Struggle. Taste of power

Bazanhr didn't even wait for his words to be responded to in any way and rushed to the third floor to the exact opposite wing of the building.

This time the room was really something like a chapel. It was windowless, dusty, and looked more like a closet. It was obvious that it had been equipped in some way, and only to show what was expected to be seen: a small altar, candlesticks and pedestals for placing prayer candles, icons depicting the Black Stone and the priests worshipping it, all very small or pocket-sized.

Samoh was disgusted by the sight, but he couldn't help but recognize that it could still be a chapel. Well, the main thing was yet to come.

— I will pray for our common cause, and you repeat after me. — said the inquisitor to the colonel and walked to the center of the room. — In the name of the sacred Black Stone I conjure… May the Black Stone and all its power, which has given us victory and greatness, be glorified… May we punish and destroy those who have strayed from our sacred faith… May this day be the brightest day in the history of our deeds… May we defeat heresy within these walls and be strengthened in our faith by all means….

The Scekist, standing a little behind, kept repeating and repeating and with each word getting quieter and quieter, which in the end turned into an unrecognizable muttering.

— Now help my men get settled. — Samokh turned and said.

— Of course, of course. We've prepared everything. — The whole platoon will fit in there, and there will be plenty of room for seven tents!

— My novices' drill has arrived. Your subordinates will report to you now.

Samokh's sense of time never failed him, capable of calculating individual events down to the minute. And indeed, in a few seconds, the radio started talking:

— Basalt-01, this is Basalt-06. The new train of the Holy Church has arrived. Three cars. Do you want me to let them through?

Bazanhr hesitated. Neither his gaze nor any of his facial features suggested that he was embarrassed by anything, but that second's hesitation showed that something had not gone as he had hoped:

— Yes, of course… Show them into the reception hall.

On the way to this hall, they were no longer winding their way up and down the stairs. Bazankhr did not turn around at all, nor did he warn them against sharp turns and high steps as they followed him. It was obvious that he was in a hurry to see for himself those who had arrived in such numbers at his subordinate facility.

The picture surprised him beyond belief. If he could have turned pale, he would have been white as milk in an instant. His heartbeat quickened, though he made no sign of it. Yes, this is what happens to all plagues when they first see the "unspoken resource" of the holy Church in this case represented by the heavily-armed punitive brown Inquisition. These novices were stout, big plagues with languid glassy eyes that didn't seem to blink at all. They stood in formation as if in a straight line, unwilling to even shift from foot to foot.

Gentility, chastity and obedience. These were the three basic rules for combat novices from the punitive units of the Inquisition. At the same time, the first two did not particularly worry their superiors: one could save money and lend it at interest, and even have his own small business, one could also enter into relations with the female sex, as long as it was not showy. But obedience was the cornerstone of the combat wing. What the priest said was a holy rule, and what the priest ordered was a holy duty. Orders were not discussed or commented upon. They were sacred. And in the entire history of the "unspoken resource" there had never been a single instance of violating that sanctity.

I see you are surprised, Colonel? — the inquisitor asked.

— Not at all. — I only see brothers who are faithful to the holy Church," answered Bazankhr, turning and looking straight into his eyes. That makes me feel better.

— All the better… But don't worry, they didn't come here for your sake… Moreover, we're all just passing through… I think you understand where we're going.

For all of Bazankhra's continued equanimity, it was obvious that a stone had been lifted from his shoulders, and he stood more relaxed than he had a moment ago:

— Your Eminence, we could go to my office and discuss this.

Samokh nodded, and they headed across the hall to the far end of it, then went through several narrow corridors and finally came to the former office of the karak of the Korsa sector. The office had clearly been stripped of all the luxuries that had gone before and replaced with another, equally lavish one: several paintings of plagues in officers' uniforms, a small bronze bust of the founder of the GHCC, and gold-adorned oak furniture-a massive desk with an equally massive armchair behind it, two high chairs in front of it, and a wide chest of drawers that held several crystal vases and, apparently, several gold statuettes inlaid with emeralds.

— Please have a seat. — Bazankhr offered and seated himself in one of the two chairs in front of the table, leaving his deputy behind him.

Samoh took a seat across from him while six of his novices positioned themselves behind him:

— That's not a bad idea with the chapel….

— All just to please the holy Church…..

— Enough with the pretense, Colonel. — Samokh spoke not loudly, but firmly enough. He could see that he didn't care that his whole drill was not sitting comfortably, but standing silently at attention, waiting for his patron's command. — My novices are loyal, and they know how to keep their mouths shut. Your second-in-command, I presume.

Bazanhr stopped trying to smile and even stopped moving, he seemed to freeze altogether and then coughed a little. Samokh continued:

— I've already said I'm not interested in you. And that this is not the place I'm interested in at all. I think you understand who I'm interested in and where that someone is.

— Of course, understanding…

— Then tell me, whose side are you on? On the side of the holy Church or on the opposite side?

— I… Not on anyone's side… I serve in the SCK, and you can see that I have achieved a lot… These portraits here… — Bazankhr pointed to two portraits of chums in officers' uniforms. — My grandfather and my father. They both served in the JFK, and I am following in their footsteps… As you can see, they are both of very high rank….

— All the more reason for you to tell me everything you know about Ananhr.

— With all due respect, Your Eminence, she's no match for you… She's no match for Neuroch, either, if you must hear it… Her older brother….

— I don't care about her older brother! — The inquisitor interrupted him somewhat angrily. — She has the entire Donetsk-Makeyevka group under her supervision now. And that's all I care about… What forces does she have?

Bazanhr mewled a little:

— She is guarded by a personal drill. I know the chums who serve in it, and I will tell you that they are as much about professionalism as they are about brutality. Otherwise it would be more than one Boer… Besides, the neighborhood is kept under control by the Hiwi.

— Who recently ambushed two Maquis companies. That I know… So only one drill of personal guards. I take it it's from the Guards… Yeah, not bad… How interested are the local chiwi in her?

— They don't know who she is. But they've been made to understand that no Maquis or anyone else is allowed near her. Not without her permission. And that the price for their mistake would be exorbitant… So without her permission, the chiwi won't let you in….

But you let all of mine through with your permission, didn't you?

— That is correct, Your Eminence…..

Samoh smiled:

— All right… Let's forget about this conversation… I think only friendly relations are ahead of us. I won't hide it, I see in you a great leadership ability and a plague worthy of our faith.

Otherwise, we would have had a very different conversation….

This seemed to have a strong effect on Bazankhra, and he relaxed somewhat.

— I'd like to have a drink with you. — said Samokh. — To our friendship.

Bazankhr, as if he had expected something like this, took a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the chest of drawers, poured them both, and, waiting until he could clink them together, drank them in one gulp. His eyes instantly became full of fresh colors of his surroundings, he obviously felt saved to some extent — if only such a picture with the arrived thugs from the Inquisition….

— Let's have another round. — Samokh pointed to the glasses.

Bazankhr immediately poured more brandy, and immediately, again barely waiting for the priest to take a drink, drank it in one gulp. Then he sprawled slightly in his chair:

— You know, Your Eminence… Still, you guys are tough, in the Church… I didn't realize you had units like this….

— We have a lot, Colonel. We just don't show it because we hope the people of our empire will be reasonable.

— What prudence can this cattle have… You do realize, Your Eminence, that without laws and penalties for its violation, there will be no order….

— Let's have another one…

Bazankhr smiled a slightly drunken smile. He was beginning to like the way he could raise a glass with the Metropolitan. Samokh was ahead of him, took the bottle by the neck and poured more for each of them. Without waiting for the inquisitor to take his own, Samokh drank to the bottom.

They sat for another fifteen minutes in a spirit of similar brotherly conversation. Bazankhr talked about his successes, clearly extolling his own abilities and the successful combinations that had brought him to the chair of such a high-level superior. His grandfather and father were quite pleased with him, and thought he was progressing ahead of schedule. He did not think of a wife or children at all, for at this stage they would only be a burden and would prevent him from growing further. He had not had much contact with the Church up to this point, and his main task was administrative functions in the management of fairly quiet areas of the empire, where there was contact with the Maquis. Thus, on paper, he had a very significant track record, without jeopardizing either his safety or the potential for failure. Samokh listened with satisfaction and occasionally praised his interlocutor for his moderation and reasonableness.

— Well, Colonel… — Samokh finally announced. — It was a pleasure to talk to you. I can only wish you further success….

He carefully stood up and swung his hand lightly:

— May our great Black Stone bless your service and keep you from making any mistakes…. Bazankhr was obviously very satisfied to overcome all these difficulties and to receive the Metropolitan's blessing at the end.

Samoh moved toward the exit, followed by his novices, but almost reaching the door, he turned around abruptly:

— Ah yes, Colonel, still find a decent place for a chapel in your establishment…..

— Of course, Your Eminence…

— She wasn't there before I got there. You organized it in no time.

— Yes, we wanted to please you….

— What was there before, if it's no secret? A closet?

— Oh, I should hate to say, Your Eminence," said the Colonel, smiling still more.

— All right…" the inquisitor calmly waved his hand at that.

That's where the garbage was stored before it was taken to the dump… The darkest room,so it wouldn't rot in the sun…

— HERESY!!! — wailed the inquisitor, raising a menacing forefinger at the SS. -

SACRILEGE!!! To desecrate the holy Church in such a manner. Seize him! — Samoh essentially waited for the confession that the chapel had been made without the authorization of an adherent of the Holy See and, not only that, it had been made in a lagoon.

Six novices rushed to the colonel and twisted him. He tried to say something and even fight back, but it was obvious that his hands were not obeying him, and after a couple of seconds he mumbled something to his deputy… Who stood there and did nothing. It was obvious that in this situation he would not mind to see his chief being grabbed and dragged away somewhere, and he would be left in his place. After all, under the current circumstances, if he started to interfere, he might well be brought to justice himself.

— My father is from the central apparatus! — shouted Bazankhr. — He'll blow your heads off!

— Sacrilege is punished very severely if the guilt is not immediately confessed. And a sincere petition for clemency is not immediately presented. I urge you to repent and confess your sins…..

— I'll shoot you, priest! And then I'll shoot your whole stinking church!

— Threatening the holy Church is punishable by death.

The novices dragged Bazankhra into the reception hall, and he was surprised to see his men standing quietly around him, watching peacefully. The Boer punishment unit was no longer standing in a row, but was scattered around the room, taking up a thorough defense. A fire had been prepared in the middle of the hall, and it was only necessary to light it.

The unspoken resource always gave just such an impression: fear and terror before unearthly punishment. The SCF fighters were not accustomed to being prey, and not even to being outnumbered at that: there were three Boers in total, but only the first was inside and lightly armed. In the absence of a clear order of action, nothing could follow, for Bazanhr himself had ordered that everyone be let in. And since he was accused of heresy, the Inquisition had good reason to do so.

Bazankhru was gagged so that his screams would not be heard as he was burned at the stake.

Samokh stood close by and felt a slight heat from the fire.

— How wonderful it is when they say what they think. — the inquisitor said in a low voice. — And it's even better when you know you were the one who helped make it happen… We won't put a gag in Ananhr's mouth. Let her scream from the bottom of her heart…

Zhivenko

What it means to execute an innocent man. Or executing for something you didn't do. Or executing for a great cause. For some great common cause. Is it worth executing an innocent man for that?

Misha wandered through the streets and couldn't get these thoughts out of his head. It was as if someone had gotten under his skin and was rubbing, rubbing, rubbing until the hole was ripped. And, to all appearances, the hole had already rubbed, because he had decided to go to Ranierov himself and talk about it. To go, of course, was a strong word — who was he to let him see a detainee accused of treason. Captain, yes. Only, first of all, of the Penal Battalion. And secondly, it's not his business. They'll ask questions about how he knows about it and whether he's in cahoots.

Bolotnikov first. At least ask him what he thinks about it. It'll be easier to act there and easier to think.

He lived in the same unit where all the other penalized soldiers lived. There was plenty of space in Severodonetsk, and no one tried to take better places or assign someone worse. There was too much choice around.

The major chose the first floor of an old khrushchevka building, which had survived to this day — back then everyone said that such housing was dangerous and that it was all just for demolition. But in fact it turned out that it had been standing for 150 years after the Great War.

On the door he hung an old rusty doorknob on a rope, apparently to make his hands smell better of rust….

It's me, Zhivenko! — knocking on the door, Misha shouted.

The major was in his uniform as usual, except that he had taken off his tunic. Apparently, he didn't want to wrinkle it, even considering the new chevron on his sleeve. Tidy and tidy again. Even in such a position he looked as if in this uniform he could only go on dates and show off in front of girls.

— Oh. Come in — Bolotnikov let Misha inside, and then carefully locked the door: there were three locks and a good steel deadbolt.

Everything inside was neatly tidied and laid out exactly where it belonged: there was a chair with a tunic hanging on it beside the made-up bed, a closed ancient closet next to it, and a table at the side of the window, next to which was another equally old chair. There was a loaf of bread on the table and a knife next to it, and a tin army flask to the right.

— You don't have to tell me why you're here, I already know. — Bolotnikov started from the beginning. — I don't even want to hear it.

— I just got in.

— Then tell me more about Natasha, about your dreams, about what weapons we lack. — The major continued, curling his fingers one by one, and then waved his hand negatively. — But about that rotter, who is now in the brig, I don't need to tell you….

— Serg…

— Yeah. (chuckles)

— Is everyone here not convinced he's guilty?

— Maybe it is. Maybe not… It won't make us better. I was thinking about it myself, and Khmelnitsky reminded me. That if he'd been decimated, he'd have been sent to the Penal Corps.

That's what I've been thinking the most lately…

— All right. Uh-huh. I'm not arguing — I'm not arguing. I just want to understand. What are the grounds for believing that he is a traitor… I want to understand that. Otherwise, you and I will be accused tomorrow, and others will also say that we deserve it, and that it's all in the interests of the state.

Bolotnikov changed his gaze slightly as he listened to the last sentence. What Misha was saying now really did make some serious sense. If the penalty battalion could stay afloat and not sink in a couple of months, then its commander, the former commander-in-chief, would remain alive. And this is certainly not favorable for Zubkov. So what will prevent him from starting a witch hunt and bring him together with Khmelnitsky under all similar charges. He will also say that he received something from the Mountain as evidence, three days to consider, and then shot. What's not an option?