed the maximum possible. And he was darker than a cloud, and with good reason. How long had it been since he'd seen his child?

"Gavi, will you explain to me what's going on?" — he said even a little too calmly for his condition. The question had been on his tongue for a month, and now it came out like this.

"Sit down," was the only correct answer now: start telling him anything at once and he wouldn't stand for it.

Volin sank down in his chair, staring at the wall to his left. His face showed no resentment or anger: it was just scolding itself for the fifth week in a row, which made it lose its expressionit was painfully tired.

"Let's deal with this in order…" — Gora felt that something harsh should happen after these words, but nothing of the sort happened: the man simply shook his head and sullenly agreed. — Masha had to get to Razdolnoye. Right?

— So

— There were poppies waiting for her. Until April 10th. Right?

— Well, well, well. But there's nothing.

— The group that was supposed to meet her was ambushed before reaching the rendezvous point 26 kilometers away. There were two survivors. They turned back. The next group was sent later and arrived on April 8.

Volin listened to the whole story and could barely hold himself together: the Maquis had failed to meet his daughter, and he already hated them: "Gavi, you understand me… I have no one but her. And now I don't have her either… You…"

— I didn't finish. She was never seen, that's true. And there was no trace of her anywhere in the vicinity. But. You realize that at any other time no one would have taken this seriously, but one of the Maquis saw a girl, tall, long blond hair. You know there aren't many of those out there….

— Where?! Where have you seen her? — Volin jumped up so that the chair flew back against the door like a deflated chair.

Gora smiled, albeit a little fake: "It's all right. It's okay… That rebel didn't remember the exact location. It was on the other side of the river. Not for long at all." — Where? What river? Don't drag it out!

— Kalmius. Where it was supposed to be… It was near the town of Novy Svet… Don't worry. Ask Tikhomirov, he'll tell you everything. Who better than him to know such things?

Volin's face twisted in an unknown direction. Creases popped up on his forehead, stretched by old wrinkles. These wrinkles had been going on for a month now, and here they cracked. The miner began to slump down and, unable to find a chair, sat straight down on the ground — he felt no better and didn't know what to do next. All these messages only added to the heaviness of his soul, and with time he stopped feeling both time and the surrounding reality.

Nikolai Lesin burst into the room without knocking: "Gavriil Vladimirovich, there's a mess going on in there!" His face was filled with something unnatural, something that had never occurred before.

"You should get some rest. — Said Hora, standing up from the table and picking up a chair lying by the door. — Just sit for a while. Don't do anything."

Coming out of his office, the prefect immediately realized what the matter was: two miners, right in his soma, were fighting with each other.

The prefect understood this situation, but Gavriil Vladimirovich didn't get it at once — his mind was going through some hitherto unknown thought processes: "Two miners got into a fight… They are both miners. They share the same fate. Shoulder to shoulder. And they fight. Fighting is a way of showing dislike, hatred, maybe attempted murder, loss of self-control…

Hate. Murder. Emotion."

One miner beats up another. When did that happen?

Nearly two hundred people, including Rich, were watching all of this, and no one had a thought to do anything about it.

No one could believe it.

The oldest man still living underground, miner Nikolai Pavlovich Krasnenko, thought he was suffering from marasmus. He thought that by the time he was eighty-two years old, it was time for his mind to move. And to this he was presented with strong evidence … That he himself has ever even thought of the fact that you can hit his comrade … Yes never. Never even a thought. Getting mad at someone, yes. An argument, yes. But not hitting. The plagues do that for us. But to hit a fellow man. Never. How can you do that? We're shoulder to shoulder. You can't survive here without each other. We're all family here! No, such things just don't make sense. "Young people? No. What youth? We didn't do that when we were their age," thought Galina Borisovna. It seemed to her that all this was some ridiculous coincidence that these two had misunderstood something about the relations between everyone at the mine, about the fact that here one individual person does not represent anything without the rest of the collective.

And in spite of all the excuses for their stupidity, she still felt sorry for them.

The thoughts of all the miners went around these two words: stupidity and pity.

Gora moved toward the fighting men. They were fifteen meters away, and when it became ten, they both spotted the approaching man. Immediately they separated and froze in their places.

Gora didn't even think about what was going on; he walked over and cracked one of them so hard that his head flew back a few meters and he fell to the ground. The other didn't move, for fear of doing something worse. A broad, sweeping blow knocked him aside. Both were now lying on the ground, barely moving or breathing.

Kirill Stolov stood aside, not even blinking. He had seen Pinishchev executed once before, and he knew perfectly well that he himself could have been in his place. That incident had been enough for him for the rest of his life, and now he wanted it all to be over and the work to go on.

Gora spotted the one he needed and beckoned to him with his hand. It was Stolov. His eyes fell open in fear and froze at their last point. His legs slowly swung forward.

"For the first time they will live," said the Mountain to the one who feared him most. — But the next time will be the last." His voice was quiet enough that no one but Stolov could hear it, but as soon as he was gone, every word he said would be known to everyone. And Stolov would tell it all so that no one would ever think of doing anything like that again.

Zhivenko

The city of Kremenchug. It is quite warm and the snow is almost melted. Spring is almost here.

Victor Khmelnitsky and his "Squad 14" moved here for a while.

A house among the houses, as wooden as all the others. Inside, an unheated stove and Misha Zhivenko at the table. His eyes darkened and his head drooped, but his hands did not drop.

His thoughts are slow and anxious. For a month now he had been blaming himself for letting Sasha go alone, for letting his horse twist his leg, for giving him a chance to change everything.

The commander of the Nikopol group wrote him a letter personally. He had read it so many times that he had learned it by heart: "My friend! I cannot write officially, because this is an unofficial letter. It contains neither secret information nor instructions for action. It is only to help us in these difficult times.

I am sure that you, like me, have seen our comrades die and give their lives for the sake of victory. You and I have lost many friends and family members. And there is nothing we can do about it. We can only endure and continue what they died for and what we may have to die for.

This is our destiny, and we have no choice but to follow it.

We all think that way and strive to do what we have to do at all costs. But there are moments that push us forward even harder, that make us believe in victory. That's heroism.

More than once I have seen it on and off the battlefield, and each instance I will never forget.

That morning was unusually beautiful and sunny. The ancients believed that the beautiful days of the Earth should be beautiful for man as well… I stood on the porch then and felt that this was that beautiful day.

Two of them were returning from the patrol, but soon I saw a third with them. It was Sasha. At first I thought he was all right. He got off his horse easily and came toward me. But then I noticed that his fingers weren't moving, they were blue and dead. I don't know how, but he pulled something out of his jacket with them. It was a letter. And then he collapsed on his back and never regained consciousness. I didn't even get to hear his last words. Then I remembered his eyes well… I didn't immediately realize what their expression meant. They were calm and contented. I had never seen such eyes in the dead.

Only the next day it became clear to me why he looked at the sky like that for the last time. He didn't need anything else, he wanted to die.

Then we found his footprints. In the snowy steppe. I can't describe how I felt then… Those footprints went into infinity. I can't imagine what it must have taken for him to walk all that way.

I couldn't help but write you this letter, I had to at least tell someone about our friend's courage.

Heavenly kingdom to him!

Your eternal friend, friend of Sasha Rucheyov."

Quite some time had passed since that incident. Misha had been promoted to captain and had recently been in charge of three officers and a platoon: Max Rozhkov, Grisha Listov and Kostya Metsov.

There was a light knock on the door, and Major Sergei Bolotnikov came in. He looked quite satisfied, though he didn't say anything, but still reassuring.

"And today is a good day…," he said cheerfully, rattling his boots on the creaking floor. This is a typical Soviet officer: neat, but not dressed up as for a parade, with apparent adherence to the rule "A healthy body has a healthy spirit" and without unnecessary forms of ostentation like a wide step a meter to the side.

"Yes." the captain answered him without raising his head. — Just like when Sanya died."

— You know, your insubordination is gonna get you to the edge someday. I'm okay with it, but you know how it is. It's not like we don't have it.

"You're right," Misha simply brushed it off now, not wanting to spin such a pointless conversation with only one ending in prospect.

— Come on, that's not why I'm here. I have good news for you. Don't ask me why it's so late, I won't tell you… A month ago they sent Sanya and you a letter. You've been going crazy about this story. I hope you'll feel better. The letter contained an order to mine the

Dnepropetrovsk-Donetsk road near the Volchya River. Thanks to Sana, they managed to do it in time. Five buras were ambushed. That's more than two hundred chums.

It really made me feel better: "Two hundred plagues. Well done, Sanya."

— On top of that, the river flooded the tunnel. It is not known when they fixed it and whether they fixed it at all, but they got it in the nuts, that's for sure.

Both postants smiled sarcastically.

"All right, Mish. We're on the right road to victory. — Bolotnikov deduced and made his favorite greeting sign — tapping his heels, soundly and decorously. — Bless you, my friend."

This rebel was quite encouraging to the man who had become miffed with himself, and he decided to walk through the camp.

When he went outside, Misha found the place full of people. Why did everyone come out like it was a holiday?

After walking past a few cabins and saying hello to a dozen wonderful and not so wonderful people, he came across someone he never would have wanted to see and wouldn't have approached, but that person wanted something, so she approached herself.

Captain Raniere. He's a real loudmouth. Every time something came up in conversation, he'd start an empty argument. Just about nothing. I don't know why, but on some genetic level he was trying to prove that his point of view was right and everything else was worthless. Not only that, but if there was no business to be done anywhere and no one called him, he would come in with completely useless questions and almost demand answers, especially from the lower ranks.

Having experienced this more than once, Misha prepared to open his mouth and send him away.

"Have you seen Kostya?" — Ranierov asked.

A rather odd question, and the answer was a negative nod of the head with a continued forward motion.

— You've heard of Wolfsbane, right?

Maybe we should give him a chance. At least this time he'll say something nice.

"I heard," Misha replied haltingly.

— They're all right, aren't they?

— Uh-huh. Probably just a little bit more and that's it…

— That's it?

— And we will win. — The voice came a little timidly, but from the heart.

At this Ranierov grinned: "Shall we win?! Ha! You're all fantasists here! You like to think about your feats. That's maximalism…"

There was neither strength nor sense in speaking further — Misha switched off his hearing and moved on. He kept shouting something, but it didn't matter: he'd had enough. Somewhere in the middle there was a pinch and an ache. It was the pain of resentment; it lodged somewhere in my stomach and pressed deep down. It's unclear where that depth is, and where it's allowed to press, but it's getting stronger and stronger, and it's not going to go away.

"Why did I talk to that man again. It's the same thing every time. And each time it gets harder. We say, 'We're dreamers.' We dream? "Maximalism." This stupid psychoanalytics; they invented words to explain unknown things and unknown why, and now they use it… We're trying our best, and they wipe their feet on us. If only they had found a place where it was still clean, they would have dirty the whole place… Doesn't someone like him have no one who died in the war, doesn't he want to continue and finish what whole generations laid down their heads for? Does he like to confuse others instead of doing what life obliges him to do? That's what we're all doing here — learning. To love, to fight, to overcome… well, we have to fight, so what if we can't cope? We have to cope. We must win!" — this was going through his brain in waves, and despite all his convictions, the pain did not subside.

Grisha, one of his subordinates, sat on a bench near his porch and ate bread. It was stale and withered, but still real bread.

Seeing the commander, he jumped up and saluted in a military manner over his cap:

"Greetings, Comrade Captain."

"Sit down already, what's up," Misha didn't like all these honors, even though he understood perfectly well how important all these formalities were. But he especially hated formation training. When it came to the elementary techniques of formation step, he had no questions about the expediency of practicing them, but he had once read that the ancients gave it a certain delicate importance: they created special units that dealt only with this, organized special performances. What kind of nonsense is that? It's an army. Let them learn to shoot and hide. And to lie still with their eyes wide open. It will save their lives… They won't defeat the enemy with their antics with prehistoric rifles.

"Grish, tell me, what are we doing here?" — Misha asked, sitting down next to him on the steps.

Thoth apparently thought he was being tested for ideological suitability and replied along the lines of, "We are fighting for freedom, our cultural heritage, and we…"

— Give up the propaganda. We are Unit 14, not the KPM (Makah Propaganda Committee; its task was to agitate the people working for the chumas, including calling for rebellion). You tell me what you think."

"Я?… Sorry, I don't know, Comrade Captain. — During this answer Misha made such a face that one could think he was talking to a person who was completely distant from everything that was going on. — Honestly, I ran away from the factory, because I was afraid that next time I could not stand it, when the plagues begin to throw up the volume of smelting, and scream. We rarely met the norm, after all. I wouldn't have been able to withstand a couple more blows".

It was dangerous for someone like him to continue his revelations — almost all his gestures showed that he was ashamed of something he wanted to tell, but couldn't. Misha interrupted because it wasn't the first time he'd seen it. He knew that this was what his subordinate wanted to reveal, and that it would be better if he did it without coercion.

The rebel wandered back through the camp, replaying what Ranierov had told him in his head as if it would never come out and be forgotten.

Natalya Koshkina, a senior lieutenant from the sanitation department, ran into him. She was only twenty-five years old, but she was a good judge of character. One glance was enough for her to realize that help was needed: "Mish, why are you so glum?"

When she said such phrases, adding her marvelous facial expression, the mood lifted by itself. Not everyone in the group liked her, but she held no grudges and always tried to be supportive when she needed it. It seemed alien to her not to help because of an unfulfilled relationship. "Even if there were no war now," she said to those who didn't quite understand her.

— we wouldn't survive without each other. We're here to help others."

Though Misha didn't like her position entirely — "Really, how can you help, for example, Ranierov?". He respected her and could never even afford to argue with her.

— It's nothing, it's nothing.

— You didn't have lunch, did you?

— No, I didn't have lunch.

— Then I, uh.

— No, no, Natasha, don't. You don't have anything to eat.

— Do I have to talk you into it? — she asked sincerely and a little resentfully.

— Natash, I really don't want to — Misha hasn't eaten anything in almost 24 hours, but "taking" food from anyone, much less her, would be a crime.

— Stop it. I know you haven't eaten anything.

— Oh, come on. It's no big deal.

— You haven't eaten, and I'm missing a whole pot of soup. Let's go!

— Uh, I, uh.

After that she was tired of arguing and persuading this altruist, and she took him by the hand and dragged him to her house.

The Maquis changed their location at least once a week, and it was rare for anyone to set up a place to live while in any neighborhood. This was in no way true of Koshkina.

Entering her house Misha didn't understand what was going on: everything was so wellgroomed and cozy. And the most interesting thing was that it was impossible to say why. Maybe because of the towel with the image of a tiger hanging on the wall, maybe because of the tablecloth with roses and big, the size of a fist, ladybugs on the table, and maybe just a rag for shoes at the entrance. A lot of these wonderful little things can't be called luxury in any way — it's more like the humanity of the soul, that's all.

Natasha walked to the clay tile in the far corner of the room. Her movements were strikingly appealing to the eye. Her footsteps were soft and yet very confident. It was as if everything around her was coming to life.

Her military uniform didn't spoil her in the least: black full ankle boots, dark tights, visible only at the knees, and then a green skirt and the same tunic. Black hair in a thin braid in the back.

Seeing all the beauty around him, Misha stood only and cleaned his shoes to no end, not taking a step away from the door.

Turning around the hostess smiled, "So what's stuck in there?"

— I'm just

— Just get out of here.

And for good reason: in addition to everything else, the soup turned out to be exorbitantly delicious. Soup with cabbage and potatoes and everything. Just like the real thing. Just like they used to make it.

Natasha sat next to him, waiting for something. Maybe a compliment. Maybe something more. It was as if she didn't show it, but it was obvious she needed it. The warmth of the person next to her. That was what she wanted most of all right now.

And it was necessary first of all to add warmth to her heart. And then he noticed that he was not eating from an ordinary plate, not from an aluminum plate like everyone else's, but from a wooden plate painted with red paintings, as if the Old Slavonic traditions had been resurrected from nowhere.

— Natash, I didn't notice something right away… These are such beautiful plates.

Her mouth turned up in a smile, but it was obvious that it wasn't what she was expecting,

"Really? You like it? It's khokhloma."

"It's very pretty. Do you carry that with you?" — Misha realized at the same moment that he had asked a disastrously stupid and inappropriate question: during the Maquis crossings, they were allowed to take only the necessary things, but this was just an instruction — you can, take as much as you want, just don't dare to fall behind; it turned into a reproach.

"No, I found it here," Natasha responded so friendly to the question that the tension eased itself. Now he wouldn't have to feel like a stale censor.

Misha decided to smooth over his intemperance entirely, "It's a shame you don't wear them. They're wonderful plates." As soon as he said it out loud, he realized that he had said something nonsense. And he was so incomprehensible to himself that he blushed.

She seemed to like it. She turned her eyes playfully away, turned her head slightly to the side, and opened her mouth slightly: "Did you notice anything else?" She wanted to add, "The way I look at you," but a woman always expects that she doesn't have to say it herself, that a man should notice it himself.

It didn't get to Misha, "I guess not…"

— Mish, what will you do when the war is over?

The presence of the war had no effect on the relationship between the strong and beautiful halves of humanity: they loved, married, raised children… Natasha was a very beautiful girl, and many people tried to court her, but serious relationships did not work out, because she wanted first of all understanding from a man, and even somehow believed in fate. She looked at everyone and realized that she hadn't found the right one yet. Time did not stand still, at her age many people had already given birth and raised not even their first child, but she was still a girl.

And the whole point was that she didn't know what she wanted at all. On the one hand, she didn't want to be with just anyone, but on the other hand, she didn't know for herself what "not just anyone" meant to her. What should she compare it to? She'd never been with anyone, seriously. She'd slept with a few guys, but she hadn't really gotten any joy out of it, and then what? That was the "next thing" she didn't understand at all. All guys had the same thing in their heads, but there must be one who would understand her. Though at the same time again it should be understood that "all men are bastards"… But this is also stupidity: not all of them are bastards… I mean, well, there should be the one who… who… who… who what? Here this very stupid circle was closed again: what should her ideal guy be like? In order to understand what he should be like, she would have to be closer to him. And how to be closer if she wasn't sure…? She'd been puzzling over all of this for so many years now, as soon as she got her period. And during her period itself, she didn't realize what was happening to her at all. During this period her desires and at the same time her misunderstandings were growing at the same time. She wanted something and wanted it very much, but it was unclear what it was. It was such a strong feeling that sometimes it seemed to her that she did not need anyone at all. But just at the moment when she started to think in this way, her desire would change dramatically again, and she would want to find her only one again. And all this constant throwing to extremes led her to believe that it would never end at all. And if she could put an end to it, that would be half the problem, because when she saw Misha, her head started to think in a completely different way. She liked him, but she didn't know what to do about it. It seemed like she wanted to be with him, but maybe it would only last a couple months and then it would be over. And she was scared of breakups. She was terrified of it. That's why she didn't want to start anything. So she was always walking around, trying to wait for something from him, not realizing what it should be. And at the same time, when she began to think about him, she periodically wanted to see something "bastard" in him, or wanted to accept something unique and favorite.

The whole thing had run through her head hundreds, if not thousands, of times. In the end, she wanted to see him again, to wait for something from him that she didn't know. But she knew for sure that in doing so, he must be crazy about her. She didn't understand what kind of attitude she had towards the person she loved, when he had to be literally "captured", but she just couldn't do it without it. And she understood perfectly well that it was a kind of mockery of him, when she wanted to be with him, and he wanted to be with her, and they both knew it, but she acted as if she didn't quite understand him, as if she didn't understand what was really between them, and he was making a pitchfork that it was the right thing to do. It's almost an Amazonian approach: "I love you, but I'll torture you", and yet again it's unclear why. On the one hand, she wanted to "test" him: if he would tolerate it, then he loved her; on the other hand, she wanted to know how much he should tolerate it, so that it was really considered to be a test, because it always seemed that "it wasn't enough" and "we should see more". But even this was not enough for her thinking, because when she began to think again about what she wanted "as if at all", she again realized even more what she wanted, and then she began to think about Misha again, and that she really loved him. In general, she tried not to use the word "love" in her thoughts, as it seemed to her that it would be a wrong expression of her state, but nevertheless it sometimes slipped in, and exactly when she was thinking about him. And on the one hand she liked it very much that it slipped through, it even made her feel better, but on the other hand… on the other hand… she started to be drawn back to that stupid "other" side… but the further the word "love" sounded more and more often, and she began to realize that one fine moment she would say to herself the answer to the question "With him?" the word "Yes".

The situation with Misha was similar. Lately, he knew what he wanted. He had enough girls, and each of them didn't understand him, didn't want to understand him, and couldn't do it.

It drove him crazy, and that's why all the breakups.

So at the moment his greatest desire was to act more carefully, if only to avoid bringing the matter to a scandal.

Natasha didn't want to be hurt, but he couldn't answer the question: victory was not around the corner, but over an entire ocean.

"Well, I don't know. — I didn't have to make it up here. — I'd go on a bender. Go on vacation… Get married…"

— Is it all connected? Is it just one thing at a time? Or do you have to pick one?

If earlier in the figurative expression Misha stood in the swamp up to his ankles, now up to his shoulders: now, what to answer. He would want to go on a bender after all this. And even now he wouldn't mind such a thing, if only he had something to do.

— Shit, Natasha, I don't know! What makes you think I'll even live?

— I'm just saying. I'm just asking. On a binge, on a binge.

A second of silence crawled through the room like a snail.

— I'm sorry, Natasha, I didn't mean to…. — It's nothing, I was just asking.

I… I'm sorry, Natasha… I'm really sorry. — Misha began to think that it was time to apologize thoroughly, because at least while he was doing it, he would at least postpone the awkwardness, which for the last minute had settled in his throat and began to make all words hoarse, except those that asked for something.

And Natasha noticed it well. Now she could see that she had almost completely finished this guy, and that if things continued in the same way, he would just give up on her — it was too hard for him to play such games. Now it was time to take things to another level.

On the table between them was a plate empty of soup, a good excuse to sneak up on her darling unnoticed. Natasha stood up from the table with the words "I'll put the plate away", walked around to his side and reached out her hand to the plate, stopped, and then slowly moved her lips to his. Generally there's some difference between those actions that one does "just for something" and those that one does because one is "drawn to do them" or maybe "it's bad to wait to do them". Such actions are somehow differently done: and the brain somehow seems not quite in control of them, and the colors change in the eyes, and even the air becomes different. All of this was happening to Natasha now, as her lips moved to his, and it seemed to her that she could feel nothing else but his lips.

Metropolitan

Triangular darkroom. A triangular dark table. A Black Stone pattern on each of the three walls. The surroundings are dark and there is no room to breathe.

There are two dark figures on each side of the table — six in total. Each is wearing a black robe with a hood and a white fang on his back. This is the religious council of the Empire, the Sacred Seim.

Religion of plagues on the sacred book "Zhakh". In its essence it was no different from the philosophy of the concept of humanity of the "Axial Time". But a number of generations of the holy church rewrote it, making changes in its favor and to strengthen the spiritual power. Earlier, even before the appearance of "Zhakh", polytheism was accepted in the plague state, and the church, as an independent organization, did not exist. All rites and rituals were performed by the priests of temples, who were not related to each other.

After the emergence of the Zhakh, the church also appeared: all the temples were united under one umbrella. Since then, the spiritual authority increased its pressure on public life and state affairs many times over. Any significant issue could be solved only with the assistance of the high priest and the Holy Sejm.

Twelve years ago the Holy Sejm approved the decree of the high priest-patriarch SilanZhakh. It dictated the infallible authority of the head of the Church of Plague (Nevrokh, the High Priest), his exclusive rightfulness as heir to the teachings of the Zhakh, and the sole interpreter of the will of the Black Stone.

This meant increased influence over all events, both church and non-church, to destroy witches and sorcerers and to counter heresy. This branch had wide powers in judicial proceedings conducted by the middle priests. After the Silan Jah, the Secular Sejm ceased to be secular, and the active branch of the Inquisition received a new breath of air, gaining the right to investigate heresy and witchcraft, while removing the state apparatus. This was the new principle of the law of the Grand Inquisitor Torquedoch.

Subject to trial:

Perpetrators of false notions about the holy church

Those guilty of practicing witchcraft and divination

Anyone who has been excommunicated and has not sought reconciliation

The harborers and intercessors of heretics

Those who resisted the decrees of the Inquisition

Lawyers, notaries and jurists who defended heretics

Anyone who refused to take the oath required by the Inquisition

Anyone who has died in open and alleged hereticism

Anyone touched with heresy by word, deed, or composition.

What atrocities they did to scrape out the "truth", some absolutely sophisticated steel hooks and claws, wires, bayonets — about 60 items in all. And since each accused belonged to any of the 6 categories, only things of his category could be applied to him.

Each item or method could only be used for 6 minutes — although this article was often ignored, explaining that something was used incorrectly or not completely. There was even an unspoken competition among the executioners for mastery of the various tools and the ability to make the "guilty" consent with a particular item.

By the way, the whole system was based on consent. The Church did not need to kill someone and thereby make a martyr out of him, even though he was a heretic. They wanted him to live. Of course, first admitting his guilt and repenting, but living. Because this life then was an additional testimony not only to the rightness of the Church, but also to its eternity in the life of the plagues.

Hierarchical system of division of the whole organization of the Church according to the system of 360 degrees — 60 for each priest-metropolitan. Here everyone tried to excel, but as a rule the first and sixth had the worst results. Their field included checking for heresy among the employees of the state apparatus. What was the "inconvenience" of the provisions: the secular authorities, the army and the SChK took care of their employees. Almost no one was caught for "witchcraft" there, and in the case of heresy one could recant without being tortured and in frequent cases, with the mediation of big bosses, not to suffer too much.

The quality of the work of lower ranking priests in high and critical hazard areas was put up for discussion today.

The topic of the meeting was announced by Uginoch, in charge of Sector 180 (the "hard labor" sector, as it was called by all those who stood behind the backs of the priests and saw the price of the Inquisition; under its watch was everyone whose condition was rated below normal, which was more than two-thirds of the entire Empire): "High Priest-Patriarch Nevroch, direct successor to Grand Inquisitor Torquedoch has expressed his concern in the affairs of the Church in the conquered territories. The Church has weakened in those areas, and there is no sign of a possible increase in its importance. High Priest Nevroch requests that action be taken."

Most of the priests believed in the necessity of the Holy Inquisition, and regarded it as the mainstay of the justified supremacy of the Church. Posing the question from the side of the threat of weakening influence pressed on ambition as much as on principle.

The conquered territories themselves were mostly government employees, so in this case the Inquisition of the State Apparatus of Shiroh (60th degree) and Samoh (360th degree) had the most workload.

"I tried to send six inquisitors to the Indian Colony. — Metropolitan Priest Katoch (300th degree) stated. — But the broz only authorized two. How can I destroy heresy when even the local authorities prevent me from doing so?"

"Our phase is running at full capacity, but most of the suspects have connections at the top. They are being taken into protective custody and we can't put them on trial," Shiroh had nothing more to say. He knew he would soon be replaced by another.

There began a verbal attack on everything and everyone in attendance.

We're being obstructed by the BCC. We demand the introduction of a special investigation. The inspections should be carried out with great intensity and scope.

— I believe that the level of corruption in their ranks has reached a dangerous level. We need to act covertly.

— I suggest using an unspoken resource.

— Seconded. — Me, too.

— Seconded.

— Utilizing an unspoken resource is a good time.

— So, I'll give the High Priest a suggestion for the use of an unspoken resource. — summarized Uginoch. — And I recommend you, Metropolitan Priest Shiroh, to personally go to the troubled territories and follow the process of the Inquisition. No local official will be able to refuse you a visit.

Shiroh tried to nod understandingly and even say something in conclusion, but he didn't have the energy to do so. The only thing he was thinking about was what would help him keep his place.

***

A wide gray stone. Dust and dim light all around. And turns that don't end.

This is the way to the cells of the Inquisition, where suspects, convicts, and anyone else who had anything to do with breaking the rules of Silan Zhah await their time.

Tomorous senseless footsteps and the same face. This is Metropolitan Priest Guzoh

(120th degree) of the Sacred Seim. In his phase, the Inquisition dealt with the middle ranks of the Empire — laborers mostly. Strangely enough, heretics and sorcerers were the least among them in percentage terms. This consequence came primarily from the fact that the peculiarities of their labor did not allow for a "week of repentance".

"Penitential Week" was a period declared after the arrival of the inquisitor, for voluntary confession of heresy. During it, informers also came forward, pointing out a particular plague. The informer had two options: repentance and accusation. More often the first option was chosen, because in case the plague was acquitted (and this could happen if he had connections, including with the church, for example, if he himself had previously successfully denounced), the denouncer himself was subjected to investigation.

Guzoh had moved closer to the cameras and could now hear the moans coming from there. The large number of turns was necessary for this very reason — to drown out the sound.

A black-robed guard, impressive even for a plague, stood at the entrance. His eyes were devoid of anything that could be called emotion, and his ears no longer discriminated between painful cries and the sound of footsteps; to him, everything was the same and differed only in volume. He bowed slowly and dryly.

Behind him were two rows of cells, where they sat long and hard before what they were about to undergo. After that was the torture chamber itself.

No one looked at the one who entered that room — all three of them: the inquisitor, the suspect and the notary lived in "their" worlds.

The Inquisitor, an old plague Katankhr, had not been able to be in this room for a long time. The acrid stench all around, the same questions that not many answered at all and even fewer answered positively. But though he dreamed of being an inquisitor for the Week of Repentance, this job seemed just as important to him.

Suspect Tishinhr, a worker at the arms factory, realized that no matter what he did, the life he had before his denunciation would never be the same again. He didn't understand why plagues like him were allowed to say where the truth was and where it wasn't, why they called

themselves "saints" and why one had to agree with them. He believed in the Zhah, prayed every day, asking for strength from the Black Stone, and believed that it was up to the chum himself to do the work of faith. Tishinhr knew. That if he confessed, they would let him live, but he could not do that: he would be caught a second time and the result would be the same.

Notary Uninhr, a longtime law school graduate, saw the whole arrangement. If a suspect confessed, the least he could face was public shame followed by "forgiveness". The so-called "pardon" among the church bureaucracy consisted in the fact that on specified days, which were usually about a hundred a year, for three to seven years the plague was required to attend church and participate in special processions, seeking reconciliation with the ecclesiastical authority.

And if he doesn't confess, he will continue to be tortured and burned at the stake tomorrow.

The suspect was lifted up a meter, then released and caught near the ground. The ropes tied to his paws dug into his skin. Inside, everything jumped. Consciousness blurred. And began to feel a little nauseous.

Guzoh looked around: blackness and emptiness, the acrid smell of malice and fear, two torches illuminating the chamber so that only a few glints reflected in his eyes.

"And that's us, the Inquisition," Guzoch thought. — Only the devil is not afraid of us…"

Prefect

Many things have changed at the mine, including the way of eating. Within a month, a canteen with 50 seats was built. It had only been in operation for three days, and not everyone had time to get used to it; a table, a bench, a special room — it all looked not so much strange as questionable.

Nekrasova sat down in her usual place, in the middle of the room by the wall, and stared at her plate, where pasta and some chicken were floating in a yellowish broth.

Lena Bagrationova sat down next to her. She was also in a bad mood, but seeing the combination of muscle tension on Nastya's face, she thought that he was doing even worse.

"Nastya, what's wrong?" — Lena had a knack for getting the right demeanor at the right moments and pitching perfectly ordinary questions with the right tone. Now it was silly for her to be as sour as she really was.

"No, nothing," Nastya turned away slightly, and at the same time with that she confused all her sad thoughts, only her mood remained.

— I can see that. You're not wearing your face.

— You know, on you, too.

After these words Lena inwardly gathered herself definitively and put this result on her face — it turned out to be very good.

— Not really.

Nastya looked at her, wanting to check it out: lively eyes added by freckles, red hair tied in a braid — and indeed, there was a face.

— All right. You're wearing, uh.

— There you go!

— What am I seeing?

— That things aren't as bad as they seem.

— Yeah. It's worse than that.

— Oh, come on, man! As if punishing yourself with something will make anyone feel better.

Nastya turned away, "It's my fault." — In what?

They fought over me.

— I know.

— You know?

— Yeah. What's the big deal? They fought over you, but what could you do?

— I don't know. But since they're me.

— Nast, just because they both love you doesn't mean they will listen to you…..

— What if I did?

— How could there be a "suddenly"? Didn't you tell them that— Told you… But I really don't like them… Both of them.

— Here we go. What else did you tell them?

— That… no matter what they do, I can't love any of them. I told them that to each of them individually.

— So what are you blaming yourself for?

— I don't know…

She really didn't know what to blame herself for. And Lena didn't know, but she felt that if she were in her place, she'd blame herself just as much. It's part of life. And not everything in life is logical.

In the far corner sat the prefect and his deputy. Both were hoping for good things, but at the moment they could only wait, preparing for bad things to happen.

Kostya Rich approached their table, concerned and anxious, "Gavi, I…" "Have a seat," Horus interrupted him without raising his eyes.

Kostya sat down and clenched his hands under the table, "Gavi, I don't know how to say it. It's impossible! I can't imagine what it's about… I knew that their relationship wasn't okay, but to go to this extent…"

— It comes down to this.

— Gavi, I don't know.

— Are you so worried about what Stoloff said?

— Yes, Gavi. Honestly, yes.

— And you're not worried for nothing.

"Yes, not in vain," thought Kostya, looking at his heavy stony hands, "I know you had a son die. I'm sorry, but almost everyone here has had someone die. And one of the children died too… And I have one too… I only have my wife left. I don't want to…"

— Don't be crazy. Nothing's gonna happen to your wife. Look… I'll tell you right off the bat. I don't want to kill those two fools. But I know they'll fight again, and I'll have to do it… The power to control others is unexceptional. If they break the rule, they'll pay for it with their lives.

— Gavi, they're just still young…they don't know…I've talked to them…I don't understand what they have.

— They'll fight anyway…" said Gora and thought about what he had been thinking about last night, "People are most united when they are protecting something they can't survive without. Then they are together. Then they can only support each other.

There was a rumbling sound, and the lights worn in the surroundings flickered and fussed. And everyone rushed to the mining and slaughtering sector.

The ceilings next to the stratum were held up by wooden and steel beams more than two meters high. One of them collapsed, the other tilted. The earth fell on everyone's heads.

Keeping his face firm and composed, Hora entered the sector. There were already four people on one side of the beam, three on the other, and among those three, two of them were the ones who had recently fought. They stood shoulder to shoulder, pushing as hard as they could. Someone was setting up another one next to them. Some were holding the ones that hadn't fallen off yet, while the rest were watching for another row of footholds. Two catfish piled up here completely and two partially.

And the light was flickering, and the earth was falling, but only the commanders were shouting loud orders. This is the mystery of the miners' resilience. When there is no confidence in the possibility of survival, when there is not enough air and it is dark around, something that sits deep in the soul of those who "live" underground is triggered.

Discipline works. Everyone knows that their commander is experienced and wise, that he has lived many years and is still alive, which means that he feels the Motherland, which he will not part with. And if you want to survive, you have to listen to him, no matter what happens.

Faith works. This is a very ancient meaning, because "in the trenches everyone is a believer". Everyone believes that everything will work out, that they will be able to withstand, and if not, then thank God — they are exhausted and it is time to rest in paradise, having left this hell.

It's the spirit that works. It's a strong, free, miner's spirit. It moves both hands and feet, and it doesn't let your eyes blink from the dust. It sticks in your head and says one all-moving word: "Forward!".

Gora squeezed between all of them and pressed into the very center of the beam. He had to move it forward almost half a meter to get it upright and into place.

For a moment it seemed that everything was falling apart, that it was time for this land to take away half a thousand of its sons. But no — all as one, as a single gust of wind, tearing down everything in its path, as a mighty sea that wanted to take an island far away from the big land, as a long-dormant volcano spewing lava, as an 8848-meter mountain standing on both legs. This is power, and nature herself is happy to see her children inspired by it.

All moved forward, and the beam moved, and Nature smiled, proud of those who do not fail her and endure her trials.

Kostya stood next to Gora, out of breath. His face was badly twisted from exertion, but happiness peeked out through the rest. His voice was quiet, but confident and satisfied: "Now they won't fight, my friend. Now they know what friendship means."

And then he remembered that Hora had gone out of the block that night, and before that he had ordered a change of posts in the mining sector. He'd been gone for hours, and he'd come back out of breath. And now his eyes looked special, as if no one could know what he now knew.

You couldn't mistake that look for anything else… Calculating, purposeful, intelligent….

Gora smiled slightly with the tips of his lips and, with a nod to Kostya, headed for the

exit of the sector.

Masha

It's been another half a month.

Today Masha got up earlier than her grandparents and sat down on the bench by the porch.

Everything was green in the neighborhood, and the sun was about to come out. There was a slight breeze, and for a moment it seemed that everything was fine and there was nothing to grieve about, but I didn't want to think so, because it wasn't.

She put her hand on her stomach, feeling what was left of her husband. She had thought many times about what to name the child, but they couldn't come to a single decision, she wanted him, Rafael, to like it.

"If it's a girl, it's Christina. — thought Masha. — He liked that name. But if it's a boy… He never told me what his favorite boys' names were. He never told me anything, not even his own. So what do I do with that?"

She closed her eyes and remembered how she'd met him, how she'd first seen his eyes, how she'd breathed in his scent. Her heart had beaten like never before, and the air had felt not just different, but like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

She remembered the first time she had said "goodbye" to him, smiled and went to her soma… It felt as if the Lord, the Virgin Mary and Jesus were all looking at her, at her reactions and feelings. And she didn't want to think about it, she just wanted to believe. Believe that this is love, the love that will be with her for the rest of her life.

And the first time they kissed. "It's good that he didn't see my face," Masha thought, because she felt herself blushing then, and so she pressed herself against him at once, close to him. And that warmth, which went round and round, rattled like a native. Then she realized that this was it, her happiness, it had come not just once, to stay for life.

Masha decided, so that forever, that she would never part with him, never, no matter what happened…

She was holding herself together as best she could right now. She gathered her strength and inhaled, then exhaled. All the heavy stuff came out, and only a small tear rolled down her cheek. Just one.

"Daughter, no matter how I look at you, you have the same expression," Maria Sergeevna quietly closed the front door and looked at the girl again.

— I miss you.

— Me, too. For my folks.

— Did you lose them? Yes?

— No, Mashenka, of course we haven't lost them. They're always with us… My husband and I are going to see them now. Will you come with us?

"I'll go," Masha answered somewhat timidly, not understanding what was meant now; "not lost," "to go to them now." It seemed as if they were going to some unknown place where their relatives lived in special conditions.

A couple of minutes later, Vladimir Ivanovich came out of the house with a huge green backpack that weighed as much as he did. In spite of this he was not heavy at all, and he held himself as if it had been decreed from on high that at a certain age he was destined to carry this thing.

They walked quickly, not looking around. After forty minutes, the house with the barn and the well disappeared from sight, and the green meadows were gone. Almost immediately the thought arose to ask how long it would be. But no matter how one looked at the question, it seemed indecent.

The river where Masha had cried, and where Maria Sergeevna had found her a month and a half ago, appeared at the edge of the river. The water was as clear and smooth as it had been that time, and, though there was no moon, it reflected a grayish gloomy light.

Another half hour passed and the place was hidden behind a bend in the river. They followed parallel to it, but at such a distance that the current did not sound too strongly.

The girl felt uncomfortable again: they were walking and not saying a word; maybe because there was nothing to say now?

Now the road went upward; the slope is so steep that, given its height of seven or eight meters, you can't see anything further. Only a lone birch tree peeks out with its branches — lively, vigorous branches, as if nature had decided to show its beauty here.

Climbing to the top, Masha saw seven wooden crosses. Each had flowers growing in an even rectangle in front of each cross. A cemetery.

Daddy had told her what it was, that the ancients buried their own in this way — they put up a cross as a symbol of faith. Only when she saw it with her own eyes could she understand what it meant to those who buried them.

Vladimir Ivanovich put his backpack on the ground, nodded to the deceased and began pulling out the weeds that occasionally grew between the uvets. Maria Sergeevna took a small steel spade out of her backpack and, sitting down by one of the graves, began to dig up the earth — in some places the flowers were growing unevenly — not toward the sky, but slightly to the side.

"Let me help," said Masha, seeing how much work there was around.

"Don't, my daughter. Sit down next to me. Have a rest. Let's talk about something," Grandma said in a way that made it seem as if all the words were lifting some stone stuck in her throat before they came out.

Looking at their eyes, at the diligence with which they shared it all, Masha felt how dear it was to them, that it was their need to take care of the graves of their departed relatives; that it would be harder for them to live without it.

— Do you come here often?

— Twice a month… We have to clean everything to make it pretty. They like it nice.

Masha had long wanted to know how old they were, how long they had lived together, whether they were having a hard time, but how to do it? It's not something you can just ask.

— Our daughter Lena doesn't look like me at all, I mean internally, externally there is a little bit: lips and cheeks, and also a nose… but internally — no. Vova wanted his daughter to be like him. That's how it turned out… And my sons, on the contrary, are both like me. Interesting, isn't it?

"True," the girl nodded.

— Here… We have three children… All are already there… They are well…..

— Are your children already dead?

— Yeah… Well, there's Lena's grave, over there is Gavi's. And there's Kolya's.

Masha did not immediately come to her senses: these people — how long have they been living here! It's just unbelievable.

— Go and see how Vladimir Ivanovich is doing, my daughter.

Masha barely got to her feet, walked around the row of crosses and approached Grandpa:

"Can I help you, Vladimir Ivanovich?"

— No, that's okay. Thank you, my daughter. Why don't you sit next to me and we'll talk about something?

They are like notes together, even responding in the same way.

Now Vladimir Ivanovich took out a leather tub from his rucksack and began to water the cross, wiping it with a sponge; he had already pulled all the weeds around it — apparently there were not many of them.

"This is Vasily Ivanovich. My great-grandfather, a metallurgist… I was born when he was no longer alive. I've never seen him, but I have such respect for him," my grandfather smiled.

— You must have been coming here a long time?

— Yes, a long time ago… First I went with my father, and then I met Masha. At that time only my ancestors were lying here, but she categorically said "I'll go" that I didn't even think of dissuading her. It was as if she knew that it would become obligatory at some point… Then we got married, we had children… And we started coming here as a whole family… Well, many years passed and we started coming here just the two of us, with my wife… Do you visit anyone? Masha shook her head negatively, "I don't know where to go… We just buried in the ground and didn't put crosses… We lived differently…" — Different? Have you ever been in love?

— I was. And it still is. I just don't know if it's the right one.

"Well, love is… well, it's like Bunin's. If you love a woman, you love her with everything:

with tears, and with hysterics… Love is when you think about her all day long, you think about her at night, it constantly disturbs your sleep, but you don't mind it. You still want to think like that all night and all morning… And then, the next day, to be happy and happy if she just looks at you… And if she smiles! That's it. — Vladimir Ivanovich made such an imaginative face, which showed simply indescribability of sensation. — But this is my love, and yours is more like Maria Sergeyevna's."

And Masha walked back.

"Well, how is Vladimir Ivanovitch?" — Maria Sergeyevna asked.

— He told me what love means. To him.

— Ahh. You said Bunin, didn't you? You like it with everything: tears and tantrums?

— Yeah, that's what I said.

— Bunin's is actually a little longer. And with tears, and hysterics, and thighs… But he always threw out the last part. I've always been slim.

Masha smiled at the way these people openly behaved with her: Maria Sergeyevna said that she threw out this part because she was slender, so "tears" and "tantrums" still happened and not once. Well, how can you do without it? It's also a component of love, as long as it doesn't go beyond the boundaries — tantrums are tantrums, but in the end it's still necessary to kiss.

— What do you think? What is love?

— When I first saw him, I didn't immediately realize that he was the one I was destined to live with for the rest of my life… Yes, sympathy… but nothing special… A day passed, maybe a little more, and there you go! I'm crazy about him. I don't know what it is, but I think about him all the time. I can't even imagine myself without him… I don't know how to explain it, but there was a moment when I became different… It's like cupid piercing me with an arrow, and there's no escape — it's like it's

supposed to be…

And, you know, it's still like that. I love him like I did then. Every time we are apart even for a few minutes, I miss him… and I can't wait to see him again… to hug him, to kiss him… and when that moment comes — when I hear that he is somewhere near, opening the door or the floor creaking with his footsteps, I just can't believe my happiness. I feel so at ease… I never wondered if this is the love that so many women want to feel, but I can't do it without my husband.

How close those words were! How close.

Masha thought about what kind of love is more like her love: the one when you think about your beloved all day long, or the one that makes you worry when you are apart and makes you happy when you meet? A very complex and ambiguous question. And the answer is the same: on the one hand it is both — everything is as they said, on the other hand it is neither so nor different — everything is in its own way, i.e. it is felt by one's soul, and it is not the same as theirs: all souls are different.

But still… Whatever love was: the beloved was dear. This "on the whole" made Masha angry, and she thought even more deeply. But no matter how many thoughts came to her, no matter how many sides she considered, she could not move from the spot — only the sense of time was gone.

"Mashenka, let's go, my daughter," the grandmother said as she approached the girl.

Noon had already passed — it was now about half past one.

Masha crossed herself three times, with three fingers. She had never thought about the meaning of "three fingers", how it was used, or why it was necessary at all — she just did it as she had been taught: she was used to it.

On leaving, the place seemed quite different from what it was at first: now, apart from the beauty and wildlife, it was well-kept. Now the deceased are better off.

They walked back very slowly and talked a lot. They remembered the past and, especially, funny incidents — it helped themselves: they remembered what good people their relatives were.

This time we walked much closer to the river, almost near the bank, so that the water sometimes splashed on my clothes. The water was murmuring around, and we walked slower and slower, stopping every fifty meters and looking at the hills on which trees were growing interestingly, at the fish that sometimes sprang a few centimeters out of the water, at the pebbles that reflected wonderful multi-kilometer patterns through the water surface. All this appeared only now.

We got home in the late afternoon, by sunset, by the time it was time to go to bed.

Masha quickly fell asleep, and dreamed a terrible amazing dream, which before appeared only in parts, but this time — from the beginning.

She is in red silk robes standing inside a golden cage. In front of her two men are arguing about something. And all around are vast fields and two huge armies against each other, one in light armor, the other in dark armor, and they are so huge that everything is covered with their warriors, and you can't tell which one is bigger.

The two who were arguing with each other, not the leaders of these armies, but in high ranks, spoke in unknown languages, and the impression was that each spoke his own, but both understood each other.

And Masha distinguishes only one word, privately repeated by them — her proper name.

And so they finish arguing, stop for a moment, and simultaneously announce to their armies.

Dark: "Partuhu."

Bright: "Portudy."

Masha woke up in a cold sweat and in tears.

That grim dead light that races across the room.

She crawled, almost falling off the bed and clung to the edge, "This can't be tolerated! They are playing tricks on my head out there!" Everything was shaking inside her, and fear was all around: where was the plague, where were all these warriors, where was the horror, and it was all here!

— God, I can't. I can't do it without him. God, forgive me. What have I done? What have I done that I have to live like this? Why didn't you take me away with him? What did I do wrong?

Masha was crying, hiding in the shadows by the bed, and I didn't want to look at anything. It was unbearable to look at anything — so bad that it made me nauseous. It became short of breath, and my breathing quickened on its own.

She opened her reddened eyes and, peering around the walls, began to calm down a little through measured heavy breathing. With each breath, though it didn't get easier, at least it didn't get heavier.

Getting used to the heaviness, Masha raised herself to her knees, put her hands on the bed and, looking up at the distant moon, began to pray.

Her breathing was quiet and wide in the air, but a little panting — she'd been crying for a long time.

— Darling, I miss you so much, and you don't say a word. I have nightmares every day and you're not there. It's so hard.

"Mashenka, my beloved," said her husband's voice, and the smell of him is here, and through the light you can see his eyes. — Have I ever left you?"

— Please don't go. Stay with me just a little longer.

— I'm here. I'm with you. I'm always with you… How's our baby?

— I can feel him growing up. He will be healthy and strong… But it is hard, so hard for me without you. Why did God take you away from me?

— It's your destiny, Masha. Your destiny. And you have to get over it. Forgive me, my love, for this. It's my fault. I couldn't–

— Please stop. Stop blaming yourself. Especially for things that are out of your control. I know what God wants me to do. I'll do anything if only you'll be there for me, if only you'll say….

— I love you, Mashenka. I'm with you.

— I love you, honey.

So till morning Masha sat on her knees by the bed, thinking about nothing and gathering herself. She felt her husband near her, and he was with her, breathing warmth into her and holding her hand.

Bolotnikov

May 16. Khmelnitsky's group left Kremenchug and moved towards Poltava — the plan was to reach Bushenka and, turning north, reach Reshetilovka.

Bolotnikov's 3rd Company, consisting of three platoons: 25th Zhivenko, 37th Kosmogorov and 11th Ranierov, Dr. Shvartsenberg's 2nd medical unit, and three from the Spetsnaz: Dolgatov, Mokry and Seversky — a total of 133 men — remained to cover the withdrawal.

It was early-early morning: my eyes were still blurry. Bolotnikov was sitting in the basement of the command post — after the departure of the main forces, his unit had moved here, to the outermost part of the city, where the road to Poltava led northward.

It's mostly damp around, but it's been like that here before: after Victor left, his banner — a falcon swiftly attacking prey, head downward, wings and tail upward, the ancient symbol of the Rurikovichs — was removed from the wall, as well as a huge steel mace — the ancient symbol of power. Slavs value their traditions, and when it comes to a critical or even catastrophic situation, everything that has any weighty value is under special care, and especially historical signs and symbols.

As a result, we were left with a chair, a table, an extra-lamp (perhaps the most worthy invention of the ancients after the cancer cure — shake it for a minute and it burns for almost an hour), and the most important item — a map. It depicted the whole city on a large enough scale, including the most important places: trenches, mine barriers and houses with their purpose indicated by numbers. The present defense section included 16 houses plus four sentry houses outside it.

Among other things, on the table was a letter Bolotnikov had just taken out of his pocket, which was to be opened 15 minutes after the main forces had left the city. Zubkov had handed it to him. Almost half an hour had passed, and it was still sealed: Sergei felt something too unpleasant in its contents and wanted to get out of sleep before reading it. The time had passed, but he was still awake.

"I'm already violating orders… Maybe it even says we're not supposed to be here anymore," the Major thought and opened the envelope.

"To Major Bolotnikov

Personal and highly classified.

Burn it after reading it.

Major, you have a difficult task ahead of you. I have chosen you in this situation for a reason, relying on your experience and fortitude.

I inform you, as a soldier devoted to the idea of human freedom, that there is an enemy spy operating in the location of our group, and possibly more than one. He cannot be in your unit at the moment. Whether he has managed to communicate our coordinates to the enemy is not known.

Your mission is to hold the position until 7-30, which is an hour and thirty minutes after our withdrawal, and to retreat thereafter according to the plan previously approved.

I'm ordering you to act exactly as previously instructed. If the enemy succeeds in dislodging you from this position and pursuing you, the entire group will be jeopardized.

I've known you for a long time and I'm sure you didn't open the envelope exactly as instructed. Don't blame yourself. I have taken your situation into account and have given you the time accordingly.

All right, from now on, you have one hour to live, Major.

I personally wish you luck and hope for your will for Freedom. Your cause is on the way to Victory.

Viktor Khmelnitsky."

Bolotnikov crumpled the paper into a lump, took out matches, and carried out the first order.

At that time Misha was standing near the 5th destroyed house, next to the road, together with Rozhkov and two more of his subordinates; on the opposite side, near the 13th house, there were three special forces; in the middle of the fork was Metsov. He was walking towards the commander with a rapid stride from the very medical station — Ranierov was in charge of the northeastern part of the defense, that is, from the 11th house to the 16th, obviously, some conflict with the sanitation department. Ranierov has such a language: he is not ashamed to dirty anyone.

Seeing the look on Kostya's face, Misha himself was upset: "What's the matter? At least it wouldn't be on them…"

Everything was interrupted at that second: there was a rumbling in the middle of everything, so loud that it rang in my ears — from the very center of the road, almost where Metsov had just passed, the ground burst into the air with such force as water would burst from a burst pipe.

Kostya was blown off his feet in front of everyone. The SWAT team immediately rushed to the 3rd house.

"In position! Quickly! Rozhkov after me!", Misha shouted and ran up to the man lying there. Nearby there was a 20-centimeter deep crater with a broken tail of a shell sticking out of the middle — Kostya was not badly hit and was concussed.

Everything is floating, you can't hear anything. I couldn't understand what was around me, and I had no strength to move — everything was different. The wounded man was dragged to the medical aid house, and at once there was a blast tens of meters to the north, again on the road. Then it exploded somewhere else, and then it was quiet: no gunshots, no stomping, no screams.

Natasha! It's about time! She picked up Kostya and nodded her head affirmatively: Zhivenko was the platoon commander, and he should be in charge of his section.

"Help her and right back," Misha said and ran to his line of defense. *** 06:31

In the basement, of the four radios, only one did not broadcast the phrase "We're quiet". Three were connecting to platoons and one to the sanitary unit. Half a minute had crawled by since the shelling.

"We have three wounded," Schwarzenberg reported.

He had nothing to answer but "Accepted": what can you advise a doctor if you are not one yourself?

In this situation Bolotnikov was more interested in the sentries: there were three of them, and none of them reported anything. In fact, only one of them was left — the rest of the plagues had been "covered" using a tip-off from their agent.

"Bullfinch (Bolotnikov), I am Sinitsa (Zhivenko). Fourth bush (house) at 7 o'clock. Platoon 170," said a voice from the radio.

They're heading straight for the minefields.But it's a test run, there's more of them. It's better to lure them to this direction. The informer, of course, did not know where the command post was located, but he could guess, and the choice, generally speaking, is not great… Stop! The informer did not know where their headquarters was, but he knew where… God!

Bolotnikov grabbed the communications device, "Sinitsa, I'm Snowbird. Approach them at 100 meters and simulate a counterattack. Then withdraw 7-10 meters deeper than the previous positions."

Without hearing the answer, clutched another radio in his hand: "Falcon (Schwarzenberg), I am Snowbird.

333 (redeploy) to the 3rd house. Immediately. Execute!"

The plagues obviously knew where the sanitarium was. They would make several attacks, wait until a decent number of people had accumulated there, and leave no stone unturned from this house. Bolotnikov had already stepped on this "rake" once, then they saw the movement of sanitary units and destroyed the position: 48 people were killed. This figure now flashed in his mind in an interesting way. What it said most of all, the major did not yet understand.

*** 06:35

Twenty seconds, and shots rang out.

*** 06:37

Two minutes, and boots stomped on the ceiling: the floor creaks here for a reason — it hasn't been repaired for 150 years.

They are carrying the wounded. The command post is shielded from direct hits from the south by a row of ruined houses — only a brick chimney barely hanging on the roof peeks out from the barrier.

*** 06:40

There were a series of explosions followed by gunfire.

— Bullfinch, I'm a tit. Fangs flew into the dandelions (minefield). They're retreating.

— Casualties?

— Ours, one dead, two wounded. Heavy and not so heavy. Theirs: 20–30 chums.

— Do not pursue. Move to your original positions. You have seven minutes to perfume the most exposed areas and especially the southeastern part. Casualties to the third house. — Yes, Snowbird.

— Over and out.

Beside Bolotnikov stood three special forces, waiting for their time.

"There's a job for you," the major proclaimed.

They didn't blink an eye: what to do, if they have such an attitude — to be ready.

"In fifteen minutes, twenty plagues will attack from the south. "with a large force. Your task is to disrupt their left flank attack. 20 meters, no less along the front line should be confused… Their left flank will be somewhere here, perhaps deeper. — Bolotnikov indicated a point on the map and its corresponding square. — Good luck to you guys."

Their grim and motionless faces nodded simultaneously. The military salute was sharp and steady. The bundle was on its way.

*** 06:44

— Bullfinch, I am Stork (Kosmogorov). 10th bush. 10 hours. Platoon. 210.

— Approach at 150 meters. Respond with singles. Utilize the full capabilities of the 10 bush.

— Got it, Snowbird.

— Over and out.

They want to turn our defenses and attack from the south. The 10th house is well fortified. They'll think we're best prepared there, and have mined the approaches from the south, relying on the "artificial" wall of permitted houses. They'll probably show up somewhere else now. It didn't take long for the premise to sink in.

*** 06:50

— Snowbird, I'm Stork. 8th bush. 8 o'clock. A little less than a platoon. 170.

— Open fire. Use one-third of bush 6's capabilities. Do not let them within 60 meters.

Another false attack, but closer to the target. The fortified position must not be shown, or the flank will be reinforced. *** 06:55

Steppe with a slight slope. No snow; grass slightly protruding outwards — spring. A warm breeze blows from the side: favorite and pleasant.

The North, as always, was the first to crawl: on this field it is especially necessary, because it is a minefield, as we say, with dandelions — if one of them explodes, its seeds will fly in all directions to reward someone else.

The tactics and effectiveness of communication mainly depends on the coherence and thoughtfulness of interaction. To feel not only your own movements, but also those around you.

In the distance, the plagues showed themselves. Darkness.

When you watch that much of the enemy, you begin to have little understanding of what's even going on. And unable to even think that it's possible to defeat them…

It's just over two hundred meters away: they'll see them, they won't miss. From that distance, they can see everyone who is "needed". Among them were the wounded, the bloodthirsty, those who hadn't even been in battle yet, and one special one. This special one stood out not because of his form of clothing: dark purple colors and a combination of incised fangs on his cloak, but rather because of the way he walked among the others.

He walked as if his footsteps would be studied later, passing others as if they worshipped him. And the way he held his head… he never looked at his feet.

This tent stopped almost at the very edge of what was "supposed to go forward". In that place, the soldiers were concentrated in a special, martial order: "in a broken chain."

The mortars looked a little farther out from the front lines: there were only four of them, but that was only for now.

The Imperial Army was distinguished by one very noticeable fact: they never used a fixed number of units to accomplish a task. They moved first one, then another, building up pressure in key places. The limit was not derived, and sometimes it turned out that the operation was already completed, and replenishments are still coming. Plagues emphasized the factor of psychological pressure as a fundamental element of their combat tactics. In a way, this methodology worked: "defend as much as you want, but you'll still lose." After all, they will not stop — they will attack. And attack by suppressing positions, not just occupying them.

Suppress, destroy. And occupy the ruins. It's a favorite battle tactic of the imperial army.

Spetsnaz did not respond to such things: "we are warriors, and it is our highest honor to complete a task, and if necessary, to do it at the cost of our lives, and to die as warriors". And now they were doing what they saw as the meaning of their stay here.

Confusing the enemy can be done through a sequence of precisely organized actions. The first to meet the enemy, in the best case scenario, is the special forces, and this moment is the moment when the officer in charge has received the order from on high to launch the offensive and is about to communicate it to his subordinates. The moment when the officer waves his hand but doesn't have time to command. The instant between his first step and his second. If the officer is eliminated in that very "instant," there is a rush forward and a subsequent desire to stop. There's nowhere to run. There's no one to tell you where to go. And everyone starts rushing in different directions, from the unknown. And nothing is clear… Soldiers forget who they are in this particular place where nothing is clear. That's the result.

*** 07:04

Dark ceiling and dark walls. This is the basement. This is the Command Post.

Several explosions sounded from the street: how many, I couldn't understand — they merged into one, but no more than five. Seven seconds more, and another line. Seven more, and another explosion. It went quiet.

Bolotnikov was happy about this: the medium and heavy artillery had not yet arrived, which meant that we could hold on tight.

— Bullfinch, I'm Tit. 4th bush. 6 o'clock. Battalion. 250.

How good it sounds "6 o'clock." Their left flank is slightly behind and weakened. SWAT did a great job.

— Sinitsa, do not open heavy fire until they are within 100 meters. Concentrate main forces at bush 6. Report to me when the enemy reaches the specified distance.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— Over and out.

*** 07:09

— Stork, this is Bullfinch. Over.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— We drove the pischals (mortars) to the north end of the 7th bush and prepared to fire on the DT-18 square.

— Roger that, Snowbird.

— Over and out.

Company mortars, along with Faust ammunition, are the rebels' backup weapons this morning.

*** 07:12

— Bullfinch, this is Tit. The enemy is approaching at a distance of 100 meters. The left flank is weakened and uncoordinated.

And he's good, he's thinking big.

— Five seconds after the end of communication, open fire to all. Fully utilize the capabilities of the 6th bush. Over. Stork, Snowbird. Activate the squadron's beepers. Fire three salvos.

— Yes, Snowbird.

After so much sudden shelling on the flank, the plagues must stop. Before that they hit mines, so their spirits are already low.

*** 07:19

— Tit, this is Bullfinch. Situation report.

— The enemy has stopped the advance. Looks like they're changing direction to the 2nd bush.

— How many are there?

— Half a battalion. At least. There's little dispersal.

— Simulate an attack from the 6th bush for 4 hours. At that time, move two-thirds of the 6th bush unit behind the 4th to the 2nd bush. Report their arrival.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— Over and out.

We'll confuse the Chumas. Let them think we tricked them into attacking from the west. Now they'll fortify from the west and attack from the east.

Although, if they can get another battalion now, they can play whatever notes they want, but the defense will break through. It won't collapse, but it will break through. And with a "broken" defense, we won't be able to hold out for more than 10 minutes.

*** 07:22

— Bullfinch, I'm Tit. The transfer is complete.

— Move to initial positions and take up defenses. Only redeployed units. The rest of us stay where we

are.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— Over and out.

By all rules, we should have attacked from the west, from the flank. An attack from the flank is sometimes better than even an attack from the rear.

Both are designed for surprise. But the rear attack needs voluminousness in coverage, all around the rear of the enemy. And the flank attack — swiftness, to blow away all from the side, like grass with a sickle.

The plagues know this, and that's why you can't act that way.

We'll be wherever they come. We'll attack them here. It'll be a counterattack. The theory is we need at least two times the numerical superiority. We're outnumbered three to one. But they're not expecting us there, and that's a chance.

This is the 13th paragraph of the chapter "Fullness and Emptiness" in Sun Tzu's book "The Art of War": The form of the army is like water — avoiding height and striving downward; the form of the army — avoiding fullness and hitting emptiness. Water establishes its flow depending on the place; the army establishes its victory depending on the enemy."

"Fullness" in this paragraph is a concentration of enemy forces. "Void" is a gap in the organization of actions.

A counterattack from the eastern flank of the chums is not a concentration attack, it is a gap attack. A gap is not the absence of enemy troops in any of his areas, but the weakness of that area (often expressed in the absence of troops). This is the ability to see the strengths and weaknesses of the enemy.

*** 07:25

— Snowbird, this is Sinitta. The enemy has halted movement to the east.

— Counterattack at 8 o'clock from the 2nd bush. The 6th bush is to act only at 6 o'clock and to the west.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— Over and out… Stork, this is Snowbird. Over.

— Stork on the line.

— Continue firing on the previously indicated square. Give two volleys.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— The end, the connections.

*** 07:31

— Bullfinch, Bullfinch, it's a tit. 7 o'clock. Three tanks. 230.

— Type of tanks. Supply.

— No sign of them yet. No KAZs at all.

— Recognize the urgency. *** 07:27

A volley rang out. It was so loud that even in the basement, dust spattered from the ceiling.

— Tit, this is Bullfinch. Situation report.

Silence and the prolonged hissing of the walkie-talkie.

— Tit, this is Bullfinch. Over.

— It's Sinitta. KAZ is only on one. Т-95.

— Use ATGMs. On T-95 not further than 40 meters.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— Over and out.

Zhivenko felt slightly lost: either stunned by the volley or frightened. His voice hardly answered "yes" to the given order.

I wanted to wish him luck, but that would rather confuse him more. He'd think the major was also hooked on the idea of such a tank. Т-95. Where did that come from? There were only-there were 50 of them… In the human war, most of them were destroyed (as well as everything else). What was left to the plagues? Two or three tanks? And one of them is here!

Of course he will pass through the minefield. He was created so that such obstacles would not hinder him then, and there is no need to talk about how he will pass such an obstacle now — we use what we have.

And then… From the mine strip to our position is 100 meters. Until it gets to 40 meters, it's useless to shoot at it, although even then there's no guarantee that KAZ won't have time to destroy the missile… And if it doesn't get to 40 meters at all? He'll stand at 50 meters and start shooting. It's not like there are fools inside it. They wouldn't put fools in it. And they want to live, too. And they've learned how they can be destroyed, too.

And we still have the rest of the battalion on the line of contact. How will it operate now? — Stork, this is Bullfinch. Over.

— Stork on the line.

— Fire on the previously indicated square. Fire 3 volleys.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— Over and out.

Then the previously silent walkie-talkie started talking.

— Hello. Hello. Bullfinch. This is Lark (Ranierov). Our help is required?

A free Cossack! As if he can't participate?! Like he can leave?! Or is he bored? — Are you under attack?

— Uh, no.

— Do you see the enemy?

— Uh, no.

— So what are you reporting?!

— I was wondering…

— Are you drunk in there?! What the hell are you doing on the phone for no reason? Didn't you find a job?

— No. I wanted to help.

— Wait for orders and report any changes. Execute!

— Yes, Bullfinch. Over and out.

Oh, man! He was the first one to end the connection. When we get out of there, he'll get a reprimand. And we should take away his platoon command. It's too fat for him. *** 07:34

This is no longer the Major's basement. It's a battlefield. A T-95 stopped 57 meters from the defense line. The other two are hit, but it's still standing.

Shot at seven seconds. Then again. And again. The battalion of chums is defeated. But the fortifications are being demolished more and more at every 7-second interval. Time passes in intervals, not seconds.

Somebody couldn't resist and fired a missile, it didn't make it. Can't hit it. Desperation.

The field. Tank. A SWAT team five meters away. A hand and a bunch of grenades. Throw! And the tank is gone.

So did the SWAT guy.

*** 07:42

— Bullfinch, Bullfinch! Over. This is Tit.

— Bullfinch on the line.

— Bullfinch, fangs destroyed! The square is clear!

— And the tank?

— Tank too. Snowbird, the quad is clear!

— 300 to the 3rd bush. Over… Stork, this is Snowbird, over.

— Stork on the line.

— Cease firing the pishals.

— Aye, cease fire.

— Over and out.

Bolotnikov wanted so much to ask about the way the tank had been hit: little wonder what it could mean, but Zhivenko was so emotionally aroused that there could be no intelligible answer any time soon.

Another thing was more important now: how well the fortifications had been preserved. And this could only be seen for yourself.

As he came up from the dungeon, the major immediately stepped on someone's boot. Apparently, while the wounded man was being carried across the room, the boot had fallen off his foot. It wasn't bloody, but it was torn in two places.

No one around me was moaning, and almost no one was making any sound at all. And that's out of twenty-two people. Four dead, most likely from the first attack. The orderlies are six, in addition to them Schwarzenberg. Actually, it's more accurate to say they're in addition to him. He's a scowling boss, but not during the operation. Then he is already a dear father — he treats everyone with a soul and a warm word: even a weak man would not cry out in pain. Dr. Ferdinand Schwarzenberg had been mastering the art of treatment with his own mind for decades, and the system was simple: less screaming, more thinking about good things and something far away from here. Yes, that's right, far away. At times like this, only the furthest thing from you comes to mind. Something good and far away. Something you may never see again in your life, but you'd like to. And self-awareness of your own possible joy is the best cure for despondency.

Coming out into the street, Bolotnikov turned the corner. Behind him was his assistant, Captain Zlydenko, with a backpack and five radios, including a spare one, stuffed into it.

When he saw the positions, the major nodded his head approvingly: what else could one expect after such a battle? There were no defensive lines: four ruined houses, burned-out camouflage, machine-gun nests blackened by smoke and shot through so that a booted foot could fit through the holes. The only thing left were the trenches. But even if there were enough men, the next attack would be impossible to withstand. Bolotnikov took out his walkie-talkie: "Falcon, I am Snowbird. Over." — Falcon here.

— All wounded to bush 11.

"Yes, Snowy" — Schwarzenberg did not ask what to do with the dead, it was not the first time, he already knows what encirclement means — to save the wounded is already a feat. — Over and out… Stork, this is Snowbird. Over. — Stork on the line.

— Change sentry (positions). Now your 10th and 11th bush. Squeals to the corners (redoubts) and deploy at 6 o'clock.

— Yes, Snowbird.

— Over and out. Lark, this is Bullfinch, over.

— Lark is on the line.

— Change the sentry. Now your 14th and 13th bushes. Blow blue (using a radio detonator) on the 16th bush. Blow everything you have except paper (smoke charges).

— Yes, Snowbird.

The Major paused, waiting for his subordinate to make another mistake, but nothing like this, "Over and out, Lark."

At that moment, Zhivenko stood nearby. His face was tortured, and his eyes were joyful and sorrowful at the same time. He couldn't stand straight — he didn't have the right spirit now. It was only after the battle — there was no need for straightening up.

— Mish, can you think?

— Yes, Comrade Commander.

— Orders to change sentries. Your 20th bush. Blow on whatever's left here, but only on the destroyed houses. Not next to them, but on them.

— Yes, Comrade Commander.

— And help Schwarzenberg move the wounded to the 11th house.

— Yes, sir. Permission to execute?

— Wait, Mish. How much did we lose?

— Half of the 7th and all of the 21st Ward.

I can see why he has a flicker of bitterness alongside his joy. Section 21 is different from all the

others…

— Permission to execute, Comrade Commander?

— Yeah. Yeah, buddy, with God.

Two special forces slowly approached from the left, holding a third, Wet, on their shoulders.

"We almost made it." — wheezing a little, Seversky said. — "He hit the tank, he got caught in the shrapnel. Only wounded him. But the plagues survived. The tank burned, but they're alive… They finished him off… If only for a second… if only for a second we'd been there sooner. We hit them and they hit him…

Heavey…. It was the Heaveys.

— Yes… But he's already a hero and nothing more is required of him. And we're still here.

— That's right, Major. That's right.

Bolotnikov had already imagined his difficult conversation with this man, how he would have to press everything he had to get his future orders carried out. Not now, but he would have to. Especially when it came to Hivi… The officers keep that word alone a secret. And the details.

— We're changing sentries. You're going to the 11th house.

— Got one to the 11th house.

God willing, he will also respond in half an hour! God willing.

A minute passed. And the first shell flew into the sanitary unit, the 15th house. Just one shell, and the whole house is gone. It's good that there's no one in it anymore.

The plagues have brought in heavy artillery. The defense was over, and the holding began.

*** 07: 25

The cross-national roots can be seen in the study of the reaction of ordinary people to the events around them, and especially in difficult times.

There is an anecdote from a resident of Germany in 1945. At that time, the Anglo-American air force bombed cities so heavily that it was impossible even to breathe — the air was too hot and acrid from the buildings melting around.

"Who can be considered a coward?" — asks one Berliner to another.

"The one who goes to volunteer for the front," the other replies to him.

There is a certain similarity in the Germans' sense of humor to Russian humor: that irony about what one has to endure.

Bolotnikov felt that his left pant leg was burning, but looking at it, he saw a leg that had already been burned. It burned strangely: only on the inside of his thigh, just where he had three moles in the form of a regular triangle, just above the knee.

A small hole, right in that spot. And the skin only burned around the triangle, leaving it intact, leaving it alive.

The Major smiled, thinking about what it could mean: "Our ancestors may have been fire worshippers… They considered fire the ultimate power… What a beautiful sign they gave me…"

It is an amazing and inexplicable thing when you begin to think irrationally in those moments when death is very close. There is a special feeling that does everything, that can do everything, and that must appear right now.

"They'll finish firing in about two minutes. Then they'll wait until we're dead here… and then they'll attack… Of course, they'll take someone wounded, and what will come of it? I don't know who that wounded man will be. We've got 20 minutes left before the deadline, and we can't take it…"

*** 07:31

The shelling is over.

Reconnaissance of the north has shown that the enemy there is as much as you can defeat and even keep someone alive. *** 07:33

Wide open field. Thirty-three survivors. And a column of black smoke rising three kilometers behind me.

The two remaining special forces did not participate in the direct breakthrough. The commander didn't want them involved. They're not going anywhere without their dead comrade. And if he's with them, it's a slower move.

"Comrade Major, are we retreating?" — Seversky and his aide caught up with the group not long after, but somehow not understanding — what was going on.

"Yes," Bolotnikov couldn't walk straight this time, not because of his burned leg, but because he had to carry the wounded man.

— I'm going back. That's where Wet stayed. — Wet's dead.

— It doesn't matter to us. He was killed by a Heavey. It's a matter of honor, Major. I'm going back.

— Leave it, Captain! Follow the group. We need all the forces we can get.

A Seversky warrior. For such a man, honor is incommensurable above life. His own, another's, it doesn't matter. For such a warrior, to die in battle is true happiness.

— Commander, I know. We weren't supposed to leave until ten to eight. You disobeyed orders, not me.

— the SWAT team went backwards to die.

— Halt! — Bolotnikov stopped himself and turned to face Seversky. — I have violated the order. Я! And I will be tried for it. But later. Right now I'm the commander. I give the orders. I'm responsible for everyone. You and everyone else. Including the dead… Wet's dead, and I'm ordering you to leave him there! We didn't wait as long as we should have, and I'm ordering a retreat! And you have two seconds to say "Aye" to all of this.

He had been given an order that didn't fit the situation, and he couldn't disobey it. But not to him… He cared more about the people he could save than about his own head, which he would have to pay for.

Not only that, but many people may not understand him: why he did it, why he, the one who has always been considered a model of discipline and order, suddenly violated the very foundation so rudely.

Right now he didn't care what they thought of him or how he would be punished. He had other things to do now.

And to fulfill them, he needs to accomplish just one thing…..

He knew he wouldn't need to show strength or agility or speed or anything else. The Seversky soldier would not resist even then. Bolotnikov would only have to pull the trigger.

Nothing complicated — a small movement, but then he, the commander, will be looked at as a murderer rather than as someone who has to sacrifice one to save the others….

And it is impossible not to shoot — so he will go away, followed by another, and another, and then everyone who remains will feel weak and afraid of shame less than death, and then there will be no one to save.

Seversky turned around, and a very heavy look lay on everything around him-anything but Bolotnikov.

The Spetsnazov nodded so that the copper mountain fell off his commander's shoulders, "There is a retreat, Comrade Major."

Bolotnikov began to help the wounded again and felt a thin chill begin to leave the index finger of his right hand.

He didn't want to think about why Seversky had done this, he was just glad he didn't have to divide "his" into "his" and "strangers".

Spider

In the morning, as usual, Ivan Tikhomirov set about clearing the corridor leading from the karak's office, where Ananhr now sat, to the main entrance of the building.

Vanya had not slept well, and his movements were sluggish and weak, as if the internal mechanism consisting of ten thousand gears had not been lubricated for ten thousand years. He didn't get enough sleep every day — he couldn't sleep for a long time: he thought that the plagues would come in and take him away for what he was. Although he had not made any mistakes yet, and there was nothing to make them on, he slept badly, and in the morning, when he woke up, he tried to remember the dream, but it had been months since he had been able to do so. It always seemed to him that he had dreamed something terrible and impossible, and his mood was the same.

Then he would come up to the surface and go about his duties, and try to do it in such a way that no one would have any questions, that no one would realize what was on his mind, and it all worked out, every morning.

But not today.

Today, just before the climb, the prefect had told him of something he couldn't imagine that stood so high in front of him that only the sky could be higher.

And the task, which from the mouth of the Mountain, consisted of only two words, pressed on the brain in such a way that it seemed to split into pieces.

"Round up the plague." Here's the assignment. How can a person present this solution? After all, a man will not present himself as an agent of the internal department of the SChK or the Inquisition, because he is a human being! After all, he cannot present himself as anything above those, like Dmitri, who are hated by everyone.

He had not yet understood what Gora had told him. Vanya realized that the Chum had a church, too, that it had some special weight, but what to do about it? Long ago, the prefect, then still a commander, had explained to him a certain method of recruitment used by Islamist terrorists in the 21st century. While committing terrorist acts in Western Europe, Russia and the United States, they faced one very serious problem: a shortage of suicide bombers. No one in these countries, even with complete loss of desire to live, will go to die for Islamic ideals, which are also taught to them by terrorists in a distorted form. That is why they have not always presented themselves as themselves. What they want is a result: an explosion and more victims, and it makes absolutely no difference what "someone" will do it because of. Let him explode because of a blackout or an increase in the price of electricity, if that is enough for him, as long as he explodes.

And then it will be possible to call him a martyr or a fighter for some ideals. To tell how long he was prepared for this "most important step" in his life, how long he read the Koran and penetrated into the meaning and importance of his further actions, how long he realized why he was chosen for such a crucial moment in the "liberation" of some territories or people… And even though he himself did not know about all this, and did not even do it, but all this can be told about him and decorated with all colors of the rainbow… Because by this time he is already dead.

Terrorists could pose as anyone — left-wing, extreme right-wing, nationalist or anti-abortion — just to get people to do what they wanted.

Vanya vaguely saw himself in a similar method of recruitment. He would have to introduce himself as someone acting on behalf of their church and the holy Inquisition, but he would still be a human being. Not only that, but he also had to get in touch with someone who spoke Russian, as he had not yet learned their language seriously enough.

A muffled noise of approaching footsteps was heard — a hundred times a day, as many chums and agent candidates pass through this corridor.

Half a minute later an SSchekist passed by, full of food and lazy — threaten or threaten such a one — he can't do anything anyway.

Two minutes later, another one of about the same species came out of the karak's office.

Over the next eight minutes, six more people passed by Vanya, all looking the same.

Then Ananhr came out of her premises…..

Vanya smiled inwardly: "Wo! She should be recruited. She's not lazy yet, she can work. Those at the top are certainly not afraid of her. An ideal agent! But only in my dreams…"

After wiring a rag for the next half hour the miner thought he could peer this way for years and still not move.

But he has only one attempt — they won't believe it, they will report it to the right place and that's the

end of it…

Then someone started yelling, violently, in a plague-like language. A little mocking and sort of telling off. Vanya could understand only two words: "tat" (translated as "you") and "shahr" (he recognized it first; plague mate, swear words, as usual, are remembered first).

In general, it is a strange phenomenon to memorize swear words in a foreign language in the first place. On the one hand, it seems that someone memorizes them in order to understand if someone is swearing at him; on the other hand, to swear himself, if anything… But it all looks like that. In fact, it all happens at some subconscious level… And he knows where it came from. Maybe because in childhood you are taught to have a special attitude to the mat, and in adulthood you begin to understand its "special" meaning. Maybe from the very genesis of mat, because words derived from it are usually formed in some illogical way. For example, the words "dick" and "pussy" are respectively feminine and masculine, although their roots are directly opposite genitalia. Or the fact that swear words themselves were formed from something that is intimate, and because of this, it is indecent to say them in public (as well as this

"something" itself). Maybe that's why no one criticizes those who don't swear, but speak in it, saying, "It's almost like walking naked in the street — indecent". And yet, no matter how you look at it, but the mat itself sits somewhere in the subconscious, and perhaps that is why most people swear to the place, only if it comes out sharply emotional and unexpected for themselves.

The shouting ended and almost immediately a fairly young and not as angry as the rest of the chum jumped out from around the corner. He walked quickly and nervously: it was clear that he had been yelled at. But the main thing was not that, but that Vanya had seen him somewhere before.

Closer and closer. We should have recruited him: he is young, upset, probably regrets something, and has had little contact with people. But we had to remember his name!

Just as he passed, some strange thought popped into his head, "Shinhr. That's his name. And the one who was reprimanding him was repeating that word, not the profane one.

"Brother Shinhr," Vanya said quietly but clearly and even defiantly forcefully.

Chum, who was already walking at his back, stopped and just stood still.

The miner didn't turn his head, but felt it as he tried to realize what it was.

In addition to this feeling, a number of thoughts about what he was doing himself were creeping into his consciousness. Here he is about to turn around; he, Ivan Tikhomirov, is the one on whom all hopes for the future are now resting, and he must not make a single mistake. Not the slightest. He is a Slav, with blond straight hair and a neat good face. His right klk doesn't stick out, like all the chums. His eyes are not yellow or violet, but gray and calm because he did not have to break the bones of others and cut with blunt knives slowly and endlessly just to learn something that will help to do the same with others, or just out of pleasure.

Vanya saw all this when he turned around, just a little, half a turn, so that the man wouldn't recognize him.

"Did you say something?" — Shinhr asked in Russian, continuing to breathe quieter than anyone else walking down this corridor.

"You're not Tamerlan. — a certain inner 'animal' voice tried to break through. — You can't go on like

this."

"Tamerlane walked under the same blue sky that I walk under," the miner answered him and said aloud: "You know how this is going to end. And we know, too. They've got you under their thumb." So many incomprehensible things were said that the plague could not decide what to ask first. — Don't you see that? — Vanya whispered.

— What's that?

— That they don't need you… You're nothing to them. They'll execute you.

— Executed? — Shinhr looked away and shuddered slightly — it was a hit.

— Yeah. Join us. We can help you.

— Your place? What are you–

— Don't look at me. Appearances are deceptive. You are still young, you have not seen much… I speak in the name of the Church… in the name of the Holy Inquisition….

Hearing that, something slammed into his eyes; the Inquisition turned out to be something they fear more than execution. And what they fear so much that they are willing to hide from it even behind a human. — I don't quite understand…

— You see, you must understand.

— Why do you need me?

After this phrase a bad feeling came off Vanya, and he almost shuddered at it — the man believed in his involvement with the church, or at least thought it possible.

— It's penance week here in a few months. We need informants.

— Am I supposed to point to others? Я…

— You! You'll get away with it. And you don't have to point fingers at anyone.

— I…

— You! You have to do something else. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for the Holy Church. For the holy Inquisition. And you will escape the punishment of the Black Stone. It is written in the Silan-zhah. This is it. It's what the Inquisitors of the Middle Ages used, not much different from the plague. Scaring people into the unknown. Uneducated and uneducated people. Because it's written, it's said, and by whom? The inquisitors themselves. In the end it turned out that "you must help us, because we said so…".

And it worked. It worked.

— I'll have to think about it.

— To think… An impermissible luxury for someone who is still young.

— I don't…

— Thinking is the same as saying you doubt the holy church. Do you doubt the holy church, Shinhur?

— No. Of course not. Я…

— If not, we'll talk tomorrow about what you can do for us.

The next day, Shinhr didn't think to hesitate. "If he hesitates, kill him," the prefect had indicated as early as morning. There was no need to kill. "If it's all right, tell him we need to test him to see if he's fit to work with us. We don't like talkative ones. Dumb ones, too. You know how to do it." And Tikhomirov knew.

They had to speak in the warehouse where Raphael had died not so long ago. There was no trace of him: only the smell. The smell of sticky human blood and a loving heart that no longer beat. Vanya felt something that made his own heart beat strangely: not painfully, but as if it were being pushed out of his body, as if there was no room for it inside.

— We need proof of your faith.

Shinhr nodded.

— You're gonna have to get us some information. From the archives. If it matches what we have, that's

fine.

— And if I don't?

— It's better that it corresponds… It's better for you… Right. Now get us two documents: first, a list of the current group leaders. It's a pretty thick little book, but it's about half full right now. There are brief biographies, characteristics and something else (Tikhomirov knew this from Dmitry). The second one is from the chiefs of transportation. The section "Dnepropetrovsk — Donetsk — Rostov-on-Don. Full plan with transcripts. You'll have a week for all this.

Raphael's spirit was hovering very close now. He is restless and tense and pressing everything around him. And his strong purposeful eyes are looking at every plague.

Shinhr nodded his head respectfully, realizing his hopelessness.

"Glory to the great church," he whispered.

Bolotnikov — Zhivenko

Bushenki. Reshetilovka. Poltava.

Khmelnitsky's group made it. Three days later Bolotnikov's battalion also reached. Report To the Commander-in-Chief from Major Bolotnikov.

"I find it necessary to personally report the violation of the Commander-in-Chief's order.

You gave an instruction to cover the withdrawal of the main forces from the Kremenchug area and to hold this position until 09:00.

I, due to circumstances, was ordered to abandon these positions 15 minutes before the deadline. Ready to be held accountable in accordance with the current Free Earth Officer's Charter." Major Sergei Bolotnikov.

When Khmelnitsky read "this," his face turned white and something disproportionately heavy settled on his shoulders. He had never been in such a situation before.

Bolotnikov was summoned immediately.

"Major, what's this?" — a powerful Ukrainian finger poked at the unwanted document.

— Report, Comrade Commander-in-Chief."

— Do you know how many people have seen this?

— Negative, Comrade Commander-in-Chief.

Victor sighed — it only took one person to lose the ability to destroy 'it' without 'difficulty'.

— Sergei, who asked you to? Who asked you to write this kind of bullshit?

— I don't understand you, Comrade Commander-in-Chief.

— What the fuck don't you understand?! You did everything right. The plan included the possibility of an early withdrawal. I told you, there's an informant in our group. You did?

— Yes, Comrade Commander-in-Chief. — Do you get it now?

— Yes, Comrade Commander-in-Chief.

Khmelnitsky grabbed his report and shook it nervously in front of him, "So, what am I supposed to do with this fucking thing now?" Silence.

— You should have shoved that report up your ass instead of handing it to me. Nobody would have seen it that way. And now they have. Fucking hell. What the fuck were you thinking when you wrote that, Major?

— I knew all the consequences, Comrade Commander-in-Chief… I'm a soldier. And my job is to destroy the enemy, not to chase rats… And if I didn't fulfill the task as it was in the plan, then I fucked it up.

And if I fucked it up, it's my right as a soldier to admit it right away.

Khmelnitsky got up from his chair and came close, so close that he could only be heard in a whisper, "Okay, Major… This is about to get fucked up… But know this. You're one of our best… I'd obviously need to learn to be a better judge of character…"

Victor patted him on the shoulder: "Go on, buddy." There was nothing more he could do.

***

Misha entered the hut. The same lovely homely smell that had been in Kremenchug had now migrated to Poltava. This is a peculiarity of a woman's soul: "to make coziness". When you come and "feel home". A place where you can feel differently. Natasha had been waiting for him here for half an hour. "Mish, are you ever in a good mood at all?" — she really couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Even when he'd gotten another star on his epaulettes, he'd looked at it as a miracle, as if anyone else deserved it more.

"Yes," Misha answered, and was about to leave; there were many thoughts, and I didn't feel like talking.

"Comrade Captain, please turn your face," Natasha was sick to death of this strained relationship:

whether she loved or hated, or something worse. And so it went on for a whole month.

Misha stopped and turned around, continuing to stare at the imaginary enemy outside the window.

There he is, standing there, outside the window. A big green chum with a nasty long fang sticking out of his mouth. His eyes are like two poisoned snake balls. Poisonous and cynical. And his hands… Claws grown over the years and necessarily with particles of human blood left there. Only the SSchekists were forbidden to show their paws smeared with a reddish substance, only they were disciplined by order, not by encouraging torture of the enemy.

"The Esekist, the imperial soldier — they're all plagues," Misha thought. — All of them would gladly eat my 21st squad. And they are all the same, no matter what leash they are kept on… They must all be destroyed…"

The 21st ward was no more, everything was left lying on the outskirts of Kremenchug. And in the whole department there were only girls no older than 25.

Misha had only himself to blame. He had taken them into his company half a month ago. If someone else had taken them, they'd still be alive. They could be standing next to him now. Could have smiled as sweetly. They could be wives to some and mothers to others.

Misha turned his head, wanting to tell him he had to go, and ran into Natasha's green eyes fifteen centimeters from his own.

"Did I do something wrong?" — it really did seem that way to her already.

"No…" — he shook his head lightly.

"What then?" — She was about to ask "do you want me or not," "me as I am?" but she couldn't, something kept her from doing so. Rather, he had to do it himself, not by asking, but by understanding her eyes.

And they both fell silent.

Everything seemed so disgusting, especially for a girl who is a member of the sanitary unit. She should save people from death, calm them down, comfort them so that they would go into battle without thinking that their comrades had already been killed, that of course they would be killed too, so that she would have to go under the bullets for the wounded of at least half, but not all, of the group sent into the attack.

And here in front of her stands one such military man who has already experienced dozens of times the stress that stuns the mind along with the silence that comes after a battle. He's survived dozens of deaths of his closest friends. Who has spent his entire free life thinking about killing more plagues. And she wants something from him?

Even if the war were to end today, he and everyone else in the Wilderness would only have to heal.

Yes, this is it, Wild Field, Natasha thought. It is its spirit that makes of them, someone's future husbands, endless soldiers who for the rest of their lives will be thinking about "deployment sites" and "advancing the right flank to a striking position". This black earth fertile field used to be called "wild" because of the constant nomads who did not let them work in peace, now it is called "wild" because of the most massive battles with plagues.

This strategy was invented by people, because the sun shines much stronger in the steppe than in the forest. And plagues don't react well to the sun. That's why the most serious clashes with the Maquis take place there. The danger is that the artillery, which the plagues use at every such time, has been improved by them especially effectively.

The Chums refined anti-personnel mines by combining them with artillery shells. The long-used cluster munitions had the peculiarity of bursting before reaching the ground, thereby increasing the dispersion of fragments (balls spread over the entire volume of the charge) by an order of magnitude. The Plagues modeled this technology and produced a projectile that turns vertically in flight, producing a similar effect.

"No, you can't torture him. — Natasha thought. — And I can't be tortured so much either… If he doesn't, he doesn't want to.

These soaps lurked somewhere very deep: lodged inside and settled like hard limestone stone, yellowing and crumbling, slowly and endlessly.

A little more and she won't be able to speak at all, only cry.

"You know what, Mish. Go, you don't have to say anything," Natasha turned around, feeling her tears start to come out.

— Natash…

— Go — she sat down on the bed and turned so he couldn't see her face.

Misha looked at the room, looked at the plague that was never even outside the window, looked at

Natasha, with her braid still as black as the night sky, and said quietly: "I'm sorry."

He walked over and sat down on the bed very close to her, at her back, so that if she wanted to cover her face she wouldn't have to turn around, and gently, slowly lowered his hands to her forearms, "I'm sorry,

Natash… I should have done this much sooner…"

She turned around: a slightly flushed face, little droplets of tears rolling down her cheeks and big green eyes.

Misha pressed his lips to her neck and kissed her. Then another and another. Gently. It was not skin, but the ether of an air cloud, as if, if he touched her harder than he could, it would dissolve. And in an instant I felt her relax, all her nerves, just now so tense, become free, airy. How her breathing goes from nervousness to passion… First the warmth that warms somewhere inside that no one can penetrate. Then the breath. It echoes in my ears so that time slows down and I can't hear anything else.

The front door creaked open. And they both turned that way: how much time had passed, neither of them knew — how much.

"Natash, have you seen Zhivenko?" — a rebel appeared on the doorstep. His face was petrified and wrinkled, a couple of scars and glassy eyes — the embodiment of the image of a perfect Maquis. "Oh, I'm the one who interrupted… But this is more urgent than ever."

Special Forces Captain Maxim Seversky. "You've been missed here," Misha thought, getting out of bed. He pulled on his tunic, put on the boots that were lying on the floor in different directions, and left the house.

"What happened?" — Natasha asked, not realizing how it was possible to mess things up so unceremoniously.

"You don't want to know," Seversky shook his head negatively and withdrew following Zhivenko.

Large drops whipped outside. Somewhere far away it was shining. It was shining hard, but there was hardly any thunder. And the wind was blowing so hard that even those birch trees that had been standing for fifty years leaned to the ground. Such weather could hardly be called rain; it was a rain storm.

"Well, what is it," Misha stood motionless and full of expectation. He had seen the man talking to Bolotnikov four days ago. That dialog about what would happen after the retreat, how they had almost shot each other because of it. And now the eyes of this special officer, though they looked as impenetrable, still gave away the memory of that moment.

"Bolotnikov. He's being tried," Seversky muttered through the rain.

Natasha stood behind him. Her braid was covered by a large black hood, and from it the same strong green eyes glittered slightly.

If it hadn't been for her, a fight might well have broken out here. Misha wouldn't do it in front of her: those who save lives shouldn't see hatred for their own. Barely restrained words, clenched through his teeth, were all he could manage now: "Where is it?"

"Let's go," Seversky nodded, continuing to be still as calm and composed as ever.

"Maybe he's proud of it? — Misha thought. — Maybe he joined the Special Forces so he wouldn't be like everyone else. To feel the difference between everyone who is here. There are enough weak people here who ran away from the plagues because of fear. Maybe he likes to think everyone here is like that. And now he's come to show us that? Why is he doing all this? Why has he come and not someone else?" "I'll go with you," Natasha said quietly and decisively. — Don't. Stay here.

— No, Comrade Captain. It's not in your power. — Misha's peculiarity has been missing for a long time. The way she didn't like to mix her personal life with what was related to the war. She saw it as unacceptable: "What if, when I have to choose, I listen to my emotions. You know what emotions lead to in combat. Many more could die because of it… Just because I looked in your direction. And that's what emotion is… I'm bandaging someone and I'm thinking about you… And if I'm thinking about you and not the person I'm bandaging, I might do it wrong. What's that gonna do? And that's just me, First Lieutenant. What can you do, Captain? Keep my whole squad out of a place that needs help just because of me? How many will die because of that?"

And now that there was no fight, she didn't want to shut herself off, even though she hadn't known Bolotnikov that long.

In general, it is customary to try the military in closed trials, so that no one can see them. But this rule did not apply to the Ukrainian Maquis — once they elected them in the open, now they also tried them in the open. And even now, in the rain, no one had the heart to suggest going inside.

All in dress uniform; in front of the dilapidated building of the once local administration of the ancients a small oak judge's table covered with a red tablecloth, with a cable behind it; to their right there should ideally have been a jury, but they were not there; to the left a small tribune assembled from crates and matbases; a little farther on a chair where the Major himself sat, guarded by two guardsmen.

There are people everywhere: all soldiers fighting for freedom, but some are orderlies and some are engineers.

The Commander-in-Chief is with everyone else, but in the front row. His figure is tall and weighty, but helpless in such surroundings — those who can only watch.

By this point, the court had finished considering everything "just charged" gave the defendant the

floor.

He shook his head negatively — I had nothing to add.

"The court withdraws for decision," the Chief Justice announced, and they all departed the plaza.

Everyone stood still, not moving, not whispering, not even breathing. Only the downpour flooded everything in the area, rumbling with immortal, inaccessible lightning.

Misha looked at Bolotnikov. The major was sitting still and calm, and, though it was far away, you could see his satisfied eyes. That he had managed to save his unit, that they hadn't had to burn for those, in fact, unnecessary fifteen minutes. "They're alive, and that's more than enough. It outweighs everything else."

Then he looked at the towering building; it had been the seat of the Poltava administration a long time ago. The roof of the building, though still holding up, was broken in two places and crumbled at the edges. Plaster had fallen off the walls, and even the frames of the windows were broken. This was the place where the verdict was being deliberated.

After looking around the ruins, Misha turned to Natasha. It was very hard for her to be here, her eyes said.

— Why did you come?

— I don't know myself… But that's a question you may not know the answer to…..

— Which one can't you use?

— If I didn't show up, I'd be asked "Why didn't you show up?" It's impossible not to know the answer to that one.

— Who would ask you that?

— I don't know. — Natasha answered, knowing full well that she would be the one asking herself.

Three men came out of the building. As they approached the table, they did not sit down, but took out a small piece of paper: "Please stand up, everyone." Bolotnikov rose from his chair and stood as straight as he had never had to stand before; he is a combat officer.

"The court of the Free Land recognized Major Sergei Ivanovich Bolotnikov, commander of the "Donbass" battalion of the Bogdan Khmelnitsky grouping, as guilty of violating the order. In accordance with the statute "Officer of the Free Land" to deprivation of military rank and death by firing squad. The case is closed.

Of all those who were on the square, there was no one gloomier than Khmelnitsky. Because of his "specifics" in the order came out "this". Only after "this" was seen, the question of the deadline for the withdrawal of troops from Kremenchug arose. But he could not give a direct order, because there was indeed an informer in the group, and if he found out, the whole group could be jeopardized.

But there was a second option. Destroy "it." What would have happened? Khmelnitsky would have been deposed, and then the group would have collapsed. There was no doubt about it — no matter what people fight for, they always fight for power, without looking at any principles and consequences.

"No, well, what aren't they people? Out of all three of them, there was not one of them?" — Victor asked himself and answered: "No, they are not people. They are mechanisms that act according to the statute you wrote once. And you yourself were the most eager to approve it. And you yourself were a mechanism when you handed them the report. That's the system. And you can't go against it, even if you created it.

Otherwise it will either eat you or fall apart. And it will be either usurpation or revolution…"

But what's Bolotnikov got to do with it?! We're fighting the plagues, and he's a soldier. Men like him are all we need to win! And they shoot him?!

A single "no" will suffice here.

Khmelnitsky stepped out of the row. Through the downpour. Through the post.

"The Commander-in-Chief desires the floor," he pronounced to the entire square.

There was whispering among the people, and whispering in court.

"The Court gives the floor to the Commander-in-Chief."

Victor did not cough, warming up his voice: one could not hesitate here, only the system could: "In view of Major Bolotnikov's special merits to the Free Land, to our entire group and to me personally, I ask to replace the firing squad with enrollment in the penalty battalion.

The court whispered again, and the people became indignant. The people had never seen such a thing before and could not see it. Everyone was silent, but the thoughts and that muffled sound of surprise rumbled over everything.

"They don't know what to do. Because there's no clause about what to do in such cases. — Victor thought. — 'They're my levers after all. Even if it's for the last time. But still my…" Every feeling, every nerve in him whispered that after the court agreed, one of his most ardent supporters would come up and stab him in the back. And that was what he wanted so badly. Let it happen, Zubkov would take charge, shoot a couple of rioters, and all would be well. The group won't fall apart. And if it doesn't, what's he gonna do? Stay the same with this offense behind him? That's gonna be hard to live with, and even harder to lead.

Ah, this beautiful warm downpour. And the thunderstorm reaching us… How beautiful you are!

— The court agrees with the Commander-in-Chief. And that means we need to create such a battalion.

— Yes. Create such a battalion.

— In this case, the Court is authorized to appoint a commander to this battalion since it is created while the Court is in session and with the consent of the Court.

Victor didn't fully realize what was happening. He was expecting someone to stab him in the back. But that didn't happen. It was something else entirely. And the feeling… it said that something had changed, right just now. And the drops flying different, and the noise of thunder different, but what "different"? Better or worse than before? The one that should be or not?

"Stab me in the back, though!" — Victor shouted in his thoughts, glaring at the judges and waiting for whoever was coming from behind. But there are no sharp shouts and no shocking flickers of glances. No one running or aiming.

Victor turned around.

No one. Only the faithful deputy Alexander Zubkov by his side. No one was preparing to stab in the back, the group has nothing to split up over. The case when the system assumes the possibility of error. When everyone agrees. After all, the system is not a foundation, but a shell. The foundation is the thoughts of the people who now agree. Victor thought so, until he saw Bolotnikov's frantic eyes, not realizing how his commander had made a mistake.

— The court appoints Viktor Khmelnitsky commander of the newly created penalty battalion.

Viktor turned toward Zubkov. His eyes were not just giving himself away, they were triumphant and grateful for the opportunity to take his place. Those eyes, which had been so unassuming only a few moments before, were now aflame with power.

"Zubkov for Commander-in-Chief!" — shouted someone on the right, and then immediately 50 people supported him: "Yes! Zubkov! Commander-in-Chief!!!" Zubkov raised his hand and waved at them.

Bolotnikov shouted something to the judges and tried to run towards them, but the guardsmen immediately grabbed him, and one of them knocked him in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle.

The major knelt down and almost immediately glanced sideways at Victor.

On the other side of the crowd stood Misha Zhivenko, and from behind the backs of several people he could not fully see what was happening on the square. Natasha was standing next to him, and next to Seversky, the commander of the Special Forces, the same one who had fought so hard with Bolotnikov during the evacuation from Kremenchug. And now he was standing very close to Natasha, clutching something in his jacket pocket.

— Just move. — whispered Seversky. — We'll kill you and her later.

Misha felt something sharp in his back, and he felt the presence of several more men from the special forces. At this time, closer to the left edge of the square, someone began to shout something for Khmelnitsky, but immediately a scuffle broke out and the shouting quieted down.

Another shouted "Zubkov" from one side, and several men moved towards the former commanderin-chief to escort him away. Someone was already offering Zubkov a mace, which he took triumphantly and waved upward shouting: "We shall win! For the Free Land!"

The judges stood up and bowed solemnly. Those who could shout something against it, tried to shout against it, but it was too late. Now the new Commander-in-Chief, who had been elected in public and confirmed in office in public, stood before everyone. High Priest

The Council of Six. The same gloomy light, the same underflying cries from the cellars.

Everything is in place. From beneath the table a vile, shaky voice of the head of the Holy Sejm.

"I heard the news from Stage 2. They say things are deteriorating. What can Brother Priest Guzoh have to say?"

Guzokh bellowed, "Our sector is conducting new operations, new raids. The week of repentance is feared more and more. More informants. In short…"

"In short," Nevroch interrupted him. — Everything but the numbers."

"The numbers are in order, High Priest Brother Nevroch," the latter could no longer stand these meetings: everything by any means but moving toward his "exile."

About this stage, all decisions have long been made, what remains is to be finalized. Nevroh continued: "Good. What does Brother Priest Katoch have to say?"

–

We've come up with a new technique. We're about to try it out. Everything's going according to plan.

–

That's good. Does anyone have anything to say about this?

No ideas, no suggestions, not even questions. Not about the "new" methodology, not about the numbers, not about anything at all. Everyone pretended to know everything, but in reality almost everyone just pretended.

— Then I declare the council adjourned. The next one in six days.

Everyone dispersed. Samoh, head of the 360-degree sector entering Stage 1, opened one of the yellowed doors and went down the stairs. Neuroch was waiting for him there.

— I'm so sick of having conversations with these lackeys. They can't do anything but talk nonsense about our justice and prove the nonsense of "Silanzhah".

— The most interesting thing is that they believe it themselves," Samokh grinned. The head pinned his new hopes on him. He has the most important apparatus of the Inquisition: supervision over the SCK and the very top. Only he will be able to return the church to its former influence, taken away by the SSchekists. Besides, he has the right notions regarding the distinction between church and faith, and without this one cannot become a high priest: only he who sees the real difference can convince the others of unity. — It's no big deal. It's no big deal.

— Did you have something to say, Master?

— Yes… I sense someone who might interfere with us…..

— Among whom?

— Among the humans. — Nevroh turned around. — I sense a strange man. There has never been one like him before. He poses a serious threat.

— A human? Master, you–

— Don't be a fool. I don't want a reckless plague to ever take my place. This propaganda of theirs about the weakness of men is worth no more than our Silanjah… I've never felt such power before.

— Tell me the location, I'll send an agent.

— No need… I already sent it out… A month ago… And the location… Just the area where we use the R-36 and R-37. Oh, by the way, do you have any other ideas on how to use these leftovers?

After that incident, only the R-37 remained.

— What's there to do? — Samoh made a questioning face out of his already nasty face, and they both laughed.

— That's what I think, too. — Neuroch agreed. — First take care of it and immediately on the spot.

Personally study the situation, then report to me. Agent you do not know the face and do not need. He knows his business …

Spider

A couple of days passed, and Shinhr brought all the information: the Dnepropetrovsk-DonetskRostov-on-Don routes and characteristics on the convoy leadership.

— You promised you would protect me," he said, handing over the papers.

— No, we didn't promise that. We said we wouldn't hurt you.

— But what about…

— Don't worry, we'll protect you. It's just that you have to pour out what you had and what you thought… Now that you have brought what we asked for, I say to you, "We will protect you." — Thank you. I really, uh.

Chum said the word. "Truth." What did it mean to them? A chance to stay alive? Not to be mixed up in something with the SCK or the Inquisition? And their state of mind? Do the Chums have a soul to experience for it to justify their actions?

— Take your time. We'll check "it" and then you can rest easy. For now, wait.

His eyes showed apprehension from both sides already. Shinhr was afraid of both the SS and the Inquisitors. One might be dissatisfied with his actions and turn him in, the other might discover his "contact" with the former. He would not have interfered in anything at all, but fear forced him to do so. Fear of what these "eradicators of heresy" were doing in their own lands.

The next day Vanya handed over the rewritten material, saying that everything was in order and that his help would not be needed anytime soon. Shinhr seemed satisfied, but some thought made him uneasy.

— What's wrong with you? Speak up, we're a church. We'll understand. — Vanya had gotten so into character over the past couple of days that he looked at everything differently, as if he were really behind a serious organization that would get him off and, if necessary, his agent as well.

— Uh, no. It's okay… The chief's not happy today… They might demote me… I think it'll all work out.

It's hard to understand why he didn't ask for help: apparently a "disgruntled" chief is less scary than a "helping" Inquisition.

Be that as it may, the prefect demanded the next morning that Tikhomirov "find out everything about the matter."

Cleaning the floor in his usual place that day, Vanya heard a shout from the adjoining room. It was the same mocking voice again, which had no power, but a couple of powers.

The door opened, and Shinhr stepped out into the corridor. Only half a minute of hysterics, and he was already gone. Vanya had never seen such an expression on the plagues' faces: his eyes had shrunk not twice but three times, his forehead was creased, as were his lips, his cheeks tense and pulled the tissues of his ears toward him.

— I'll be shot. Unless a miracle happens, I'll be shot. Ivan, please, you promised me help. I am faithful to the Church, I have done your errands, I will be useful to you….

— Don't make a fuss. We'll help you.

— Thank you. Thank you, Ivan, I'll never forget….

Tikhomirov looked at his naiveté and saw his edifice, so easily constructed and built on words, crumble.

— Quiet!

— All right. (chuckles)

— You have to. Tomorrow. Bring us the paperwork.

— Like what?

— Quiet! Vanya wanted to get something more out of it. — Chief of Supply. Information on warehouses and their locations. We don't know what it looks like. We'll take care of your chief.

Of course, he brought everything that was asked for. And even more. Even what he couldn't get, the secret data of the SCS on suspicious members of the Disa group. He hoped that this way he could get more for the Inquisition….

— Well done. — Vanya praised him slowly, tucking the papers under his shirt.

— You…" Shinhr began, resembling a weak man with his emotions: eyebrows raised and eyes full of futile hope.

— We'll take care of it. Now he can yell at you all he wants, nothing will happen to you… If you want, you can smash his face in and then spit in it… Consider yourself untouchable. The Church will always protect you as long as you serve it. Continue to serve us faithfully.

There was no limit to the joy on his face. Apparently, he had decided to savor his new opportunities. When he had another conversation with his boss, he snickered and scoffed, then provoked a new outburst of anger, and in the process slapped his opponent right between the eyes. And then spit in his face. Almost as he had been advised… The guards who rushed in quickly dragged him out of there, took him to the inner courtyard of the institution and shot him there, while he continued to scream hysterically about injustice and punishment for attacks on the holy church.

These short shots; with such a short and very deafening echo.

Vanya shook his head, but the wrong feeling took his heart. It was not pity; he did not regard the plagues as living beings at all, and simple mechanical functions like speech or movement were treated by him as something they had stolen from earthly life. His feelings were similar to the loss of an important object, as if he had lost a shovel with which he had to dig a whole hole, a thing that was needed but could be replaced.

And when Vanya lied to him straight in his eyes that he would help him if he carried out his errands, that he was in no danger, he did so, guided not by the fact that "people are suffering now, and I must help them." He became like that; like intelligence and with the same exact spirit: cynical and ruthless — "numbers go around here, and everyone has a use." That he was helping people, that so much of this war depended on him, sat somewhere quite deep in him already. He wished for freedom for all, but that had fallen by the wayside. Now Tikhomirov was doing it because he was drawn to "build a system", "his system".

And now he needed a new agent. The first time he'd been lucky: a fool who'd bought into the Inquisition's fears. There wouldn't be a second time — he'd be caught and executed.

***

13:40 Break at the plagues.

Vanya entered room #113 of Circular 18B, the maintenance staff room. There he made an appointment with Dmitri.

He obviously hadn't gotten his drugs in a long time, and he looked as stunted as an old man with cancer. His eyes don't see and his blood doesn't flow.

Apparently, he hasn't managed to turn anyone in lately… And who can be turned in when the prefect is sitting in the mine and telling everyone to keep quiet and work?

— So, don't you get enough of your heroin? — Vanya asked, looking at him as before. This is a wolf that has been kicked out of the pack, looking for a new leader who will kick it in a new way, sometimes maybe giving it a chance to nibble on a bone it doesn't need.

— What do you want? — He struggled to speak. He was twitching from side to side, his pupils dilating and constricting… And to get to this state, he's taking this stuff?

— No, you need that… Do you want to get your own powder?

— Yes! Yes. Give it!

— Show me your tongue.

Turned blue and all flaccid — not the tongue, but rather a reminder of it.

What if we look at his corrupt brain?

There is no venality to be found there, only a passion for pleasure, only a desire to lose what one did not possess. That's what any drug gives you.

— You do some things, you get some…

— No. Give it to me! Dimitri tried to grab it, but it's not the same. There's no strength, no speed, no ability to do anything — it's "no drug".

Vanya didn't hit him hard, but accurately chopped him in the jaw: on the head and off to the side.

How disgusting to look at… What had become of him. Who could this man be? Here he is lying on the floor, unable to hold himself up one bit, unable to get up or sit down or even say anything, but only begging for what made "it" out of him. What a low circle, and how long have they been walking on it?

— What a stupid world they have. — Vanya thought and said out loud. — Do you know anyone here who is dissatisfied with the SS?

— Disgruntled?

— Among the plagues.

The thought process was hampered by the mind's blockage.

— There is… Yes… Prinhr.

No way. He's on the S.S.C. watch list, he's under the radar.

— More.

— Donhr.

— Who's that?

— One of the captains.

— Imperial?

— Yeah. (chuckles)

— Why didn't you turn him in?

— I need to know the reason for his displeasure before I turn him in.

— Just like that?

— Yeah. He's a tent. I don't.

— What makes you think he's not happy?

— I heard. Accidentally. In conversation.

— What was the conversation about?

— I don't remember…

— Where is he now?

— Gone, I think.

— Where to?

— I don't know.

— When he comes back, report back. Who usually gives you heroin?

— It used to be Changhr. Now it's different. I don't know his name.

— You don't know the owner's name… Okay… How often do they change?

— It's the first time.

— Why was he replaced?

— He's dead.

— By whom?

— They said Bulgarians.

After discussing a few more candidates, it appears that none but the second one is a good fit. Donghur. And we'll have to wait for him. Or we'll have to listen to him.

— Do I get heroin?

— You will. Not now, but when you do something.

— What?

— Not now.

right now. I'll tell you when the time is right.

This was the "unknown" that Dimitri was striving for, and that would torment him even more. Maybe he would have liked to pounce on Vanya now, to tear him apart, just because he didn't have heroin. But he didn't have the strength. Nothing. Not even the strength to scream about it.

— How long have you been working for them?

— Two years. I need heroin. I said I knew… Please.

Vanya punched him once more in the jaw and thought: "He's already experienced. He's almost played

his own game. I got hold of him just in time…"

Zhivenko

Leaving Poltava Zubkov's group moved to Kharkov, to this not only ancient but quite famous city.

If we take a closer look at the five largest Ukrainian cities, we will find that Kiev is the soul and mother of the whole land; Dnepropetrovsk is the strength and spirit of the Dnieper, after it the Dnieper, having absorbed Orel, Kilchen and Samara, becomes the way it meets the Black Sea, long ago called the Pontus Euxinus; Odessa — the center of trade and all-European relations of the country, the most lively and buzzing city, perhaps because it was never once destroyed in its history, even during the Great War; Donetsk — the basis and movement of labor, very close to here the greatest labor movement of "Stakhanovites" was born, which then quickly took over the entire Soviet Union; and Kharkov = a cluster of wit and wisdom, where even in the times of imperialRussia there was a University.

It was founded almost immediately after the victory of Ukrainian Cossacks and Moscow troops over the Poles in 1676.

In that war, one unique event took place, taking its roots from the Pereyalava Rada. The Cossacks, announcing their accession to Muscovy, demanded that the Tsar swear allegiance to them, that is, swear to serve for the good of their people.

In Moscow, it was not accepted to swear an oath to the tsar. But since the Cossacks wanted to join the unified state as much as the Russians wanted to accept them, a mutual "act of trust" took place, for the first time in history. Alexey Mikhailovich did not swear an oath, but gave his word to rule the Ukrainians for their own good, and they, in turn, for the good of the Tsar and the united state. Thus, for the first time since the times of Kievan Rus, Kiev and Moscow became part of one country.

Kharkov absorbed all mutual love and devotion to each other. That's where the mind was formed.

Empty streets. Some things had fallen apart, some had collapsed on their own. Misha walked along the kerb, past stones and half-scattered bricks. He had wanted to visit this place for a long time, ever since Sasha Rucheyev's stories; to see with his own eyes what was worth it.

Despite all the spirituality, in the city, past the time and wars, there was a pile of trifles, a pile of junk left by those who were for the West or the East, and also a pile of advertising… Every meter there are posters and billboards, two human heights, and the image of what? A cell phone. One company, another. With inscriptions about slogans and urgent actions…

"And people bought all that? — Misha thought. — What is so important about this rectangular object? Does everyone without exception need this thing, and moreover, this particular model?…? I've walked five blocks, I've seen this thing for the tenth time. You couldn't leave the house without it? You couldn't go out on the street without this particular model? Everybody needs one? Like a gas mask in a gas attack? What kind of government did we have before that didn't look at what people are advised to buy? The authorities are no more interested in the turnover of trade than in their own existence. And who will preserve it, the power, the turnover of trade or its own subject, seeing the care of the state? How many people do not know that their health could be improved just by taking iodine or vitamins in the right quantities? Why don't the authorities put advertisements on these posters saying that they, the citizens so necessary for the state, will be given vitamins at some point, though not for free, if the state does not have enough money for it, but for their own health, simply because without them this government is not worth a gram. It is not worth a gram without people….. But it isn't! Everywhere this power allowed these troubadours to shout that they need some ultramodern all capable of doing the telephone for them! Where are the priorities of this structural design?

Watching and listening to all this crap wrapped in silk, the people remained patriotic?

As soon as I said all this to the billboard, a cell phone poster flew off it, and underneath it was a social advertisement asking people to "let the ambulance pass on the road".

— That's the way to do it. The whole point of the market is, the highest bidder wins. Who needs an ambulance? Old people, mostly. And they live on a pension that's not enough to buy the latest cell phone. So nobody needs them.

In front, Grigory Listov was sitting by the roadside, again on the steps. He was also studying the city, also from someone else's memories.

— Greetings, Comrade Captain. — he snapped out of his seat.

It's becoming a habit; not his subordination, but Misha's aversion to it. Tired of it, that's all. Knocking on his cap already like a blacksmith on an anvil. Probably it's because of having to go into battle too often…. — Have a seat.

They sat down; again on the steps-just like last time.

— How do you like the city? — Misha asked.

— Well done, Comrade Captain.

— Enough already. Just Misha. That's all. That's an order.

Grisha was confused: "It's uncomfortable."

— Come on, it's embarrassing. Bullets are the same for everyone. And they don't fly around generals…

— Misha grinned. — And even on the contrary… Admiral Nakhimov. Have you heard of him?

— No way… No, I didn't.

— In the Crimean War he led the defense of Sevastopol… Just said that "today they shoot well", immediately got his death.

— It's a shame.

— Why are you sorry?

That's not the kind of question anyone was supposed to hear.

— Why are you sorry? — Misha repeated, looking him in the eye not as a commander, but as a soldier who had seen death many times.

— He was in charge of the defense… Without a commander, how?

— Oh, that's what you mean. But you're the one who's sorry, isn't he? I'm not sure. They've lost this war before. You know how hard it is to lose. And to lose to people you hate. Who came to your land and you can't do anything… I want to grab a bullet… It'll cure everything, all the pain in your heart… And grab it in such a way that it's not on purpose. It's not on purpose, it's just a bullet… it just flew by, just touched me. What can you do? Nothing. And it's not your fault… Death can be so sweet… Like the morning sun. Or the warm flow of a river.

— Death is sweet?

Misha looked up at the sky and, seeing the clouds as gentle as love, nodded: "Yes. For the one to whom it came… But for the one it didn't touch, it can be just a pile of stones on the soul… You know Sasha Rucheyov, my old friend, right?"

— Rooks? Who was promoted to major last month?

— Yes… Which was posthumous… First his old friend was gone. He wanted to die… Well, now he's gone… — Misha wanted to say that "now he wants to die, too," but didn't; it's a weakness to share your stones in your soul with everyone. — And it's like this everywhere… War. Nothing can be done… Everyone does what he can…..

Something wrong skirted in Grisha: the last four words struck a small nerve in a place that could not be touched, but only felt: "Everyone as much as he can for others?" — Yes. To others, Grisha.

— Everyone. Everyone… Everyone… Everyone, but not me! — he jumped up from his seat and, swinging his arms to his side, shouted what was "rocks" on his soul.

— You can yell, Grisha, if you want, but everyone knows.

— Know what? — Listov turned to Zhivenko sitting on the steps. — No, they don't know! They can't know!

— They know. They know you ran away from the plagues, leaving your family behind. Mom and sister. They know, Grisha, they know. You can blame yourself, but everyone has their weaknesses. God has made it so that not everyone can tolerate "his", the right. You can blame God if you want. He created this world… But you'd better sit down and think how best to defeat the Chums. — I couldn't say any more, I couldn't take any more.

Grisha walked back up and sat down, no not sat down, but rather plumped on the stairs.

— You think about the future. — Misha continued. — When we defeat the plagues, how will everything be… East-West again? Yes, I think so… The earth stores all thoughts, all spirit. Even according to Herodotus, the character of peoples, their mentality was determined by the terrain, the land they lived on… Oh, you know, how different it all is!

Nothing seemed to bring Grisha out of his state: he sat with drooping eyes.

— Here I read some old newspapers. They are there, Grisha, around that corner, whole stacks of lying… So, there all….

— No, Comrade Captain. — not looking at the commander, said Grisha. — Do not understand me… I'm trying to help them because of all. I try… And I don't even know if it's any good… I just try and that's all.

Misha didn't fully understand what this tirade was and how it should be understood. He only saw a man who was lost in all his thoughts, and who apparently didn't even understand how he could get out of this corkscrew. If he even realizes that there must be such a possibility somewhere. And all of this at a

moment when Misha so desperately needs the right people by his side. At a time when they've found themselves in the penalty box, with a redistribution of power in all of Unit 14, and at a time when he's simply forbidden to screw up in his personal life.

— No. — Misha thought. — Maybe I have such lax subordinates, but I myself will turn all the problems

into a ram's horn… If not for myself, then for Natasha….

Masha

A small wooden cabin. Spacious fields. A quiet river. Masha at the well, alone, but not as sad as before.

She looked at the bottom for a long time, at the waves, at the water beating against the walls, and all the time she saw her beloved. They stared at each other for four hours.

In the time Masha had lived in that house, her belly had hardly grown, but the baby… The baby… The fact that it was there, that it was calculating and would already be born so soon… It was so beautiful….

Masha thought about the word again.

She was not allowed to do anything around the house lately, and all she could do was read and admire nature. And, in general, both. Pasternak, Yesenin, Pushkin… forests, lakes, rivers, fields, flowers — all this is beautiful. Yes, exactly, beautiful… And music, and painting, and sculpture — beautiful. And singing, and painting, and writing are not good, but beautiful. And fields and flowers blossom, and the wind whistles in the steppe, and the Sun breathes fire, and the Sky floats in the distance — all this is only beautiful, and no other way.

Masha realized this as she looked up at the sky, the sky looming above her. Clouds, gray and blue. They're the kind of shape that consciousness presents and the mind doesn't project, the kind you can only see, and only above yourself… Maybe that's the point of the Sky. To remind people of beauty when they can't see anything else… There were wars, there were generals. This general won a hundred battles, destroyed a hundred cities, and looked at him, the Sky. Onon did not become lower, did not become more submissive, but remained just as beautiful and kind, no matter how much blood he saw spilled, no matter how many lives he saw ruined… And this general stopped, said: "There is no point in our wars. There is no point in our dark hearts that conquered the world, killing everyone. "We submit to the Earth because we are its children.

— Maybe it never was — Masha thought, lifting her head up, facing the Sky — but it's beautiful… Maybe they didn't spend decades in the mine and got used to Him… Still, that doesn't diminish its beauty. It's not food that you can get enough of, it's endless, like love.

She remembered her analogy: love and art. And really, it's so similar… Why do you like Yesenin's poems? I don't know, I just do… Why do you love someone? I don't know, I just love… And how united it is by beauty. You like it because it's beautiful. You love because it's beautiful… And it's beautiful somewhere inside and only for yourself. I like it and he doesn't. I love it and others don't.

After these words, Masha breathed easier. As the Sun breathes fire, so we breathe beauty, in love and in art… And Dostoevsky was not quite right when he said that "beauty will save the world". It doesn't. It is already doing it, it is already "saving the world". And even if it didn't stop bloody generals, it nourished people's minds with life. So that they see the beauty, so that they stop their generals, so that there was someone to admire the Heaven.

"It was thunder in the distance, And all is calm again….

All lies in the silence of the night."

Someone sang it a long time ago. And that's how Nature spoke to us, all together, all our good Earth. Showing that she's above us, that she's higher than us. That she loves us… Otherwise she would not be so beautiful, so tender to us. And we drink her water, eat her food, breathe her air, warm ourselves with her fire.

And we can't live without her, just as she can't live without her children. And we love it as we saw it at birth.

That place becomes home.

The earth is big and different. And therein lies the beginning of the soul. It's so beautiful at home. Like art. Like Love. It's beautiful.

Masha thought about that word because of the baby. It would be born very soon. Her and her husband's child. And it will look so much like the one she loves. And he'll be closer, at least one step closer. And there will be someone to live for…

Spider — Prefect Room #113 of Circular 18B.

Dmitri told Prinhru that those who were as interested in the SSchekists as he was would be waiting for him there. He said it was a church.

Everything is dark, and it smells human.

The door slammed shut and the tent froze. In place. To listen to whoever came in after him. In exactly two hours. It seemed to him that was enough time to be here before whoever wanted to set him up. Exactly, he thought, "Who would pass such things through people? Either people, but there's no reason for them to, or someone who has no one else here to rely on. And that's SCK."

Even people he hated less than the Social Security agents. He simply regarded them as useful cattle. But the S.S.C. couldn't even find a word to say. They shoot both their own and strangers. And they gave people "special conditions". Now they want to catch him, accuse him of some nonsense and send him to a camp. A plague camp, guarded by the same S.S.C. guards.

And now there's an opportunity to catch one. Talk to him, play with him, and kill him. That's why he came here— to kill–

Sharp as the edge of the Earth. Steel as a prefect. Dangerous as poison. The knife blade lay across his throat. The handle and hand were out of sight, as was the man standing behind him. Prinhr paled.

— Shi uzy ka sa-da (I suppose we've waited long enough?)," Tikhomirov whispered in the plague language.

— Sok Tuve? (Who are you?) asked the chum. I didn't want to kill anymore, I wanted not to be a fool next time.

— Ku Tobim (Black Stone Service).

— Doh Tim Tuwe (What do you want?).

— Shak tim shinoy vik. Kosba. Shtur… Chvoi tih tush? (I want to kill you. I can't. Need… Do us a favor) — it didn't sound like a question, as if the choice was impossible.

Once done and gone, that's how he thought.

— Szczuch (Yes).

— Vic zhir zhir wak du Kozhaj and zama Torquessim. (You should find out what the Church and especially the Inquisition might be interested in here)

— Torquessim? (Inquisition?)

The blade shifted, stabbing the plague.

— Itu za ba. (You can stay here.)

— Shun. Shak tri-doo (No. I'll do it)

— Ta tubi takon. Leyah shrok (Come back here in exactly one month. Leave a note.) It's been a second. — Boo jusha? (All right?) — Szczuch (Yes).

— Toch (Good) — whispered Tikhomirov and knocked him in the back with all his might. Chum fell to the floor, unconscious. ***

Prefect's office.

Even just looking at him wasn't so easy anymore without some sort of permission. And that's what Tikhomirova thought. What others thought of it — one could only guess. The prefect radiated strength and purposefulness with his one look. One look of his, apparently, was capable of breaking a hole in a concrete wall. And with that gaze he was now looking at his papers. There was something in them that no one could know, but it was something he was about to share.

— Have a seat. — said the Mountain. — We'll be here a long time.

Tikhomirov sat down and made some sort of willful effort not to look at what lay on the table.

— Here, take a look at this. — Gora held out some papers. — A document from Shinhra.

Most were in the plague language, but there were some in Russian. For example, this copy of a report from the call sign "Coyote" to the JCC:

"Secret. Report on the support of the Imperial Army near the city of Kremenchug.

To the head of the East Slavic Column Zakinhr.

I report that our grouping of 28th Hivi Regiment provided fire support to the Imperial Army, as well as a combat breakthrough through the use of three available T-95 tanks equipped with KAZ systems.

In spite of the casualties received, the 28th Regiment was able to take the positions indicated on the waybill in the time given.

The information transmitted through Desna's encrypted channels turned out to be exactly correct.

Losses of the 28th Regiment: 137 killed, 228 wounded, 8 armored vehicles, including 1 pcs. Т-95. Assessment of the Imperial Army's actions: without our support they would not have succeeded.

They acted inconsistently and out of order.

Signed, Commander Coyote of the 28th Regiment."

The prefect found it very interesting that the work of just one informant among the Maquis was having such success, and moreover that his importance was constantly emphasized even in documents of this kind.

Moreover, what was interesting was that this document, written in Russian, obviously meant the participation of a fighting formation of people on the side of the Chum in a direct confrontation. He had seen several references to the word "Khivi" before, but this was the first where they were operating as some sort of independent force. And it was hard to believe that a unit of humans under the current circumstances could be covering the Imperial army of the Chum, and even using heavy weapons.

Tikhomirov finished reading.

— So what do you think? — The prefect asked.

— First. There are people who are fighting for the chums. And, in this case, more successful than the chums themselves. Two. The informant is obviously very valuable to them. And, three. They call it "Desna channel", which means that they obviously have more than one.

— Yeah. That's right. And we need to help the Maquis find him… And if we can't help, then at least show that we helped…" Gora held out the papers. — This is a list of our four doubts of our entire Deese sector.

Tikhomirov took the papers and began to delve into the text: "What are we looking for?"

— That traitor who bangs on the poppy plague. From Squad 14. He's snitching for one of them. There's a theory that he's snitching to soften the terms for someone… Stupid, sure. But what people do for their loved ones…

Tikhomirov glanced once more at the papers, then at the prefect, then back at the papers and again at the prefect, "I see that you have found no one interesting among them."

— That's right. Damn right. I couldn't find anyone for whom someone would knock off the Maquis… Clearly, no amount of plague conditions would improve. But maybe at least they shouldn't have been touched… But nothing adds up. There's no connection between those who ran away to the Maquis and those who stayed. We haven't had many run away to the Maquis in the last 10 years… And this defector was obviously very much needed by the plagues. And what they wouldn't let happen is that the ones he's snitching for would run away too… Which means they'd have to be in the detention center, in addition to the others. So as not to create doubts… And among those in the detention center, no one has escaped. No one at all. There must be a connection somewhere. But I can't find it.

— Have you seen Among the Dead?

The mountain froze in his gaze. That's right… A dead man can't run away. And special conditions were guaranteed for him. They began to dig through all the archival records, where the dead for the last six months were noted and compare them with those who had escaped in the last six months. There was one option — Alexei Ranierov.

The Mountain remembered him. A very tough, strong and dashing type with a slippery temper. He ran away four months ago, leaving both his parents behind. A month later, his parents were gone. Of course, he couldn't have known about it, but it was strange to imagine how he could vindicate his parents in front of the plagues too. He was clearly selfish. He didn't care about anyone but himself. But who knows, maybe some conscience had awakened for that reason.

They started looking further back. For one and a half years ago. Again, nothing. Until there was only one Raniere left. He was remembered once more. Once Hora had heard the man tell his son Raphael that humans had no chance before the plagues, that humans in general were not worthy of living any kind of normal life. And that in general plagues still spare people, giving way to their insignificance. And that, to be fair, people should have much worse conditions. And that in general one should be grateful that life is not as difficult as it could be.

It was disgusting to listen to all that back then. And I had the impression that Ranierov almost feeds on other people's grief. Playing on nerves, sowing doubts, and as if he was relieving the tension from himself. There was no doubt that in case of anything he would not hesitate to snitch to anyone, but that did not mean that he was the informer. And if they sent unverified information to the Maquis, the real snitch would remain at large. And what's more, he'd be even harder to identify. We need to keep digging.

Nothing was found for a year and a half ago either. The impression was that people only ran away from the mine if they had no one left at the mine. Or they didn't run away at all. Maybe it really is Raniere. There are no other candidates. And after all, you don't have to snitch for your loved ones, you can snitch just for your own pleasure… People sometimes do things like that, even without any apparent benefit to themselves. Just to make things worse for others, as if to make things easier for themselves. As if there would be a spare place for them just in case… And still, the evidence of Ranierov's guilt was only farfetched….

And if we don't hand over the Maquis to anyone, they might think we're covering for someone. Or that we don't want to look at all.

— Vanya. — said the prefect. — Write a note for the Maquis… According to our information Ranierov is a traitor.

Zhivenko

Wide fields of Ukraine. The same forests and rivers. The city of Kharkiv in the middle of everything.

Misha Zhivenko, who had recently become a penalty officer, used to have lunch at Natasha's. Now every time only at her place — no one knows when they will be able to see each other or if they will be able to see each other at all. And it didn't matter what he had, as long as she was near. There was a light in her eyes that was brighter than that of the sun, a light that could not be seen anywhere else.

After he finished, they somehow naturally stopped in front of each other. She was mine, he was mine. And then they sat hugging, stroking and kissing each other for probably more than an hour, oblivious to time and anything that might keep them from being together, until the door creaked open.

It seems like nothing special: the usual sounds, and everything is familiar… But it's actually someone coming, and no mistake about the house.

Mishcha reluctantly turned back to the entrance — Bolotnikov. Everything came back: both reality and the sadness in his soul. Somehow it was not the way I wanted it to be.

But Natasha had nothing to do with it. She doesn't need to know the details: let her think that her beloved is the same warrior as before, only not quite legal and on an equal footing with the others. Let her think the same as before.

Ruchyov had told Misha long ago about what it meant to be a penal officer, what sometimes you had to do, not because there was an "unwritten code" or something like that, not because Khmelnitsky had made a mistake just once and initiated the creation of a penalty battalion, but because it was always, first of all, about you: "Don't be softer than the enemy. Be as hard as the enemy. And in time, become ruthless. To break the enemy. Because you will only think about getting ahead of him, and you will do therefore everything times more than him… It doesn't matter how much time the enemy spends on preparation, it only matters if you spend 8 hours or 14 hours on your preparation…"

— To become a good warrior, Sasha said. — all you have to do to become a good warrior is to give up thinking during the battle. In order to become just the right penalty killer, you have to become a beast before the battle. Not just to clear the brain, but to forget about its existence as a control center. Feel the instinct and clamp down on it. To make your instinct into your own willful steel sword, moving towards the goal.

Misha didn't want all this for Natasha. She's smart: she hears two or three words and understands everything at once. But he wanted her to love just a man who wanted to stay alive because he had her.

— Major, let's go outside — asked Misha.

Sergei nodded understandingly. Natasha exhaled a little and, reaching out gently, fixed his collar, which already looked normal. That's a very interesting trait in women. They always need to correct something on the ones they love: clothes, hairstyle, anything, but make sure to correct it. And you can include all kinds of ways of thinking, but you will not understand why this something became different after her touch, even though you are 100 percent sure that it did not become different.

And it is not that something looks different, but that she has touched it; that she looks at what may be wrong with her beloved and fixes it. And this is somehow expressed in the same way towards both husband and child. The movements are different, of course, but they are the same in essence, they are equally tender and affectionate.

Maybe it's because the wife watches her husband as well as her child, maybe not, but you can always sense what it means to her to love them both.

— I'll be right back, Natasha. A couple minutes. — Misha promised.

The wind was blowing outside, but it wasn't cold. And a few clouds peeked out from behind the horizon, not scaring the rain, but slightly obscuring the sun. It was evening, but not dark. — Tonight. — Bolotnikov started. — you're going out. There are six more with you. — Have they been assigned yet?

Just two. The others, you pick the rest. The mission is to intercept an important plague. He's from the SCK. His name is Tanhrom. He's being transported from Chuguev to Kochenok early in the morning. — Sergei held out a map. — We know only one section of the route, so we will not have to choose the place of attack. The scheme of departure is given there.

— What do you mean he's being transported? Is he in custody?

— Yeah. (chuckles)

— He just needs to be delivered alive. — sounded like a statement, but was a question.

— Yeah. (chuckles)

— Maybe we should ask him something on the way.

— No. Just deliver it.

— What if they are mortally wounded or killed?

— A wounded man is the same as a living man to us. But if they kill you. That depends on who. If it's his plague, we might get lucky… But if it's us, we can consider our game over. On the other hand, how will you prove that he was killed by your own… No. In any case, if you bring back a corpse, our game is over.

— Just like that?

Sergei laughed. It was obvious that he was in a completely different mood and was very skeptical about everything.

— They probably just didn't kill us because they were too hungry for bullets. You can't take us with your bare hands.

— Why is it so bad?

— Fuck, Zubkov got his hands on everything that was good and bad. I've never seen such a rat in my life… However, my opinion is probably subjective. — The major turned away and touched the back of his head with his left hand, where there was still a fresh bump from a recent blow with a rifle butt in the square.

***

Misha told his beloved that he had an assignment, and that next time they would see each other in another city, which city he didn't know, but they would see each other for sure. They kissed and hugged.

–

No matter what happens to you, I will love you. — Natasha promised. From the bottom of my heart.

***

Night. The steppe. The clatter of hooves. Seven horses, seven riders.

Zhivenko is in the lead. Behind him is his deputy Dima Meretskov. During the last two battles a lot had changed in Dima: first, he had absolutely ceased to be afraid of death, and second, he had acquired a finer sense of humor. He said that when you see the overwhelming superiority of the plagues in numbers — so that there is no place on the field where even one ray of sunlight could reach — there is a strange feeling of pride in yourself that "you do not run, but hold on to the land that you are entrusted to defend, and you do it not until you run out of ammunition, but until they order you to retreat. His face, too, had changed: it was covered with wrinkles and deep folds; his eyes had darkened, and his voice had softened like that of an old grandfather living in a dense forest and gladdening every guest. And all this in spite of his twenty-three years.

— Misha, were you told how many of them there would be? — Dima asked, but under the clatter of hoofs it sounded so quietly that Misha had to take each component separately for another half a minute, and the result was: "And you were told how many there would be?".

— What stories? — Misha asked.

— Has it been explained to you in any other way? Give me one.

— I don't fucking understand… I'm thirty-three.

Dima laughed.

— What a daredevil! You've got a girl like that and you're fighting all the time. Spend time with her and leave the enemies to us.

— Dim, what enemies?

— Green and fangy. We have to fight, too, don't we?

— And what of them? Your enemies?

— Mish. I'll tell you first. How many will there be?

А. That's it. I don't know. I'm curious.

— At least share your thoughts… I've heard about the Inquisition… I can tell you, they don't go it alone….

— Nobody walks like that nowadays.

— That's true. But their "non-single" is somewhat different from all the others like them. — How much?

— You'll see, anyway…

— That's great. It's called "who asked who."

Dima laughed again. You can let your subordinates do that, when you know that today you can see him dead with a bullet in his forehead. And he wasn't the only one…

Even before dawn we reached the place.

The Veliky Burluk River was flowing. At the shore there is a hill, sharply steepening to the water. Steppe on the left of the hill, forest on the right. Pine, tall. At the edge of the forest there is another hillside, but it is quite small.

The road — two trampled ruts — along the water, only rounds the hill, and goes further between the river and the forest.

— And how many will we defeat here? — Dima asked rhetorically.

No one answered.

— I have an idea. — Misha was surveying the terrain and seemed to have already seen the morning. — We'll attack in two groups on the edges of the small hillside. At that moment they'll be at the turn. There is no way to retreat into the steppe, further along the road — also useless. The only way for them to stay alive is to climb the high ground.

— Uh-huh. It's convenient. — Dima agreed. — Do you expect the prisoner to run to us at this point?

— It would be nice, of course. But is it worth it?

— There's no other plan anyway. — Dima pressed his lips and chin together and shook his head with a serious look.

Misha smiled.

— That's not all… Pash, come here.

Pasha Vilko, not very experienced but very capable, came up.

— Mine the top of the hill. Remote detonator. Focus is at 10 o'clock.

— Mish, I have a suggestion. — Dima intervened. — Let's find a plague. A neoinquisitor. And let him push the button.

— I agree. — joked back to Misha. — All in favor?

Pasha raised his hand: "I'm against it." — Why?

— There are no buttons on the remote. Just toggle switches.

— It's a shame how… — Dima deduced and stepped aside. ***

Dawn. The sun is slowly rising. First the Sky, then the Earth becomes brighter. We can see the layered clouds that covered everything at night and prevented us from seeing the stars. We can see the forest, the steppe, and the river, bubbling without ceasing.

— It's beautiful, isn't it? — Dima said. All night long he was silent and cleaned his weapon. AKSU-74. With this rifle he went as far as he went. Somehow he even called it, or rather her. But how, no one heard.

They only knew it was a woman's name.

— It's beautiful. — Misha replied, who had also been silent all night, but not cleaning the machine gun, but thinking about his beloved.

— You know, I've only recently started to realize what it means to me…..

— Who is it?

— The sun. I used to think of it as a law that was destined to repeat itself forever. And then I realized that this law is not a law at all, but a force that is so great that we simply cannot imagine anyone who could not act according to its rules. I realized why I thought it was a law.

And what did it get you?

— A different perspective on life. I now have a different understanding of what should and shouldn't happen. The sun is above us. It decides that. And we're here for something else.

— With what else?

— It's just watching to see how we're going to do. It doesn't care whether we win or lose. It already knows the answer to that question… It cares how we do it, what efforts we make, how we try….

— I like your philosophy. And you know what? I'll take it.

— Because of Natasha? To be together forever? No matter what happens, you'll be together because the sun said so?

— Yeah. (chuckles)

— Well, you're good. You know how to pick a side… Practical…..

Misha smiled.

— I'll help you again. You two look really good together. So you don't have to worry.

— Thank you.

From afar, there's dust on the side of the road — they're coming.

— Get ready! — Misha shouted softly back.

After just a minute, the plagues showed up. In their sun-protected overalls. Plagues on horseback:

where had one seen such a thing before? The column was long: more than twenty riders, one, in the middle, tied up.

All of them are in black, except for the bound one, and the one next to him is in acrid yellow with circles, asymmetrical, that is, not quite circles, and, of course, fangs. His clothes were not a robe, but a sort of camisole, with many tiers. Around his neck, in a long chain of rectangular links, was a stone, all black and so black that it did not reflect the light. And his head, of course, was covered with a steel helmet with a visor.

— It's time. — Misha thought, and immediately someone from his squad fired a grenade launcher at the column — dagger fire.

The front three were flipped over, sprinkling earth around them. Those who tried to shoot back fell immediately. Everyone who could, rushed to the hillside.

Shooting in the back is not very decent, but who thinks about decency in war? Especially since the enemy was initially facing. As the horses stomped along the rising ground, where the road still passed in front of the hill, the plagues piled up on the ground. Then the slope. The Chief Inquisitor grabbed another horse, already with a dead plague in the saddle, and began to cover his prisoner.

It was time to step out of the forest a little — the penalized men went forward. Coming out from both sides of the hillock and approaching the road, Misha shouted: "Blow it up!"

There was an explosion: several handfuls of earth flew up from the top, horses with chums fell under the slope. Only the chief, taking the prisoner's horse by the bridles, rushed off into the steppe. Misha ran back into the forest to his horse.

A couple more seconds, and he's after them.

The sun is already scorching. The night-black earth and yellowish grass fly out from under the hoofs.

Dust, oblique columns of dust, and the tent, sometimes shooting back, but unable to break away.

Misha dodged once again and took aim. And then a line of three shots came from somewhere behind him. The Inquisitor flew off the saddle to the side and, tipping back his legs, remained attached to the horse.

Dima was the shooter.

He picked up the bridle of the prisoner's horse and rode leisurely across the steppe. The others are here on horseback.

Misha decided to check what lurked beneath the inquisitor's mask. Whether they are different from ordinary plagues. And whether they are very different. And maybe something else… He carefully got off the horse. The wind was blowing even harder, and it was swaying the plague's clothes from side to side, even though he was already lying motionless on the ground.

It was not a tent. When Misha took off his balaclava, the face of an ordinary man was revealed inside. Just like himself. Even with roughly the same Slavic features. With closed eyes, a calm, already peaceful face, a human face.

Misha looked around and immediately covered the enemy's head back with his balaclava. This is simply impossible. They had just killed people… Maybe they were Maquis from another squad? Maybe they just disguised themselves as chums to take out a prisoner? That's why they're all wearing uniforms with that fang? But that doesn't make sense. They saw who was attacking them… Even if they had a glitch and started shooting back on automatic, it wouldn't have come to that. They would have signaled surrender or something… But they fought to the last man. And they were covering the plague prisoner…

Misha rushed to the prisoner and ripped the sack off his head… The wounded, tortured face of a man.

Not the plague again, but a man… And these people needed him for some reason.

— Did we take a prisoner of war? — Dima stood next to me with a surprised look. — This is crazy… — It's not bullshit, Dima, it's fucked up.

***

We rode all morning. Without stopping and almost without taking a step. And there was no point in stopping — there was only steppe around, no water for the horses.

The meeting place was 17 kilometers east of Kharkov: a "bare" or, perhaps, on the contrary, "blossoming" steppe. Who knows how to call it right, when it does not give birth to grain from seeds, it grows on its own. Any farmer will say that God made the black soil fertile in order to feed people, otherwise why he gave people the opportunity to grow something. Few would deny this, but few would agree. The penalized men were met by other penalized men — their commanders. Bolotnikov and

Khmelnitsky. One on a black horse, the other on a white one. One frowning, the other calm. But both were pleased with the meeting.

— Are you sure you didn't get it mixed up? — The former Commander-in-Chief shouted as he approached.

— Maybe they did. — Misha answered a little skeptically. — We'll come back and get whoever we need.

Victor nodded and took the horse's bridle from Dima: the prisoner himself had not thought of resisting so far, especially because in addition to the ropes on his arms, he was restrained by a sack on his head, the same acrid yellow color as the inquisitor's clothes.

— Okay… Let's go. — Khmelnitsky nodded and moved first.

Everyone followed him, only Misha and Sergey, noticing the attention in each other's eyes, stayed where they were. A minute passed, and there was no one around.

— Natasha is waiting for you. — Sergey stopped the pause.

— I just don't understand…

The wind blew in from the sides, developing the grass, which only seemed bigger from that, dispersing the clouds, which, at the same time, rather thickened.

— Hurry up and ask and let's go.

— Where the fuck are we going?! Are we fighting people?! With our own people?

— Shh… Shh… I understand… I understand. But you're imagining things. It's true.

— No fucking way! I've seen it. I saw it with my own eyes. The way they covered that prisoner, first by themselves. I've never seen plagues cover anyone like that before. And then I look at those corpses, and I see they weren't plagues at all. They weren't plagues, they were covering a human being too. What the fuck is this?!

— Calm down. — Sergei began to speak in a very serious tone. — I didn't know a lot of things before,

either. And it's really easier…

— Easier? Easier, for fuck's sake?! We're always told there are people who help the plagues. Yes.

There are. But they're only a handful, and they only knock. What's this? A whole squad, armed to the teeth!

And how they fight. They fight like devils! You can't take a single one of them prisoner.

— Of course you can't take them. They know what they'll do in captivity.

— So you knew it all. You knew it and you didn't say anything.

— Everyone is silent, who knows it… We have to keep quiet. — Sergei looked at Misha with a very direct and somewhat sad look. — You have to, Misha.

— And how many are there? How many plagues are there in general, and how many other people are at war with us?

— lot. A lot of people, Mish. Much more than chums… We call them "Hiwi".

— Heavey, fuck… Hooey!

— You want the huevos. No one will obviously mind… But there are a lot more of these hivies than there are chums…..

Koshkina

Pechenezhskoye reservoir. Old Saltov. New camp of detachment 14.

The seventh sanitary department, where Natasha Koshkina served, was located in a nine-story concrete house, situated right by the shore. From the window you could see the whole reservoir and especially well — the moon track that had disappeared five hours ago.

They spent the whole night dealing with some soldier. He was drunk and had broken his leg in some unknown way, and it was an open fracture. He was screaming like he wasn't being treated, he was being tortured. And blood all over the place, and screamed in his ears. And you'd never know how he was in so much pain, being so intoxicated.

Then, of course, the administration came in with a SWAT team. They started yelling at him — they recognized that he was from Ranierov's department. That didn't seem enough: for some reason they summoned Ranierov, not to his room, but directly to the hospital. He, too, turned out to be drunk; though not so much and not with a broken leg. They yelled at him. When that wasn't enough, they sent for help. Dr. Schwarzenberg realized that "all the saints had already been taken out" and chased away the administration, the special forces, and then the "help". No one wanted to question him — such a doctor is always the boss in his place. He treats everyone: vagrants and kings alike.

— Go on, Natash, get some sleep. — said Schwarzenberg when it was almost dawn. — I can manage on my own. How he was able to stand on his feet after a 30-kilometer crossing, a whole day and this night, in which "all aspects of life were covered", remained incomprehensible, but for Schwarzenberg himself it was nothing special.

Outside stood and, instead of dispersing, the nurses, quite young, no older than eighteen, were socializing.

Natasha, smiling slightly, waved at them and walked toward her house. All night, while everyone was arguing around her, she had been thinking about Misha, and now she wanted to come home, sleep, and be awakened by him.

Nothing else was of interest.

But no.

It took these girls to yell all over the street about something they were interested in. The morning after a night of dealing with the drinking episode and where they got it from… And they had the energy to talk about it.

They were discussing guys, of course. But not their qualities, like "doesn't react to this", "cold to that", "doesn't understand this". No, it wasn't that at all, it was who was prettier. Not only that, it was a selection criterion for not just dating, but living together. They didn't really understand what it was like to live together? "Beautiful" — is it good to live together? Or to be together at all? And what's behind it, i.e. most of the time spent together, is somehow not implied. Maybe he'll go out somewhere on the side in his free time, saying at home that he has no free time. Maybe he'll fight about anything that comes up and make her look guilty. Might never be supportive when needed, if not push her off the right path altogether. Does it help in any way that he's "handsome"?

They did not mention these issues at all. And the understanding of love and relationships itself did not slip in. As if the feelings of love, respect and help do not play a role in the relationship between a girl and a young man. It's as if everyone meets each other according to the measure of beauty — whoever can pull off the points.

Natasha spit on all their attitude nonsense and would have forgotten, but no. It concerned her, because five years ago she'd thought the same thing. She had seduced so many people with her beauty that she couldn't even count now. Now she was offended, and most importantly ashamed of it. For that self of hers back then.

— I should have been such a fool too. — Natasha thought, moving away from the hospital, not hearing and forgetting about those nurses, but thinking only about her past. — Fucking everyone she liked… Not even thinking about relationships. Not even thinking about stopping. Just trying everyone. It's so stupid. And useless! This youthful promiscuity… After all, someone could love her, not just desire her. Why couldn't God make it so that we wouldn't do these stupid things, so that we wouldn't have this dirt on our backs when you remember yourself and feel like some bitch who didn't think about the consequences of what she did?

Natasha raised her eyes to the sky: the clouds, cumulus and different every time you looked at them; the heavens, a bulky bluish firmament, mighty and omnipotent.

— It's beautiful. — the cloud spoke from on high.

— And you're beautiful. — said the inner voice to the girl.

— Immaculate. — the cloud continued.

But no one inside has spoken — inside they only say what they are sure of.

Natasha stopped, her head lowered. The braid, black as a moonless night, was now just the tips of her hair falling around her neck, curving just a little higher. Elastic and strong hair, it was beautiful, but there was something missing.

The cloud said, but in Old Slavonic: "A girl ruins her beauty by fornication, and her husband ruins his honor by tatboy".

— I know all this already! — Natasha shouted at them. — If you've all known it for centuries, why don't you tell me at once!!!.. Why should everyone know it too late!

***

When Natasha returned to her house, she found that she didn't have to wait a bit — Misha was back. He was asleep without even taking off his boots, and his breathing was so heavy that it seemed to grip all the air walking around the room.

Natasha sat down next to me. And it felt so good. He was there, alive. What was there to think about?

He's alive!

And I hate to lose him! What if he can't even look her in the eye after hearing all this? What if he doesn't understand at all? Losing him over something so stupid?!

She lay down beside him, pressed herself against him. And closed her eyes.

So much fatigue had accumulated that sleep came almost immediately.

Thunder and lightning. Rain everywhere. And a forest so dormant that neither drips hardly drip nor even sparkles from Heaven.

And it is even incomprehensible how she can walk through the foliage, not seeing the road and not seeing the end of the way. And not knowing what will be there at the end of the road. Another forest like this? Or another storm like this? Only slumbering and darker.

Somewhere deep down inside is the desire to go. It doesn't matter where, it doesn't matter how, it matters how. And her feet carry her either forward or backward. Past the trees, without stumbling or stopping for a single step.

And time passes. And it begins to seem that it is not a forest at all, but a thousand, "darkness" warriors, frozen at some point. And the thunder is the battle that rattles in their souls and is so strong that you can hear it only after it reverberates from the heavens. And it becomes frightening what you might hear in the next moment, because you know what you will hear has already happened, and what you can't see now is too dark.

And this fear grips Natasha, telling her that she will always be in the past, that she will always hear only what has already passed. But it doesn't stop her, she strives to go on — only to move; you get up and you won't move, because fear will take hold of you.

In time she begins to hear them whispering, the whispering of warriors. Natasha feels the difference between them, feels that one is light, the other dark, but so dark that it is impossible to tell who is who. And they whisper differently, each in their own language, but they seem to understand each other. She doesn't understand them, but she can clearly distinguish one word among them: "Natasha.

And then somewhere in the distance. It is unclear how it can be seen through so much darkness, but it can be seen. As two, exactly different, but outwardly indistinguishable, warriors approach, either right and left, or front and back — towards the middle. They are not the leaders of these armies, but of high rank. And declare from their forces.

One: "Partuhu."

Another: "Portudy."

And sighing, her eyes opened. Natasha woke up, startled. Misha was lying next to her. What was it

about? — Natasha said quietly. — What are they haggling about?

Metropolitan

It was not the first time Guzokh had been to the location of the resource extraction column. He was supposed to be here more often, but the opinion that he could see better from above sometimes prevailed in his thoughts. And with each new appearance, it was happening more and more. He didn't want to see that all the efforts of the Sacred Sejm to bring about the correct faith of Zha'zhah were producing results he didn't want to see.

On the one hand, it seemed that people just obeyed, and it was easier for the plagues to live at their expense. But in reality, ordinary plagues had the need to be clean before the imperial administration, the CCC, and the laws of Silan-Zhakh, so that they would not be punished by the Holy Inquisition.

Guzokh saw all this attitude in the plagues. They didn't have the greatness that was promoted by the imperial power. A great will to rule other peoples or a desire to learn the power of the Black Stone. Most were simply afraid of blows from right, left, and back. From various departments and organizations. And in all this routine, most of the Chum felt even more insignificant than the people clothed in slave chains.

Now the Slavic Column was supposed to use an unspoken resource. What Guzokh was responsible for, the rank-and-file workers and employees, were already in difficult conditions, and it was clearly not reasonable to expect anything objectively reasonable from them. To force them to knock in the week of repentance to the BCC was as unreasonable as it was insane.

— No one would deny you a personal appearance. — Guzok remembered the words of the head of the Seimas to another metropolitan priest, and shook his head dejectedly. It all seemed like a simple set-up — to send him to a place where he should already be walking on coals, when even in a normal situation, there was nowhere for success to come from. They just want to get him out of the way, and do it under the guise of his unskilled work. And then to say that it's a pity, but in such a place one expects quite different results.

He had two of his subordinates with him. Slow in their work, but in this case very suitable. They were loyal. To the code of Silan-Jah, and most importantly, to their chief.

The imperial army guard who met them asked them to wait for an officer from the SCS to arrive, as they could not be let in without his knowledge. The entire convoy, which had recently been handed over to the JFK, was supposed to have army units, but only to maintain security, and that was the end of their authority.

An officer from the SCK arrived very quickly, introduced himself as the deputy head of the district office, "We are honored by your arrival, Metropolitan Priest Guzoh. How can we be of service to our Jah faith?"

It's always like this from them. The CCC pay lip service to being the most polite and respectful to everything related to the Church. And everyone associated with it. But that's where it ends. They shamelessly recruit priests of any rank, make them snitch on each other, and sometimes even bring them to trial in cases of state treason, which are considered, of course, behind closed doors and without publicizing the details. And although they had never gotten to the level of a metropolitan priest before, nothing prevented them from doing it for the first time…

— Repentance week… We have come to herald the beginning of repentance week. — Guzoh answered him.

— I'm sorry, Your Holiness, but it's impossible.

— Impossible?! — The priest seemed outraged to hear such a word, especially so from the doorstep.

— Yes, Your Holiness. Last month the 120th Degree already held a week of penance, and you know better than I do that only two weeks of penance can be held per year with a gap of at least 100 days… Still, only the wisdom of our patriarchs in the sacred observance of the Jah faith can correctly interpret our dogmas… They are incomprehensible to us. We can only believe in them…"

Guzoh was stunned. All these words and the approach itself were regularly practiced in the Church and quite successfully. And to expect a colonel from the secret service to speak in such a way was not at all to be expected. It is simply amazing how careerism can transform both approach and abilities. But still. It's not about this secret service man. The patriarch certainly knew what was going on locally, and that the other sector had already held a week of repentance, and was clearly not using an unspoken resource in doing so. Otherwise the conversation would be different now… This whole thing smelled like a setup for himself again. Sending him to a place where he doesn't have the opportunity or the tools. He was obviously going to be removed from his position… But that was not why he had climbed up so long to jump back down.

— I understand. — replied the priest. — Surely you know the results of the week of penance?

— We cannot meddle in the affairs of the holy Church. — the SS man smiled. — Of course, we have requested information to keep us informed. But we can only get it with the permission of your authorities.

He's making fun of me. And he emphasized on the word "your" as if he is facing the priest who conducted the last week of repentance two weeks ago… I wonder if anyone really believes that the BCC is not aware of these movements?

— Colonel, do you believe in the Sylan-Jah rule book?

— Of course, we are the Church's most dedicated supporters. And we are always ready to help you.

How can we help the holy Church?

High-minded empty words. They'll do anything they want and nothing they don't want. And every time they'll come up with a beautiful explanation. And then they will fabricate a case against whoever is most convenient to remind them who is really in charge.

— Find me a proper office. I will stay in the column for a while… I hope for your full support.

— I dare not refuse, Your Holiness.

Bolotnikov

A dark basement and equally dark thoughts in it. Major Bolotnikov entered the room and looked at the prisoner. The sack had already been removed from his head, and now his eyes stared languidly down in front of him. It was as if he had nothing to lose, as if he had already lost his life long ago.

— You speak our language. — Bolotnikov asked, sitting down at the only table in the middle of the room, right in front of the prisoner. — Or do you speak only in your own way?

Apparently, this kind of questioning was something new to the outsider.

— I'm telling you, Major. I'm telling you.

— Great. — Bolotnikov wagged his eyebrow and, pointing at himself with the fingers of both hands, continued. — Then we can get acquainted. I'm Major Bolotnikov.

— Penalty Major Bolotnikov.

He had expected something like this, but it was really surprising. The whole thing with the punitive officers had started only a week ago, and not even everyone from Squad 14 knew what was going on with the group. And it turned out that even the Hivi already knew about it. There was no point in being dark, especially since the prisoner wouldn't be free anyway.

— Yes. Penalty Major Bolotnikov. What you got is what you got.

— And what you don't have, you don't have.

— And what you don't have, you don't have. — Bolotnikov had already realized that his interlocutor was a high-flying bird, which meant that one could learn much more from him by respect than by force. It was only necessary to approach the matter in the right way.

— So what do you want to know from me, Penal Major Bolotnikov?

The major squirmed a little in his chair, then nodded affirmatively and stared confidently at his interlocutor: "Name. Rank. Why did the Kiwis keep you prisoner? And where were they taking you? For starters, this.

— Name… Yes… I had a name… — the prisoner stared down, and it was clear that it was a painful question for him, so he wanted to emphasize that he was talking to a penalty officer, that is, to someone who also did not have all the power. — The Jackal was my name. That name doesn't mean anything now. But I had no other…

— Go on. I'm listening to you very carefully.

— I'm a hevy myself. I used to be. Until I broke a rule… And they were taking me to punish me for breaking that rule… We're strict about that.

It was well known about the Kiwis that they were not to be surrendered. Not at all and never at all. That each of them always carries two last grenades. One for when they're about to take you prisoner, if there's nowhere else to run. And one for yourself when you've used up the first one. It was both a trick and a sword of Damocles for the Kiwis. They were both proud and afraid of it at the same time. Proud that each of them had always been ready and used it. And afraid that they didn't know when that moment would finally come, or if it would come at all.

— So what did you surrender yourself? And to whom?

— Chumam from SCK.

— To the Chumas? Heavey surrendered to the Chumas? How does that make sense? — The Hiwi were fighting hand in hand with the Chumas. It was hard to see where their spheres of interest diverged, but it was completely inconceivable that there was that level of disagreement between them to allow for a surrender.

— The world is not at all what you think it is. — Jackal grinned. — You Maquis are used to the Maquis fighting a plague empire and the Kiwis helping them, aren't you? Well, the world is much more multifaceted than that. And the plague empire, which looks so monolithic on the outside, is rotten in reality. There are agencies fighting each other worse than you and me. And, rest assured, far more ruthless. And if you had taken this into account when you strike again, you would have defeated us and the Chums long ago… But you still fight the old-fashioned way — see an enemy, shoot him. You see a friend, you shake his hand. And shake his hand where everyone can see it. You think it's strength, but in fact it's just stupidity.

Bolotnikov took out cigarettes from his outside pocket, then matches and smoked: — Will you have some?

The Jackal shook his head negatively: "I smoked mine a long time ago.

What this chiwi was saying was shocking to the core. They had an inkling that what they were doing was not what they were doing to win. That no matter how many chums and chiwis they killed, they were not getting fewer. There were only more corpses, both their own and those of others, and there was no end in sight. It was obvious that the approach was wrong, but there was nothing to change it for. And to understand what inside the plague empire could work against it, obviously, meant to find the Achilles' heel of this system.

— What agencies are you talking about? SCIU and the imperial army?

— Close enough. Of course, they have their differences. But that's just on a local level. They don't really have much to divide. The JFK operates on a small scale, the Imperial Army on a large scale. And they have different interests. The army is after the budget, and the CCC is after influence… And it's someone else who's after influence. Their goddamn Church, and especially the Inquisition. No one is more hungry for influence than the Inquisition. And they don't want to share it with the CCC. These two forces would have destroyed each other long ago, but their style of confrontation is so underhanded that when one of them seems to be outnumbered, it turns out that the other still has hidden powers. And it starts all over again. Now the SCK has the army, the administration, and even some branches of the Inquisition firmly under its thumb. But unlike the BCC, the Inquisition has its cogs absolutely everywhere, and unlike the BCC, these cogs are fanatically loyal to their patron. This supreme patriarch, who can always absolve any sins and bless for any deed… But BCC will not absolve sins, no matter how hard they try. Problems can, but sins can't. Only the Church can do that. And now their leader Nevroh wants more than ever. If you press the right thing at the right time, there will be nothing left of SCK.

— What do you mean?

— You hit them pretty good at Luhansk. No matter what they say to each other, it's a serious loss for both the SCK and the imperial army. And Nevrokh used it very well. He made it look like it was a punishment from the Black Stone for those who didn't follow their code of Silan-Zhah. That such losses would be impossible if their souls were pure. That it was the Black Stone's way of ridding itself of heresy. A heresy that is unacceptable to the Empire. Believe me, Silan-Jah is more powerful than any argument the CCC can make. And they know it very well… These problems have changed the formation of the whole column, and to cover themselves, the local chief of the SCK, Zakinhr, has transferred power to the people in one of the mines. So that neither the Church nor especially the Inquisition could get in. After all, there was no reason to purge people of heresy… Neither the administration nor the Imperial Army understood what the move was about, but they were okay with it. And this is just the beginning. Zakinhr wants to extend this experiment not just to one sector of the Deez, but to the entire convoy. He's sure that the prefect Gora will be his obedient puppet. Where can he go… Believe me, soon the entire column will be under the leadership of

Gora, who is at the beck and call of the SCK. There will be no Inquisition here, no confrontation with SCK. And then you will realize what opportunities you have missed… Instead of the SCK and the Inquisition eating each other, you will get new hives, more serious than the previous ones. And you'll have no one to fight for… Except yourselves.

Bolotnikov finished another cigarette and looked at his interlocutor's face. Yes, exactly the interlocutor, not the prisoner. One could only hear such things from a conversation, not during an interrogation. What he was about to learn was as important as it was difficult. Soon the one who had been their loyal friend, the one who had seemed the most important link on the road to victory, would turn out to be their most dangerous enemy.

Masha

Masha had that dream again. She was standing in the middle of a field, and there were two big armies standing around her, facing each other. And the two commanders of those armies were bargaining with each other for her. It was pouring rain and thunder and lightning, and sometimes it was as bright as day.

She was looking at the details, the way the two men were discussing something, standing in front of their troops. And the one in the light-colored garb was acting a little nervous. It was obvious that he needed to bargain for something now. As if it was something personal, important to him.

Masha began to stare harder into his face, trying to recognize something familiar, and finally she saw in him the face of Raphael, her dead husband.

They wrote some numbers on pieces of paper and then showed them to each other alternately. And it didn't really look like any kind of betting, but more like showing their right to it.

Raphael stepped aside and wrote a word on a new sheet of paper. In the darkness she couldn't see what it was, but she could see that it was one word, and that it wasn't a number like before. For a moment it seemed to Masha that it was a name.

In the next movement Raphael drew a knife from his sinus and, cutting himself on the thumb of his hand, applied it to this paper just on the edge of the word.

And then Masha saw the word that was written: "Natalya". Rafael was no longer bargaining for his wife. He was bargaining for another woman.

Zhivenko — Koshkina

In the dream, Natasha was in the same forest as last time. There was thunder and lightning in the distance. The thunderous cries echoed from the sky, delayed in reaching her ears.

Still the two haggled with each other. And she had no doubt that her name was there. She didn't even want to see what was going on. Now she was looking at everything around her: different warriors in completely different clothes and armor, with swords, spears, maces, and types of cold weapons she had never even imagined. Even swords, seemingly standard medieval weapons, were of sophisticated shapes and forms: curved in waves along their length, with a longitudinal hole in the middle, with teeth near the hilt, or with stones in the hilt itself. An ocean of variety in armor, clothing, and weapons.

And they all had the exact same eyes. The eyes weren't even distinguishable between the different opposing sides. The same glassy stare that gave nothing away. The kind of gaze that is frozen in eternity along with something greater, moving with its own life. As if there is no difference for them: to live or to die, to win or to lose. As if they only care about moving in the direction where this something greater awaits them.

And then she seemed to realize that there was something unified in everything around her. She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was, but the feeling that it was there and that it was one thing seemed to take over her mind.

At that moment, the two warriors who had been haggling over her began passing scrolls to each other. And on each of them she saw the sacred image of the Black Stone that the plagues worshipped and drew their power from.

The warriors looked at what they had written and almost simultaneously shook their heads affirmatively. It seemed that they had agreed on something small. It was becoming something important, and now it was time to see if anything had changed inside the scroll.

And at that moment, one of the warriors turned to her and looked her straight in the eye. It seemed impossible to her. No one had seen her and could not see her now. She felt completely like a ghost. But he was definitely looking into her eyes now.

— Only together will you be able to understand its mystery. — said the warrior, and his eyes reflected the inscription on the scroll of the single word "Mary".

***

Misha woke up to someone shaking him from side to side. He had just dreamed that he was pounding a column of chums with a large-caliber machine gun, and the pieces of his enemies were flying from side to side, but now Natasha's green eyes were in front of him.

— What the hell happened?! — Misha wiped his eyes in bewilderment. — I had everything going according to plan…..

— Maria!

— Maria what? The Virgin Mary? I'm not Catholic.

— Yes, Mish! I'm saying, I think I might know how to break the spell of the Black Stone!

— What? — Misha was surprised. — What's in it for us?

Right now, it was really hard to see how the Black Stone's enchantments helped the plagues or hindered the humans. When the plagues first attacked, their sacred artifact had opened the gates and silenced all earthly technology, which allowed the plagues to win. But now that people are already slaves, portals don't need to be opened, and there is almost no equipment at all, there is no special use or harm from the Black Stone either.

— I don't know! — Natasha cried out. — I see this dream. And I see that it's very important! Very important! I can't explain it, I just feel it. I feel that it's very important. That it has to be done. I don't know why!

— All right, all right. Okay. What do we do?

— Maria. We have to find Maria. He said that with her, we could find the answer. Understand the secret of the Black Stone. Mischa, we can be free then.

— Yeah, yeah, okay. — Misha got out of bed and stretched. — Good. We'll find Maria… The Black Stone will fade and the plagues will evaporate… I'm all for it.

— Trust me!

— Honey, I believe you like I believe myself… I just had a dream that I shot up a convoy of enemies with an assault rifle… How nice. Where would I get a PPG? That'd be a great way to go.

Natasha waved her hands despondently, lay back on her back and leaned her hand on her forehead, thinking: "There must be something… There must…

— I'm going for a walk. — said Misha and left the house.

It was still very early, and it was still dark. But the freshness that hung around me was invigorating, and I had the strength to walk around. Someday we will be able to walk like that, as much as we want and wherever we want. And we won't think that a shell will come from somewhere, or they will suddenly raise the alarm. It may not be soon, but that time will definitely come.

When he reached the end of the street, Misha turned the corner and walked perpendicular to it. If you walk like that, you'll come across the headquarters in a couple of minutes. At the same time, you can check how the guys' shift is going on there. It should be quiet, but with sentries walking along the perimeter.

It turned out to be quite noisy. Several people ran out of the headquarters and ran somewhere in the direction of the brig, and near the entrance to the headquarters instead of two sentries there were a dozen and several armored Tiger trucks on the sides of the road.

Misha ran up to the nearest of the sentries: "What is it? The command 'Assemble'? An alarm?"

— Negative, Comrade Captain.

— Amplification?

— I don't know, Comrade Captain. The order is to keep no one in.

At that moment Viktor Khmelnitsky came out of the headquarters. The chevron of a penalty officer (a white skull in a beret) looked on his uniform not as an encumbrance, but as a badge of honor. Having noticed Zhivenko, he passed through the cordon of sentries and greeted Misha by the hand.

— Well, good morning Misha… The traitor has been taken.

Misha stood as if stumped, waiting for it to continue.

— Raniere.

— The Raniers? — I couldn't believe my ears. That bastard was always minding his own business. And there was no better candidate for the role. But really… A bastard is one thing, but a traitor is quite another. And he's too negative a character, like in a Shakespeare play. It's too much of a wishful thinking.

— Yeah. We got him… And we're very lucky that in the decimation of the penalty pool, we didn't get him… Otherwise, we'd have gotten screwed for that.

Misha's mood, which had been a little high since morning, had fallen to zero. He hated Ranierov, and several times wished he could smash his face in. But to see him as someone who would essentially serve the plagues. No. That's something else entirely. It can't just be taken for granted. He has to see for himself.

Prefect

Life at the mine became so efficient that people could not only rest for the time they needed, but also prepare for something more. Tikhomirov organized training shootings and tactical exercises on short-range maneuvers in one of the worked-out sectors of the face. The shooting was mostly "silenced", that is, with empty magazines, and live ammunition was spent about 1 in 20 silenced shots.

On this day the prefect was, as usual, at his place. He had received a letter from Ananhr, stating that six more mines, with a total of forty-three thousand men, would soon be placed under his management:

"To the prefect of the Diza sector

Due to the success in management, 6 more mines with a total of 43,000 people will be transferred to your control in the near future. External security of the perimeter will be provided by Hivi units, which will be in direct contact with you today. Provide them with all necessary support.

You are required to increase production by one and a half times within 2 months, and then keep it at the same level.

Head of the JCC of the Donetsk-Makeyevka group.

This news, as well as the identification of the Maquis informant, has raised morale quite a bit. But now the Maquis will only get in the way. They would not believe that giving him other mines could be to their advantage rather than their detriment. They will think that Gora has simply become a pawn in the game of the plagues, and just obediently serves them. Pretty soon they will want to remove him themselves, just as they removed Manhrabefore. And even if they do not want to, all their activities will still be directed against the production at the mines, and because of this you can only lose their influence and trust of the Chums. And the trust of chums will not be earned for the second time….

A report from Coyote to the chief of the local CDC came to mind. Very well remembered.

And it came to mind precisely because he had just received a report that a group of armed men were descending into the mine. Not a new group of plagues, not the SCS, but armed men that the plagues had missed.

The fact itself was so surprising that at first they didn't even want to believe it. Someone said that the Maquis had broken through and were about to take everyone with them. Someone remembered the rebellion of the Bulgarians. Some thought he was going crazy. But when these stout fellows, armed from head to toe, marched toward the prefect's office, it became clear to everyone that these were neither Maquis nor Bulgarians, but something quite different, something they had never seen before.

Once inside, their enthusiasm somewhat waned when they saw Horus. His eyes, as before, reflected determination, iron will, and strategic intelligence. Such qualities would make one respect anyone.

— You've got a nice place here," said the head of the men. All of them wore a chevron with a white, grinning skull over crossed bones, and he had two lightning bolts on his collar.

— To whom do I have the honor? — The Mountain had an F-1 grenade in his desk for emergencies.

— Cobra. My name is Cobra. — His gaze wasn't harsh, it was something else, something rammed and incapable of understanding other points of view. It was as if the word "truth" was a singular, pre-calculated number for him.

— I suppose if you wanted to kill us all, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. — said the prefect calmly and firmly. — Then tell us why you're here.

— And I assume you're not embarrassed by the presence of guns on the people who are here. Isn't it?

— That's right. If the plagues allowed us to have it. So someone else can have it… It would be selfish to consider us the exception… But I'm more interested in how long you've had the privilege.

— Privilege? From birth! — laughed the Cobra. — Mr. Prefect, you're the ones who are just starting to make a life for yourselves. We've been at it for a long time… In that respect, we bow our heads to the Maquis, who keep our secret so strictly confidential. And hide from all prisoners, how many people are actually not that free, but happy to be side by side with the plagues… If you want, oppressing, other people…

Who counts who is there and who is here.

— All right. Let's say we weren't born with it. But now we have that privilege too. And now we're even better at working for the plague empire.

— Give it up, Prefect. Don't talk of empire.

Gora continued to stare at him calmly. It was clear that he would now finally get down to business.

Cobra looked around as if looking around, mewling his face a bit — The Chums aren't here anymore, except for the administration. And there's almost no SCF, except for Ananhr and her personal security company. The surface is guarded by us. And in the next month you will be given control over the rest of the mines in Donbass, which will also be guarded only by us… I don't know what kind of games the SCK is up to with all this autonomous management, but know one thing — if you screw up, we'll get in trouble for it too.

And if it's your fault that we're going to get screwed, then we won't have any more conversations like this….

— There's no such word. "Screw up." There's the word "order." My orders. And it must be obeyed.

Whether it's in one mine or several. The only reason you're allowed in here now is because I authorized it. If I told the man who runs the elevator to blow himself up along with the elevator and you, he'd do it without a second thought… And I want you to know that I like your words very much.

— You know, I kind of like your appetite. If you really swallow everything they give you to take the plague, it's a goddamn jackpot.

— If you weren't sure, you wouldn't be here now. You know it yourself… One more thing… If you're really so committed to our common cause, we need help from the Maquis. We can't make maneuvers on the surface, and the Maquis are interfering with coal transportation on the outer routes. So we've had to divert everything to the underground routes. The second route. And getting to the second route takes three times as much effort as if we were to transport on the surface… Can we expect any assistance in this direction?

— You want your problems solved by our hands…" Cobra grinned.

— Yes. — Gora knew that unconventional and direct answers were the most striking, and with such people you can deal only in such a way: direct and unconventional. — And I won't be in debt.

— Ha ha! — Cobra laughed again. — You really are what they say you are. Fucking iron! We wanted to get even with the local Maquis ourselves. I won't hide it… But remember we helped you. Soon the time will come, and we will ask for your help. — And you will have it. — replied the prefect firmly. — Just get the poppies out of my way.

Оглавление

Metropolitan

Prefect

Masha

Bolotnikov

Spider

Bolotnikov — Zhivenko

Spider

Zhivenko

Masha

Zhivenko

Koshkina

Metropolitan

Bolotnikov

Masha

Zhivenko — Koshkina

Prefect