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

Vladimir Anderson Struggle. Prisoners of Darkness

Prologue

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

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

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

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

There's what's left

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts of a free slave

March 25th, 2170.

Today, the 381st catfish got sorted and cleaned.

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

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

"Should I take it in a positive light?"

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

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

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

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

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

"No," the deputy proclaimed.

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

Gora motioned toward the 2 way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their foreheads tensed, their eyes glistened, their mouths opened slightly — in short, every part of their faces was engaged, as if in anticipation of a lightning strike in a clear field where only one man stood.

"Exit."

"Well, I thought so," the muscles relaxed.

"Don't tell anyone what you're thinking. It's not time to think yet… But it's time to dream." "That's what everyone's thinking about, and you know very well."

"And plagues, too," Gabriel brightened here. He had said the phrase before, but only now did he realize the power its realization gave him. It's a chance.

"Well Exit…" — Dozhik said.

"This is a chance. It really is a chance," thought Gora. "Kilograms 125, ah…"

"What?" — Stumbled the commander. "YOU asked about Exit."

"Ah, yes. И?"

"We're 125, 647 is 80. I've already talked to them, so you don't have to try, they say they're getting hit hard today." "They haven't finished their work yet and already they're seceding…" — the chums had a whole charter on

punishments — "All right. We'll organize the transfer," Gora replied and thought again: "This is really a chance.

When the commander returned to the sorting place, the catfish began its work. But Gora didn't care about that now: for the first time in his forty-five years he saw a real chance to free people.

"Gora," Konstantin called out to his commander.

The one in turn "woke up" for the third time that day, "What?" "Raphael. He decided to come out today."

"Where is he?"

The deputy pointed somewhere in the middle of the hall, where it was impossible to see anything behind the backs and faces, as well as, of course, the methane dust that littered every corner of the mine.

After a ten-minute search, the young boy Raphael (number 97899213B2; category "B2" — "gray" worker) was found. "Are you doing that on purpose?"

Five days ago, methane exploded and the 381st Soma lost three dead and one wounded. That wounded man was Raphael: second-degree burns on half his arm. Gora had given him a "leave of absence" (those who didn't work, the plagues didn't follow, as long as the plan was fulfilled).

"I'm already healthy," the boy replied, continuing to scrub the ground of embers without raising his head. The bubble from the burn burst, then another burst: clear liquid flowed into the water. Raphael shuddered, then his hand shook, but he kept his head still.

"Stop it. That's an order," Gabriel commanded.

Raphael stopped and raised his head. The gray, impenetrable eyes expressed calmness and restraint. A high forehead and strikingly white skin. It seemed white, despite the obvious charcoal grime that covered it almost everywhere; and even gave off a bluish color. Gabriel saw him as a descendant of the Aryans, who were considered a remarkably advanced and harmonious civilization.

"I can't not work. You understand that," the boy replied and fixed his commander in the eyes with his heavy glassy gaze. The only person capable of "translating" that gaze was Gora. He often observed his most poised subordinate and always saw sadness first. His eyes often looked not at the chums, but at the men at work; they poured blood from the fact that all the hardships the men went through were of no avail. The eyes watched and suffered the slavery of others. And now Gabriel saw those eyes; they wanted, by all means, to end the suffering of the people, including by means of their own sacrifice — for this Hora loved his son very much, but it was beyond him to watch such altruism.

"Raphael, listen to my command. — The commander switched to a completely businesslike tone. — Go to Sector 1 (something like a "human house" a place of rest after work; also in the mine, the plague surface was taken out twice a month for about half an hour) and sleep. Don't come out of there for a week. That's an order."

The Son of the Mountain turned his eyes away and looked at the woman in her fifties washing coal two meters away from him, her eyes bloodshot and another blister bursting on her arm.

"Got it," Raphael replied and wandered off toward Route 1, tilting his head even more than before. He never wanted to be thought of as lazy or afraid of death. Although no one thought so — on the contrary, they called him "The Rock" rather than "Son of the Mountain" for his strong character, as if to separate him from his father's merits, even if they were not so great — even his father had not been so eager to work.

"And don't forget to bandage your arm," Gabriel shouted after him. On top of the fact that bandages were terribly scarce (so scarce that you had to wash old ones several times until they were completely washed out), the plagues also forbade them to be worn outside of Sector 1. This went in as an appendix to the "Clothing Charter", where you couldn't wear any items that weren't work related, and went on to list those items. And if something was forgotten (this was the case with Stanislaw Leszczynski, who wore a chain with a cross many years ago; generally speaking, many people wore them, just as long as they had one, but it was him who was noticed for it), it was immediately introduced, including the "first case" (Leszczynski's head was cut off, because it was the chain that held the cross).

"That's a fine son you have," the same woman addressed Gabriel. "Yes… Yes…"

"His fiancée is the same, isn't she? It's like they were made for each other…"

"What?" the Mountain turned to the woman and, seeing her sincere and joyful eyes, asked. — What bride? Elizaveta Mikhailovna, aren't you confusing anything?"

"Gavriil Vladimirovich. How can I be confused? Her name is Maria. You know her… She's so light-skinned… He wanted to tell you himself, but obviously he didn't have time…"

"Wow… How long have they been together?"

"Oooh… A long time ago. She's from the 253rd soma. When did we 'move' here? Three years ago, I think. They've been together ever since."

"Wow," the commander marveled once more, not at the fact that his son hadn't told him such a thing (that wasn't uncommon), but at how long he had been able to hide the very fact of their love.

"What is it? Are you not pleased?" — Elizaveta Mikhailovna asked.

"No, more like the opposite. And very much so… And what did you say her name was?" "Maria."

Gora stared at her with a waiting look — need a last name. "Maria Volina."

"I see… Thank you, Elizaveta Mikhailovna. Good health to you," Gavriil led out and walked towards the transportation hub (tracks 4, 5 and 6) where the loading of coal by the 253rd Soma was taking place.

Now all of Gora's thoughts went to his family. He remembered how he had met his wife Elena twenty-one years ago. She wasn't from his soma either, yet he hadn't managed to hide it from his father for more than two months (a very tangible result for a situation where "free" movement is not at all — plagues pass to work, then back, and sometimes outside

—

that's all movement). But three years?! That's a real conspiracy… Although the main factor in Gabriel's discovery of his

relationship with Elena was strong feelings — he couldn't live with her (it's past tense, now you have to: Elena died in an explosion four years ago).

How comparable it was to the relationship between his son and Maria Gora could not determine — for that it was necessary to see

her with his own eyes.

Entering the sector of the transportation hub, Gavriil outlined to himself one of today's problems and calculated with what kind of question the commander of this event would come to him now — the work at the 253rd soma today has not gone well. It was clear why: the people had not slept well, and in addition to that yesterday they had no strength left.

Gora moved a little from the entrance to the corner of the room: there was a wide view, in fact, he himself often stood at this point during his group's shifts.

The pretty girl glared at him for a moment, then turned away, continuing to fill the container with coal. Despite her lustrous golden hair and rather tall stature, she didn't really stand out, but her gaze gave him away. She looked at him like someone she didn't know personally, but at the same time familiar in general. It was hard for Gabriel to get a good look at her face from such a distance, but it seemed familiar.

"Mountain!" — came a shout from somewhere on the edge, which is how everyone greeted him today for some reason: Georgy Volin, deputy chief of the 253rd Som (number 2536484B2), sparkled with joy.

"Volin, of course! — Gabriel cried out in thought. — That's whose daughter she is. Well, that's good. She has a great father. A real actor."

Three seconds later, the zam was already beside him. "Ahhhh…" he cheered, hugging Gabriel. — It's good to see

you."

Volin relaxed his hands, leaned back, still holding on to Gabriel's forearms: "My chief is looking for you. We don't

have any rage here — we're obviously going to fall short of the plan.

"I don't think it's a gimmick to anyone," Gora replied, trying to put his colleague at ease.

#Yes, yes. — Volin couldn't stop playing with his eyebrows. — Except that today we're going to surprise everyone. Ha- Ha-Ha-Ha."

"I like your healthy optimism."

"Who else here can be healthy… Since you like it, take me in with your family."

"And does he know, too," thought Gabriel. — that my son is about to marry his daughter?"

"I'm just kidding! — he was really joking. — Without people like me, people here would die from losing their sense of humor… Really, people like me are almost all catfish here. Don't you think?"

"Our whole column is differentiated by that."

"Here, by the way, is a new anecdote: "A miner asks another, "Who can be considered a coward?" Answer: "He who volunteers for the Maquis." Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. It's true, there's nothing to do here but die: there's nothing to breathe, everything around is exploding, and there's nothing to say about food and water," at the end of the sentence he turned serious and shook his head negatively.

"So is there anything I can help you with?"

"Sure, buddy, sure. Here comes the commander. Talk to him, and I'll go cheer up the people," — Volin retreated and, turning around, rushed towards the locomotive loaded with minerals.

Gora turned his head to the side — the commander of Soma #235, Ivan Dubrovsky (number 547137A2), did not radiate half the optimism of his deputy (a good and effective method in contrasting leadership). As he approached, he reached out and shook his hand, then turned his sad eyes away and mouthed, "Gavriil. I've been looking for you since the beginning of the day. Zhora has probably already told you… and you can see for yourself. Work is just not going well today… Pardon the pun, but that's just the way it is." He sighed heavily: "Gabriel, I hear your team is cleaning twenty-four tons today…"

"Right."

"What the plagues did to those who fulfilled the plan by one-third could be imagined (their norm was 75 percent, for every percentage below that two percent of the soma were punished with five strokes of stones, as the number of strokes increased, the number of strokes reached ten, and the critical level was 25 percent). Ivan's eyes were already filled with impending deaths and the realization that it was not in his power to fix it.

"You shouldn't downplay your abilities. I'm sure your score is between 8 and 10… But it doesn't matter. We'll help you anyway. 14 tons. You can't go any smaller."

"Fourteen?"

"Yes, exactly. That's the most you'll get today. Even if they get all 24." "Mountain… God, you just saved us all."

"You'll thank me later. And not me, but my men. Twenty-seven percent of them to receive five strokes each. There are a total of one hundred and eighty-three men in my team. Twenty-seven percent is fifty men, that's 250 strokes. Of those, mine are only five. What are they worth?"

"Yes, yes, Gabriel. Well you just saved us…"

"Okay, okay. We'll talk about that later, you better go make the most of it, including for us." "Thank you very much again, Gavriil…" — Ivan immediately rushed forward into the labor. Now was the perfect opportunity to chat with Maria.

"Maria? — Gora asked the pretty girl.

She turned, "Yes… And you, I think, are Gavriil Vladimirovich."

"Yes, yes, that's absolutely right. Can I ask you something?" — Gora, like any self-respecting boss, had a knack for and liked to discern the wording of a sentence, such as the one he was using now. The expression "May I talk to you" and its derivatives were common, but he had noticed that the word "talk" not infrequently alarmed the interlocutor, so his interpretation of this address would include the word "ask", which, in particular, was very applicable to women who liked to talk about themselves.

"Of course you can. Just wouldn't want to take a break from work," her eyes were brimming with sincerity. — You're probably already aware of the fact that we're not tucking in today…"

"Altruistic, but partially so. That's a good thing. Will make an excellent mother… and wife too, of course," Gabriel thought and said: "That's alright, you don't have to worry about that issue. Our team will help your…you know what I mean."

"Honestly, it doesn't matter what rank you'd be, but if I didn't know your authority I wouldn't believe you," the girl admitted and jumped off the wagon and onto the ground.

Finally, she stood a step away from the Mountain, the light fully illuminating her. She was even lovelier than before.

She even looked a little like her fiancé, and her eyes were almost the same: They showed a will (internal, to the core, though of a different character), a certain impenetrability (much less than Raphael's, and it covered personal places, not everything that was of interest), as well as the absence of weakness (of course, everyone has weaknesses, but both Raphael and Mary did not show them, he because of his intransigence to himself, she — unwillingness to show it to others, and if something did not work out, they all had "their" ways out: Raphael's was prayer and self-conviction, Maria's was anger up to certain limits; she was angry, in principle, on every occasion, but always exclusively at herself, which moved forward, to achieve the goal, which she could not fail to achieve). In addition to her eyes, her facial expressions were noteworthy, which, if successfully "translated", showed her moods, including her own.

"So, what did you want to ask me?"

"You don't know a guy… blond hair, like yours, skin so white, well quite former, and also his arm has burns on it… left?" — the future son-in-law asked slyly.

"Raphael? Are you talking about your son?" "Yes, yes… And you know him well?"

"Well, I know almost everyone here already… And how well… well, that's not for me to judge."

Gora almost cringed — Raphael, was he specially preparing her for this kind of talk? Or is she that amazingly intelligent? No, she's not. Obviously both.

Gabriel decided it was time to ask directly, "Mary, do you love my son?" "Yes… I love it very much."

"Have you guys been dating long?"

"No, I wouldn't say that, but that doesn't stop me from loving him." "And for timing, clarify…"

"Three years… A little more."

"Do you consider that, under our circumstances, to be 'not long ago'?"

"I don't know exactly what conditions you're talking about, but it takes a long time for people to understand each other… Especially under these conditions."

"Generally speaking, you're right. I've been with my wife for seventeen years and I've never fully understood her.

You're right. It takes a lot of time. I don't have a home of my own." "I'm glad you understand me."

"Yes… as far as I know, you have a wedding coming up…" "Yes. Raphael was going to tell you today."

"so… you're in enough of a relationship to get married."

"I love him… And he loves me too… It's more than 'enough' for me."

"Then you may consider that you have my blessing… I wish you happiness…"

"Thank you. That's the best I could hope to hear from you. Thank you, Gavriil Vladimirovich."

"Yes and…I wish…" — Gabriel was about to say the word "grandchildren" when Maria suddenly vomited. Easily, out of the blue. Gabriel himself had a wife, he didn't need to explain why such things happen — the question dropped by itself.

Maria immediately got to her feet, so that Hora only had time to help her by supporting her by the elbow. "Masha, darling, what's wrong?"

"It's okay, it's okay. It's okay."

"You don't have to try to fool me. I've got a kid myself. So how many do you have?" "A month, or rather almost four weeks."

"It's nothing, don't worry. It's a common thing… I'll go tell Vanya to set you free…" "Don't. It's okay."

"I have to. You bet I do. I want healthy grandchildren, so no talking." "Thank you, Gavriil Vladimirovich. I'm glad I have such a father-in-law." "I'm pleased with you too… And one request…"

"Which one?"

"Love him always as he is now."

Where are the insiders and where are the outsiders

While the catfish were working underground, the imaginary and actual bosses were sitting right above the mine. The actual boss was Manhr Chum. He had at his disposal the whole of Donetsk and Makeyevka, consisting of 24 catfish, developing 7 mines. Plus 12 security drills and two special purpose drills (mainly against the Maquis). Total 3728 people and 560 chums. Strangely enough, despite all the squeamishness of the chums towards people, they knew the exact number and checked on them once a week. I remember once thirty-eight people had defected to the Maquis, so Manhr himself went into the mine to beat up the Soma, who had lost twenty-two of her miners, along with her deputy. After the punishment she lost eight more killed. This was the only time a karak ("karak" being the head of a group in a column) went underground.

Manhir himself did not differ from all the others in his position, except for his weight: his peers ate up to two hundred kilograms, but he only up to ninety. The plagues actively propagandized this, explaining it by Manhir's sympathy and his desire to help people through constant, including his own work. The only truth here was the weight (the real reason was known to a very narrow circle of the column's leadership, which consisted in some terrible and very rare disease among the plagues; as for "help", it was said that he stole from his own people, and in such quantities that it was possible to buy his own mine of no smaller size).

Now the power is imaginary. Pavel Pozharin (number 726629A1) represented it. Underground, this man was hated more than the chums, despite the fact that it was not from him that the orders to stone them came. The Maquis hated this man more than anyone else, despite the fact that it wasn't from him that the orders to raid the "wild field" came. And even the plagues, including Manhra himself, hated him more than the Maquis and the miners, even though he wasn't the one who killed them and forced them into this place. He was hated by those who didn't know him, and those who did know him realized he was needed. Before him, no one had been in office for more than a year and a half; he had been there for ten.

The task of the number with the ending "A1" included a "basic" report to the karak on the work done, as well as some nuances in accounting. Manhr, with his help, was stealing. The miners and Maquis saw it as a benefit — since he was stealing for himself, less was going to the Empire.

Pozharin received privileges for his "labor": First, almost all the time A1 was on the surface of the earth, not in its depths, which allowed him at least to breathe air, not dust overflowing with methane, second, he had the opportunity to choose seven helpers from the mine, although he did not take any of them, and, third, special living conditions: good food, more time to sleep and so on.

All this Manhir tolerated, but for his own reasons. He hated him for letting him steal too much. He had been taught from birth to love and honor the power of the Darkstone, the Plague Empire, and his own kind, but he stole from his own kind. Shame and greed clashed in him, and the other always won.

Pozharin admired it all for him: the structure of the Empire's society, the supernatural abilities that had overcome once human civilization, the physiological makeup, and even his squeamishness towards humans. He disdained humans, even though he was one of them.

On March 25, the situation in the Donetsk-Makeyevka group changed: a message arrived from the center (the phones were working):

"Personally to the karak of Donetsk-Makeyevka Manhru from the broz of the Slavic column Bluh:

I am disgusted to inform you that some time ago I was informed that you, Karak Manhr, are engaged in treasury theft and are secretly transporting raw materials to the territories of Kuban, Sector 7, granted to you. Do not try to deny your involvement in this. You are required to return 264 tons of coal to the Dark Stone Empire within two weeks. In addition, pay 36,000 Roks as a fine. If you fail to do so, you will be stripped of your rank, position, lands and other property, and you will be placed in the employ of your former subordinates, where you will remain for the rest of your days.

Broz Slavic Column Bluh.

After reading this message, Manhra's eyelid twitched, the fingers on both hands shook, and the green snake tongue came out and became immobile.

Half a minute later Pozharin appeared in the karak's office. According to the rules, the man was not allowed to sit in the presence of the chum — an exception was often made for the A1 category. But this time Pozharin, when he saw the grimace on his patron's face, thoughts of that jumped out of his head.

"I should definitely thank you! Slave!" — Roared the plague. Pozharin lowered his broad head and stared at the floor. "You don't know why?!"

"Nah, sir, I don't know."

"Ahh… You don't know… Ah, what I'm facing for this, do you know?" — Manhir got up from the table and walked over to 'his guilty self'.

"No, sir, I don't."

Manhir swung his palm at his opponent with a wide, nasty swing. Pozharin flew aside, against the wall, and fell to the floor; he knew well enough that if he tried to get up, he would get hit again. It was useless to argue with the chums — they were incapable of admitting their mistakes.

"They'll twist my head, that's what they'll do! Me! I, Manhru, will have my head cut off! Do you hear me, slave?! Me! Manhru! Do you hear?!" — Manhru went up to the lying man and kicked him with his foot as hard as he could. Then again. And again.

"Do you hear, slave? Do you hear?" — Karak went into hysterics. He couldn't believe this was even happening. It was simply impossible. He shouldn't be the one on trial — someone else. For thirty-five years he'd been in charge of this region, he'd had no complaints, and then suddenly here he was.

After a series of blows of varying strength and emotional coloring, Manhir stepped away from the half-dead, universally hated number 726629A1 toward the window and gazed into the distance. And for the first time in his destructive lying life, he looked objectively at the sky. Imperial propaganda had portrayed the Earth Sky without a shadow of a doubt as some kind of natural error: in their world, the sky was purple. Now it didn't seem like dogma, or a weighty statement at all. For the first time, Manhir could feel his own self, already separable, albeit at an insignificant distance, from the Empire. He had formed his own opinion.

"Your own opinion? — thought the karak. — What does it represent without everything else? Nothing. No… It does. It's me, after all. Manhr. But I'm separate now… Nonsense. How can anyone be separate? It's impossible. It's possible. That's how the Maquis live. No. That's humans. It's not like that with humans. They're people. Not us. We're better. Why are we better? Why are we better?"

Something stuck in Manhra's head, then everything else stopped. The whole machine came to a standstill. And all because of one trivial question, "Why?"

Chum turned around and looked at the still lying Pozharin, "How am I better than him? This is nonsense! He's a piece of garbage incapable of anything. Of course I'm better than him!.. Him yes, but there are millions more people… They're working now. They sleep only eight hours. They endure such conditions… I couldn't do that… But then why did we defeat them if they're stronger?"

Manhir sat down at the table and leaned forward and clasped his head with his hands: he had never had to think before, he had only thought of money before. He was faced with a dilemma: on the one hand he thought of the superiority of the humans over the plagues, on the other hand he knew for sure that the humans had lost the war. It was impossible to reconcile the two, and it was simply not possible to cancel any of the theses. The second thesis was almost an irrefutable fact. And the first one was so ingrained in his soul, so obvious that it made him literally pick up arguments in his favor.

"Do you hear that, slave?" — Without moving his hands away from his head, Manhr asked.

Turning from his stomach to his side, Pozharin opened his mouth and tried to make a sound, but he couldn't — his breath wouldn't let him, it was too heavy. Manhir had broken three of his ribs.

"Speak!" — The karak's hands remained in the same position. Number A1 mumbled something and immediately coughed.

"Who's the strongest? — Manhr spoke loudly and menacingly as usual. — Tell me, who is stronger? Us or the humans?"

Seeing no options, Pozharin opened his mouth and, nodding in agreement, tried to answer. "Don't you dare lie to me! Think before you answer. Think! And tell me, who's the strongest?" The answer came out quickly crisp and from the last of his strength, "Chum!!!"

Manhra's eyes turned away to the side, his hands moved away from his head and rested on the windowsill, "You're lying to me. I know. You've all lied to me, all this time… But that's okay. I won't kill you… Okay. Go and get everyone working. Today's plan is to double the workload. Go and tell everyone that."

Chum turned toward the window and looked at the Sky again, "I don't know how much stronger humans are, but their Sky is a hundred times more beautiful than ours."

Same on March 25.

After explaining all matters: family and work, Gabriel finally took charge of the purification. The task was extremely difficult — to clean no more than 12 tons. Ah, what a difficult word "no more" was, and what it meant to the miners. They had to hit that number: more than that, and the 253rd catfish would give everyone a long life; less than that, they themselves would give everyone a long life; the others were on a slightly different calculation, but still they would probably get some too.

In the past, coal was cleaned automatically — it was placed on a conveyor belt with water sprayers along it, which was necessary to prevent methane from condensing: it penetrates the lungs and can explode. Now we used our hands. Everything was long, and there was nothing to breathe, and everyone worked, and eventually everyone died from it.

The commander was somewhere in the middle of the hall when Deputy Rich approached him: "Commander, urgent business."

"What else? Some of the chums are in danger of not fulfilling their plan to stone us — do we need to help?" — Gora looked at his assistant with a look characterized by the phrase "we will help in this — we will help in this, as long as our old men are not touched" (only the old men kept them from "running over" to the Maquis).

"Kolya. The black laborer. I'm told he has something to say…" "Which one of us doesn't?"

Nikolay Zemlyakov (number 52436483C3) is one of only two black workers of 381 Soma, the other was Sergey Chernousov (number 77242388C3).

What could he say — they prepared him a royal "exit" — 20 kilograms. Is it too much for him? Nevertheless, seventeen minutes later Gabriel was standing by the pit, "You called, buddy?"

The six-meter-deep pit seemed like an infinite space, that all the coal mined for a month could be thrown in there, but in fact it reeked of rotten decomposing corpses of former workers: and no matter how many of them died there, the space did not get smaller — it is hard to believe that the bodies of the dead can so easily fold into nothing…, but it is so. Inside, the miners got used to it quite quickly, but those who came out of there alive told me that even after a full day's work the first week it was impossible to fall asleep, and then it was terrible to wake up, in the bones of their comrades and continue working.

In fact, they were "thrown in" ten or fifteen kilograms a day, and then honorably pulled out in front of the plagues, writing down the "plus" in a notebook. But no matter how much they wrote down in a day, they gave us almost no food, so that in case of rescue it was not difficult to get it at all. Skin and bones alone; the ribs were so prominent that the skin covering them was folded between them; the hands were almost immobile for a couple of days afterwards, the disease was called "Life Syndrome", because the patient did not quite realize that he was alive, it was as if he were born again; the face protruded forward with the cheekbones and especially in the chin because of the almost exhausted muscles. But there was always one factor that never faded to death: the eyes. They glittered with a fiery luster, and no one could understand whether it was from joy or from the grief of not being able to die.

Those eyes were glittering now, but with that fire that arises so abruptly and wants so much, and when not getting it quickly fades away, taking with it the one who carried it. This is the Fire of Freedom.

"Commander, you won't believe this…" — Nikolai looked up with his mouth open. Dust flew inward, but it didn't seem to matter.

Gora noticed something he had only seen in those who were not alive now, who had already died, "Since you think so, I won't argue…"

"Commander, this is…" "Uh-huh."

"What I found—"

"Oh, what have you found," Gabriel was already enjoying the drudgery. "Guns."

"What?"

"Weapons. Commander, there are tons of weapons here… It's just, I don't even know how to say it…"

"Okay. Throw something on the hoist, I'll get it up," the commander was ready to see anything; the people in this pit were going crazy by the dozens.

Something rattled below, whereupon Gabriel began to spin the winch.

Half a minute later the rope rose to the right level: an AK-74 was lying on the hoist. Gabriel looked around: there were no plagues.

"And you have a lot of that?" — he asked in a low voice.

"I don't know myself… But it looks like a whole warehouse," came the reply of a somewhat thoughtful man — apparently he really didn't know.

"Hold on, I won't be long," Mountain tossed down and, putting the machine gun aside in the shadows, went to the purification room.

Three minutes later the commander, held by Konstantin, was sinking to the bottom of the pit. Now it seemed to him that it was not so dark and damp, but it stank of decomposition more strongly, and his opinion about food had changed: strange as it may seem, but here in the pit, for some reason he felt hungry.

At the very bottom stood Nikolai, already calmed down but still as eager for "free air", with a pickaxe in his left hand and another AK-74 in his right.

"They're hungry for it, aren't they? — Gabriel thought. — They are tired of being slaves… It's not just one tortured man, it's all of us… We are all in his face now… Everyone here is already dreaming of war… I'm already dreaming about it… For example, today. I dream Manhir comes down to us. He comes up to me. He looks me straight in the eye. And then falls to his knees and says, "Forgive us, my lord. "Save our lives. And everyone, all the plagues do the same… God, we're supposed to be free, aren't we?"

"Commander?" — Nikolai asked, coming up to Gavriil. He immediately came to his senses, recognizing to himself that this had become a habit, and replied, "Well, Kol. Come on, show me what you've got here."

The one waved the machine gun back and stepped aside… A pile, just a pile of weapons was visible from the hole made in the ground.

"Ahem…" said Gora. — Okay, we'll take five of them with us. We'll leave the rest here — the plagues won't come down here anyway…"

"That's it?" — Nikolai was stunned, and had obviously planned a lot of things, so this answer knocked him for a loop.

Now he could be tricked or killed-what he had planned, he couldn't help but do.

Gabriel chose the first: "We need to prepare. I promise we will rise, but it will take time. Will you be patient? For my sake."

The authority is so strong charismatic, no one could argue with him, and if he asked for something, respect will make him do it. Gora, he's like a father.

"Commander," Konstantin heard from above.

"What?" — The voice took on its usual not-so-"charismatic" forms. "A1's here to see us. Himself."

The five minutes during which Hora reached the second sector were filled with deep thoughts: the people really need freedom as much as sunlight, which they are not allowed to see enough of, and the most important thing is that one day they will get it. Gabriel kept tying his son and daughter-in-law to all this: he wanted them to be free, and his grandson to know no slavery at all.

Sector number two was the office. Here everything is counted, everything is reported, and there was a separate room, though entirely empty, for separate meetings, which were very few (A1 really rarely went downstairs — it was difficult to breathe for the unaccustomed).

When Gavriil and his deputy arrived, everyone else was already there, including Pavel Pozharin himself. All but A1 nodded respectfully, Volin even smiling: a nice man after all.

"Well now that everyone's gathered, I can tell you what's the matter…" everyone could see how difficult it was for him to speak, and how he was greedily gulping for air. — I'm ready to take ten of your men upstairs with me. I was wrong about them. The plagues are bastards, they must die. They…"

Dominic was the first to speak: "You'd better explain what's going on today. My men are working like hell, and at night they can't sleep and they're thrown out to work. We need rest. Does this have to be explained in writing?"

Of course, his deputy Peter added oil: "They should not be explained in writing, but in a practical form. You should hit them between the eyes!"

Golushko and Preskovich, commander and deputy commander of Soma No. 647, had a friendly swearing, but to the

point.

"How much do you want us to load? Twenty-four tons? — Dubrovsky was perplexed. — Do you understand this

figure? Or is this someone joking?"

"Nah… They're devoid of a sense of humor. — Georgie intervened. — I've already tried to tell them a couple of jokes.

They thought I was crazy… I can tell them the Stirlitz joke now.

"It's Manhr," Pozharin tried to stop the onslaught against him. — It's all him."

Volin laughed from the bottom of his heart: "No, Stirlitz's name was Max von. Only he was Russian… Anyway, you're not used to such subtleties. Except that he was Russian from birth. And you became a plague in the process." The others, except Gora, told Pozharin in brief everything they thought of him. The "brief" was enough to make him wish to vaporize — the truth can be kept out for a long time, but once it's out, it won't come back.

"Explain his fault?" — After Gora's words, everyone fell silent.

"He… Ah, he…" Pozharin stiffened from his knees to his neck. — He got a message from the broz. With an accusation."

As each word was squeezed out as a confession, and few wanted to wait, Dominic began to encourage him with exclamations of "Well done," "Well," "Come on more," "Don't give up," and "Go ahead."

It went like this: "Well, well, go ahead. — Corruption. — Well done. Do more. — He's been told to… uh… — Give more. Don't give up. — To give it back. Give it all back. — More. More! That's it. — Well, no.

At the end of his mad speech, Dominic gave a look of extreme displeasure, and Peter folded his lips and nodded sympathetically.

"Yeah we should soak him," Dominic said as if drawing a conclusion from his part of the dialog. "Why, he's not a Jew," the deputy deduced.

"I'm sick of him too," Dubrovsky confirmed.

"Maybe…" — A1 started to say, but then Golushko interrupted him: "Shut up. You're not being asked," — in another way, ashamed to admit, I couldn't say it.

Pozharin shut up. He looked at his patch, which had a number in black and white, with "A1" at the end, and shut up like that. He could have called the guards right now, as he had done before, and told them to shoot anyone for disobeying him, for disobeying the hierarchy, which in the plague empire was akin to heresy, for thinking of killing a karak, which, though he had submitted — anything; because they would listen to him, he was "A1," above them. But he didn't. Couldn't. He saw their faces: scarred, dirty, tense with worry for his subordinates, and knew that his face was not haggard, not dirty, and really didn't deserve to be. Pozharin had never been loved, and knowing this, he raved about the plagues who hated him, even more than other people. And when the plagues turned their backs on him, showed that he was a tool for them, he decided to "change sides." But who needs such a man but his mother.

Now almost everyone in the office was disgruntled, half asleep and angry about it. They had only had three hours of sleep after their hard work.

Try to wake up a person, and then ask him about his attitude to you at a given time — if it is not your closest relative, the answer will most likely be "negative". Wake up a bear early, and he will go around and kill everyone who gets caught, and not because he is so bad, but because you broke his regime. You break the regime, you break the system. You break the system in one place, you break it everywhere.

Those present were also in charge of several hundred people, all of whom they thought about without ceasing. Pozharin felt it all perfectly, especially now that he was alone with them. In private, reality itself, without challenge,

comes out.

After two minutes of exclamation of all but Gabriel about what was going on, everything was stopped by Volin with the question: "Gora, why are you silent?".

Gabriel looked at Dominic, "You're right. He should be killed."

Everyone knew the commander of the 381st Soma perfectly well, and even better knew his instructions about not killing chums now, because for each of them they would kill a dozen of ours, toughen the regime and God knows what else; nobody expected such an answer.

"Have you decided to change your positions. Or is this Volinsky humor," Dubrovsky asked.

"No. The positions are the same. — Gabriel continued to speak. — But Manhr is dangerous to us now. Because he is alone, without an empire. But only for now. Until he pays his debts. And only now can he be killed."

Surprisingly enough, it was the most ardent supporter of "killing enemies indiscriminately" who opposed him: "He's a plague. He is one of them. When we kill one of them, they will kill a dozen of us. You said so yourself.

"I did. And I don't deny it… But he's not one of them now. He's one of them now. And when we kill him, they'll take his possessions and rest on that. He's a thief. Who'd want to avenge a thief like that? And to make sure we don't have any questions, we'll get the Maquis involved."

"It would have been all right. — Peter continued to ask. — But how will you convince them too? If they wanted it, they would have done it a long time ago.

"That's already my problem… Right now I need three men on the surface, and Manhr will be dead by the 27th."

Who is about freedom and who is about his wife

When Maria returned to the first sector, in addition to the eight elderly people, she noticed her fiancé with a bandaged arm. Raphael was reading something brownish in color.

Maria slowly walked up behind him and sat down on her knees and covered his eyes with her palms.

Raphael did not calculate the probability of someone returning to the "lounge" (or simply "bedroom" as everyone called it), inhaling and recognizing the smell and tenderness of hands, but simply said "Maria". Loved ones are felt with the heart, not the senses.

They embraced, and for a moment they forgot that there was anything else around. But only for a moment, they couldn't go on: everything around them was too disgusting and disgusting.

"How's your arm?" — Maria asked, stroking the row of bandages wound from elbow to fingers.

"Fine," Raphael replied and stroked her braid that hung from her head and down to the middle of her back. "I know your 'fine'… Does it hurt?"

"No, my love, it doesn't hurt…? Did my father send you here?" "Yes."

"Did you tell him?"

"He already knew when he came to me. I just confirmed it. You didn't have to?" "I must, I must, Mash… Did you tell me about the baby?"

"he realized it himself… I threw up right in front of him…" "Oh, and you're also asking me about my health." "Beloved. It's common in pregnancy…"

"Yeah I know, but whatever."

"That's all the same, Gavriil Vladimirovich sent me here."

"Did you get there without adventure? Didn't anyone from the tower ask about it?" "No. They were sleeping there."

Raphael laughed a little, then said, "That's who we lost to."

"You know, I've been thinking… I think you're overthinking this…" "Mash, that's what everyone's thinking."

"Yes, but you're special… Here, what were you reading just now?"

"Raphael didn't though as he held out a book to her. "Twentieth Century Terrorism. "So what is it?"

"It says so right here."

"Yes I can see that… Beloved." "What?"

"I'm afraid for you."

"And I'm afraid for you and I don't want you to live here."

"And what do you suggest…? It's not our fault it's like this. We just have to get over it."

"No. Stop worrying about it. This is the fourth generation we've been doing just that. It's time to change things." "Beloved, please don't do this. You know how rebellions end. Please, love, don't leave me… We're going to have a

baby soon. Think of him. Please… Don't go and die," Maria was saying it from that part of her heart that can only be spoken to someone you care for more than anyone else in the world; for five days now she had seen him somehow different, she didn't know how, but definitely different, and there was nothing more frightening than that shape.

Residento dissidento

It is not a problem to imagine what a person living at home who "disagrees" with something is like — as a rule, outwardly he does not differ from the "agreeing" person; maybe he even thinks the same way, only in the "other" direction.

But if this "dissenter" took up arms, not because he is so used to it, but because he was brought to it, his appearance changes to "indefinable recognizability". And that means the following:

The first is escaped slaves (and from completely different places: sawmill, mine, rig — anything) becoming themselves within the framework of free runaway;

The second is people from different places, mostly arriving on their own, entering the established subculture there, while acquiring qualities they might not have thought of before;

Third, having escaped from slavery, people who fall under the influence of a new charismatic leader unknown to themselves, striving for the one and only true, first of all for himself, goal — the freedom of all mankind without exception.

In general, all separately taken groups of maquis are united on energies of certain persons — leaders. There were not a few cases when after the death of the leader the group collapsed, and already separate particles merged into those where there was a "similar" leader: in fact, in general, the people, if they are the people and not a mass unbridled on politics, do not care how tall the leader is, and what his views on the structure of the World, as long as he led to the goal that is vital for them — to free the Earth from the plagues.

This was the case with the "Wolf" group, which not so long ago joined the "Bohdan Khmelnitsky" group. Now the total pressure territory of this association extended to the entire former Eastern Ukraine plus the Kursk, Belgorod, Voronezh and Rostov regions.

There was a lot of talk about their leader Viktor Khmelnitsky. First, whether he was a descendant of the national hero of Ukraine, in whose honor the group was named. Secondly, where he was from, i.e. from what mining zone and what kind of occupation. Thirdly, what contacts he had and whether they existed at all.

Victor did not engage in dialogues on any occasion, and the third point caused him bewilderment. "What kind of a fool would I be," he answered sharply but calmly. — if I told you about my connections. Or do you consider the Chums to be outright inept, incapable of planting an agent in our group? No… Even if they were, it would still be foolish to talk about it.

He addressed the rebels frequently, each time giving them strength by his steady and firm voice alone, which perfectly matched his stout figure and imperturbable face.

Here's a brief example of his speech (July 2, 2168, after the attack on the railroad train carrying the 22nd Imperial Chum Storm):

"Three hours ago, I gave the order to attack a train of chums traveling from Volgograd to Donetsk. An hour later, I watched thirty-five of our brothers fight for freedom. Now they're dead. Dead every last one of them. But free… God gave for this opportunity. One way or another, by staying alive or dying, but fighting, we will still be free.

Our brothers died as heroes fighting for freedom… our kin dying now in the mines and mines. I have never hidden the truth from you. Nor will I do so now… Only two plagues were killed in the attack. Just two… Yes, some will say, "Our brothers died for nothing. They only killed two." But they didn't. Because this is war. And you can't win a war without casualties. And without great losses there will be no great victories — in the last attack, having lost three, we destroyed forty. And that's not the only example.

To minimize the cost of today's losses is to be blind. One of the chums killed was Rumhir. Does everyone know him? My first task for this group was to destroy him. And they did it. Vladimir Krasnov, having climbed into the train, blew it up with him. Our brother died, but he accomplished the task. Who will now say that the feat of thirty-five sons of the Earth means nothing? I, like all of you, am sorry for those who died. But this operation was necessary as air… Our time will come soon. The dead children of Earth have brought it closer than ever, and we will not forget their lives and their deaths.

Don't look at the numbers. They mean nothing when freedom is so close."

After this speech, the rebels believed in victory not only because of Khmelnitsky's charismatic personality. In his speech the name Ruminhr was mentioned. This is one of the best specialists of the Black Stone Empire in organizing security and defense. Such chums can be counted on the fingers of one hand. If he arrived in Donetsk, the sector would turn into a fortress.

On the evening of March 25, 2170, Victor received a message from one of the commanders of the soma working in the Donetsk-7 group through a new channel ("thread") that had just been created.

After being ordered to study the "thread," Victor took up the message:

"Personally and top secret to Viktor Khmelnitsky.

I, Commander Soma, have decided to bring to your attention a number of the following factors.

One. The active treasury theft of our group's karak Manhra has been uncovered, and he has been asked to return the stolen raw materials and pay a fine. According to our information, he is short of funds, so instead of a fine, he intends to destroy the Maquis group, apparently yours.

Next. In order to increase coal production, Manhir has reduced the rest time for all of us to four hours.

And finally, and most importantly. He foresees an uprising, so, according to our sources, he summons several additional drills to the Donetsk group.

I cannot give my name for obvious reasons of the possibility of this letter being intercepted."

"Sanya!" — called the leader to his assistant. He showed up fifteen seconds later.

"Sanya, I need all the information on Manhra by tomorrow morning. Including his disagreement with the Center.

Second. Get me Orlov."

Vasily Orlov, commander of the special elimination squad, arrived forty-six seconds later.

"Vasya, you have a special assignment. Actually, as always. Tomorrow you have all day to prepare. If I give you an order after tomorrow, Manhr must be dead."

Three people were sent up from the 381st Soma: Evgeny Severa, Sergey Bolshakov and Ivan Tikhomirov. Gora was particularly hopeful about the latter. He had been preparing this man for quite a long time (about seven years) and especially carefully. It was through him that the letter to Khmelnitsky passed.

On March 26, Tikhomirov was assigned to work as a janitor of the main corridor. On the one hand, it seems like nothing, but on the other hand, the main corridor is the main corridor, and if we take into account the contents of, for example, just garbage cans, the picture changes to the opposite.

The corridor itself was so long that by mid-afternoon only three-quarters of it could be scrubbed.

At 3:32 p.m., a man walking down the hall stopped two steps away from Ivan and whispered to the side, as if not to him, "I'm from Maki. Khmelnitsky. I need to get in touch with yours."

The time for such conversations looked as good as any — exactly half past four in the afternoon the plagues went to lunch until five.

In fact, this man could be as many as one of the four, and that's the minimum.

Option number 1.

The simplest and most failed. He serves the Imperial Black Stone Defense Service (BSDS).

Option number 2.

He is amateurish, that is, he wants to turn someone over to the plagues for possible help or reward (few people knew, but such plagues, after receiving information, were usually shot together with the accused; exceptions were in cases when they were used several times, but then killed anyway — well, who can sympathize with a traitor?).

Option number 3.

He was sent by someone like Gora from the mine to check on training or something.

Option number 4.

He really is who he says he is.

The first thing Gabriel taught his disciple when contact arose was to never "play his part" at once, that is, to check and make up his mind before performing the true task.

"It's better to miss some information than to bog down half the network on nothing," Gabriel used to say. That's what Tikhomirov did.

"In my opinion," Ivan replied. — you've come to the wrong place."

"How could it be wrong? Hey, everybody's making a lot of noise. They say it's going to be hard…"

Gabriel was not out of his head with his admonitions: "Constantly. Constantly try to determine who you are talking to. Sometimes it doesn't even matter what side he's on, it's who he is. Maybe he's a weakling… What would it take to make a weakling change sides? And if he's strong in spirit, look at how firm he is in his own convictions. How much confidence he has. Where are his traits of limit… All this, of course, will have to be felt, sometimes there is no time to analyze."

From the first appearance the stranger was a very uncontrollable person and unaware of his own desires. But after the second phrase I could feel his trained ability to exert pressure by putting the interlocutor in front of an immediate choice.

The only thing that Tikhomirov could unmistakably do now was to evade answering by understating his own importance: "I told you. I can't do anything. I don't know anyone at the mine… I know the chums and I certainly don't want to bother them. Ask someone else.

"Who else? I have an urgent matter."

"Well, you've got an emergency, and I've got a floor to mop. There's a lot of work to do. God willing." "In short, yes or no?"

BCC. He's from there and that's for sure. For one thing, he's completely unconcerned at this moment in time, as if it's a game and not a matter of life and death. He's under the nose of the plagues, who will tear him apart if anything happens, and he feels relaxed and at ease. The main thing is relaxed, as if he knows that no one will come out of the corner now, he will not be killed or something worse, as if he is doing what he is officially authorized to do. Ivan should be mopping the floor at his job, and he should be talking about rebellion.

Tikhomirov now even sensed the pallid dim odor that emanated from him, and decided at last to completely rid his enemy of suspicion: "No, I have already said. You want to be shot, you can be, but without me."

The stranger grinned and, spitting to the side, strode away.

In the middle of the day Gavriil Zheleznov received a letter from Khmelnitsky through the outside channel, namely through Bolshakov. He was not asked leading questions, as Tikhomirov had been, but the parcel was slipped to him at once. The Maquis had their own well-informed people in the mine itself, and who could be trusted was known to them in advance.

Gora printed the envelope without notes on the front side and saw the document, which was not clean (the Maquis used to dirty such things on purpose to confuse the chums; this time it was covered with brown earth and a little sawdust, just a little, and an expert examination would show that the document was written in the area of the town of Krasny Luch, in fact they carried earth from different places with them, it was just a little bit — even if it was small, but still a deception of the enemy).

"Secret. From the Maquis.

Your letter has reached me. I will not hide, its content interested me very much and even excited me. Therefore, I think you will understand my request to you to provide concrete evidence.

I hope to have your support."

Mountain's combination and was to provide no evidence for his version. "Let them be scared to death out there. — he thought. — Usually in such situations facts come to light that in their own right mean nothing, but in the aggregate take on a clear and tangible form."

In his reply Gabriel referred to the difficulty of obtaining "additional" confirmations, and his refusal to provide the ones he already had was motivated by the possibility of exposing his own people. Of course, all this is nonsense: there are no facts, and there are only three "his people", and they are not deep in the system at all.

At 16:48 Tikhomirov, while continuing to scrub the floor, again noticed a stranger approaching him. This time he couldn't help but look him in the eyes.

Ivan's eyes flickered to one prominent outward feature: arrogance. Such brazen and arrogant arrogance. It glowed with an incomprehensible gray self-love.

Of the other features of the facial structure, its absolutely triangular shape stood out.

Ivan decided that this time he would be killed, and as he continued his duty, he remembered Gabriel: "Many. A great many times it will seem to you that this is the end. That it's over. You're just going to be killed, and that's the end of it. Remember like your comrades. Remember how they work underground, how they live here, how they suffer here.

Remember your parents. Remember how they raised you, how they starved you for weeks so that you could live. And most of all, think of Earth. You've been to the surface many times, you've seen how beautiful it is, how good it is. When it gets hard, think about the bad, the good, but the main thing, the most important thing is that everything you do is for the best.

"Remember me?" — The triangle-faced stranger asked.

"I haven't finished the job," Tikhomirov replied, relentlessly continuing to drive the rag from side to side. "So you're going to help the Maquis?"

"No, I'm not going to." "That's a good one."

The last words thundered over Tikhomirov's heart. He had been prepared for them, he knew that something like this was possible, but at the very moment his heart pounded with such force that his eyes darkened.

As if on cue, two chums came out from around the corner and headed towards the people, and the arrogant SSchekist finally revealed himself: "You're good for not helping the Maquis. Now you will help the SCK. My name is Dmitri, by the way.

Ivan stopped the cleanup and turned entirely toward the traitor: "I'll be with the SCK…? Only if they give me food… over and above the norm."

Dimitri laughed, "Rest assured, they'll give you something to eat. And over and above the norm. And as much as you want." Then he switched to a more serious and businesslike tone: "Just turn in a couple of your friends. You'll get it all."

It was the first time in his life that Tikhomirov hated a man so much. He stood and looked at him, at his greedy laughing eyes, his amoral, merciless face, and remembered those who were now suffocating from dust half a kilometer underground, those who dreamed of giving their children, if not themselves, a normal, possible life.

Tikhomirov saw this man for the second time in his life and already wanted to sink his claws into his throat, smash his head against the wall and tear his body apart.

And that wouldn't be enough!

"My God! — cried out in Ivan's mind. — How on earth can he be?"

By this time the plagues had come up and were staring straight at Tikhomirov.

"So what is it? — In a loud voice, one of them asked. — Are you going to cooperate?"

Tikhomirov looked them in the eye, trying to show the process of thinking over the choice (which had been made even yesterday), and opened his mouth and coughed.

"What are you thinking? — Dimitri was perplexed. — Agree."

"Surely I shall be allowed to eat in excess?" — Raising his eyebrows, the miner asked.

Here, together with the traitor, the plagues laughed, and then they nodded their heads together: "Yes, they will. They will, don't worry about that.

"Then I agree. Who do you need to turn in? I don't know anyone yet…"

Chum put a nasty, lazy hand on his shoulder: "You don't really deserve to touch me, but I want you to feel our power."

Chum squeezed his paw as hard as he could. The beast, which sleeps eighteen hours a day, weighs an average of one hundred and fifty pounds, and eats forty pounds of meat a day, thought he was omnipotent and capable of anything.

His nails dug into his shoulder, and blood splashed in all directions. Ivan breathed out a little air, but immediately shut his mouth and bent down, making a faint sound through his teeth.

"See who is strong here?" — the beast asked, smiling. The other smirked, and Dmitri grinned reluctantly: the traitor's eyes flickered with fear that if he did something wrong, or, on the contrary, too right, he wouldn't have to experience the same.

Tikhomirov, on the other hand, really did do things "too much this time"; he was punished for his hesitation, but it was because of this that he would be trusted with special things — the plagues thought this man agreed because of greed, not fear like most.

It's pitch black

On March 26, 381 catfish were working at the coal seam. Yesterday they had a lot of trouble (however, everything went according to plan), but nobody was killed.

The danger of shifting at the slaughterhouse lies in the "skill" of preserving the inventory during extraction: the plagues liked to kick a couple of times for a broken shovel or pickaxe (officially 5 blows for a pickaxe, 3 for a shovel), so they observed it from a very close distance, although there were not many of them there. And some even claimed to have seen chums specially sawing inventory.

But there was also an upside. The tools themselves were not monitored, only the process of their destruction. A vivid example of this was Evgeny Romanin, who broke three picks and two shovels in his life without being noticed, and therefore escaped punishment.

After yesterday, the whole soma was confused (feeling sore mixed half and half with fatigue, and in particular, my hands refused to listen "all the way through").

The basis of successful work is in the right relationships in the team. In the vast majority of cases, this was the case: the strong-willed and purposeful commander was in the lead, and the rest of the team followed him without lagging behind.

Gora stood in the very center of the mine, that is, both to his right and left exactly the same number of miners (representatives of his soma the others only called so) and chiseled with a pickaxe on the minerals.

Strongly, effectively, with all the swing of the instrument, piercing the air, flew downward in a beautiful arc, then gently flew away and did not fall down like a tired or desperate person, but rose again to the heights — the lowest point simply did not exist.

And everyone took turns repeating it after him — the whole row, the whole soma played like an orchestra, and the previous "wave" had no time to reach the end before the next one started again.

And so on ad infinitum, and everyone was afraid to pause or even stand up: not to lose rhythm, to get into the tempo — that's what the work cameto.

All the muscles literally at once forgot that somewhere else there was weakness and fatigue: there was only strength and speed, and the miner must not lag behind the Mountain. He simply must not.

To let him down would not just mean letting yourself down, no, that would still be okay; to let him down would mean spitting on everything that had gone before. There wasn't a single one in the 381st soma.

Everyone thought about each of these words, but Vladislav Svetlevsky somehow imperceptibly for himself plunged into thinking too far from reality.

It seemed to him that now he was doing something that would echo down the ages, that he was taking on a new unknown force capable of anything, and it was this force that would decide everything.

Vladislav as never before wanted to feel himself a personality, to stand out from the crowd, although to do it solely from the ideas of self-realization and the desired help to people.

He was going to help, but do it in his own way and that's all.

There was a crackling sound, ringing and prolonged, sticking in my ears and continuing to run there for a while after it seemed to be over.

The pickaxe, along with a piece of stick, flew backward and, after spinning around its axis several times, fell right at the feet of the plague.

No one wanted to look at who did it, no one wanted to finish the job either, but what can you do when it's so obvious.

Everyone looked at Vladislav — he stood still, bowed his head and did not turn, and could not understand what had happened; then at the plague — he was the young commander of the 45th Boers of the Black Stone, Zunkhr, not cruel — inhuman.

A man like him didn't care about all the statutes and rules: all he knew was that the plague was the master and man was the slave, and hence all other conclusions.

The first thing that appeared on his face after the surprise was satisfaction. The satisfaction of being able to assert himself.

Zunghr picked up part of the pickaxe and headed towards the guilty party.

Gora again struck the stratum with the tool: it was impossible to wait any longer, or the whole catfish would find itself in a similar position to Svetlevsky.

The miners clattered again, again the room filled with sound, and Vladislav came to his senses a little, but continuing to hear that crackling in the back of his mind, "What… Happened?"

He turned around and saw the Boer commander coming at him about ten meters away.

Vladislav clenched the pickaxe in his hands and, feeling an unprecedented lightness, looked down: a broken piece of stick — now it was only a stick.

"My God, what is it?" — Svetlevsky asked himself when the enemy was already five meters away. Chum smiled, but somehow not really: it was natural for him in terms of his sadistic tendencies.

"You seem to have dropped this?" — he asked and waved the unusable object up and down a couple of times.

"I… I was just working…" replied the guilty man through the noise of everything around him, and shuddered at his own words: he was talking to this animal who thought his rights to rule over people were unshakable — God knows what he would take that statement for.

It didn't matter to Zunhra how to take that answer, "Well, here I'm not going to give you that opportunity again…" He swung the splintered pickaxe and drove it into Vladislav's shoulder.

A cracking sound echoed throughout the room, deafening and grim. The metal part of the pickaxe broke through the bone and went straight through his arm, right into its place.

Blood spattered, it kicked up a fountain from these parts.

Svetlevky stretched and bent backwards and emitted a rather quiet piercing sound.

"You don't feelbetter, no?" — inquired the fiend, and immediately punched the guilty man in the jaw. He flew backward, sprawled on the wall of coal he had been working with his last strength five minutes ago.

Chum turned back to his men and mumbled something in his own language with a pained expression: the guards laughed like a philosophical anecdote.

When he noticed that Vladislav was already lying on the ground, spitting out blood, Zunkhr kicked him, squeamishly and hard. Then, smiling, he did it again, and again… and again… and again…..

"Work!" — Gabriel shouted, feeling the miners begin to go mad with rage — the commander was only directing this flow to the coal: we cannot rebel, we are too weak now, we will lose now.

With each subsequent blow Svetlevsky began to groan, he no longer felt yuoli, he just felt resentful that he would no longer be able to help people, to share with them what he was destined, almost to no avail, to leave this world.

The plagues were laughing even harder: their laughter was already drowning out the blows of the tools against the coal and had taken on the character of hysterics, plague amoral hysterics.

Konstantin Zatsepin, standing a step to the right of the dying Vladislav, cried. He continued to drive the metal wedge into the coal seam, and tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to kill this plague, the other, all of them, but he could not, because he knew that others would come and not only he and all the rebels (it would still be tolerable), but the rest of the miners would be executed without any trial.

This is another plague statute, which they "drew" from one ancient document* created by the conqueror of many eastern and western lands. According to it, a family (10–15 people) was subjected to death in case of an individual rebellion, a family rebellion — a brigade (40–60 people), a brigade rebellion — a soma (150–300 people), a soma rebellion — a group (500-2000 people).

In this situation, it is unlikely that anyone would not have risen from the soma if it had not been for the commander. It would have happened spontaneously, without realizing the consequences, as it always happens when people are pestered to the end, when there is no more tolerance.

It was true that no one could bear it anymore — everyone fought, but thanks to Hora they did it with coal, not with an enemy that could not be defeated yet.

On this day, regardless of all the other catfish, she caught 34 tons (17 tons according to the plan). Today Gavriil did not want to over-perform, but "strong feelings" had to go somewhere.

There was no tension for the rest, especially since the 253rd is also on the production with the fulfillment of 76 percent, that is, 13 tons (the same 17 tons according to the plan).

The main thing the Mountain needed now was to appease the feelings of the enraged miners; for the second day he had been thinking about his new idea, how he could defeat the Chums and get not exactly freedom, but life, just the life a man deserves.

The idea is both complex and simple at the same time. It is necessary to make the Chums believe the people in their unquestioning loyalty, weaken the regime, and then, having gained strength and united with other groups, strike with all their might and get their Earth back.

But for the plagues to believe in the obedience of people, it is necessary to show it at least to some extent, and for this purpose it is necessary to convince people themselves. And how can we do this if they kill us for breaking tools from time to time (who does not know that nothing exists forever, and even more so matter), for not fulfilling the plan (a man is not a machine, he is inherent to have a large variation in the results of work) and God knows what other less significant things?

The evening was over, the night had begun — a time of sleep and rest.

Gabriel, as usual, was the last to return to the 1st sector after the calculation in the 2nd sector. The 1st sector consists of a large rectangular hall measuring 100x60 meters with the addition of a quarter of this rectangle, i.e. 50x30, on the side and is divided into five parts: one for each soma and a corridor.

The 381st belongs in that far corner.

When Gabriel arrived at the ward (each was fenced off from the other by a wall of earth and stone) and settled down in "his" place (closer to the exit so as not to wake everyone up early in the morning), he noticed an obvious change in the usual situation: Raphael and Mary, cuddled together, were lying half a meter away from him and quietly sleeping.

"What romantics! — thought Gora. — They think that since they can't see anything here, and no one comes here, they can do whatever they want… I was like that…"

The commander made himself comfortable and thought again about the further development of events: "I remember a great Chinese general who lived before Jesus Christ was born. His name was Sun Tzu. So he said that war is based on five phenomena: the first is the Way, the second is the Heaven, the third is the Earth, the fourth is the commander, and the fifth is the Law.

"The way is when one reaches the point where the thoughts of the people are the same as those of the ruler, when the people are ready to die with him, ready to live with him, when they know neither fear nor doubt."

So said Sun Tzu, who lived in the late 6th and early 5th centuries. Many things have changed since then, but war has remained, and therefore there are still ways to win it.

Right now, only one catfish believes me, and that, of course, is not enough. I need a lot more than that to win.

Okay, let's go in order. They and I do have the same thoughts. Next. They're willing to live and die with me. Yes. As I am with them. Okay, but one last thing.

Well, let's say they are devoid of fear, but doubts… I am not devoid of them at the moment. For that we need to unite. And that's why we need to lighten the regime.

Ahhhh… Again, I've come to this one….

All right, let's try to jump ahead a little bit. Sun Tzu said:

"A general is intelligence, impartiality, humanity, courage, rigor. The law is military formation, command and supply."

So, what about these phenomena?

There's nothing wrong with the Warlord, but the Law will have to be tweaked. That means that it's not just rules and orders that are being followed. If it ended with that, it wouldn't be a problem. The important thing is whether the rewards and punishments are right.

People need to see justice. Did they see it today? Did Svetlevsky deserve to die as a reward? There is no one in the catfish who will answer that question in the affirmative.

In order to remedy this situation it is necessary that such things do not happen again…..

I hope I get to talk to our group's new karak "

Gabriel opened his eyes, and suddenly everything seemed perfectly and precisely visible to him.

There was not a ray of light around, nothing to show what lived in these depths, but Gabriel saw everything, absolutely everything. As if he were on the surface on a bright day.

"This is what is called the human phenomenon. Man is the only creature on Earth capable of doing the impossible. Neither animals, nor plants much less these wild unearthly beasts are capable of doing it to this extent. We have been

given this by the Lord God, and we must live up to his expectations," the commander thought and turned on his side and fell asleep.

Residento in actionis

March 27.

About two hours before lunch, as usual, Manhr arrived at his office; there Pozharin was already waiting for him.

After sitting in the chair for a while, the karak stood up and turned to the window behind his workplace, then gazed more and more deeply and interestingly into the sky: today it was, as always, bright blue in color.

Slowly and splendidly floating were the peristoic cumulus clouds called "lambs".

Pozharin, badly fatigued and beaten down by all yesterday, sat enjoying the silence and inactivity.

Now Manhir couldn't look at the Sky through the subjective and propagandistic eyes of the Empire. Once was enough for him to finally learn to see some reality. After all, if you cover the truth with the policy of propaganda, you must do it carefully and skillfully, so that there were no glimpses, because if there were, you could not close your eyes.

In defiance of the Empire, in defiance of the precepts of his past, Manhr enjoyed the Earthly Sky. It's beautiful!

Chum saw him as an eternity. Not the kind of eternity that those in all the occupation positions on his home planet aspired to. The kind of eternity that could only be obtained through goodness, through hard, painstaking goodness.

The clouds floated forward. That's the key word, forward. They can go in any direction, but it will always be forward. That's what eternity is!

So bulky and omnipotent it can be both calm and anxious, fast and slow, swelteringly dry and carelessly rainy, and yet, for all its power, it controls itself, it makes us change our attitudes, our clothes, our moods. It affects everyone. No one is affected by it.

"It affects everyone. No one is affected by it," Manhir said aloud and thought, "That's what it's all about. I used to think that about myself… How ridiculous… Everything here is eternal, and I am a grain of sand. And I can't stop myself."

The front door swung open and a hand clutching a VIS-35 pistol came inside. It pointed at the karak and clenched and unclenched several times.

The greedy sounds of gunfire rang out, taking the life of the plague. Hands were getting out of the room; feet were already running fast.

Falling for the last time, Manahr didn't gulp air with corrupt lips, didn't think about the money he had stolen from everyone but himself, didn't agonize over not being able to spend it, but simply regretted having lived such an unworthy life.

"They will win… They die for beauty," whispered the dying Chum and passed away.

Pozharin, sitting in the corner, had forgotten everything; in a moment everything became unknown. He had not seen the shooter, and the first thing the guards would demand was his face. He would not be able to describe it. Nor would he be able to make it up. Now he understood why the Maquis had left him alive: his masters would do what needed to be done for them.

The shooter was Vladimir from the Maquis Elimination Squad, Bogdan Khmelnitsky's group. He had received the order and carried it out, and now he was disappearing back to his own.

At the northeast corner of the building, three hundred meters from the southern exit, his partner Nikita was waiting for him, along with two horses: on that side of the plague, as a matter of course, there was nothing to be seen, so he had managed to pass unnoticed and leave in the same manner many times.

Vladimir was running without stopping or looking back, and he could clearly see his companion, but for some reason his back was turned. His partner was just standing there, holding the nervous horses.

This fact embarrassed the rebel, but it was too late, he had already approached twenty meters and only then he noticed that his partner Nikita was lying at the hoofs without feelings, and the man holding the horses was also holding an M-16: Nikita had a PPSh-41.

Vladimir looked back: there, about two hundred meters away, the plagues were slowly but purposefully running forward.

The man at the horses turned around and, pointing his muzzle at his chest, spoke, "Drop your weapon. We don't want you, we want your information. Tell us where the Sakis are now, and join us."

Vladimir looked at the traitor's face: triangular, eyes blue and weak, skin not exactly yellow, but some kind of frayed to yellow.

There were few thoughts and only one instinct — teeth grasped her cheek and bit her.

"Just when I should have, I forgot the poison," thought the Rebel, and putting the gun to his head, pulled the trigger — the VIS-35 wouldn't budge either; it jammed.

"Lord, is it me who has done something wrong, or have you decided to test me to the very last doubting thought?" — Vladimir said quietly, realizing that he was not destined to die now.

March 27. For some, it's Labor Day: It was the 381st catfish's turn to load. And for some, it was the day of the last tests: a free man from the Maquis Elimination Squad had to undergo a series of procedures before his death.

They don't go far for such things: they tripled the place for interrogation right in the office of a dead karak, where Pozharin was already dead (I already said that nobody can tolerate such people).

Vladimir was strapped in the executive chair with his back to the window and the table in front was removed for convenience. Somewhere to the right they put a group of tools, somewhere to the left a set of edible items: alcohol, oranges and lots of salt.

The rebel already knew the purpose of every thing; the only thing left to do was to prepare for the confrontation. He knew exactly what they needed to find out — where their leader Viktor Khmelnitsky was, because without him the group would collapse, and the remnants, if they survived, would be a very insignificant force.

Vladimir closed his eyes and thought: "Alexander Vasilyevich said well that you can't lie. It's true… And I always added to it that we Slavs can't do anything, but, in principle, everything is possible… I need to deceive them. And to do it cleverly… So, first of all, let's choose a place… Now Victor is near Krivoy Rog, or rather in the town of Zaliznichnoye. That is, where it used to be called that… Okay, let's send them, say, to Krasnodon… No, it's too similar, I can misspell it and say it correctly. No, better Lugansk. Yeah, that's right, that's what I think the guys mined the other day. Let them look for him there for their death… So I've thought of a place, now it's left…"

The rebel had no time to think before a chum behind him squeezed his shoulder to the breaking point: it was Runhr, the same one who had done this to Tikhomirov.

"You like it?" — The beast asked and immediately, ripping out a blood-spewing scrap of flesh, poured salt inside. Vladimir wrinkled his nose and let out a sideways, heavy groan while pressing the fingers of his hands into the

chair.

Few people expected such a reaction, but no one had any desire to think about it.

While the interrogators studied his demeanor, the rebel plotted again and more strongly than the previous one: "The main thing. The main thing is to convince yourself of this. Victor is in Lugansk. Victor is in Lugansk. Lugansk. Lugansk. Lugansk. Lugansk. Lugansk."

Another plague came up and cracked the free man in the jaw with a swing. A fracture, a terrible fracture. Half of his face became something different, not vital.

The Prinhr, who was in charge of these beasts, managed to squeeze out a few words in his poisonous tongue through his laughter: "Well, don't be in a hurry… He has yet to speak. He's no use to me… Changhr stand back."

Chanhr stepped back and Prinhr approached. He bent toward the rebel pushing the blood slurry out of him and asked caustically: "Where is Viktor Khmelnitsky? Tell me. Tell me where he is?"

"Lugansk. Lugansk. Lugansk," Vladimir repeated to himself, trying to forget everything but that.

"He doesn't want to… Not ready yet. We've got to warm him up," the ringleader deduced and took a clear bottle and partially poured its contents over his wounded shoulder. The liquid spread over the blood and began to be absorbed, then Chum took out a box and, taking out and igniting one match, threw it carelessly at the man.

Alcohol caught fire, a man too, but more inside than outside — "Lugansk. Lugansk. Lugansk." — he repeated ad infinitum, continuing to squirm in pain.

The three chums were already dying laughing.

"I can't let them down. The guys are relying on me… They're in Lugansk. Everything is in Lugansk. Lugansk. That's it! That's it! Lugansk!" — Vladimir reasoned now with only one "randomly" chosen city.

Laughing softly, Prinxr squeamishly ripped a piece of cloth from the rebel's other shoulder and poked it a couple times at the ignition point: the fire immediately went out.

Chum looked again into the eyes of the doomed and very strong man, "Speak… Where is Viktor Khmelnitsky?" The words came one after the other at half-second intervals, tantalizingly and nastily.

Vladimir could not look at things normally: everything in his eyes swam somewhere, his ears rattled somewhere, his muscles worked in a chaotic state — only one thought remained: "Lugansk".

Prinxr darted his eyes, pursed his lips, and thrust his chin forward in an expression of appreciation for futile resistance, then stepped back a little, put his paws behind his back, and nodded his head as he looked at Changhr.

Chanchr moved forward sharply and with emphasis punched the rebel in the stomach, with the same right paw and just as repulsive.

The free man bent down and spat a glob of blood forward, straight at the plague. Prinhp and Runhp burst into laughter, partly clapping their hands, and Chanhp was furious that his green skin had taken on a red tint. He struck again, but from the left side, about to do it again, but the ringleader stopped him. "Chanhr, stop. We still need him. He'll say what's necessary, you can hit him any way you want, but for now only the way I say. Understand?!"

"I see," he spat in the freedman's face, and Chanhr complied and stepped back.

Prinhr approached the rebel, looked down at him as best he could, and concluded, "You know what, human… I'm sick of you looking at this place with two eyes. It's too much for you."

Chum took a steel knife, serrated with corners on both sides, and suddenly thrust it into the rebel's left eye: blood spurted, but there was no groan. Prinhr turned the knife aside and pulled it out and asked away, "One tool tried," he said, turning to his own, and burst into laughter.

Vladimir didn't even realize what had happened. At that moment he remembered his mother, who combed his hair after every worker, his father, who taught him to look at trees as superior and wise beings, his friend Stanislav, who liked to make faces and show all sorts of tricks, voicing them in a very peculiar way, Vyacheslav Vladimirovich, the commander of the catfish, who often praised him for his persistent and strong-willed character, and Andrei, the priest, who always said that in the most difficult moments the Lord God is very near, so a deeply believing person is invincible.

Vladimir remembered them all, the fact that they had stayed at the sawmill of the Krasny Luch group, the fact that they had all advised him to go to the Maquis. Vladimir remembered this and realized that it was all true, that no one would make him give it up, that he had done what he had to do, that the last thing left to him was to die a death worthy of his life.

Prinhr turned to the rebel and understood nothing: he was in an incomprehensible state between life still existing and death about to come.

"Runhr. Rip his arm off. He's falling asleep," the ringleader ordered and turned away.

Chum reached over and snatched the left skinned, battered, burned arm of the free man and tossed it aside. Immediately Prinhr came up and poured some alcohol on the wound and set it on fire. The blood stopped. The leader put out the fire and leaned toward the rebel.

Vladimir felt no pain, but simply whispered, steady and calm: "Lugansk. Lugansk. Lugansk."

The trio of chums instantly huddled together — just one word echoed around the room: "Lugansk. Lugansk."

The beasts jumped for joy and laughed once more, one of them scooted back in his chair, and the free man turned toward the window.

"The sky… The sky is freedom. Near, very near is light… — Vladimir looked up and marveled at the beauty and peace. — In Heaven there is always peace. In Heaven there is always freedom… How beautiful. Lord, thank You for such beauty. You have made it possible for us to see this miracle, made by Your own hands, so that we may Believe… Heaven is beautiful."

As he watched Eternity, his eye blinked less and less, and after half a minute he stopped blinking altogether — the free man was dead*.

Smoky and hot

In loading coal, both men and women do the same work, although for the plagues, strangely enough, there is a distinction in the sex of the person.

For example, the same statute on clothing. Below the waist, women wear skirts and it is forbidden to replace them with anything. Also hair. Women, if the length of their hair exceeds thirty centimeters, are obliged to braid it.

Why the plagues showed such delicacy in all this is unknown.

During this shift, Gora was solely in command, assisting in individual cases.

The work flowed without much enthusiasm, but it did not need it: this time the plan was not too full of ambition. "Okay, guys. We're on schedule. Order," Gabriel once again shouted across the room, but this time was nothing like

the previous ones. It was followed by a quick clap, and the ground beneath his feet shuddered.

"Vladimirov, Lesin and Bagrationova with me, the rest of you keep working. Rich is in charge," Gora commanded and rushed into the passageway leading to the purification sector, where smoke was billowing from the ceiling.

The plagues on the post and did not budge: they knew perfectly well what had just happened and why. Running into the purification room, the miners saw what they should have seen — blood and death.

The atmosphere in a mine is very concentrated and filled with methane, often leading to random explosions. A long time ago, to avoid this, watering and sprinkling of the mined material was done all along the conveyor belt.

Now there is no conveyor belt or irrigation: the air is not purified in any way, so explosions are not that frequent, but regular.

In this case, the methane gas was detonated throughout the room and the work stopped on its own.

"Lena look him over, Stas… — him… — " handing out orders to everyone the commander ran to the man lying ten meters to his left. — Kolya, follow me."

He didn't know why he was drawn there — there wasn't much blood in that place, so there wasn't much first aid. As Gabriel approached him, he noticed the phases of breathing less frequently than usual, and that this man was

Georgi Volin.

"Everything is in order with that one, Kolya, watch the other," ordered Gora, and he leaned over to the deputy of the 253rd soma and turned him from his belly to his back: his breathing, though slow, was even, so there was nothing to worry about.

Georgie opened his eyes and stared upward, where sand, stones, and endless black dust were falling. "Zhora, are you okay?" — Gavriil asked, remembering his daughter-in-law and his son's happy eyes.

Volin blinked, sighed and, leaning on his elbow, raised himself slightly, "All right, we broke the record after all… but by different rules."

Gabriel lifted his head and two meters ahead of him saw a hand covered in blood. The hand was bent, and in the palm of his hand lay a wet coal, also red in color.

The commander looked around the room: other than his aides, there were no survivors.

Somewhere in the distance, at the 1st and 3rd exits in low towers sat the plagues, near them there were always a few streams of water, and they were far enough away from the epicenter, so no explosions threatened them.

"You lie down for now, and I'll help someone else," Gabriel said with a pat on Georgi's shoulder and rushed off to save the others.

A little to the right lay the dead but faithful priest Father Fyodor. His face was also calm, a small wooden cross was also in his right hand. HE worked equally with everyone else, despite his spinal problems, he was always talking about God's Peace, that Peace is what God gave, and that the plagues came because we lived wrongly in it, but we will be free again when we realize and correct our mistakes.

Very close to Father Fyodor were someone's legs, torn off by the explosion almost to the waist.

That's Lev Bashmakov. A great humorist. He was especially fond of satirizing his surname, from which he used to attach red threads with corners tied to them to his shoes. Lev filled everyone present with joy and optimism, firstly, because his words never referred to plagues and things like that; people could feel liberated and at least a little joyful.

Behind Leo came piles of blood and flesh torn by what had happened, and then part of a neck and a head. The head of Jan Vyshnegradsky. A very serious and proper man. He strove to maintain discipline and order, probably because, having lived fifty-seven years, he himself had never violated them and had never been punished (not counting those cases when he had to "pay" for not working out the soma plan). Indeed, those around him never broke the rules.

To the left of Vynegradsky, a Serbian, Sinisha Kzinzic, was quietly dying. Only Gavriil had time to run up before Sinisha's eyes staring into the ceiling lost their life.

Kjinjic was a silent man. He spoke only on the most important occasions. He worked. Worked when he was told to work and when he could and did. He had had no relatives since birth, except for his mother, who was probably lying next to him now. He worked hard for her and for soma, people who didn't deserve to suffer like this. They called him "Stakhanovets "*, in honor of one ancient "movement of worker enthusiasm." And for good reason: if someone had decided to conduct a poll to find out who was the most productive worker in the entire Donetsk-Makeyevka group, he would have been awarded one of the first places almost in advance.

Even to the left of the Serb, the commander of the 253rd Soma, Ivan Dubrovsky, died. He always experienced the problems of his subordinates with his fragile heart — three times he was taken to the first sector for rest after seizures, but after a couple of dozen minutes he returned. There was no living place on his body even before the tragedy: when miners were stoned for "underachievement", he stood in the row first, and also last. In some ways this preoccupation hindered him, because the thoughts in his head were more often in the past than in the future, where his people were still to live.

"Gora, we can't find a live one! — Stanislaw shouted. There's not a single one alive!"

The commander turned to Vladimirov — blood was dripping from his hands, as if he had coated them like that on purpose.

Gabriel looked at his hands: they too were drenched in red, and drops were falling from them as well.

"Red is the color of victory. The commander thought. — The plagues have blood of a dark scarlet, almost black color, like their cruelty and senselessness."

"Yes, there's a live one!" — Lena shouted at the top of her voice, sinking to the ground toward the looming body. But here a hand moved, then a neck moved: it was Anastasia Nekrasova, a very young girl.

"Paradoxically," Gabriel thought again. — It is good when the young survive… Old people understand it perfectly well. Old people have lived, and they have had enough, and they, the young, still have their whole life ahead of them… God, thank you! Thank you that Maria is not here now… Raphael would not have been able to bear it…".

Paradoxically, Nastya was already on her way up: she wasn't hit at all, only stunned.

She was saved by Sergei Lisitsin, who shielded her from death. An old man like Vyshnegradsky. I guess he too thought that young people need life more than old people… probably because he himself had a daughter.

His back burned through to the point where his ribs were bulging outward.

Nastya got up and, barely standing on her feet, began to stare at Lena, who was holding her.

His pupils went from side to side, stopping at each point for a few seconds and trying to find something in the object in question.

Lena shook her a little, trying to bring her to her senses at least a little, but her eyes continued to flicker haphazardly. "Take her away, take her to Sector One," Gabriel ordered and turned his head — Viktor Zemlyakov.

He sometimes yelled at the young men for mistakes they unwittingly made in their inexperience, but everyone knew he just cared deeply for them. Five years ago, in his thirty-seven, he had lost a son to the plague who had been stoned to death for "willfully falling while carrying a load." Victor would have died with him then, but at that moment he was assigned to the Black Workers (the "Black Worker's Charter" stated that there had to be a "compulsory enrollment" of twenty men in the group; if there were not enough, someone was assigned). This is why he treated young people in such a way.

The flames burned half his body.

A little to his right lay a girl of about twenty, Vyshnegradsky's daughter Anna.

She was very fond of fashion and was deservedly a recognized expert in it. Anya read several times all the literature that contained at least a drop of material from the world of fashion. It seemed to her that fashion was a manifestation of human individuality in that which has existed since the time of man's acquiring reason — clothes. According to her clothes were the most accessible way of peaceful self-expression. She dreamed of opening at least a "fashion shop" somewhere.

No one had time to shield her from death.

Smoke was still billowing from the ceiling, and it was still hot all around. In addition to Volin and Anastasia, Roman Plotnikov, our local stargazer, had survived; he seemed to know everything and had stayed in the far corner at the moment of the explosion.

That's all that's left of the one hundred and eighty-three men of the 253rd soma.

Somewhere very deep and low

Manhr is the karak of the Donetsk-Makeyevka group. "Karak" — a slightly above-average official.

The highest title is "roh." It is one and belongs to Kronhru. This rank allows you to meet the Black Stone; he is the only one, apart from the High Priests, who can do so.

Next, within the Earth, comes the "proch". They are arranged by continents, i.e. there are three in total.

The European faction, with the Proch Brynchr in charge, is divided into three colonies: East Slavic, Central Slavic, and West European.

After "prokh" there is "broz". In the Central Slavic Colony, the duties of the broz are temporarily performed by Bluch. The key word is "temporarily". The point is that the last broz Krinhr had fallen ill with something particularly serious, and he was suspended from his work, and his deputy was appointed in his stead.

In order to stay in this position, Bluh began to look for any shortcomings in his previous work, among which he found Manhra's stealing. Not that he was so disgusted by it, he was stealing himself, but in order to "show off" in front of the center he could "cover up" another. He sent him an ultimatum, and a day later learned of his murder.

The new Broz saw this situation as a serious chance to establish his influence in the Eastern-Maloros region, and acting in accordance with the "Broz Code", he called a meeting for the reason of "murder of an imperial official".

The meeting hall of the Black Stone noble primes met twice during Krinkhra's eight-year leadership, both in his first year — it seems Bluh has decided to follow in his footsteps (you can clearly see how the plagues withdrew their support over time, gaining power and consolidating it).

The Council of Noble0prims always included the Imperial Army Chief of the Column (Donhr), the Chief of the Column's CCC (Zakinhr), the Chief of the Column's Transportation (Nenhr), the Chief of the Column's Logistics (Okinhr), the Chief of the Column's Mining (Venhr), and the Chief of the Column's Finance (Ubinhr).

With the exception of the head of SCK, all others were appointed by the acting Broz. The rule did not apply in case of broz's illness, then no changes could take place (only by order of the roch).

Bluh began the session with pessimistic rants, "The threat is upon us, plague brothers."

No one but Nenhr blinked an eye — it was a big phrase, but it didn't make much sense. Nenhr was a silent but obvious ally of Bluh, because he himself was under some threat: just before his illness, Krynhyr was about to fire him and put him on trial for mismanagement of the railroads — not only were schedules rarely kept, but the Road Inspection Commission (RIC) was no longer functioning (on paper it still existed, but in reality the funds allocated to it were not reaching him due to outright embezzlement*).

The head of transportation, sitting next to Broz, nodded defiantly and pushed his chair closer to the table, as if anticipating serious work.

"Today I was informed that an assassination attempt was made on the karak of the Donetsk-Makeyevka Manhra group. Unfortunately, a successful one… Plague brothers, we must act!" — exclaiming, Bluch continued, but at the end was interrupted by the head of the SCC, Zakinhr: "The day before yesterday you sent him an ultimatum demanding that he hand over what he had stolen. The day before yesterday you accused him of stealing, quite correctly, by the way. And today you say the word 'unfortunately'… What's your 'unfortunately', brother chum Bluh?"

Of all those present, Bluh hated him the most, and only because there was nothing that could be done about him — he was appointed from the center, which meant that only the center could remove him.

"Uh… Don't get me wrong, I don't like thieves myself… no, I hate them. — At the moment of this speech, Broza Nenhre nervously squirmed in his chair. — But that doesn't mean that some people can shoot them off! It's a pity you don't understand that. Better a corrupt chum than a hard-working man! And to you, brother chum Zakinhr, I will especially say this, we should not have people working for us."

"I will note, especially for you," replied the head of the SCC, "that it was the men who uncovered Manhra's theft. "Wo! What makes you think they're not lying?!"

"We checked with other sources… Don't be a fool, it's fashionable to get a lot of use out of people." "They're slaves!"

"Who's arguing with that? They're slaves, but that doesn't mean they can't be useful to us. We do use them in mining," the SSJ nodded at Venhra at the end of the line.

"You know, Brother Chum Zakinhr…" — Bluh was about to say that the latter might appear to be a traitor, but in time he considered it too defiant and dangerous for him — one should not forget who is a protégé of the center here.

"What, brother chum bluh?" — realizing what was happening asked the head of the SChK. "I can sometimes feel like you're being ceremonious with them."

"In vain. This is a proven tactic of the SCK."

Bluh had already realized perfectly well that it was time to end this dialog and get back to the point, "Well, okay, it doesn't matter… We need to decide what to do in the current situation… Brother Chum Nenhr, what do you think?"

The transportation chief seemed to snap out of it after a long wait: "I think it's time to act! The people are openly challenging us. I believe they are aware of the sickness of our honorable plague brother Broz Krinhra. They want to destabilize and de-balance the current situation with brazen acts in key areas and points! Plague brothers! They've destroyed over three hundred kilometers of track! And that's just in the past month. I'm sure the SAR commission will tear my heart out this month with their statistics!"

Watching the whole spectacle as a pathetic spectacle, Zakinhr was given an opportunity to mark the limits of what was allowed with veiled accusations: "The DCP commission was able to find out about so many destroyed tracks? As far as I know for the whole of last month a total of eleven kilograms of gold went in there, that is five percent of the allotted amount… Will you tell me how they were able to show such results with such funding?"

"My men work hard. They expect a paycheck, but in the meantime, they do their duty honestly for the Empire." "Ah, I think your men are taking credit for things that aren't their own. According to my figures, fifty-three

kilometers of track were destroyed last month. Give or take five kilometers."

"Well, that's a long conversation, Chum Brother Zakinhr… We're probably talking about different places of inspection…" — Nenhr immediately tried to get out of the awkward position.

"I'm talking about the entire Central Slavic Column."

Seeing that the circumstances were not in his favor, Bluh changed the subject again, "Brother plagues, let's take your official matters elsewhere. We have a serious matter here… Brother Chum Donghr, I will ask you personally to take care of the local Maquis group."

With any luck Bluh would accuse him of treason and then, citing the complexity of the circumstances, shoot him, but the point of the case is that the acting broz is still Krinhr and the circumstances aren't that complex, so if the Imperial Army Chief was accused he would be taken to the Imperial General Tribunal, where the firing squad would issue a firing squad, not him, but Bluh.

"Objection, Brother Chum Bluh. — the chief of the Cheka spoke as firmly as possible. — Bogdan Khmelnitsky's group is operating there. It is not large enough for serious resistance, and my men have just now received precise information about its whereabouts. We can finish them off within four days if we get the order. I propose to give this case to the SCS."

The long-silent finance chief, Urinhr, spoke up: "I approve. The army's operation will again hit the finances, which have not shown any comforting results in the last six months.

Bluh dreamed of shooting this plague for some non-existent nonsense even more than the chief of the imperial army: Urinhr was more supportive of Krinhr and even more loyal to him. It was because he had covered for him during an incident: three-fourths of a ton of gold had arrived at the Finance Department and disappeared without a trace (in fact, it had never arrived — the transport chief had changed the route and the train had gone elsewhere).

"What do you think, Brother Chum Okinhr?" — The acting broz took his last chance.

The logistics chief was neither friend nor foe to Bluh; he was simply doing his job, with imperial interests at heart: "We can supply the Donetsk-Makeyevka sector with everything we need within eight days. But we'll need the assistance of the transportation service to do that."

The Chief of Transportation immediately felt the waiting stare of the SFC chief, and what to expect from him in the event of a discouraging answer. "I'm sorry, but the transportation service doesn't need the extra workload right now," Nenhr didn't grimace.

"I propose to give the matter to the SChK," the chief of the imperial army finally made his choice. — and put an end to this matter."

Bluh had no choice but to agree: "Well, if brother-chum Zakinhr wants to deal with this issue so much, we will not interfere with him… It remains to decide on the appointment of a new karak in the Donetsk-Makeyevka sector".

"So as not to complicate matters, I will temporarily assign my man there," Zakinhr decided.

"You know the Charter, don't you? You have to name a specific plague," Bluh didn't quite expect such insistence from his main rival, because such a move shattered all his hopes of gaining influence in that region. He believed that a chum serving in the SCK was not capable of such hasty action.

But Zakinhra had everything ready, "Sister-chum Anahr. She knows this group very well. Worked there herself for six months. I have no doubts about her competence. She will bring it under control."

Of those present, except for the SS, no one knew Anahr, and Zakinhr spoke without a shadow of a doubt, so there was nothing to argue with.

"If everyone agrees…" — Bluh was almost resigned. Everyone was in agreement.

"Then the meeting is over," Bluh finally resigned himself to the fact that an opponent could be defeated not only at the table, but outside of it as well.

A slip in the right direction

The Chums had some kind of plague on the office of the Manhra karak: there they killed the karak, there they tripled the torture on the free man, and there they had a "special" conversation with Tikhomirov.

Two chums grabbed him while he was working and, without asking or explaining anything, dragged him there. They put him on the chair where Vladimir had been sitting not so long ago and asked him one simple short question: "Will you work for us?"

To answer such questions Gabriel taught not at once: though simple, it was unexpected.

There were two chums standing around, Prinhr and Chanhr, and one traitor, Dmitri. All were looking at Tikhomirov, but they were thinking about each other, and in extremely negative tones: Chankhr wanted to kill Prinhras for preventing him from "keeping people in line," Prinhras wanted to kill Dmitri for being a traitor, and he didn't care who he was betraying, Prinhras hated that quality, and Dmitri wanted to kill Chankhr for underestimating his importance.

"I will. — replied Ivan. — For the 'fresh-norm' of nutrition."

"Okay… Here's your chief," Prinxr waved the thumb of his left paw towards Dimitri and thought to himself, you could have found a better 'chief', even though it was only a word.

Tikhomirov nodded.

"Aren't you wondering where Pozharin went?"

Ivan realized perfectly well that if he answered positively now, the very least they would do was tell him what had happened to him, "No. Not interested."

"We executed him. He betrayed us," at the end of that sentence, Prinhr thought of Dimitri again, "Who am I dealing

with."

Tikhomirov sat in a chair stained with the blood of a free man and waited to be given authority, at least some

authority, to be given an increased ration of food so that he could take it to the starving men in the mine, he waited because he knew it was the best thing he could do.

"So the first rule," Chum continued. — Never betray us. Never. Or the same thing will happen to you."

Tikhomirov nodded and again remembered his commander: "When they start telling you what you can and can't do, nod your head… think about it, slowly roll your eyes and nod. They may try to confuse you with a phrase like "… report everything to your chief…". You may unwittingly bring me to mind and let the truth out. Remember the cardinal rule.

When you are talking to someone who can turn you in, and especially to the plague, never relax… Relax and say something unnecessary… You can show that you are relaxed in some way, but never do it".

"Second. Don't fool us," Prinhr spoke so earnestly that you'd think he lived by those rules himself.

Tikhomirov nodded once again, and Gabriel stuck in his head: "Don't look them in the eye for long. They'll take it for insolence and might just kill you. You know how they are. It's better to glimpse around corners, but not too much, and especially when they're talking."

In reality, Ivan wouldn't have looked at them closely. When he looked at the plague, he felt shaky and a little nauseous: green skin, snot dripping from head to toe, some disgusting mucus secreted in many places in random order — a picture for those who were used to it, that's all.

"Now what you need to do… First, if you hear even a word about the rebellion downstairs, tell us immediately. Talk to someone in the tower or something… whatever you want, but we need to have the information… Second. If you hear from anyone about us or our great stone, tell us immediately. These people have no business discussing us. And three. The Maquis. We'll talk about them. Give us information about them in a timely manner. If it's urgent, make it urgent. No, it's not. You miss, you get a rock in the ribs. Is that clear?"

Tikhomirov, after thinking for a moment, nodded his head firmly.

"Good. Dimitri will explain the rest to you," Prinxr finally deduced and strode grimly to the door. Chanchr followed him in the same manner.

There was something unnatural in the gait of the plagues. It was as if their bodies had been made for a long time and then left unfinished. They showed themselves to be firm, determined and uncompromising. And their gait was just the opposite: their paws were afraid to take the next step because someone would punish them for it, their head swayed like a chop, and their backs bent and straightened back.

When the beasts were gone, Dmitri walked1 over to Ivan and sat down on the chair next to him — the "interrogation tools" had been lying on it a couple hours ago.

"I am Dimitri," the traitor proclaimed sublimely and stared majestically at Tikhomirov. "Ivan," Ivan replied.

"So that's it, Vanya. — Dimitri leaned back and threw his leg over his foot. — You're going to do what I say. I say walk, you walk. I say crawl, you crawl. Is that understood?"

Tikhomirov nodded quietly: it was no longer the plague, but his miserable servant who was talking to him. "Next. Other than food, they won't give you anything unless you ask for it. So… Tell them you need heroin." "I don't even know what it is."

"Didn't you understand my previous sentence?" — Dmitri wanted to slap him on the cheek, as he had done with all the previous ones, but he couldn't: he felt some dangerous force for himself, something more than just a desire to survive.

Ivan saw this, saw who he was dealing with, what his interlocutor was worth, and why he was still here.

Dmitri is a weak man, and that's why the plagues keep him around. He will always obey them, or those who are stronger than them, and there is no one stronger than them around.

"So you understand me?" — The traitor asked angrily.

Tikhomirov had already made up his mind and sprang into action. "Yes," he answered, and with all his strength, with all the strength of the miners who would have done it for him, struck Dmitri in the jaw with his fist petrified with growth.

The traitor didn't plop down, but flew backwards, as if he knew it wasn't enough, for all that he had done.

Ivan slowly stood up, picked up the lying 'interrogation tools' chair and walked confidently over to Dmitri, "Yes. I understand. I understood very well what you said." He lay there, unmoving, staring at the man standing there with frantic eyes.

"I didn't come here to work for you," Ivan said menacingly, but not shouting. — I won't do anything for you. Plagueis said you're my boss… Do you agree with that?"

Dimitri lay there and was silent.

Bending down and squatting, Ivan took him viciously by his clothes: "Do you agree?" Dimitri shook his head negatively, quite like the plague when walking, only fast. "That's good," Tikhomirov rose to his feet and left the room.

Dimitri remained lying on the floor; he didn't get up, he couldn't get up, he couldn't even believe it was possible for him to do so.

Reflections of a resident

Three years ago, Bogdan Khmelnitsky's group gathered (or rather the commanders of individual units and, of course, Viktor Khmelnitsky gathered) in Kharkov to develop new tactics of war against the plagues. One of the rebels during this found the Kharkov University building, including the library.

Almost all of the Maquis like to study the history of mankind even before the invasion of the plagues, and this event was a real gift not only for the participants of the meeting, but also for most of the "dissenters", who received a part, of course, although very small of what was at their disposal.

Now Viktor Khmelnitsky was in the town of Zaliznichnoye, near Krivoy Rog. Together with him his escort of about three hundred people called "Detachment 14".

In the township, a sort of DZOT was set up for them.

Evening. 11:38. Ten men on patrol. In bundles of two. Mikhail Zhivenko and Alexander Ruchyov were assigned to watch the path leading southeast to Radushnoye.

Other than the past, it wasn't customary to talk about the past on patrol.

"It's freezing today," Mikhail said after a little lull, looking at the snowdrifts that littered the road. — I wonder if before… a hundred years ago… people hadn't learned to heat the whole Earth, not just individual buildings?"

Unlike Michael, Alexander was in Kharkov. "Learned," he replied.

"Really?"

"Yes. They were polluting the air with carbon dioxide, and the temperature was rising." "And in the summer? Did they? Reduced its content?"

"Mish… Don't be seduced by the ancients. They controlled most processes only one way… You think they were so eager to change the climate? No, they weren't. They just couldn't stop polluting, that's all. And the fact that it was raising the temperature started to bother them later. When they saw what it was.

"I don't get it. What do you mean? They wanted to, but they couldn't. They wouldn't have done it and that's it." "Long story short. Some people are farsighted, others are not. Some people think that one should live in such a way

that it does not turn out to be to the detriment of others, while others think that one should live in such a way that it is as good as possible for oneself, and the rest will do fine.

"Is this the United States?"

"You can blame it on them, but they're not the first. Before them, it was Great Britain. Before Khazaria. Before that, Carthage. It's a case of you can't find the most guilty party. There's the one who invented it. There's the one who developed it. There is the one who achieved the greatest results".

"I've read the most about them out of all of these…" "Me too," Alexander replied sadly and sighed. "What?"

"You know, the phrase 'greatest results' should not mean so over the top that your eyes pop out of your head…

Carthage pursued its policy in the Mediterranean Sea. Khazaria parasitized the Volga. Great Britain colonized a large part of the world. And none of them were forced to live by their own rules. But these ones… They come to a foreign country, which is in another hemisphere of the Earth and not only ruin whatever comes under their hand, but also live as they say. They don't want to live like that. But they make them. They explain, derive all sorts of formulas, show on the long-term development of Western Europe that it is as they say, and again they force them. Is it hard to understand that if a person wants to live in a yurt and not in a thirty-storey block house, there is no need to dissuade him from it. If he wants to, he will move, if he doesn't want to, he won't. It is his business, especially since he himself does not force anyone to live in yurts.

So no. They need to put everyone in these block houses to charge them for light, water and heating. "Was it just like that?"

"On the merits, yes."

"And I read that the US is a former colony… of Great Britain. Then they seceded and… nobody helped them… they developed on their own…"

"It was all like that, but unfortunately only in the beginning. They had a leader. Monroe. He enunciated the doctrine that they didn't interfere in the affairs of the Eastern Hemisphere and the Old World didn't interfere in the affairs of the Western Hemisphere."

"Well, that's the way it was, wasn't it…?"

"It was. You see… They had no competitors in the Western Hemisphere. So they fixed it up for themselves. But they did it without anyone seeing it. With economics. First, they made treaties with the authorities of other countries that were favorable only to themselves. And then, to keep those agreements in place, they started to influence those authorities, to change them. To choose only those who will do what they need.

"But that's just a way of doing international politics and nothing more."

"That's exactly more than that. They weren't just stealing from some authorities. They robbed entire peoples who had nothing to eat, nothing to wear, who deserved a normal life no less than those who lived in the United States."

"But after all, their 'founding fathers' didn't envision any of this when they created all of this. And the consequences are just the ambitions of individual rulers."

"Generally speaking, the term "founding fathers" is not appropriate for such people. It was invented by those who tried to launder their past and the past of their country. No, of course, everyone did it. And we, among others. Let's say with regard to Vladimir "Red Sun", when they took into account his merits and then caconicized him, but still there are fundamental differences. Our "editors" never touched politics in these matters, or it was such an internal and purely personal thing that it could be forgiven. You'll never get something about Vladimir or Yaroslav like they were striving for world happiness, the spreading of higher moral values throughout our Earth, or anything else of that sort. They act as necessary rulers for their own country and nothing more. But if any American press speaks about George Washington, they will immediately add how much he did for the development of democracy all over the world and so on and so forth. If they talk about Alexander Hamilton, they will immediately say what an excellent thinker of capitalist development of the country he was, that he was the "founder" of the "similarly wise" system of distribution of the products of production.

When Thomas Jefferson is mentioned, one will be reminded of his ability to formulate human rights within the state and that thanks to him a perfect legal framework was formed that allowed people to realize their legal possibilities more easily. And you'll hear just as many good things about Madison, Adams, and Franklin. And no one will remember that they were all slave owners, that after the rebellion in 1776* military ranks were distributed according to the size of the property, that Washington became commander-in-chief only because, except for him, there were never any military men among the planters, that Hamilton was his adjutant and became wealthy by marrying the daughter of one of the largest planters, that his way of enrichment does not fit in with capitalism, that Jefferson's Constitution spit on all Negroes and ordinary Americans, protecting the rights of property and the illegality of taking it even if it was illegally obtained, but this fact is not proven, which gave the planters the opportunity to cover themselves with the political union they would create, that the rebellion itself was because of the plantations, and the French won the war for them. Where they found "fathers" or "founders" here, I don't know. I don't know what there is to admire either. You can recognize their intelligence, their ability to make money, their ability to act diplomatically when needed — yes. This is all very good, of course, and can be recognized. But I can recognize the same qualities in Hitler, Napoleon, and even a number of terrorists who can do both.

Except it doesn't mean that all these abilities have served the planet well. Moreover, it would be better if Hitler, Napoleon and those terrorists had been complete fools, and then there would not have been a lot of things to think about. And while we admire their fighting qualities someone else might as well make an example of them. And someone else can take this example from them, and since it is hard to be smart and capable in trade and diplomacy and many other things, they start to take all the "crap" they had, because it is not difficult to repeat it. In the process of learning about people, one should always separate two fundamentally important things: what was good in a person, and what good he did for everyone. In my opinion, the Founding Fathers did much less for everyone than they did for their own.

"Okay, let's say. What else did they do wrong? I mean, they fought for us in World War II…"

"No, of course they fought for themselves in World War II. What can I say… Really, I'm more interested in their assessment of the whole thing at the time…"

"What's so interesting about it?"

"I accidentally came across their history book. I don't know how it got to Kharkiv… Well, here it is. The essence of the matter is that it says that it was they who won the Second World War, that is, they made the greatest contribution… And it is to them that the world owes its salvation from fascism."

"How's that?" "That's what it said."

"I don't understand… Well, they would compare how many people died where. They could compare the forces.

What's there to compare? The Soviet Union alone lost thirty million!"

"They don't need to compare anything. They just needed to convince their own citizens that they were better.

That's what they did. And whether it was really true or not, they didn't care anymore. And it's useless to argue with them: when a person is fanatical about something, no arguments will help you — even if it's a hundred million, they won't listen to you.

"Did you have anyone die out there?"

"Who among us didn't die there? My dad told me that one of my relatives died at Kursk, another one reached Berlin… If he hadn't, I wouldn't be here."

"Mine was surrounded near Vyazma at the very beginning. Then he was probably shot… I don't know for sure, but he didn't survive".

"If Russia had only fought in World War II, it would still be good… Otherwise, we've had everything here ruined dozens of times… There are more wars than peace."

"And Ukraine? My dad told me I was Ukrainian."

"Mish… Well, what about Ukraine…? Russia, Ukraine, Belarus — all one country. We've always had the same enemies. And we've always fought together… Our band is named after whom?"

"Bogdan Khmelnitsky." "Yeah, who's that?"

"Sanya, what do you think I don't know?" "You tell me who you think he is." "Hero."

"Why?"

"Well, he died for his country."

"He was a subject of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. So he's a rebel?" "No. No. He died for Ukraine."

"So it wasn't there then. It turns out that he took this territory and its people out of one country and brought it into another. There was no country of his own.

"But there were people who lived there. He did it for them."

"There. Well done. He died for the people. HE understood what was best for those people. These are already civilizational values. West and East… Ukrainians are Slavs, and eastern Slavs, as well as Russians, as well as Belarusians. And in order for them to be accepted in the West, in order for the king and magnates of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth to recognize them as equal subjects, they, Ukrainians, need to become exactly like everyone else in the West… It is impossible. It is impossible to take and remake the consciousness of the whole nation, you can not remake all the customs and traditions, you can not forget everything that was "before". You can't forget how many heads were laid

down for this land. Such things make people out of us, impregnating us with themselves. That is why Bogdan Khmelnitsky is a national hero. A national hero is someone who saves a nation from disappearing, dissolving into the layers of other nations… If what he was striving for had not happened, Ukraine would have simply disappeared. It would simply disappear, because there can't be a nation without a face".

Alexander Zubrilov, the deputy leader of the band, defined the final speech: "You're talking about the past…"

His voice sounded even louder than the footsteps that crushed through the snow that had melted during the day and frozen in the evening. Such snow glistened under the moon no worse than under the sun, and when it was broken it made a noise for a kilometer. His voice was stronger than that.

In half a minute the deputy was already standing at the lookout point — a small hill with three poplars and a bunch of bushes: the place was not ideal, but at least the road could be seen for a dozen kilometers.

"San, I realize you're a zam," Ruchyov said quietly. — But that doesn't mean that the plagues will pretend that nothing happened."

Zubrilov was both sad and joyful at the same time: his voice satisfied, his face not: "They won't hear anyone now.

They are all not here."

"Where? Has everyone gone home? Are they bored with everything?"

"No. No. No… They're just all elsewhere, not here… The commander has a personal mission for you… Do you know where the city of Nikopol is?"

"The one by the reservoir? The one where N spread his drool and snot?"

"Yes. So you need to get there and hand this over," Zubrilov handed Ruchyov an envelope and continued: "You know the place. The 77th should be there now."

"And the pigeons. I know we have one that flies there."

"Ehhh… I'd deal with this case, how do you know that… No, we already have him… Died two weeks ago." "Anything special?"

"Yes. Exactly for you. Remember when we sent Nikita and Vladimir to Makeyevka?" "Uh-huh."

"They're dead."

Ruchyov turned aside and looked at the snow, took some of it and rubbed it on his face.

"They died heroically… Apparently Vladimir misdirected them. Everything's fine, but to make it even better, we need to deliver this letter. By tomorrow morning."

Ruchyov nodded: "Yeah… Okay… We'll do it."

Rucheyov was Vladimir's teacher; it was he who taught him to move quickly and stealthily, to shoot accurately and immediately, to believe strongly and forever. Alexander had no one but Vladimir, and they both had one common goal — Victory.

"San," Ruchyov said to the departing Zubrilov. "What?" — Without turning around, the man replied. "Where do we go afterward?"

The deputy realized where he was going and, without hesitation, replied, "If you want, go to your own… I'd do it too if I were you."

The Maquis are a people of free will. A leader only directs them; to make attacks stronger and more organized; to gather power into a single fist; to win.

When rebels acted in such groups, they unwittingly made new friends, and then lost them, in battle, from cold, from anything. When a rebel was in dire straits, he could go into battle alone. Just attack the chums and die.

That's what it was called, "going to your own."

Rebels

The mine. It's dark and damp.

The 253rd soma is no more. Only Georgy and Maria Volin, Anastasia Nekrasova, Irina Chakhnova and Irma Solntseva remained (the last two women were resting in the 1st set due to illness). They were added to the 381st.

The Donetsk-Makeyevka group is a strategic sector, so a new catfish had to be sent to replace the dead one.

On the outside channel, Gabriel learned that it was the 443rd Soma from the Melitopol group sawmill. They also reported that they were just about to rebel.

The Mountain had plenty of time to think, but no reserves at all. There was no way to make combinations: there was simply nothing to use.

"443rd Soma… There are only Bulgarians there… No, the plagues are fools after all… They must be fools to send Bulgarians to a strategic sector for themselves… If they even knew what "Bulgarian" means… Rebel… Yes, they are rebels when they don't have their own country, and now no one has it… A phrase from the records of the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–1878: "The Bulgarians went into battle as on a holiday"… No, the plagues are fools after all… Well would they have sent them after the uprising??? No. We must do it now. Let them rise here. Next to their Slavic brothers. Next to someone who cares about them. And after the uprising, the mine will collapse along with everything else… No, the Bulgarians are right, of course. And I'd be with them. I'd be with them. Especially since it's not the first time… But we don't have anything

ready here yet. We'll rebel, we'll kill two or three Boers… and then what? Nothing… Maybe I'll change their minds. Say, "We're brothers. "You love us. And we love you." That's the truth… And they'll say: "Yes, and we all hate the Chumas together." And that's also true… They won't change their minds. They'll rise up. And when they rise up, some of our people will rise up, maybe all of them. And that will be the end of my plan. No, we can't let them rebel.

Okay… Sun Tzu what? Of the five phenomena, I haven't yet considered Heaven and Earth*….

Bulgarians. No, it's impossible to reason when those who want to come the next day They just want to kill more

chums. They don't care if we win or not. Whether we get our freedom or not. They just want to kill more chums.

Sun Tzu said:

According to the rules of warfare, the best thing to do is to keep the enemy state intact, and the second best thing to crush that state. The best thing is to keep the enemy army intact, in second place to crush it. Therefore, fighting a hundred times and winning a hundred times is not the best of the best; the best of the best is to conquer another's army without fighting.

If the Bulgarians knew this thought of Sun Tzu, they would probably think about whether it is worth it to "rebel out of principle". But after thinking about this thought, they would still rebel.

Okay, okay Heaven and Earth.

The sky is light and darkness, cold and heat; it is the order of time. The very order of time that needs to be explained to the Bulgarians. We will rise up, but when we are capable of winning. Capable of gaining freedom.

Earth is far and near, uneven and flat, wide and narrow, death and life.

In other words, these are all circumstances. And they all need to be known: how many Boers are in each column, what their total strength is, how much time they need to get to all sorts of places, what is the composition of their armament, and so on. It is clear that this is a job for Tikhomirov, but he needs time.

We're stuck here. They'll send some thug instead of Manhra. He'll take down the whole company, all the hiding

places, all the exit tricks. They'll take it all down without a second thought.

Although, if we look like slaves. In their eyes, they'll replace him with a loyal one. They've got plenty of places that are even more troubled. So we need to look as calm as possible.

The Bulgarians Again I am stumped by this: how can one look calm if there is an uprising. I myself, if I were the

Chums, would kill all those who are at the mine and send others from different places… And this is still my opinion How

do the Chums think then?….

No. If we revolt, the whole thing goes down."

Gabriel closed his eyes and, strangely enough, immediately fell asleep. And such a dream he'd never had in his life.

In the dream, the movements seemed ethereal and surprisingly controlled: powerful and precise.

Gabriel entered the cleaning room, where his catfish was working with smiles on her face. He went to the loading area and saw the Bulgarians who had just arrived, so happy and cheerful, as if they had been waiting for this moment all their lives. They all wore red clothes and had Kalashnikov rifles strapped over their shoulders. All as one, except the commander. He's wearing a black beret with a golden star, and his face is as if in a fog, and his mate is the same. And everybody's shouting, everybody's rejoicing.

Everything flashed with red-gold color. And everyone waved his right hand, a steel fist, upward: freely and strongly.

Someone fired on the tower of the chums. The enemy was defeated: the Bulgarians moved on, into the tunnel, just past Gabriel.

And he doesn't know what to do: he wants so much to join the rebels. To put on red clothes, a beret with a star, and, throwing thoughts out of his head, to rush into battle. Even with bare hands, but to fight.

You can't. You can't. Defeat is certain. Victory is not ready.

Gabriel remained at the entrance to the tunnel. Everyone's gone — not a soul. But no, there's a whisper. There, in the corner.

Gabriel slowly turned around. Two meters away from him right behind him stood that Bulgarian commander with

the cloudy face and the golden star.

He's shaking hands with the plague! He smiles! But not like the Bulgarians. Not happy and strong. It's pathetic and

weak.

"Thank you," says the plague. — You've given us a reason to kill them all. To kill the Mountain. He is a danger to us.

He is a fearsome man. He could have caused us to lose."

A rumble from the end of the tunnel and at once silence. There is no flicker of red color, no joyful shouts of Bulgarians. And this silence drills down, presses on my ears. It presses with its obscurity. There is nothing, and there is no strength to bear it.

A large figure; a figure in a tunnel. It gradually approaches and carries something that looks like a ball in its left hand. Something oddly shaped. Something is dripping from it.

The figure is closer and closer…

It's a head— This balloon is someone's head. And there's blood dripping from it.

"We got him. Now the Mountain will come to us. Now he will forget all his thoughts. Now he will lose," said the chum quietly to his own, and tossed his head forward

Raphael.

The dream was over. It just couldn't go on much longer. Gabriel lay there trying to feel the red flickering light.

Nothing. Just darkness.

The commander opened his eyes-almost the same darkness, but with a gray tint. He turned to Raphael. Sleeping with Maria. Volin's a meter away from them. Everyone's in place. No one's risen yet.

When your heart hurts

Rucheyov was not given a mission. He was given an opportunity to throw a mountain off his shoulders; to soothe his soul.

And he was eager to do it. He and Mikhail had to get to Nikopol in a day, which was 75 kilometers. It would be possible to try the road through Radushnoye — Apostolovo — Chertomlyk, but there are obviously a couple or three roadblocks and ambushes there, so the parcel would not reach them. So it's better to go straight, crossing the Kamenka and Solyonaya rivers. It's not much time, but it's at least possible on horseback.

Night. March 28th. The frost is fifteen degrees. Blizzard blows you off the saddle. Strange weather for spring.

And, strangely enough, a clear, cloudless sky. You can see the stars. They twinkle and awaken the darkness of the sky. A time when the night sky is awake.

There's something special about the stars. Their twinkle somehow weighs on us. They look at us and influence us.

And each one moves something different inside us. And there are thousands of them and more.

Black matter, and in the midst of it little specks of golden light. They shine infinitely, they shine all around and everywhere. That's the main characteristic of stars. They shine on everyone. To each showing their light, their power, to each looking into the eyes and into the soul, to each pushing the way in the right direction. And only a few believe them.

Alexander's horse paid no attention to the stars or their pressure. She was not interested in either. Though some star might be pulling her to the right and left right now. The horse was rushing, thinking only of the road. Alexander, thinking about the stars: "Volodya, you are probably already somewhere among them. Now they shine directly into your eyes, and you don't have to look away to avoid going blind. Now you can ask them any question and have no doubt that you may not get an answer. Now they will definitely answer. You will, of course, ask if we will ever be free. They will, of course, answer you. But why do you need their answer? You already know it. You know now what men can do… The stars will tell you what men can do. Of course they will. And of course you'll believe them. The stars don't lie. Stars may not answer, but they always tell the truth. They're the stars. They invented everything here."

There was a roar, and then the stomping of hooves on the dry, freshly fallen snow stopped.

Alexander stopped the movement and turned back: Misha was still rolling forward, having fallen off his horse's twisted leg.

Despite the frost, the task was melting before our eyes. "Misha, how are you?" — A rebel shouted through the storm.

"All right," the man replied, rising, his horse floundering like a doomed creature. "Will you get back?" — Alecchandr asked after a series of questions.

"Sanya, you can't do it alone!"

"So long," he didn't wait for Mikhail to say goodbye to him, for him to wave him on his way, for him to ask to switch places with him (Mikhail, though younger, could bear frosts more easily), but rushed forward at once — now he was alone.

The starry sky. The snowstorm intensified; the snow was coming down in a continuous stream — a wall. And the stars shone even more intensely. There is something unique and beyond human comprehension in their light.

Some are brighter, others darker. And sometimes the same star is both brighter and darker at different intervals. You look at one star today. Tomorrow you look at the same star, in the same place, and you know for sure that it's the same place. But the star is different. How do you explain it?

There must be something there that defies human perception.

The ancients thought the Earth was flat and the Vault of Heaven was firmly anchored at the top. Behind it a huge fire burns, but it cannot be seen because of the vault's strong and impenetrable material. It is only through holes that the light from the fire passes to the Earth. These holes are the stars.

The ancients understood what the Earth, the Sun, the Moon, and the stars were. They studied many cosmic bodies.

They even traveled somewhere.

But only a small fraction of both realized the importance of all these things.

Whether we want to or not. Know or don't know. We see or we don't see. The stars have an influence on us. And now Alexander knew for sure: the stars were helping him.

The steppe. When snow covers it, it seems like an endless white sea. When snow runs over it, it seems to be an "endlessly raging" white sea.

The horse climbed through this sea, piercing the oncoming wind currents and the smooth white surface. It's night, and if you get to Kamenka by dawn, you can assume everything is going as it should.

I was saved by a tent

Sister Chum Ananhr arrived in the Donetsk-Makeyevka sector late at night.Her arrival was no different from the usual arrival of a new Boer. The Chums successfully used railroads, but it took them (or rather the people who did this work) seventy-six years to develop this transportation. The fact is that the Plagues were inherently afraid of the sun, and almost immediately after the conquest they began to develop allergies.

In case of a long (more than two hours) stay in the open without special protection (compacted suit, created on the basis of OZK* during the Cold War), they began to have seizures, then stopped producing mucus (the same one that emits a terrible odor), and then came death. And generally speaking, the plague had about three and a half hours to live from the moment it was out in the open.

The allergy itself developed only in those who appeared at least occasionally on the surface. And during the first period of human slavery they were not allowed to go to the surface either, so that they did not have to go out themselves. It turned out that a man without the Sun can no longer do without the Sun, that he simply dies. Therefore, it was necessary to allocate time to take people outside, so that the plagues were not able to overcome allergies.

But, be that as it may, they attached special importance to tunnels in transportation. They believed that they killed two birds at once: there was neither the Sun nor the Maquis.

As for the mining industry located underground, their tunnels did not connect to those connecting the surface — each group was isolated from everything else. And this was done purely out of concern for the security of the Empire. In order to keep this fact secret, the plagues decided to sacrifice the speed of delivery, because in order to transport the cargo, it had to be lifted to the surface, then reloaded onto an elevated branch, which in turn transported it to the main tracks, where the cargo was reloaded once again.

The NSC officer, who arrived in a four-car train, was greeted by Prinhr, who had led the group before her (recruited by the NSC three years ago), and Runhr (recruited by the NSC six months ago, due to the threat of decryption of a previous agent), his assistant, and five heavily-armed Chumas from the 43rd Boer of Black Stone.

As soon as Ananhr stepped out of the carriage, everyone was stunned: she was just a beauty for the chums. It is difficult to understand the beauty of chumas, but those who met her had a lot of backward thoughts of a pronounced character.

She descended to the ground, and immediately Prinhr came up, putting his left hand to his right elbow, bowed his head, and expressed benevolence, "Sister-chum, we are glad to see you."

Anahr didn't answer anything, but moved towards the entrance of the building: usually in such situations she asked where the karak's office was (although the buildings are typical, but the internal arrangement rarely conforms to the standard — so it's easier for them to steal), but here she knew everything.

Everyone looked after her. The standard leather uniform of a female SSchekist in any version of it (whether casual or ceremonial) necessarily included a skirt (the chumas had long since forgotten the origin of this law, but failure to comply with it was punishable by death regardless of rank, in fact, as well as vice versa, men were forbidden to wear it as strictly as women were allowed to), and her long legs attracted attention no less than what was on top.

She was followed out of the wagon by a whole group of guards — the 9th, 18th and 42nd Boers of the SCK: 90 chums.

Runkhr tried to do the same, but he was nearly run off the road: the KFK units were particularly ignorant of their own, because only a superior KFK officer could punish them. And a superior officer of the SSK sometimes did even worse things (for example, one of them started blackmailing a not particularly influential karak; this went on for quite a long time, until the latter informed an even higher SSK officer; the latter found out everything about the blackmailer, then killed him, got a reward for it, and took his place; thus the karak got an even more dangerous "master"). The very possibility meant everything to the chums.

As Ananhr entered the office, Ananhr was a little disgusted, firstly at the fact that the karak chair was covered in red human blood, and secondly at the fact that Manhr was lying unmoved next to the window.

She went to the table and rummaged through several drawers. The first, the topmost, contained a Gyurza pistol (Alexei Yuriev's design) with the name "Manhr" engraved on it — a reward pistol, the kind given only for exceptional loyalty to the Empire. There was nothing in the second one at all. When the third one was opened, the Prinhr appeared in the doorway. Two chums stood in front of him, but since the door had long since been broken down, everything was visible as it was.

"He stole all the documents," Prinhr proclaimed.

Ananhr raised her dark purple eyes and waited for the continuation. Which was not followed.

"So, where are they?" — Ananhr asked.

The one shrugged ignorantly, "I already told you, he stole them." "Did you catch him?"

"Yes."

The SChK staffer once again eyeballed her interlocutor trickily, mimicking her first question. Again there was no reply.

"Let him in," she calmly ordered the guards.

Prinhr finally stepped inside. His movements were confident but subordinate. His eyes were sly, but he tried not to show it.

Ananhr approached him, and with a smile and a wink, slapped him in the face. He almost fell over, shocked by the revelation of his own self.

"Are you going to keep me a fool for long?" — Continuing to remain calm, she said.

Guilty didn't think to look at her: "I was actually in the mine at the time…" And then he got another slap, a slap that had already killed him.

"Five. — Ananhr commanded. "Hit him hard.

One of the chum guarding the entrance shifted from his seat and swatted at Prinhru, who was sprawled on the floor.

The fifth wanted to smile as he did so, but was afraid he would pay for "his rolling on the floor.

"I don't know! I don't know. — Chum immediately started talking. — 'He must have thrown them out somewhere. They're out there looking for them. Damn them, it's not my fault they can't find them." He lied and remembered how he had burned all those newspapers and magazines, in which, of course, it was possible to find elements of treasury theft both for him and for most of the chums stationed here.

If those papers had been compared with the official data of the mining service, he would have been shot, and the case of the Karak murder would have been transferred to the sixth department of the Cheka (internal department: they clean them clean, that is, until there is no one left).

"Pick it up and throw it at the wall," Anahr said coldly.

Despite Prinhra's rather high rank, his statements and excuses, the fifth obeyed the order. There was a small dent in the wall, and dust and bits of dull gray plaster sprinkled on top. "Where are the papers?" — Ananhr asked once again.

The perpetrator didn't know what to say so that he wouldn't get it again.

Sinhr, the head of the unit grouped with the three drillers of the CCC, appeared in the doorway and said, "Everything is ready." This meant that all those on the surface were to be placed in the so-called "isolated side" of the building — the upper right corner of the second building; there was a meeting room for the members of the Black Stone Party (i.e. all chums considered citizens). From there the chums were taken one by one for interrogation: if the interrogation showed "trustworthiness", the chum was released to his former place of service, if not — sent to the train. The train transported them to the main branch of the tracks, and then — to the nearest center of the Krivoy Rog.

(The town of Zaliznichnoye Viktor Khmelnitsky chose not by chance: the safest place from the enemy, and there is near the enemy himself. Viktor knew that there was a center of chum in Krivoy Rog, but he did not know which one.

Ironically, the SSchekists had settled there). Now Prinhras has no time left at all. "Are you going to talk?"

Chum didn't know, had no idea what else to say.

Ananhr took the Gyurza out of the top drawer and put three bullets into Prinhra, then walked over to the long dead Manhru and put a pistol in his left hand (she had known he was left-handed for a month).

In principle, this combination was a reinsurance. Prinhras could have been shot officially in the center, but it was more convenient to do it now. From the looks of it, it looked like the traitor Manhir had killed his assistant for his own selfish reasons. The documents had been stolen by the Maquis, so there was nothing for even the 6th Department to deal with: they had no authorization to come to Donetsk-Makeevka itself, and the 9th, 18th and 42nd Boers of the SChK were assembled from a narrow circle of people, so they wouldn't be able to check the office of the Karak. And as for witnesses, plagues like Singhra knew well the hierarchical system of the SCK — to tell about the crimes of a higher-ranking person is dangerous for oneself — to report on the one who is higher, one has to report to the one who is even higher; this is called stepping over a step, which such a system does not like.

A dark room, and only a small lighted circle in the middle. Inside the circle is a small wooden chair. The S.S.C. interrogates differently from the usual plagues.

A young man dressed in a gray, half-torn combo suit was seated on a chair. His face seemed silly and plain: the effect was created by a low lip that protruded strongly forward. His rather small hands looked helpless and useless, and his shoulder, damaged by someone, made everything else seem equally fragile.

"Name," someone's voice shot out of the deep silence.

The man sat, bent slightly and crossed his legs at the ankles. His voice seemed resigned to the surroundings and the menacing voice.

"56138684B2," the man replied. "What are you doing here?"

"Doing a job. Karak directed me here. I'm mopping the floor. I clean the walls. И…" "Who chose to do this job?"

"726629А1"

Silence ensued. The inquirers plague checked the number — Pavel Pozharin. "Where were you when the karak was killed?"

The man focused, opened his mouth, and began throwing out the words, "Me. Я. I don't know when the karak was killed."

The voice paused again for a moment, examining the man's actions; he was visibly nervous and swiveling his head around to various sides of the darkness, but not too actively.

"11:16 a.m."

"I don't know how much it is…"

"Did you hear a loud pop this morning?" "Yes. Yes."

"Where were you at this time?"

"I was cleaning the wall next to the elevator… It's… next to the transition from…" "Then what did you hear?"

"Everyone started screaming… Uh… the guards… ran somewhere…" "What about you?"

"I… I was cleaning the wall." "Name," the voice shot out.

The man wanted to answer "Ivan," but not before he heard a calm, even gentle voice from somewhere in the corner, but with a plague-like accent: "No. No. No. Enough questions " Footsteps were heard and seconds later Anahr emerged

from the darkness. As soon as she saw the man, she immediately thought of the prospect of using him to control the miners. First of all she saw in his face his lack of understanding of many, even exceptionally simple, things, then his loyalty. Ananhr had been taught during her training at the CCC academy how loyal the uncomplicated could be: just get something clear in their heads, and nothing else would fit.

Gabriel had sent this man to the surface, instructing him to make full use of this facial feature. The ancients had taught that a scout sent into enemy territory should have a far-sighted and cautious mind and a face just the opposite of that. Such was Tikhomirov.

He sat and listened to Ananhr's ideological processing, and inwardly scrolled through his previous actions: the masterfully played retorts and the one episode that had nearly failed him. Should he have said his name instead of his number and the plague would have killed him on the spot. Ananhr had saved him now, but if she had heard "Ivan" instead of a number, someone else would have been led into the interrogation room. Tikhomirov had been lucky, and now he inwardly reeled with laughter at this: "I was saved by the plague!"

A thief's hat is on fire

The Bulgarians were met by the 42nd drill of the SCK. Those who arrived from the sawmill were not wearing red clothes, and their commander was not wearing a black beret. It was business as usual, but something was wrong. I can't say what it is, but something is there.

They were immediately put to work: half a ton of coal had already been delivered from the cleaning sector to the loading place.

The commander of the Bulgarian 336th Soma, Viktor Valikov immediately instructed everyone to get to work, and he himself began to watch.

Three minutes later Gavriil Zheleznov came in. He had not been under the impression of his dream since morning, but when he saw Valikoff's face, all distorted and contorted by some unknown disease, all apprehension returned. The look of a revolutionary, but in his eyes no willful striving. A torch without a flame. A revolutionary without a torch. He calls people forward, but he stands aside.

"My name is Gabriel," the commander of the 381/253rd Soma introduced himself. "Victor," the man replied, showing no interest.

"I'm the commander of the 381st Soma," Gabriel tried to bring some clarity to the conversation, making it clear that he hadn't come for nothing.

Valikov tried to look respectful, but he failed: "A pleasure." His eyes were thinking about something else: here he was not interested in his charges, or the plagues, or his work — he was interested in something that was somewhere on another planet.

Gabriel had already dreamed of seeing a deputy for "such" a revolutionary, and she turned out to be a rather pleasant, even beautiful, woman. She smiled, pretended that every miner was important to her, gave the impression that they needed her, not the other way around. And none of this really existed. In the new man she saw a potential ally, who could be cleverly abandoned in case of emergency. She saw her subordinates as a good protective shield, on which, if anything happened, she could blame it all. And her eyes, though they were not in the same direction as her boss's, stretched just as far, in a word, to another planet No. 2.

"Yulia Grnifenko," she smiled pleasantly.

"She's going to ruin them all," Gabriel thought and introduced himself to her too.

"You're what? On some business?" — Grinifenko continued, while Valikov was already dwelling in his thoughts not far from the moon.

Gora saw their weaknesses and their desires. That it would not be possible to dissuade them from rebellion with the motivation of futility — they themselves clearly knew that it would be of no use, they needed something else.

"It's not Freedom they want. — Gabriel said to himself. — They want what they need. They don't suffer for their subordinates. They don't want to make them happy. They're not interested in that." It became clear to him that they would revolt anyway, and the only thing to gain from them was a little time.

"Yes, I'm on business. — Gabriel explained himself. — About your rebellion."

Grnifenko's eyes went to his forehead, and Valikov "parachuted" to Earth. Gora did not continue his speech, just waited for their reaction. They remained silent. Then, glancing at each other, they made a questioning pantomime, which resulted in the Deputy's words: "Who told you that?"

"Oh, let us not engage in nonsense…" nodding his head, Gabriel deduced. — Can't you tell from me what my intentions are? So do me a favor, break the comedy in front of the plagues. I have a serious proposal.

Grinifenko's expression changed, but to the end she decided not to concede that fact just yet: "What's the offer?"

Now Gora could spin any phrases — his interlocutors are interested in absolutely certain variant of the development of events of the directions of the "proposal".

"After the explosion, which you've probably heard about by now, almost everyone in the vicinity died. About three hundred people. My people are angry about it. I believe the time has come… But in order to set things right… You understand, don't you?" — he played a note of vulnerability that made them nod.

Gabriel continued: "Here. I need time."

The conversation ended well enough: we managed to get the most important thing for the moment — time.

The commander of the "shock" soma moved towards his own, thinking about what Valikov and Grinifenko really needed. What they can get from this very action. It is clear that they are not going to die there, but after that they will lose power over someone. They will be left alone…

The last thought cut into the reasoning in an interesting way. "They will be alone. — Gabriel thought. — Or rather the only survivors… But to the plagues they will be dead. The plagues will not count them, much less compare numbers.

Though these two will probably pull their clothes over the dead. And then, to understand who was killed we will have to look at faces… No, Valikov has a remarkable face, but I doubt that any of the chums will be able to distinguish him from anyone else.

In general, the meaning is clear, but not to the end: there is nowhere to go in the wild either, only poppies. Maybe they've made a deal with them somehow?

So far we have managed to push back the uprising for two days, we'll see what to do then. In any case, in all likelihood, they will not rebel without agreement. Now they believe that it is possible to blame the entire rebellion on a "third person" — another commander. They need it, generally speaking, only for reinsurance — there is little doubt how exactly they agreed with the Maquis or with someone else. Besides, Gora had promised them five automatic rifles to help them.

After making sure everything was in order, Gabriel headed to Sector 1 to check on the weapons hidden the day before yesterday.

'Oh no, how could they make a deal with the Maquis?' — Gavriil thought. — So that Valikov would make a deal with the Maquis? With Khmelnitsky he agreed? I don't believe in such a thing. And Grinifenko is hardly able to agree with anyone at all. They won't believe her face. Her eyes will not believe. And who will believe her herself, given all this…

They agreed with someone else".

After reaching the place, Gabriel began to slowly get to the truth, but now there was some digging to be done.

The hiding place was a planked and buried hollow in the wall of the sanitary corner. The sanitary corner consisted of a number of showers and several toilet stalls. No matter how the plagues seemed to the plagues, they did not oppose the existence of such cubicles.

As for hiding places, it was possible not to make them — the plagues never looked into the 1st sector anyway. But no one tested their fate: books were simply buried in the ground, mostly where they slept, and there was nothing to say about weapons — they hid them out of principle.

Breaking a piece of the wall, Gabriel saw something he didn't like: there were only four automatons lying around.

And he remembered exactly that there had been five. It was impossible to determine how many magazines had disappeared and whether they had disappeared at all, but one AK-74 was definitely missing.

The ground shook. The sound of an explosion rumbled in the distance. And then there was silence.

Believing and loving

Darkened by the absence of light, the figure slowly moved along the wide corridor that stretched across the entire building. A Kalashnikov assault rifle glinted in the faint rays.

Somewhere at the very end of the aisle, a man in tattered overalls was scrubbing the floor. Over time, the stone-and- ceramic floor glared, even in this kind of light. The man was doing his job carefully and persistently.

Heavy clumsy footsteps were heard.

The figure froze in the blackening void of shadow. The man continued to move the rag left and right without changing anything.

A few seconds later, a carefree, but a little tired of something that had passed forever, came out from around the corner and moved down the corridor, away from the man and directly toward the figure. He was not interested in the man

behind him at all, nor was he interested in the shadow at the wall, which did not exist in anyone's consciousness. After passing the shadow, the tent disappeared around the corner he needed.

The figure moved on just as cautiously. There must be a warehouse somewhere nearby. Nothing was known about it, except that it was on the surface, that is, in this building.

The next door had a scrawled triangle on it. Actually, it didn't say anything. The previous ones had squares, circles, strikethroughs, underlines, and God knows what else — no warehouses in the end.

The handle of this door, like all the previous ones, was gray and shabby, and it turned the same way — with difficulty and to no avail. But then it went a little differently — there was a creaking sound. And it was like it was stuck in my ears.

But no one reacted to it: the man in the distance paid no attention and did his work.

The figure swung the door open with determination, making a rather quiet sound, and stepped inside. The room lost any light as it closed.

Blacker than night.

After waiting for about half a minute, neither the silence nor the darkness changed. My fingers flicked a lever on the wall, and the light came on.

Raphael smiled — it's a warehouse.

The room was quite spacious: a wide hall and a small room at the very end. Along the right wall are partly neatly, partly carelessly laid out bags and a few hanging shelves with tin cans and somewhere even with caviar; along the left wall are trays, shelves and cabinets with various types of infantry weapons: at the very end of it all there is even an anti-tank rifle "Spear".

Raphael stepped forward, felt it was loud, and took the next step even more quietly. It seemed to him that the plagues had a sniff for such occasions. That the plague would sense when a man was in the area. That the plague, by its very nature, could not allow a human to recognize that there was enough food, that people could be fed much better, that people's lives could be made easier, that none of this was there solely because of the plague's inner workings.

The miner approached the right wall, quite cautiously and leisurely, and at that very moment he felt that something existed nearby. Every cell in his body screamed for it. Inside, right in his heart, an unknown inaudible voice whispered: "Death is very near."

Raphael didn't flinch, didn't worry. He was not interested in his own death, neither now nor later. He only had to feed his wife and the rest of the human world.

Behind him, twenty centimeters away, the floor creaked.

The thoughts, the doubts, the ponderings-all of them were gone in an instant. Raphael spun around, preparing to pull the trigger.

The automatic was knocked out of his hands, and immediately a plague-like hand was thrust into his neck. Chanhr squeezed the paw viciously and greedily and pulled it upward.

"That's a good thing," Raphael thought as the tent held his weight. — The tent came up to me unnoticed. It weighs one and a half centners… What happened to me?"

Chum tossed the miner to the far wall separating the room from the hall and moved forward.

After flying off the wall and landing on his back, Raphael rolled over onto his belly and began to climb stubbornly upward. Somewhere deep in the mine his wife was waiting. Because of the explosion, there were no wedding events (usually newlyweds were lifted in their arms and held like that while the priest solemnized their marriage): the lovers simply fell asleep and woke up as husband and wife.

"A wife is a beautiful thing, Raphael believed, spitting out blood and clinging to the boardwalk floor. — It's basically the same me, but of a different kind. I can talk to her about anything, I can look into her eyes and see love. She will always take pity when I feel bad. She's always thinking of me. She'll do everything possible and impossible to make me well…

And I'll do it all for her."

Chanhr pressed his foot into the back of the still lying Raphael. Chum leaned on him and twisted his paw to the side.

Then he jumped up and slammed his foot into his back even harder.

Inside, at the very base of his entire body, something crunched. Some vertebrae shifted out of place, some of them shattered into small pieces. The pain was gone. And not just pain. Every sensation except vision was gone.

Raphael lost space: what was going on around him lost importance. The only thought left was of his wife. She would soon give birth. She would soon have a child.

Inhuman strength propelled Raphael. He rested his hand on the floor next to his stomach, pulled his knee up, set his toe, and thrust upward. His joints hardly moved, but the movement was only upward. Here he rose to his knees, straightened his back, and, after waiting a fraction of a second, put his foot from knee to foot. Then, rising a little more, he placed the other foot. Once on his feet, Raphael turned toward the partitioned room.

Chum stood there and rummaged through some kind of box; something inside interested him far more than the disorderly shuffling behind him. He didn't believe the man was capable of doing anything after that.

The shuffling followed one after another. A short, consistent sound. And some endless like a clock, only it sounded a little different.

Changhur felt amused. He thought that the mad man had gone mad from the blow, lying there floundering on the floor. As if that would do anything.

But the sounds got stronger. Stronger and stronger. More and more consistent. And suddenly they stopped. Even the silence stopped.

Changhr listened even harder. Nothing. No shuffling, no breathing, no heartbeat.

Half incomprehension and half concern. Chum turned back around.

Pupils dilated to the very edge of the iris. Bottomless and impenetrable they were eating away at their opponent.

Blood dripped from his mouth down his red lips. The hands were not shaking: they were clutching weapons. From below, the muzzle of a machine gun stared straight into his eyes.

Opening his mouth Raphael said the first thing that came to his tongue, "Your health," and smoothly laid his finger on the trigger.

The machine gun exploded with a thunderous boom and, releasing a line of bullets and soaring upward, riddled the

beast.

Raphael lowered his weapon and turned to his right, toward the shelf of food. He moved closer to see what was

written on the jar: "Salmon Caviar.

"No, it doesn't matter at all what she eats," thought the husband. — As long as she's happy.

Raphael closed his eyes and saw his soulmate. She is standing there, smiling, looking at him, saying, "I love you".

She touches his cheek with her fingertips and he realizes that he is a happy man. "Maria," Raphael said quietly. — I love you."

Hot heart

It's already light. The snow cover stretches over vast expanses. Alexander Rucheyev, exhausted but full of will, was approaching the Solyonaya River.

"It's March twenty-eighth," he thought, looking at the icy river. — Why should it be so cold? It's like January weather… It's snowed in…"

The winds stopped blowing, the sun shone more brightly than before, and the temperature rose ten degrees at once.

After looking around at his surroundings and taking another glance at the river, the Rebel showed his inner tinge of irony, "Not enough to fail yet… Ice Beat Number Two… No. Ice Maquis Number One."

Kamenka was passed at night, there were no problems there: even if the ice was thin, it would not have broken at such a strong frost — it was just stronger.

Salt River. Alexander got off his horse and walked slowly forward. "I hope they didn't call it salty for taste," Ruchyov said almost aloud. He had heard somewhere that salt water made much more brittle ice than fresh water.

Six feet stepped purposefully on the fresh fluffy snow: a gentle squeak sounded. When the snow squeaks with such a step, it is pleasant to the ears, it is pleasant to the soul, because it is nature. Now every such squeak was carried in the ears and followed on through all Alexander's nerve endings. What would follow the next step?

The channel, however, is not so wide — fifteen or twenty meters. Not the Dnieper. The rebel remembered how he and Vladimir had crossed the frozen Dnieper near the Kanevskoye Reservoir, southeast of Kiev. In general, the Dnieper has a number of reservoirs along its entire length: the Kiev, Kremenchug, Dneprodzerzhinsk, and Kakhov reservoirs. Rucheyov had heard that the Volga was both bigger and fuller. He believed it, but the Dnieper had already conquered him. The Dnieper is the river where the very first Slavs united, fought, lived. And they had a center. The ancient city of Kiev.

Polans, Drevlyans, Dryagovichi, Northmen, Krivichi, Vyatichi, Ulici, Radimichi, Tivertsi, White Croats, Dulebs — these are the unions of tribes of the ancient Slavs. And these are only the main ones. There were hundreds of tribes. And all of them became united in time under the rule of Kiev.

"And who will not love the reign of Kiev, for all honor and glory and majesty and the head of all Russian lands is Kiev! And from all distant many kingdoms all kinds of people and merchants and all kinds of good things from all countries came to it… "*.

Russians, Byelorussians and Malorossians. No not Ukrainians… And who came up with the idea to call those who live in Malorossiya that. It's from the word "outskirts". What's a suburb in the heart of the country? Kiev is the "Mother of Russian cities."

We've lived together the whole time, and we're one family.

Alexander thought about all this and went ahead: now he didn't have to worry about uniting the Slavs, now he had to do everything to preserve their ethnic existence.

About halfway down the path. My feet entered the smooth snow smoothly: the same pleasant crunch was still audible.

A huge number of rays of sunlight glistened on the white surface. Nothing seemed to change, but it was as if something had cracked.

The brook hardened, his horse too. He listened with all his nerves to the ice and the Salt River. His eyes did not move, afraid to shut out the sound he was seeking with his movement. All was hushed around him.

The grinding sound rang in my ears. It spread everywhere, under the water, on the ground, and in the air. The ice rumbled and shook. There were cracks everywhere.

Alexander, pulling his horse up behind him, trotted forward. The snow still seemed just as gentle, but the ice. The ice was cracking and sloshing everywhere.

After traveling a few meters, the rebel was caught and knocked to the ground by something heavy, something behind him. He turned around and saw his horse fumbling in the broken hole. Water and ice all flew sideways. The tremendous hoofbeats against the ice floe's edges made the surroundings seem even more heartbreaking. The horse was doomed to a cold death.

Alexander nodded his head, said goodbye to his friend, and ran on. The thin melted ice swirled from place to place and now seemed like a fierce beast waiting for its prey.

And now there were only some two meters left to the shore… And in the next step the ice under my feet collapsed, moved into the depths. The stream hit the water.

It's hard to describe the state of ice water. First of all, breathing accelerates to its own limits. The heart beats like the first time you meet your beloved. And that's first of all. Secondly, the extremities. That in the water in the first moments stop obeying: trembling, moving, but not obeying. But after a couple of seconds, everything goes back to normal.

And that moment came. Alexander grasped the farthest piece of surface and pulled himself forward — the main thing now was to make sure that the ice did not break again, when leaving the water.

But that's exactly what happened.

The hard surface broke. Same thing the second and third time. One and a half meters to shore!

"I must deliver this letter,"¹ cried the rebel in his mind, and set about chiseling and piercing everything that prevented him from reaching his destination.

My hands were flushed and a little cold, my knuckles scraped, and blood flowed. The endless white surface was turning a reddish color. Red is the color of Victory.

Everything's gone numb. The shore was getting closer. Pieces of ice and wet snow were flying apart. Alexander strived forward, he was not interested in anything else.

After prolonged persistence, Ruchyov made it onto dry land. Hard space, but the same white surface. It was sunny but cold. There were about twenty-five kilometers to Nikopol.

"Twenty-five kilometers wet and in this weather," the rebel whispered to himself. — No, not that, of course, is possible… But only if Jesus is very near. After all, I must go to the end.

It was hard to walk, so Alexander ran. His clothes stuck to his body, a breeze was blowing from the sides, and there was snow all around. Usually that was enough to freeze to death. Not this time.

The road is long and hard, but there is purpose, will and faith, and that is enough, for not dying before time; that is Strength.

"It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna make it. No, I'll run. I'll get to Nikopol. I'll give the letter. And then I can die with peace of mind," Alexander thought and moved relentlessly towards his goal.

When there's nothing else

The darkened tunnel opened up into a wide cavern. Two kilometers from mine No. 3 to mine No. 4 of the Donetsk- Makeyevka sector, there was an explosion. Nobody had not yet managed to establish what it was from: from maqui or from methane, but the tracks had to be restored. For this purpose we sent the commander of the 381st (381/256th) soma Gavriil Zhelezhnov with a part of his group and ten chums from the 9th drill of the SCK.

The cave, through which the road passed, was almost unique in this region of the Empire: about 15 meters high and with an area of 12000 square meters. No one really knew when it appeared, but since the plagues attributed its existence to them — supposedly they wanted to make a beautiful landscape here, the cave was named after them: "Plague Cave." Some people jokingly said that the plagues, before they attacked, sat right here.

The rails ran from west to east. To the south of them, that is, to the right of the movement, there was a rather high hill (about twelve meters high), almost up to the ceiling. Near the end of the cave, but to the north, that is, to the left, there was another hump, but smaller (about two meters high).

The explosion happened roughly in the center of the cave and right at the intersection of the tops of the hillsides with the road. A total of four rails were missing — two on each side.

Half of the chum immediately jumped out of the mini-train and ran to survey the surroundings. There was no one around, and they closed the passages out of the cave, two on each side. The other six plagues dragged the miners out of the wagon and began yelling incomprehensible things in their plague language. None of them knew Russian or any human language, but it was not necessary. It was clear enough that they needed to fix the road.

Gabriel waved to his men to follow him and moved toward the crater in the middle of the road. There was no need to wonder why something had exploded here. The rails splintered quite evenly and, most importantly, at the same distance both to the right and to the left, that is, the explosion had occurred right between the rails, and even where they were interlocked with each other.

There was a lot of work to be done: first of all, a one and a half meter deep sinkhole had to be filled. It is not known where to get the material from — there are only spare rails.

Gora ordered the sides to be dug and the center side to be dumped. The commander of the 9th Boer stood next to him, Yognhr. He was watching very carefully who was telling the men what to do.

No one dossiers on people were compiled by the chums, not even on those who worked directly for them in the SCS. The plagues considered it unworthy of themselves to make up any forms and lists of people. They thought that it was normal to work without it. And the fact that in case of need to take information even on the commander of the soma is nowhere in the head occurred only at such times. The only lists about people existed only for record keeping: the catfish and the numbers belonging to it.

Now Jögnhir stood looking at this man, who even for a plague was imposing, broad-shouldered, with a commanding, firm voice, with the ability to see not only the question but also its decisive answer, and did not know whether he was a danger. Chum broke incessantly in his own hesitation: either this man was endeavoring to do the work out of a sense of submission, or he was doing it with thoughts of imminent rebellion. But in either case it appeared that this man was strong. And therefore dangerous.

Now, as always, Yognhra had extraordinary powers. After all, he is the commander of the SFC Boer. And he posed this question to himself, "Should we execute this strong man just in case?" The decision depended on one thing: "In case he revolts… If not, it will be possible to advise him to be promoted higher up. There he will also serve faithfully, and he, Yognhra, will also be promoted for his good advice… And if yes, he will have to suppress the rebellion, and then, perhaps, receive something like a reprimand for 'not looking out'…" This was a question the SSchekist decided to answer to himself at the end of his work in this cave.

Gabriel felt that something wrong was going to happen today. He was not even so much concerned about the explosion or the disappearance of the machine gun from the hiding place. Raphael had gone somewhere, and he smelled him here. It looked like nothing special, but there was something that was him.

Gora looked back toward the tunnel they had come out of — two chums were talking about something so passionately that one would have thought they were the ones being guarded here, not the other way around.

"And these are our enemies. — Gabriel thought. — An elite drill, and they can't stand guard as they should. And in general… Maybe it's their custom to stand on guard ? Who did we lose to?"

It was quiet, calm and even peaceful all around.

The commander looked under his feet — the ground. He had been walking on this ground for fifty-three years. It is hard and firm, not like the surface. And flowers and grass don't grow on it. Nothing grows on it at all. Some might say it's dead, but it's not. It nourishes the earth above it, gives it its power, its essence, its life. And beneath it, there is another earth, even harder and more resilient. And it seems even more dead. And it is even more alive. And the one farther to the center of the Earth. And the best is the one that's closer, the one right next to the magma. These red-hot metals move next to it and give it its own piece of the sun. And it shines from within, and it feeds from there. And the Earth lives as a piece of the Sun, endlessly nourished by it. And that's life, and it's all around us.

Gabriel bent down and picked up a handful of earth-so loose and dry, and in some places wet. His fingers gently kneaded it in his palm, then shook it off. Individual pieces remained near the lines of the hand. "How interesting? — Gora thought. — Next to the lines, but nowhere near them…" The commander felt that he was about to get to the truth, that it was quite close. It's a strange feeling when you don't know what you're looking for, but you feel somewhere inside yourself that it's close.

Yognhir looked at the man rubbing earth on his hands and was strangely afraid of something. There was nothing unusual about the action-the miners always poured handfuls of earth from hand to hand before work-but this time it looked different. Chum didn't know how to react to it yet — he just stood there and watched.

Just then the miner looked up and looked away.

Fear, unfathomable fear gripped Yognhir — that strong, willful look he saw.

There was no submission in them, no humility, nothing else but power. The pupils moved slowly and literally possessed everything they came across.

Chum turned away and cradled the gun usually held imperiously in his hands, "No…! Just don't let those eyes look at me! That's a scary man."

And then Jögnhir felt a ruthless gaze on him, on the back of his head. He wanted to turn around and shoot Gabriel, but nothing obeyed him. Fear was overwhelming him. And the more he stood still, the more he wanted to kill this man. And the more he couldn't. The green clawed paws shook: the gun flew out and hit the ground silently.

Gabriel rose from the ground and felt something familiar to the core of his being. A soft breeze blew and it was as if everything around him had stopped.

Gora rolled his eyes toward the tunnel from which they had come-the two chums were sitting on the ground with their backs to the cave and huddled together. They did not move or speak of anything.

"Are they dead?" — the commander asked himself.

The answer seemed obvious, but that moment froze — time, as is inherent in it in this case began not to flow, but to drip.

Somewhere very close by, there was a smell of hatred and love at the same time. It was an incomprehensible mixture. There were two elements, but it was not clear in what relation to each other.

Feelings were reeling from that high knoll fifteen meters south of the road.

Gabriel turned his head — a strong odor of goodness, it was clear now that the feeling was dominated by love. It directly illuminates everything around it. Everything is brighter, and it becomes warm somewhere inside, where the thinnest threads breathe.

And the other part of the world hates someone, wants to kill someone. The other part of the world hates someone, and wants to kill someone.

Some force was preparing to show itself. Gabriel felt: the whole hillside was about to rise to its feet and start trampling on the guilty…

But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Nothing moved.

"What's taking all this so long?" — Gora thought and turned toward the miners raking the pit. It didn't occur to the commander that he had been looking at that hillside for only ten seconds.

The miners were shouting something to each other. Gabriel couldn't understand why he couldn't hear anything. His hearing was gone, and his vision swam away in blurs of light.

Bullets pierced the two chums standing by the pit — the shooting hadn't just started, it had been going on for several moments.

Unable to hear himself, Gabriel shouted for everyone to get on the ground and made this one himself leap forward.

Someone was yelling, someone was running, someone was shooting back, but no one could figure out what was going on.

The commander looked around: in front, near the crater, there were already five dead chums lying in front, two long-sitting at the entrance, a Yognhr lying on the ground, and two still alive hiding in the ditch behind.

Suddenly the firing from the hillside ceased; another rather incomprehensible and disturbing sound followed. Metal against metal. Scraping and clanging.

The plagues whirled their heads and whispered about something. There was a quick shuffle from behind the hillside, even a "twitching" of metal against each other.

The Scekists rushed from their hiding place to the exit, taking turns firing back. They were overtaken by the same powerful blow from behind the hillside. The fight was over.

The commander rose to his feet and looked toward the crater where his subordinates were still hiding. There was a lot of blood there, both red and dark burgundy. The latter was dripping from the edges into the pit. The plagues of the SCF, torn by bullets, looked up with greedy and shocked eyes.

But that smell! Gabriel turned toward the hillside and moved quickly but cautiously forward. That native odor! As he climbed a little higher, his hearing picked up someone's steady and calm breathing. It was familiar, too.

Gabriel rushed forward, to the very top. Rocks and dust, dirt, air — everything flew away. Something dear up there.

My feet were going down, backwards, but no. Forward… Forward, up there! Up there!

Raphael…

The commander's son. Rock. Raphael lay on the ground, breathing evenly and not moving.

Gavriil ran up and turned his son onto his back. A machine gun lay beside him: a ribbon of cartridges twisted into a box magazine, and smoke poured out of the muzzle.

Calm and peaceful gray eyes. Still as glassy and impenetrable. Same white skin. The same son of Earth. Blood flowed from the left corner of his lips, and his eyelids blinked occasionally.

Through the silence, my heart beat strongly and vividly. So bright and fast that I wanted to live. "Raphael," Horus whispered to his son.

Pupils, slightly dilated, moved to the side and looked at Dad.

"Death in battle is the highest honor," Raphael replied in a quiet fading voice.

And as if an arrow had pierced Gabriel. After all, it was he, it was he who instructed like that. He was the one who honored the values of the ancient Slavs as his own. He raised his child that way… And now his son has a broken spine and God knows what else. Now his son is dying.

"Why! — cried out in his mind as Gabriel looked at his son.

"My wife…" said Raphael. — she is about to give birth… She should give birth to a healthy baby." "She's going to have a healthy baby. Why did you get involved in all this?"

"I brought you something to eat," Raphael replied out of the last of his strength and threw his arm to the side, pointing to the brown bag.

His hand plopped to the ground, kicking away a handful of grains of sand. They scattered haphazardly to the sides, raising a bit of dust. The dark cloud flew through the light rays emitted by the rebel's light heart. The heart was no longer beating, but the rays kept coming. And there was no end to them.

A twelve-meter high hill of rocks and clay soil. There is a machine gun on a biped, a sack with food next to it. It was dark all around, but here it was light. The rays were coming up. And gray eyes and white skin reflected on them. In this beautiful place Raphael found his death.

His father's heavy arms encircled his head and pressed it to his chest. Some invisible but very sharp arrow stabbed the commander in the heart, an arrow smeared with poison, a rotting arrow. Everything in the middle of his chest clenched and hardened into stone. His throat constricted, and it was hard to breathe.

Gabriel stroked his son's head. The glowing blond hair continued to glow instead of his heart. He tried to breathe harder and harder. And it worked. The air went through his neck, pushing something stuck, and straight into his lungs. The arrow flew out of his heart. Only what had turned to stone in the middle of his chest remained unchanged, remained stone.

The commander laid his son on the ground, stroked his head once more, and walked firmly back to the ones that had survived the firefight.

When Gora came down from the hillside, he saw only six of the nineteen miners; the others had been killed by the plague. Two of the six were very nervous and could not control themselves: Fyodor Ptitsev and Kirill Stolov.

Gabriel took them with him so they wouldn't upset the workers at the mine.

"What shall we do? Gora, we'll all be killed," Fyodor panicked throughout the railroad. His dim green eyes never told the truth, only showed fear.

Stolov's second alarmist was only nodding so far.

But there was support. The very one on which the commander could always count on. Elena Bagrationova. Her concentration and desire to help people found the right understanding from above. Gora took her on field work, so that the guys would hold themselves with dignity and, which is not unimportant, not swear. When they started yelling at everything that was going on around them, it turned out to be an unpleasant and incomprehensible collection of words that always interfered with the work. And with a pleasant twenty-year-old girl this did not happen. Everyone just worked mutually.

"Come on guys," she said good-naturedly, almost asking for it.

The words weren't said strongly, but they were said strongly. Strong in the soul. The very moment when visible weakness turns out to be invisible strength. It calmed Stolov, but not Ptitsev: "What the hell! What the hell happened?!"

"Silence," Gabriel struck a word above the ceiling and continued just as stiffly: "Before, everyone obeyed me as a loving father, a good commander… And I drove someone0to a state of opposition. Now someone is panicking and raising their voice to the commander. Now someone let them speak up to the commander."

That being said, it didn't confuse Ptitsev, he still stood stubbornly, dispelling the panic.

Gabriel had already realized what he would have to do, so he continued: "This is not the way it's going to go. Now it will only go the way I say it will. Now I am not your father or a good commander. Now I am your dictator. "Now you will listen to me without reservations or reservations. And you will do as I say. And if you disobey, you will die."

The phrase ended, providing an opportunity for deliberation — the five miners leaned their right fist against their left shoulder and bowed their heads, fear and respect. The sixth turned away.

"And for disobedience, death," Gabriel repeated, stepping forward. He didn't feel sorry for anyone, he'd forgotten what it was like, everything was red in his eyes and pure and cynical in his mind, all because of the hardened stone in the center of his chest.

"You know what! — Perplexed exclaimed Ptitsev, unaware that Control was behind him a meter away. — I'm Nadoe…"

He didn't have time to speak, a powerful fist flew into his spinal cord — Ptitsev fell to his knees, then all the way to the ground.

The bulky figure came closer and crouched down. Hands, like two iron mountains grabbed the shoulders of the lying man and, lifting him up, threw him aside — the barely breathing Ptitsev rolled over on his back. His eyes were buried: they realized what was going to happen and did not want to see it.

The four miners stood without moving: only Lena covered her mouth with her hands in horror and whispered quietly, "God."

Control walked over to the man and bent down to squeeze his neck with his iron hand. He grunted and twitched, trying to get away. His eyes opened and begged for mercy.

Her fingers clenched even tighter, her nails dug into her skin, and blood spurted out. Lena cried out and clamped her hands over her mouth even more tightly.

"I'm obeying. I was wrong. I surrender," his eyes pleaded with the last of his strength.

On the surface everything looked the same, but inside Gabriel tried to understand himself, "He's given up. He really won't anymore. Why kill him for a few words. He's still young and unformed as a person. He's just confused. Maybe he doesn't deserve to die."

"No!" shouted the dictatorial stone in his chest. — He disobeyed. For disobedience, death! And kill him cynically and brutally. He is a danger to our war. He will delay our victory. There is no mercy in war! In war, death for insubordination!" Then Gabriel was completely petrified — all his muscles became rods, his flesh became stone, his skin became earth.

A glassy stare and a mute face. His hand continued to clutch his already blue neck — the life was leaving Ptitsev. "Please," the fading eyes whispered.

There were no thoughts in his head or anywhere else in his control — only purpose dwelt within.

Gabriel rose to his feet. Blood dripped from his hand, and his palm smelled of death. On the ground at his feet lay the executed man. No one else panicked; Lena squatted down and covered her nose and mouth with her hands, staring at the handful of clay sand beside her.

"Stas," the Dictator commanded.

Vladimirov looked up without taking his hand off his shoulder.

"There you see the hillside… There lies Raphael…" — Gabriel was afraid to say "my son" lest he cry; he wasn't sure he could contain himself, so he didn't risk it, "Carry him here, and put Ptitsev in his place… Nikolai. Help him."

No one had realized yet which "Rafail" they were talking about. Although only one miner in all of Donetsk- Makeevka had such a name, it had never occurred to anyone that he was the one in question. How could the commander's face remain as calm as before. Until no one realized that there was no commander anymore, there was a dictator.

Gabriel walked over to Lena and squatted down as well, "What are you thinking about?" "Why did you do that?" — Without lifting her gaze and sighing heavily, she asked.

"He disobeyed."

"Will you kill me too if I disobey?" "No, I won't kill you…"

They were both silent, not knowing how to express their last thoughts. A moment later, Hora saw Raphael's body being carried slowly down from the top of the hill. Lena turned around exactly at that point.

"My son…" — Gabriel started to say, but stopped, expecting pain in his heart and darkness in his throat, but there was neither, and he continued: "Died just now."

Lena had been friends with Raphael for a very long time. They were even born on the same day. They told each other everything they knew. They were like brother and sister to each other. Now she had no one to complain to, no one to share her joy with, no one to be with.

Another heavy sigh, and tears rolled down her eyes from the center of her chest. She covered her eyes and cried quietly. Just now she had to see a fight, a cold-blooded murder, and now the body of a loved one. It was too much all in one day. Lena lay on the ground and huddled as best she could. She didn't want to see the whole world — what if she opened her eyes again and something even worse happened, something unimaginable.

After an inconceivable amount of time, something or someone was placed next to her. She didn't want to open her eyes.

"Len…" came Gabriel's voice. — It's Raphael. Say goodbye to him."

Lena opened her eyes: Raphael was lying next to her. Calm and kind as always, but only dead.

She touched his blond hair: still as fluffy and soft. Her fingers went over his head. Lena felt herself getting lighter and lighter.

"I hope you have a good time there, brother," Lena said and kissed him on the forehead. It was her goodbye.

Of all the dead, only Raphael could be buried, and only in the funnel, under the rails, so that the plague would not be found. If they dug anywhere else, there would be traces. All the others would have to be given to the plagues. They said that their pride would not allow them to eat them (plagues can eat almost anything), but there were rumors that plagues could eat constantly, almost without satiety, so they were probably eaten.

When Raphael was buried, everyone thought that he was luckier than others (though not everyone: they buried those who died in the 1st sector).

"Kol, come here," Gabriel called to him. As he approached, the dictator's firm voice was heard: "Nikolai, you will return to the mine. Now. You will go to the first plague, kneel before it, bow down to the ground and say: 'Master, we were attacked. We repelled the attack." And when he asks why you are alone and where are the others, tell him, "Forgive us master, those who guarded us were killed." And he'll hit you. Then maybe one more time. Don't dodge, and he'll stop quickly. And when he stops, tell him, "I have earned it, master. Let me serve you some more. Now our catfish may have been attacked a second time." This will likely startle him, and he'll immediately relay everything to his own. If not, tell him, "Master, we've already fixed the road, give me the command and I'll pass it on to my own. How else can we serve our great Empire?" Then he will definitely pass everything on to his own. And whatever the plagues tell you, answer them that you are ready to serve for the glory of the Empire. Answer them so, and they will believe you. Go, Nicholas, and accomplish your task."

No one realized what Gabriel had just done. His son was killed by the plagues. And they are the ones he should hate.

And he had instructed his subordinates to bow at their feet, to serve them, for the good of their Empire.

Gora turned away and walked slowly toward the train, thinking about what was yet to come: "Now he will come and worship them. Then all the others will do the same. And the plagues will believe they have broken us, will believe they are in no danger. They will weaken, and when the moment comes, we will tell them no. All of us together. We'll say it so loud and strong that they'll think the same thing. Then they will lose. Then we will have Freedom."

The happiest man on Earth

The white endless steppe. Sun and rays on the snow.

Alexander Rucheyov was making his way forward. All his thoughts and sensations had disappeared somewhere.

Only an unknown force was moving him forward.

Behind one of the steppe dunes there was a road — Nikopol was already close.

The rebel got out onto the road and ran down it. It was easier, but he still had no strength. There was no strength, no thoughts, just forward motion. He lost his bearings again and sank into himself, while his legs were tirelessly tearing toward immortality.

He remembered how he and Vladimir had run along a similar path, practicing for the next crossing. Vladimir had said then that when the war was over, he would finally have enough time to find his soulmate. They would have many children who had not seen war. He dreamed of having a cottage near the Pechenezh reservoir, not far from where one of his ancestors had died in the Ancient War. He would tell his children how he himself had fought, how others had fought, how many friends and relatives had died; that no matter how much he searched, he could not find a place where there was no war, and also that there would never be war again if everyone wanted it that way, and after that it would be so — and his children would never fight… Then Alexander asked him what he would do if he did not live to see the end of the war.

Vladimir replied that then his children would dream about all this, and when they lived to the end of the war, they would tell their children how their grandfather and great-grandfather had fought, and that there was no place on earth where there was no war.

Alexander's heart ached, because Vladimir was dead, and he had no children or wife, so there would be no one to tell about how his grandfather, and great-grandfather, and … And Vladimir will remain a soldier whose name is known, but no one needs.

"No!" Alexander shouted in his mind and ran even faster. — If I get there, there will be legends about him, he will be cited as an example, he will be needed, he will be History."

The stomping of hoofs was heard, already strong and close. In a moment two riders appeared, white horses and men like them. The face of the rebel remained unknown, but his soul smiled.

Some fifteen seconds later, they were one step away from each other.

"Buddy, are you far away?" — asked the first of them, the one with the redder nose and wider eyes. Alexander was glad that he had accomplished his task.

"Khmelnitsky's group. Red Gull," Alexander replied. The last words, in the most "extraordinary" language, meant that he had an urgent package.

Despite the emergency their facial expressions haven't changed a bit — so cheerful and upbeat. "Ha-Ha," said the other.

"All right, pops, sit down, we'll get you there in a jiffy," nodded the first. "Cossacks," Alexander deduced, climbing onto the horse.

We got there in no time at all and even with a breeze.

Nikolai Krovin-Kutuzov, commander of the Nikopol group, was familiar with Rucheyov, and was waiting at the very edge of the city as if on purpose.

Alexander got off his horse and took two steps forward, but he couldn't go any further, his legs had no feeling.

Nikolai came up and hugged him — once they had both been in the same battle bundle.

"What's up?" — He asked, but felt the heat radiating from Alexander. His red and slightly swollen hands didn't move or even shake, and they weren't even bleeding.

"The letter is in your right pocket, buddy…" — replied the rebel and started to fall, but was immediately caught by the commander. Alexander couldn't feel his legs, arms, stomach, back — he couldn't feel anything at all, only his eyelids, occasionally blinking in front of his eyes. Before, the whole body stabbed, then vaulted, clenched, threw him into a daze and here was nothing. But it felt good in a way it never had before.

Alexander looked up — there was no Heaven. Light was spreading from somewhere far away.

"Sanya! Sanya!" — the commander shook Rucheyev, but there was no answer — the rebel had perished: he had frozen to death.

"You will not be forgotten," Krovin-Kutuzov said and instructed him to find a good burial place. A moment later, the commander opened the envelope:

"From Viktor Khmelnitsky to Nikolai Krovin-Kutuzov, commander of the group.

I order to mine the routes from Donetsk-Makeyevka to Dnepropetrovsk. Not by the evening of March 29. On the way to Dnepropetrovsk, a column will move along them. Presumably from three to five drills. Perhaps SCK. As the most suitable place to use the site Vasilkovkivka-Pisamennoe, near the river Volchya.

Replace the mine site if necessary, but everything should be ready by 8 p.m. March 29.

Act as cautiously as possible, possibly declaring a state of emergency while guarding transportation routes.

First degree of importance.

Viktor Khmelnitsky."

What must not be allowed to happen.

When the plagues learned that ten of them were lying dead in the cave, they did not believe it. They laughed at Nicholas. But he bowed to them as their masters, asked for help in "repelling the next attack," showed the blood on his hands. And they did not believe him. Only one very young, not yet quite inhuman chum Dunhr decided to check it out.

Then they began to laugh at him too. But he followed the man, with him and his two friends in case the Maquis attacked.

The sight of the cave did not disconcert Dunhir at all. He did not yet know that plagues rarely killed on any occasion. It seemed to him that it was not an uncommon event, that war, though fought only with Maquis, was still fought, and that there were casualties.

When he returned to Donetsk-Makeyevka, there was no surprise or fear on his face, so no one believed his words about what had happened either. But his friends brought Yognhra's body.

Then everyone shuddered: somewhere at the sight of the face of the chief of the SSchekists, contorted by unknown fear, panic began.

Almost two-thirds of the entire staff was sent to the cave: three SCK drills and one Black Stone drill. With them went Ananhr's deputy Chum brother Shinhr.

The first thing they wanted to do was to kill the six surviving miners. But they bowed to them as masters and apologized for not being able to save their masters from death; Hora said that dead miners could not work, and he would very much like to apologize and the next day double the production rate.

Shinhra had special instructions to bring at least one man alive, but seeing such obedience, he could not order the others to be destroyed — an unwritten law: if he recommended a "lucky" man to the top, they could then promote him themselves.

Everyone was returned to Donetsk-Makeyevka.

"Viktor," the Dictator said, addressing the commander of the Bulgarian soma. The latter did not notice the petrification of his interlocutor and the fact that molten steel flowed in his veins instead of blood. "Yes, yes, my friend," Valikov replied.

"My friend"… How much meaning can be invested by people who are ready to gnaw at any convenient moment. "My friend" is an address that shows a heartfelt attitude, but it is mostly used to deceive.

"Buddy, tomorrow we'll be ready…" — At another time Gavriil would have laughed at this phrase — how could one be unprepared for anything under such a regime — but now he did not, because now he was not the Commander, he was the Dictator. A dictator can't be happy about anything, he must always be clenched into a fist, so that, in case of anything, he could press everyone, so that they would obey him.

Valikov did not seem to see in Gavriil a far-sighted man, capable of acting in a roundabout way — to walk not on the road, but beside it. It seemed to him that such a commander could be persuaded of anything, as long as it was based on "good purposes" and a "desire to help" his subordinates. He did not yet know what such an opinion would cost him.

"Georgy," Gavriil addressed his relative now, though with a different surname. Volin reacted as brightly and sensitively as if he hadn't seen him in ten years: "Ohhh… How's life? Is it all right, or are the plagues making you break your third sweat again?…? You know, judging by your look, all the sweat has already been broken…"

It was the only person who detected the bottomless abyss in his eyes. It wasn't that he didn't like it, it just took away the liveliness of the action.

"Zhor… I have a favor to ask of you… Masha… She has to get out of here."

Roughly speaking Volin didn't understand these words — his left eyebrow rose to his forehead and his eyes froze in place: "Buddy, what are you doing? What the hell happened?"

"My son. — Gabriel almost whispered. — 'He's dead… Please don't tell her that. She will kill herself… Zhora… your daughter is already a widow… My son is already gone… Zhora… Masha will have a child… She must run away."

Georgi bowed his head and placed a hand on Gabriel's shoulder: "Raphael is dead…" He sighed heavily and bent down altogether. He felt sick to his stomach — Masha would really kill herself if she found out. Volin couldn't even imagine what would happen to her. Her heart would simply stop.

"So it's today?" — The daughter's father asked. The son's father nodded silently. 'Tomorrow will be too late.

Today, March 29, is a very special day. Tonight, at exactly nine o'clock in the evening, the plagues take everyone outside, to the surface, for half an hour.

"Masha," the father called out to his daughter. Everyone was walking around peacefully, breathing the fresh air.

The area where the miners could walk was next to the railroad and was fenced off both from it and from the rest of the world by a barbed wire fence. At three corners stood wooden towers occupied by chums once a week. The fourth corner was connected through a gate to the main outer building of the Donetsk-Makeyevka group.

Maria Zheleznova, meanwhile, flashed her eyes randomly through the crowd in search of her husband. When she heard her father's voice, she assumed he had found him and immediately ran up: "What?"

Wolin looked darker than a cloud, "Mash…"

"Dad, what did you want to say? Have you seen Raphael?"

Georgie had never in his life lied to her strong and kind eyes, but now there was no other choice — he would have to, seeing her for the last time in his life, lie to her.

His head instinctively turned to the side, but his mouth refused to speak. Wolin felt that if he acted like this, it would be implausible, and nothing would come of it.

He turned his head and looked into her eyes. Kind, pure, happy eyes. "How happy she is. It's from her husband. She sees her happiness in him… She doesn't know he's no longer alive."

"Masha. We don't have much time… Memorize what I say…" — Volin began. "Dad. Is something wrong with Raphael?"

Those words didn't stick in his throat, he was determined not to stop, "Listen to me… Do you know where the Maquis stash is around here?"

Maria nodded, not yet realizing what she was being offered.

"Here. There's plenty of room for you. Everything's already been put in there. Food, clothes, there's a map and compass in there. In seven minutes we'll get there… the guys will distract them just in case…"

"Dad, do you want me to run away?"

"You need to do this. You're pregnant. Poppy will meet…"

"No. I won't do that. I'll stay with my husband. — Maria turned away, frowned, and clamped her lips shut. — I'll stay with Raphael."

Now that his daughter wasn't looking at him, the father had the opportunity to lie more skillfully, "And who's separating you from him. He's running away with you. Not for another week. We can't have two people running away at once. I promise he'll join you later."

Maria quickly turned back around, her face filled with hope, "Really? Promise?"

Masha looked straight into his eyes, and she knew how to see the truth. Georgy knew that, and also that everything depended on that answer. He was sweating everywhere except his face, because he couldn't sweat there, and for a split second a whole column of different thoughts ran through his mind: "If I'm wrong, she'll learn a truth she can't bear. She can't imagine herself without her husband. She'll kill herself. No. You don't just say yes. I have to say it like it's living inside of me. It must feel good to say it… God help me."

"Yes."

It was a word Maria felt in her soul: two letters merged into a word to save lives. It was the word Maria longed to hear now. It was the word that lifted a mountain off her shoulders.

"Thanks, Dad," she hugged him and closed her eyes. — Thank you."

The hiding place is dark and even a little damp. The ground is cold and hard as stone. Maria sat there with her knees to her face, her height preventing her from lifting her head. She was covered by a wooden plank covered with earth and trampled snow. But at least she could breathe well: not that there was any real ventilation, but it was different from the mine.

In order not to risk penetrating the cache, the miners made a real spectacle: Gora ordered Lesin to fight with Mr.

Stolov. The very man who, like Ptitsev, doubted the Dictator. He had come to his senses in time, but there was still the fact of untimely obedience: he had obeyed, but not at once. For this he should have been punished, though not as severely as Ptitsev, but in front of everyone.

Nicholas then came at him with such a rage and a cry of "How dare you!" that one would have thought it was a deeply personal matter. They were soon separated, and began to see what was the matter; of course, the plague. As luck would have it, at that moment Dunhyr was on duty at one of the towers, and he had personally seen Lesin kneeling on his knees that morning, saying, "Master, I am sorry." Thanks to this, the decision was not long in coming: Stolov was transferred to a black miner, Nikolai was made an example to everyone as a model of a "servant of the Empire" and was given a can of canned food (which he himself did not touch later — he gave it to others). It was hard for him then to stand in front of everyone and under these words, he thought that he would be hated for it, but it lasted only until the next day, when everyone realized what had happened.

Maria did not know all this. When the plagues "praised" Lesin, she heard some very indistinct words and a muffled boom — her father and father-in-law were standing over the hiding place, stomping on the snow. Volin especially did not want her to know the price of her freedom, so that she would not have to pay it again: she had to escape quickly and unnoticed.

Now it's time to get out of this crumbling pit — enough has passed.

Maria rested her hands on the plank and, sitting on her knees, began to push upward. The blood rushed up her legs, and everywhere stabbed. There was this strange sensation of nerves coming alive; when oxygen reaches them, they "shout" it to the whole body.

After a little effort, the lid lifted and moved a little to the side: snow and small dim rays of light fell in chunks from outside. Volin had given his daughter an old Vostok watch, but it was only possible to look at the light. There wasn't much of it, but the dial flickered an acrid green color: "10:33."

Maria was slightly surprised that she had managed to be unmoved for so long: something, but it was something she disliked doing to the core of her being.

The urge to get out was even stronger, and with the next impulse of will, the lid pulled away from the exit completely. Poking her head out to the surface. Maria felt the cool, fresh air everywhere around her, and the fact that no one was around. She'd never been alone in her life, and her father was gone, and he was almost always with her.

She pulled out a dark green bag wrapped in white cloth, and immediately touched the still wet but rapidly freezing snow. By now the sun had disappeared over the horizon, only illuminating the all-powerful sky, occasionally covered with puffy clouds: the wind had blown in from several directions at once, and the cold had taken on a new, nocturnal appearance.

Maria looked around: there were no plagues or people. "Gotta go. — She whispered to herself. — Go.

The work was quite successful: joint efforts produced 76 tons of coal, i.e. an average of 19 per catfish. No one was stoned, but in Sector 2 (counting) the commanders were warned that the next day there should be at least 80.

Gabriel had a chance to think things over this evening without feeling the deafening and continuous pain in his back. "So, Sun Tzu again. — Gabriel thought. — "Therefore, if I show the opponent some form, and I myself do not have this

form, I will preserve wholeness, and the opponent will be divided into parts." And people who are constantly working have noform, because they have no home, they have the Native Land, they have no political association, they have the common idea of Being Free. Sun Tzu's lack of form does not mean that it does not really exist — it does not exist for the enemy.

Further. "The enemy does not know where he will fight. And since he does not know it, he has many places where he must be ready. If there are many places where he must be ready, those who fight with me are few", Actually, this is the factor of division of the enemy. The plagues are present where we submit to them, where we work for them. But even in such places, they don't look in every nook and cranny, they don't watch everyone, and they don't suspect everyone. This is their greatest weakness. They think that if they have won once, they will not have to win the second time, because they have already been defeated. This factor can be perfectly realized through Tikhomirov. They do not know how to be patient for long — they will test him a couple of times and leave him. And he knows how to hide his feelings. Good… Sun-Tzu: "Therefore, if you know the place of battle and the day of battle, you can attack and a thousand zhang. If you don't know the place of battle, you don't know the day of battle, you can't protect the left side with the left side, you can't protect the right side with the right side…" This is probably my biggest advantage. I set the place of attack and its timing. And they can't attack, they just don't know who to attack. And when they do, they have to defend.

Gabriel thought that this was the end of the chapter on "Fullness and Emptiness". By now everyone, or almost everyone, should have fallen asleep. It was a good time to talk to those who had access to the surface.

Tikhomirov, due to his status, slept closer to the exit, and next to the Dictator. When Hora patted him with his palm, it turned out that Ivan was still awake, too.

"Can't sleep, can you, Vanya?" — Gavriil asked quietly.

"It's a dog's job. How can you sleep here?" — so harsh and critical words flew out of Tikhomirov's mouth inadequately calmly, he was, indeed, in complete control of his emotions, so that, if necessary, he could say "Plagues, rotting beasts, I wish you were dead" with such love that no one who did not speak Russian would have understood what he was talking about and what his attitude was.

"Your work is needed. A lot depends on you. You know that," the Dictator affirmed almost as warmly as the Commander would have done before.

The scout nodded understandingly: the only thing he needed right now were those words.

Gabriel continued: "Tomorrow you will have to do something for your People. You must put all thoughts and doubts out of your mind and do what I say.

It was dark all around, but Tikhomirov's eyes flickered hard and strong: he knew that he would often have to do cynical things that could only be done by those on whose actions the fate of many people depended.

"Ivan. Tomorrow you will go up to the surface, find a plague of as high a rank as you can, and tell them that you and all honest working men are in danger: the 336th soma is preparing to rise."

All decided and considered, all that's left is sleep. Gabriel closed his eyes and drifted gently into sleep.

The colors were predominantly bright yellow, like gold glinting in the sun. Everything seemed heavenly and light, but it was earth. Long and stretching green meadows. Grass up to my ankles. A playful breeze swept through it. There was the smell of fresh nature and dreamy happiness.

Of all the meadows, one was seen, the largest and most beautiful. On its left side stands a young boy with almost pale skin, his face calm and his eyes happy. On the right side is an even younger girl, tall and with long blond hair, her face happy and her eyes happy.

And they walk towards each other, and nothing disturbs them, and everything here is created just for them. The boy likes to tread on the fresh grass that lightly prickles his feet; the girl loves the sun shining so brightly on her and enlivening her beautiful hair. They are coming nearer and nearer. And the whole World rejoices in it: the World created them to be together.

And then they reached each other. The two halves embraced and became one. This is Raphael and Mary.

Gabriel felt light and quiet at heart. And he did not notice that in other meadows there were other halves joining each other. He was not interested in the others. He cared about his son and daughter-in-law. And as long as he lived, he would do everything for their happiness.

Unseen Sun

Maria advanced swiftly and persistently through the snow and ice. The day before yesterday, the frost was gnashing and the blizzard was blowing. Yesterday the warmth had come and started to melt, and tonight everything was frozen again.

After the journey, Donetsk-Makeyevka remained twelve kilometers behind. On the way, Maria came across an abandoned village. Her father pointed out that in this case, she was moving in the right direction and should stop there for the night. But she could only stay there for four and a bit hours: no sleep. So the schedule was ahead of schedule at the moment.

It had been light around for quite some time, but not all the way through — only the Sky, the rest was illuminated at its expense. Maria did not understand this fact: how could it be light when there was no Sun.

But it was getting lighter, and the edge of the light showed from the horizon. The rays ran from side to side and gave out their warmth. Then a crown rose up, even brighter than the rest. A few minutes passed and the same, strong, all- powerful Sun opened before the Earth.

Mary saw the sunrise for the first time, and it seemed magnificent and beautiful to her. Her father warned her against this beauty: "The sun is beautiful and kind, but you must not look at it for more than a minute. And I beg you not to do so. Save your eyesight, you will need it. And save your child from it. The sun does not like to harm people.

And the daughter did not think for a moment of breaking her parent's words, as she had always done before. She didn't even look at the sun itself-just at its rays, frolicking and playing on the horizon.

Maria remembered her husband. "He must see this beauty. It's marvelous." She thought how nice it would be to have a small wooden house somewhere here, one could live peacefully and raise children. Her husband would work in the fields

— there would be a great harvest in such a field, and she would clean the house, cook the food, as much as she loved everything around her, and their children would help them in that, and all day long, while her husband was working, she would dream of him, and when he would come back, she would feel the happiest on this earth. Maria wanted two children: a boy and a girl. In time the children would take care of their parents. And it would be a wonderful family, the one that one should build all one's life and not doubt it for a second. Maria dreamed that everything would be just like that: a husband, children, and a wooden house, and she did not understand how it was possible when there was a war going on.

"I wonder if it's as easy to love in peacetime?" — Maria asked herself as she continued to stride purposefully forward. She immediately put the question out of her mind: "What if it isn't. Then it will turn out that war is better. Then peace and love are incompatible. It would be unbearable. And it would be wrong. And that's why you shouldn't think about it… Peace and Love are compatible. And that's the only way it can be…"

Maria walked a few more meters and sighed slightly: "Ah… how hard it turns out to be for a person who doesn't know what the world is like."

Reversal

Gabriel opened his eyes and felt good and light at heart. But then he realized that there were no meadows around, and his son was dead. If his heart was not made of stone, he would have cried: it was too heavy all around.

And all around, first of all, everything was dark. Secondly, Tikhomirov had already left, the others were still asleep.

So it was now fifteen to six, fifteen to the beginning of the working day.

The dictator rose to his feet and moved toward the exit.

Three minutes later, he was already standing in Sector 1, listening to the report of his deputy Rich. As expected, the plagues had not lost an ounce of weight. But that didn't matter at all. Today would be a different day.

Tikhomirov was walking down the corridor. And he was seven meters away from the karak's office.

Two men stood at the door. Their appearance was the same as the rest of their kind, but it was their uniforms that distinguished them. Ivan had never seen such a uniform in his life: black, evil and cynical. On the right sleeve glittered the pale gray symbol of the Empire — a plague fang with drops of blood dripping from it, on the left — a sword held with both hands, blade up; the sign of the SCK. Black pants were held by the same black belt with a silver buckle in the form of a shield with a fang depicted on it. The epaulettes were like the plagues of the ordinary Boers, instead of them embroidered with a triangle pattern on both tips of the collar. On these two stood not painted triangles.

The two men paid no attention to Tikhomirov approaching them, until he did so himself: "Master, I have a report for the karak." It was dangerous to add the word "urgent" to this — the plagues had never seen anything urgent in any human endeavor.

The one on the right was apparently offended that these words were addressed not to him, but to the other one. This was Ivan's first mistake: he showed his "personality" and singled out one of the two "identical" plagues for no apparent reason. Whichever of them he addressed separately, one could always ask: "And why him? Why not the other one?" Tikhomirov had never been in a situation of "choice" before, and now he knew how to act next time, but this time he had already made a mistake.

"What do you want?" — The first one asked.

"No, wait…," the other interrupted him and stepped forward toward the man. — What's your name?"

"My number is 56138684B2," the scout replied without delay. This beaten moment, unfortunately, did not help him at all.

"Why are you here?"

"To serve the Empire," — the danger of this question was in not saying "I". "Do you deserve to die?"

"I flew in well," thought Tikhomirov, and, bowing, replied, "It is in your power, master."

No one knows how long it might have gone on if the door hadn't opened and Ananhr hadn't shown up from there.

Apparently the acoustics were good in there, and she didn't like this silly chatter.

"What did you come with?" — She asked. The mask of work in all variations of time hovered in her eyes. No one now knew who she was more unhappy with: a man who was slightly out of the unwritten norms, or an officer of the SCS who managed her time as if it were his own.

"There, she has saved me for the second time already," Tikhomirov smiled in his soul and, kneeling down, reported: "Master, we are in danger. To all honestly working people for the good of the Empire. Master. Soma No. 336 is going to revolt today."

The two chums stood still, waiting to see how Ananhr would react; they didn't care at all, it was up to her to decide for them at the moment: if she laughed, they would laugh; if she was displeased, they would be displeased.

"Let's go to my office," Ananhr led out and went back indoors. Tikhomirov followed her. "And don't forget to close the door."

Closing the door, Ivan walked over to the table and lowered his head. Ananhr did not look at all at ease behind that mighty oak table. It completely absorbed her, making her small but powerful: small she was, but her capabilities were great. The standard approach of the middle and upper ranks of the Empire. Ananhir disliked this showiness, preferring not to create illusions and false impressions of her status. She always relied on her voice. Its clarity and "straightforwardness" made her subordinates think only about business, not about how to climb up on a bigger table, take a warmer seat and get closer to the Center. As for people, she considered showing off in front of them to be just a careless waste of time — why do it if there was all the power over them, and its use would not help in establishing the power of the plagues — two different powers: over plagues and over people.

"Well, why don't you say something? Tell me how you found out?" — her voice did not press down from above with a ten-ton weight, on the contrary, with some interest and even a request.

"I was told this by the number 643075A2. I believed it and verified it for myself. As I was told before, I reported it all at once."

"When did the number 643075A2 tell you that?"

The question was indeed an interesting one. On the one hand, if Tikhomirov had said that it was yesterday morning, he would have been asked why he reported it so late. On the other hand, if it had been yesterday, then when he had time to check it all out, the option "in the afternoon" fell away, because he was on the surface at that time and "had no contact".

Besides, there was one more question from all this: "When did the commander know about it?"

"Yesterday morning. I would have reported it sooner, but I had to check. I was told not to report unverified information" — this expression "I was told" was an excellent "barrier". Of course, no one said such things, and Prinhr and Chankhr were already dead (Prinhr Tikhomirov saw lying in blood in his office, Chankhr was carried out himself together with another miner working on the surface (the plague had hesitated to touch him) — though it was hard to recognize him) and would not say anything about it. Their deaths were confirmed by Dimitri as well. That one had already come completely under his control, spouting everything that reached his ears. Ivan had already praised himself more than once for his timing in nailing this man.

"How did you verify the authenticity of his words?"

"I've talked to the people who work in this soma. They are sociable people…" "Did any of them say anything about an impending uprising?"

"No, master. No one said so directly." "So how did you know?"

"I'm sorry, master, I can't tell how it's seen, but they were all talking about their power, about how the humans need to destroy the plagues, about how they're not going to stick around in this 'pit' forever…" there was some blatant rambling going on, but in general, there was nothing more to it. — And also…"

"What else?"

"I've seen their weapons," was the trump card Gabriel had prompted during yesterday's conversation. Gavriil had realized yesterday where the fifth automatic rifle had gone and that the plagues would wonder where it had come from and, without an answer, would get nervous. By this combination the SSchekists had to decide that the Maquis, having learned of the impending uprising, had handed over the weapon. And one miner could not resist and decided to act early — he went up to the surface, killed Chanhra, replaced his machine gun with a machine gun, then came back down and organized a firefight in the cave. Among other things, the plague should have been afraid of the results of all this: if he was not alone, it was a well-organized unit, and if he was alone, what would a hundred and fifty of them do?

"What kind of weapon and where did you see it?"

"They keep it under their clothes. Which one I don't know, master." "And what makes you think it's a weapon?"

"By the uniform, master. Very similar to what our guards walk around with."

"Good," Ananhr was now clear on her next steps. Her gaze went to the bare wall. She did not possess any of Manhra's peculiar sentimentalism, and Heaven did not appeal to her at all.

"And when were they going to rebel?" — She asked.

"Before you asked me to give you the number 643075A2, wanting to help you, made arrangements with them…" "Why didn't you pass it on yourself?" — Ananhr interrupted him.

"He's suspected by the Maquis. That's what he told me…" "Uh-huh… Okay… So what did he negotiate with them?" "They'll start on his signal."

On March 30, the 381st catfish was "handed over" to the loading sector for work. The Bulgarian catfish was given the cleaning sector.

The signal, which Tikhomirov explained on the surface, consisted of an elementary thing — the pop of a gunshot.

Only after that did Valikov enter the battle.

When Gabriel saw Ivan Tikhomirov walking toward him, the globe of the earth flew off his shoulders.

"They believed everything," the scout proclaimed. — Now her aide is coming here with his group. He'll shoot, and that'll be the end of it for today."

Tikhomirov had no sense of relief from anything; he didn't want to look at it at all and forget about it as soon as possible. After all, it was all so disgusting: to give up one's own.

"I see what you're thinking. — said the Dictator. — You're thinking what any self-respecting person in your position should be thinking. It's the right reaction. Then you'll get used to saving a thousand lives by losing a hundred."

The miner understood what he was being told, that everything he had done was necessary to save many people, but he was so disgusted by it all that his head was spinning and nausea was in his throat.

And now the wild plague of the SCK also entered the tunnel. On his collar were no longer triangles, but two squares and painted in purple. His look was dry and his eyes languid and vile. And together with him there were ten of them.

A shot rang out. The plagues stood as if frozen, picking up the slightest movement from the tunnel; their commander had just signaled for an uprising.

A couple seconds later, gunshots were heard from the clearing sector, followed by one general cry of "Hurrah". And almost immediately one of them flew to our soma. And got into the clutches of the chum… He was shot by everyone who only had weapons: eleven SSchekists and six from the Black Stone drill. After that two more rushed in, and two more, and two more. And all lay down on the ground. And the plagues began to mock each one that was killed, and the people looked on and could not believe their eyes. They could not understand how the plagues knew about all this: the uprising, the signal, and even how the catfish should act in their plots.

Some of the 381st, in defiance of the Dictator's ban, wanted to support the Bulgarians, but now it was impossible, now the doom seemed obvious to all.

A couple more seconds passed and the organized slender lines from the rebel sector were replaced by individual gunshots. — The 381st soma lowered the heads of its miners. A couple more seconds passed and all sound ceased — 381st Soma's eyes became painfully depressed. It was all over.

Shots rang out, already unanswered: the plagues went around and finished off the survivors.

The 381st Soma fell silent: some outwardly held on, some had tears flowing, and some, with their mouths clamped shut, wept silently — only one Dictator stood calm and unwavering, knowing how many had been saved.

Unproven experience

The uprising was immediately reported to the top leadership of the East Slavic Column, but not to Broz, but to the chief of the SChK, Zakinkhru. The chums had no problem with carrier pigeons, they used wired telephone communication.

Upon learning of this, Zakinhr decided to convene the Council of Noble Primes.

The room is darker than night. Officially presiding over the meeting, Broch Bluh didn't know what to expect from the man who had gathered them. And his hands were shaking like after a liter of strong drink (plagues, despite their size, got drunk very quickly; the "Statute of the Privileged" allowed drinking at least a day before work and no more than seven- tenths of a liter of vodka).

Zakinhr made a face like there was no tomorrow, "We were lucky, plague brothers… that the Donetsk-Makeyevka group had my staff…"

"What do you mean?" — Broz asked nervously.

"And I mean rebellion, Brother Chum Bluh." At these words all the chiefs present literally jumped up from their

"Rebellion…? What's the group's position now?" — Such a message could only have pleased Bluh — after all, he had insisted on increasing the force contrary to the majority of the Council. Instead, he was trembling now — he was 'acting', what would they do to him when they found out 'what he had brought the column to'. He was thinking only of himself now, and for nothing: he could have pressed pertinently on the "methods of the BCC" and changed the situation in his favor. It did not occur to him.

"Don't worry. The Black Stone Service knows its business. — Zakinhr had spent years learning how to properly hold his position and use his special status as an unbreakable wall. — The situation didn't get out of control for a second. 153 men eliminated. No casualties on our side. Only scratches… As I said, "the SCK knows its business."".

Very clever, but not unmistakable maneuver: the chief of SCK did not report about eleven killed in the cave, or about twenty-seven killed by Bulgarians — all were supposed to be brought under the figure of executed traitors during the purge or defending Donetsk-Makeyevka from the Maquis (distribution of these two categories depending on previous merits — so that there were no contradictions): only SCK can check all this only.

All this, of course, was not quite true: there were plagues in the SCK loyal not to their immediate leadership, but to the Center, and anyone from the Council could try to check it — everyone has his own people.

The attendees slowly fell silent, realizing that Zakinhra had some extraordinary idea.

"In view of the situation, I propose to resort to the methodology we use in special circumstances. With your consent, of course," the man said. — 'I propose that this group be given autonomy. To entrust everything to their leader, no doubt an authoritative one. And through him to control the situation. Structured associations are easier to control than disparate groups."

At other times he would not have been understood at all: what kind of human autonomy was this, maybe they should be given the opportunity to create an independent state, but now it was different. There was an uprising at the mine, and his, not anyone else's, actions did not allow it to spread, so the actions are correct and timely, and if the past were correct, the future ones will be correct as well — the ancient technology: "Do not change what works well. This is what the chief of the KFK was going to base himself on.

Anyone could have prevented him from doing so, it was enough to point out the expediency of the participation of his imperial body and the impossibility of its docking with this plan. But to do that, he had to take at least part of the initiative into his own hands, and that meant taking a risk. No one had the strength to do it now.

For the sake of formality, the confirmation of the resulting solution by the brose is left. He coughed and, looking around at everyone, said: "If no one has any objections…" Bluh again made sure that his tenure was temporary — there were no objections.

"Good. — Grudgingly deduced the acting officer. — 'The decision has been approved. You have two days to select a suitable candidate. Once approved by the Council, she can take office… What is she called according to the 'Statutes on the Organization of Government', Brother Chum Zakinhr?"

The question asked by Bluh was not an idle question: there was no statute that could record such a case. No one had ever used such a practice before, and the very fact that it could be realized was recorded only in the secret protocol of the SCS, which was known to the top of the Empire and the SSchekists. There this position was designated "A0" without a preceding number, because each column was allowed only one such association. This protocol had previously been used thirty-three years ago for three weeks — then the project was scrapped due to the difficulty of implementation.

In order not to give away such a secret document, Zakinhr decided to change the job title, and in a drastic way, and with an addition: "It is called 'Group Manager'. The system is described in the eighth volume of the "Statutes of Management Organization". Chapter "Human Autonomy". Year of issue 6534… The candidate will be presented to the Council tomorrow."

There was nothing more to ask and Bluh nodded his head in agreement, indicating the end of the meeting. Then the phone rang. An important red phone on the broz's desk.

"Blooch here," he had long wanted to say "broz," but he still hadn't made up his mind. His face tensed and darkened, his eyes went into prostration, and his jaw crept downward. After hearing everything, the broz clutched the receiver with his paw and said in a fading voice: "We have… there's… an emergency…"

"What's wrong?" — Zakinhr asked, drawing the attention of everyone who didn't want trouble, and there was a cabinet full of them.

Bluh unconsciously dismissed the red tube as something very dangerous and disgusting; he was already ready to cast all these "fulfillments of duty" far away.

An insidious and cunning paw mastered the connection: "This is the head of the SCK group of the East Slavic column Zakinh. Report."

The voice did not emit indecision and agitation, obviously the reported thing had not happened to him: "The commander of the Donetsk-Makeevka-Volgograd Voh transportation routes. The division of the Imperial Army and the SCK sent to Lugansk is completely destroyed. There are two survivors. One is in critical condition. Both are now in Alcheyevsk. They do not give any explanations about what happened. They are waiting for plagues from the SChK".

"How many plagues from the Imperial Troop Bur are in your possession right now?" "One drill. Twenty chums in all."

"Choose the three best of them, the ones you can rely on. And order them to escort our plague, the one who is conscious, to the point of Debaltsevo. Our staff will meet them there. The one in critical condition, guard him with all your might. Our officers will come for him later."

When he spoke, the phrase "our staff" directly dominated the speech.

He hung up the phone and proclaimed to everyone that everything was fine, it was just a Maquis diversion. ''Just a diversion? — Bluh was clearly not satisfied with such a comment. — An entire unit has been wiped out!"

Donghr intervened (for his subordinates were also involved): "I have provided you with the Dead Earth Drill for this operation. It is an elite unit. Did it die too?"

"A commander who thinks only of casualties," replied the SR. — can't win a war. Two of my Boers died there. Also elite ones… I may point out that we have lost more and more seriously before…"

Broz didn't let him finish his sentence, "You said you'd wipe out the Maquis leader in this region by the next day.

And we're getting nothing but casualties.

"And what makes you think it was an operation to neutralize the Maquis leader…? It was a reconnaissance operation. We now know about the enemy's concentration in this area. Tomorrow, we'll leave this place untouched. And the leader is already dead, his body will be delivered to us tomorrow morning. They would have delivered him today, but after our gunner killed him, the Maquis started carrying him around. They're in the ring now. They won't go anywhere… As for this operation, brother Chum Donghr, I grieve with you. But we have managed to kill at least fifteen hundred Maquis, and in order to calm the hearts of your colleagues, I agree to conduct a punitive operation with you," the entire sentence was made of air as transparent as all the words used in it.

First, the operation just mentioned was in fact correctly outlined by Bluch. He knew about it from his agent in the SCK. Zakinhr realized the possibility of such information leaking out, but the fact remained that the operation was his, and only he knew its objectives, and if someone else knew them, let him name the source of knowledge. Bluh did not dare to take that step.

Secondly, the promise to "leave no stone unturned from this place" could not be fulfilled anytime soon, as there was simply no one to do it — either far away or already busy doing something — the support of the army was needed.

Thirdly, Donghr didn't want to help in any way and didn't want to be involved in this matter at all, but his authority in this case could be blown away along with the dust. Other than agreeing, the Imperial Army Chief saw no other way out. His position was too weak in front of the SSchekist.

As a result, Zakinhra's arguments, though "lame on both legs", still worked. The only thing left to do was to show them the body of the murdered "leader" and the incident could be considered over. But no one knew the leader by sight, and there was no problem.

"I will send the entire Dead Earth formation to Luhansk," Donhr replied to this offer, "Fifteen bur." He believed all the nonsense about the number of rebels and decided not to take any more casualties. Such a number made the task easier in a moment for the chief of the SFC.

Meeting adjourned.

Sixth sense

Twilight gradually enveloped the surroundings. It didn't get colder, but the sun, which had so pleasantly lit the way, was gone.

"It's okay, it'll come back," Mary thought as she looked up at the darkening Sky and kept walking, and whispered: "Lord, please make him okay. I love him so much. And it's so hard for me without him."

All her thoughts were of her husband. They helped her to move forward. The very word "forward" meant "closer to her husband. She believed that if she went, she would see him.

Suddenly Maria felt that the road was going downward, and very sharply — a river was flowing twenty-one meters ahead. She wanted to pull out a map, but didn't do it: in such visibility she couldn't see anything. Her memory told her that it was the Kalmius River, and given the length of the path she had traveled, the abandoned town of Novy Svet should be nearby.

Maria carefully made her way down to the shore, walked to the edge and tried to see something. For the first time in her life she heard the river flowing: so lively and playful. The water sang, and her ears were glad of it.

Putting the bag on the ground, Maria sat down and tucked her legs under her. She was so tired of it all: going day and night and not seeing the man she loved.

All I want to do is live with my husband and have children. And it doesn't matter if you're a slave or not. Good or bad. Just a husband and children. I want them to be alive and unthreatened. That's all there is to it. But there isn't.

Maria closed her eyes and went straight to sleep. Every time she thought about the dream, she wished it was him, her husband. That was what happened this time.

Maria opens her eyes, rises slightly and looks at the river, which is quietly floating by. It is not as dark as it was in the evening: the moon is shining high in the sky. It is gently reflected in the water running in the river. It's not cold, and it's not blowing. It is warm, and the fresh river air gently wafts its freshness.

You can hear someone's footsteps. Closer and closer. They are pleasant and fill the surroundings with their liveliness.

"Beloved," I hear you say from there. It's Raphael. Dear and Beloved.

Maria hugs him. She feels good and at ease.

But he pulls her back a little. Just a little, so that he can make eye contact. His hands stay on her shoulders, and her hands on his chest.

"Masha, I love you," the husband says.

"And I love you. And we're together. And everything is fine," Maria replies, not understanding what Raphael is getting at.

"Forgive me, my love, I was wrong…I…" "It's okay, love, it's okay."

"No, Mash, that's not it. You won't see me here again…" "What is it? What's wrong with you, love?"

"Maria, you're asleep." "What?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're sleeping."

Maria realized it was true. It had never happened before, but now she knew it for sure. "Am I dreaming?"

"Yes, love, yes. I need to tell you what you need to know… I'm dead." "What? No, it can't be that."

"Mash, listen to me. "I'm dead. And you need to live." "No. No. I can't do it without you."

"You have to. You have to raise our baby."

"I can't be without you," Maria clasped her lover as tightly and firmly as she could. "Beloved, you must… For the sake of our child."

"I don't want to wake up. I don't want to be without you."

"This is your destiny, my love. You must survive this… You must. And we will be together." "I can't. I can't do it without you. Beloved, please don't leave me alone."

"I'm always here for you."

They kissed and hugged again. They sat like that by the shore until morning came. The dream was over.

Maria opened her eyes. It's bright and sunny. And it felt so heavy on her soul. "This is just a nightmare. No, it's true.

— "I've been thinking. — Is it really a nightmare?"

The girl looked around: the beautiful and playful river, the breeze blowing the birch tree on the hill, and the green grass on the melted bank. Wow, only just melted, and already fresh spring grass. Or maybe it had been there for a long time; yesterday it was so dark… But what kind of a dream is this?

Maria couldn't understand what it was. Was it really true? "It's all true," the ground beneath his feet whispered.

She didn't want to believe it was true, but that inner voice that had helped her before was saying it too. That voice had once told her who her soulmate was, that she'd run away from the mine, and now it was saying this.

Maria covered her face with her palms and cried.

The moments became even slower than before. The river was also flowing non-stop. God only knows how much time had passed.

"Why are you crying, daughter?" — from behind came the kindly, open voice of a slightly older man.

Masha, staying where she was, quickly turned around and removed her palms from her face. Right in front of her, ten meters away, stood a grandmother, not tall, but with a surprisingly straight posture like a twenty-year-old, and with the same clear brown eyes as her own.

"God, what's happening to me?" — Masha thought. Her face was slightly flushed, tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her mouth was slightly ajar, quietly gulping for air. This new free air! That had never been there before. It is so intoxicating that one dreams what one has never dreamed, and wonders what is impossible… What could this grandmother be doing here? Did she come to the river to rest? If she were a Maquis, no one would let her out of the camp.

The girl wanted to turn away, but the grandmother began to approach and was already one step away: laptops, a dark brown skirt below the knees, a red woolen sweater and the same color headscarf on her head, covering her light, not a little gray hair.

"How are you, daughter?"

Masha had no idea what to do. She reached out and gently touched the woman, "You don't look like me?" "No, no."

"Are you from the Maquis?"

"Poppies? No. No. No… What are those?" — now Grandma was confused about what she was being asked. "Partisans. They are fighting the plagues," Masha's bitterness subsided slightly after these words, and she wiped her

face with the backs of her hands.

"And who are the plagues? Are you the ones playing or what?"

It wasn't funny anymore. If a person doesn't know that, there's no point in explaining the rest.

"Ah… They're just beasts. It's nothing special. — but the question about the game is, it's all so similar. — Are we playing? Maybe we are. I don't know. I'm not in the lead…"

"And you're lost, aren't you?" "Yeah… You could say that…" "And what's your name, daughter?" "Maria."

"A pleasure. Olga Yurievna."

Masha herself did not know why, but she knew that the answer would be similar — this grandmother was Olga.

However, it didn't tell her anything yet.

"Well, since you're lost… let's go to our place then," Olga Yurievna said. "Your place?"

"Yes, to our place…with my husband."

The air was light, and clear. And the Sky was light and calm.

The only position

The day after the uprising. Everything is suppressed. The Cabinet Room.

The room is as empty as it was before. However, there are walls and ample light.

Almost in the middle, but closer to the wall farther from the front door, stands Gora. To his right and slightly behind him is Rich, to his left is Volin. Both are his deputies.

Opposite Gavriil are Brazhik and Dozhik from the 420th and Golushko and Preskovich from the 647th som. They are gloomier than a cloud, and behind them there is nothing and only a door.

"I have some news for you, comrades," said the Dictator. All those present were still under the impression of yesterday. None of them had slept well: one hundred and eighty-four Bulgarian miners had perished, and with them their commander Valikov. No one had seen Grinifenko's body. How the plagues learned about the uprising, everyone, of course, guessed — someone informed them from among their own; no one knew who did it.

"News one. The plagues are imposing a special regime on our group."

Everyone in the office took these words in their own way: both with irony and hatred.

"Special treatment means," Gabriel continued. — That our group gets autonomy. Self-existence. And that means a whole range of possibilities. First, we are given a plan for the month, and we decide how much to extract per day.

Secondly, the system of punishment is drastically reduced. I won't explain exactly how — it's too long. In addition to the punishments, the level of nutrition is also changing. Not that it will be the same as it should be, but still better. And thirdly, the group, the whole group will now be led by a man. A man, not a tent.

The reaction to all this was completely inadequate: in fact, people should have begun to rejoice, but they all became lime-covered and stale. This plague humor was not to their liking at all — when was it that after a rebellion the regime was eased. They didn't see the point of it at all. They had never met anyone who dealt with strategic matters. They didn't know how the tax system worked.

But everything changed after another phrase of the Dictator: "News two. This man will be me… Their commander has already signed such an order."

Gora's authority did not allow one to doubt his words — he does not joke about such topics. "Gora, what's this all about?" — Brajik didn't hold out first.

"Dominic, it all means what I said." "But… how's that?"

"Everybody sit on the floor," Gabriel commanded.

In addition to the gray walls, there was an equally gray concrete floor. Everyone saw the glass eyes and heard the Dictator's loud voice, and no one had a thought not to do as he said.

Gabriel moved a little away from the center, so as not to stand over them as a formidable force, spewing thunder and lightning — that way they wouldn't understand anything at all.

"Speaking plainly and clearly. — The Dictator deduced, standing a little to the side and resting his hands on each other in front of him. — 'Do everything I say. Do not hesitate at any of my orders. Do it. And let your men do it. Your job is to obey my orders. Make sure your men do the same. Everything must be carried out exactly as it is said. If anyone decides to disobey, kill him. Kill him at once, so you don't have to kill anyone else. If anyone starts a rebellion, kill him. Kill him and anyone else who joins him. Order. From now on, that's the word that counts. Any questions?"

No one wanted or could ask any questions after listening to this speech — the voice was too formidable and the hands of the one who spoke it were too heavy. No one understood why Gavriil Vladimirovich, beloved by all, had become so heartless. No one but Georgy could do anything, and Georgy didn't need anything anymore.

From that moment a new era began in the whole great city of Donetsk-Makeevka. The rule of the plagues was replaced by the dictatorship of the Mountain.

Forever together

Masha had been walking behind for the third hour. It wasn't that it was hard, it was just that she was tired of walking without knowing where she was going and in silence. She wanted to ask something, but she didn't dare — her grandmother was walking so fast and swiftly that it seemed that if she was distracted for even a second, she would trip over something.

Masha knew how to tolerate, but not things like this.

"Excuse me, Olga Yurievna, are we still far away?" — she asked. As soon as she said that, a wooden house appeared behind another hill, and next to it a similar wooden barn.

The grandmother stopped: "They've already come… Oh, why me? Let me help you." She reached for the girl.

"No, no. What are you? Don't. I'll do it myself. It's not hard for me at all," Masha replied, feeling a slightly strange and very interesting look on her face. Some kind of nostalgic look, about something long past, pleasant and close to her soul.

She didn't understand the gesture. She hadn't really understood this woman: seventy years old, running around like an eagle, and so content, even happy. She had never met people like that before, especially since it was rare for anyone to live to sixty at the mine.

But when they entered the house everything became clear.

After the front door there was a short corridor, and beyond that a spacious room. To the left in the corner was a kind of clay stove with two steel stands. In the middle was an oak table and two chairs. On one of them is the grandfather.

He is exactly the same age as his grandmother, but maybe a year younger. His hair is not gray either, but blond, but cut much shorter, like a hedgehog. His face is old, but he looks young. He is dressed in laptops, gray jeans, and a blouse of the same color.

"And this is my beloved wife come…" he said from the bottom of his heart. — And she has brought guests with her. "Get acquainted. — Olga Yurievna replied. — This is Maria."

The grandfather got up from his chair in a way that was completely inappropriate for his age. But it was evident that he was heavy and his bones ached.

"A pleasure, Maria. Vladimir Ivanovich," he, like his grandmother, was, indeed, pleased to host someone. It was impossible to tell the last time it had happened by sight, but it had been a long time ago.

"Oh, you fixed the window," Grandma said softly.

"Yes I was still in the morning," replied the grandfather with an intonation that tried to undercut his efforts. "Good girl. Well done, my love. What you are," Olga Yurievna caressed her husband and pressed him tightly

against her. Although Vladimir was half a head taller than her, it did not spoil them at all.

Masha stood at the door and didn't know whether to cry or smile. She had dreamed of a life like this all her life.

Exactly like theirs. They are both happy because they are with each other. Now she knew that love and peace were compatible. That that's what true happiness is. And that she would never have it. Masha didn't want to cry so as not to upset these happy people, but the tears themselves rolled from her eyes.

"What is it, daughter? What's the matter with you?" — Olga Yurievna became worried and immediately came over. "No, it's nothing. Don't mind… It's just like that, by itself," Masha didn't want to upset them to the core and tell them

the reason. They didn't deserve it. "Do you want to be alone?"

To this question Masha simply did not allow herself to answer positively, "No, no, what do you mean?" These people are kind and should be treated the same way.

"You probably haven't had breakfast yet?" — Vladimir Ivanovich had a healthy and strong, though hoarse voice. And having asked in such a voice a completely unacceptable question for the girl, he seemed cheerful. Indeed, what kind of breakfasts are there in a mine with plagues?

"Had breakfast? No…" — Masha honestly didn't know what it was at all. "Well, I guess that's what makes it all wrong…"

Of course, they both realized that the reason was something else: they didn't want to force out the truth — she would tell him herself if she wanted to.

"Yeah, maybe… from that," Masha replied, continuing to not understand what this was about.

The girl was seated by the window. She was uncomfortable there — there was too much sun, but it was nothing, and she did not complain: the main thing was not to offend them in any way.

"The first or the second at once?" — Olga Yurievna asked.

First, second… Obviously it's about food, but what a strange way to eat in several parts. What you eat, you eat, what's the point of sharing?

Masha shook her head incomprehensibly, "I don't know… Suit yourself."

"Well, don't be shy, daughter. I can see you want to eat," Grandma smiled a little. Before this she had only smiled at her husband. But it looked different now, too. To her husband she smiled quite naturally and as if she had been doing it all her life (which, of course, she had).

She set a pine plate on the table.

Mushroom soup. The color is yellow-brown, the smell is about the same… It turned out to be very tasty. "Do you like it?" — Olga Yurievna asked.

"Very tasty… I've never tasted anything like this in my life," I didn't have to make it up here. While her tongue tasted the delicious flavor, her mind was filled with thoughts of what this food was costing them — maybe they were using what they had left in reserve, that they had decided to eat just because of her. And she'd always disliked people sacrificing things because of her, she liked to help herself.

"Do you often eat like this?" — Masha asked, not lifting her eyes from her plate.

"When it's in season, yes, but not like this," replied Olga Yurievna, and, rising from her chair, saw the almost empty plate, "Oh. I'm very glad you liked it. Would you like some more?"

It was a trick question: either "yes" to emphasize the wonderful taste of this soup, or "no" if they didn't have enough of it. The situation was saved by Vladimir Ivanovich: "Don't forget, Mashenka, there's also a second one… If it doesn't fit, my wife will be offended.

"Oh, come on. — The hostess responded good-naturedly. — I'll be offended…why should I be offended?" "Just in case, you'd better not," Masha said.

"You don't want any more?" "No. No, thank you."

"Then the second one?"

The girl quickly and weakly nodded her head, not yet knowing how she could answer that question even more modestly.

The second was potatoes. Cut into circles and lightly fried in a pan. A little browned and a little burnt on some edges things.

If these people cook it themselves, they probably go to visit the Lord God on Sundays.

That was the only impression Masha could get after tasting it all — as if the tongue had been designed to feel such

"No." thought Masha. — No matter how delicious it is, language is designed to tell your beloved that you love him, that you can't live without him and that you will always wait for him. That's what language is for. For the one you love to say that he will always be there for you. And this will be the only thing that will move forward, that will not allow you to give up, that will give you what your soul needs so much. This is what language is for, and everything else is just an appendage.

"And this, to be honest," Vladimir Ivanovich told me. — We eat it from morning till night… And what's more, we love it very much… What do you think?"

This phrase pleased Masha — since they had plenty of it, there were no sacrifices: "You cook beautifully. Thank you very much."

Now it's time for tea.

Oh, how these people drink it! Small, tiny little bowls and cups made of white birch bark with black stripes. They pour slightly hot tea into them and look at the bottom for a long, long time. Then, when the steam leaves, they drink in small sips. It's peace and a quiet life. And the whole room was filled with it. And that's the way it was supposed to be.

"Do you know why birch bark doesn't soften from hot tea?" — Vladimir Ivanovich asked, continuing to look much deeper than the height of the cup allowed.

"No," the girl answered quite sincerely. She hadn't asked herself that question, seeing for the first time a product made of birch bark, which she hadn't clearly imagined either.

Then my grandfather began to tell what a fine work it all is, that his great-grandfather, who was a miner in Makeyevka, made it, and that when he looks at the bottom of this cup, every time he sees his ancestors, and they are happy and satisfied with him and his wife.

Then Olga Yurievna opens up. And she can see her ancestors, and they are happy with her and pleased with her and her husband.

They talked about it all day and all evening. And Masha listened to them and knew now how beautiful the forests and meadows were, how easily wheat grows here, which birds stay for the winter and which do not, and how to greet them. And everything had to be known. And there was more to know…

But the day ended and the Sun set — the rest later.

Оглавление

Prologue

There's what's left

Thoughts of a free slave

Where are the insiders and where are the outsiders

Who is about freedom and who is about his wife

Residento dissidento

It's pitch black

Residento in actionis

Smoky and hot

Somewhere very deep and low

A slip in the right direction

Reflections of a resident

Rebels

When your heart hurts

I was saved by a tent

A thief's hat is on fire

Believing and loving

Hot heart

When there's nothing else

The happiest man on Earth

Unseen Sun

Reversal

Unproven experience

Sixth sense

The only position

Forever together