Struggle. Retribution in the Twilight

— It's not about what roulette you're going to play. — Tikhomirov said at the time. — The point is not to allow such games at all.

Gora agreed with him. After all, there was hardly anyone smarter than Tikhomirov. And if he was so focused on this security, then there was a certain sense in it. After all, one had to get used to the times when the miners would no longer be brothers, and some would begin to secretly hate the prefect, and it would be suicide to refuse security.

For starters, of course, Hora headed for the transportation sector. He enjoyed watching the coal being loaded, which would then go into the plague empire's vaults as tribute for their ability to live peacefully. Right now, he didn't even care about the questions that such a system of existence might raise — what to do when the coal ran out, or maybe the plagues wouldn't need coal, but something else. These are useless questions that cannot be answered. What is important is that there is a time now when that coal may be the payment. That is the only thing that matters. And it is only because of this that the Mounties will soon have two new sectors under their command….

The slaughtering sector was quite quiet as he approached. The chopping machine had finished its work for the day, as it had mowed enough coal. No extra was extracted — there was only a stockpile for the next three days, which was in the cleaning sector.

The Corsa cleaning sector itself was larger than the Deese sector by a factor of one and a half. Huge belts full of coal needed to be washed brought to Gora's mind thoughts of how the plagues of every miner working in the days when there was no autonomy. Fear, hopelessness, and the unknown were all things a miner had to remember when he got up early in the morning and when he went to bed late at night. Now the whole cleanup was now only in the hands of the miners themselves. At least, that was what they were supposed to believe sincerely and all together.

Gora noticed one of the workers, who was taking a very long and meticulous time to clean everything out of everyone with a coal. He was scrubbing each one, rubbing and twirling his head in a strange way. When the prefect came closer, he noticed that he was also smiling a little foolishly. The worker was acting very strangely, and it seemed to have just started, because people standing near him were looking at him, and those standing close to him were looking away.

— What's wrong with him? — Asked Gora, the closest miner to him.

— I don't know. He's new to us. — the other guy said. — He was fine this morning. He was just quiet all the time. He didn't want to talk to anyone.

— I see. — Gora began to squeeze toward him, and, given the number of people and the narrow passages between the rows, the Smershevtsy lagged a little behind and even shouted something to him not to move away from them.

The prefect only waved a hand placatingly at them, saying "don't worry," as he approached the twitching miner.

— What's wrong with you? — he asked him.

— We have to clean it up. We have to clean it up very thoroughly.

— You launder well enough… You tell me what happened to you. We're all brothers here.

We're supposed to look out for each other.

Gora was too caught up in his desire to look great in front of everyone around him. Thinking too much about how he looked from the outside. So much thinking about it and imagining it that he completely stopped paying attention to what his companion was doing with both hands. What mattered to the prefect was that everyone could see how much he cared for everyone. That every miner was important and valuable to him and would not be abandoned not only in trouble but also alone. After all, despite the narrow spaces, where there was almost no personal space, the biggest problem for everyone who had no relatives was the complete inner loneliness, misunderstanding and emptiness of life. Everyone had lost too many relatives and friends by the time they got self- governance that they had gotten used to considering themselves alone among the masses, where everyone could die at any moment. All this was to disappear with the appearance of the Mountain, who could be a father to all. Who would give absolutely everyone the right not to be alone.

That is why it was so important for him to appear great even in a simple conversation with a worker cleaning the coal. A worker who kept cleaning and scrubbing the coal with one hand, and with the other hand went into his sinus cavity. For some reason. Slowly and inconspicuously.

— Glory to the Black Stone. — said the miner, raising his eyes to the prefect. Eyes full of movement, full of achieving his goal, full of doom.

— We all believe in Him. Praise Him. — Gora was quite sure that in this way the miners were only experiencing a baptism into a new faith that now gave them even greater security. And that in the near future people would indeed talk about it all too often. Just as something unexpectedly new.

The miner smiled with one side of his face, and from somewhere off to the side his hand lunged forward with a knife blade straight for the prefect's throat.

Inquisitor

A dark, very dark carriage. A row of compartments with bars instead of doors. Instead of seats inside, there were bunks. In the lower row on the right and left, and in the upper row it was still possible to lower the flap in the middle to cram someone else in. Samokh did not want to go upstairs, but instead of the periodic escort to the toilet he was given a bucket. And now he had to go there to fulfill his needs. So he had to climb up. So he wouldn't have to sit next to his own shit and piss.

He had just been blown away, as if on purpose, when he got into that damn carriage. And to all appearances, there was no one else but him. And it is understandable, for the metropolitan's own railroad staff SCK will not spare.

Especially after this disgusting theatrical performance, in which several SSchekists posed as an investigator and two witnesses, in whose presence he said that he would not testify against the patriarch, because the patriarch could not commit indecent acts, and the mere thought of it was

heresy. As a result, he was charged with slandering the patriarch, the highest ecclesiastical official of the empire. He replied to these accusations with a complete denial — that he did not accuse the patriarch of anything, and that what was listed and imputed to him was an impudent lie.

So now he was being held for further trial. The mere thought of it made him giddy from side to side. How could it be that someone dared to accuse the metropolitan by a secular court, and even to slander the patriarch himself. Even if we allow ourselves such an impossible circumstance, such a case can be considered only by the college of metropolitans headed by the patriarch himself. He was told that the case would be conducted by the branch of the government that had initiated it, namely, the imperial criminal court.

The train was shaking and it was very cold. It was beginning to be fall, and it was already quite chilly at night. Considering the apparent absence of convoyees in this carriage, the heat was much less. The guards heated themselves in their enlarged compartment, from which smoke smoked and the stove crackled from time to time. And not once Samokh was offered a blanket.

But they offered him something to eat. They must have smelled his diarrhea in the bucket, and immediately realized that it would be a good idea to treat him to something appropriate by serving him canned fish. Apparently they could find nothing more appropriate to mock him.

Then at some point one of the warders, apparently out for a smoke, came to the grate of his compartment and handed him a tin flask, saying that it was moonshine. Samokh was very chilly, it seemed that his nerves were running out, so he took a drink from it.

And it really turned out to be a gift for that moment. My mood lifted a little, and my stomach didn't rumble as it had before. It must have burned good, because the warmth spread through his body in no time at all. He felt sleepy immediately, and passed out.

***

When the train stopped, quite abruptly, as if it had been pushed several times from behind, Samokh felt an aching pain in his throat, and at the same time an even greater chill than he had felt before. Apparently he had lost more heat than he could reproduce, and thus raised his temperature. He was dizzy again, and seemed to have no strength at all.

But the SRs didn't care. It was as if they had forgotten who was in front of them, even though the Metropolitan continued to be dressed in a purple hoodie, still stained with dirt around the edges. Samokh was easily pushed out of the compartment, on the way even tapping the baton on his hand, which at one point grasped the bars to steady itself. He stumbled, and almost fell backwards, right on the garbage can, the stench of which had spread to the whole corridor.

— Have you forgotten who I am?" the Metropolitan barely spoke. His strength was only enough to move his lips and whisper a little. There was no strength even to raise his eyes.

— Prisoner. — one of the guards said to him and kicked him lightly with his baton. — And you'd better not forget that yourself.

Samokh recoiled slightly as he received the blow and pushed himself against the wall to keep from falling. Strangely enough, but after that it seemed to him that a second breath had opened up, that now he could even feel his legs and a little bit of his arms. That now he could at least walk, not just move wherever he was pushed.

He was literally shoved out of the car, though he was supported from below so that he didn't fall onto the neighboring rails. There was no platform at all, just several rows of tracks and a small checkpoint in front of the entrance to the fenced-off area. Barbed wire was stretched everywhere, spotlights were burning in different directions, and in some places guard guards could be seen moving around the perimeter.

Inside the checkpoint, he was forced to undress, sign for the surrender of his clothes and the property he had with him, i.e. the ceremonial stone on a chain, which, strangely enough, no one had taken away so far. Then he was taken to a sort of wash-room, where he was hosed down with ice- cold water, which made him cough so hard that it seemed as if he might spit out his own bowels… And only then was he given a prison robe almost identical to his own, except that it was a duller and more frayed purple color. It was even surprising that the SFK in their prisons used the same color

for their prisoners as the clergy did for their vestments. It was like a hint of who they thought they were, and what kind of place they had in mind for them.

— I should have known that beforehand. — Samoh thought. — Who is our main enemy. After all, they obviously hadn't missed their main enemy.

Of course, the robe wasn't the right size. That would have been half a problem, but it was a good deal smaller than it was supposed to be. The sleeves were so short that they barely covered his elbows, and the shirt could not be buttoned at the last button, because it would cut into his neck. He had already been reprimanded for this — he was not dressed according to regulations, with his collar button undone.

He didn't care about that now — let them make their remarks. He was already in prison, it couldn't get any worse. But when he saw his cell, he realized that there was room for improvement. The toilet was so filthy that it looked like a biological threat. Flies were swarming around it, and it smelled so bad that he wanted to vomit his own bowels again, because there was nothing else to vomit.

Samokh took off his shirt, leaving him in a tank top, and put it on like a mask, covering his nose and mouth. That way, at least, the shit didn't smell so bad, but mixed with something like diesel fuel, the odor coming from the very robe he'd been told was new. Given that there was nothing on the only bunk but a mattress, he had to curl up on it.

The passage connecting the cells was dark because the only light came from the emergency light bulb. It said rather that the working day was over and the prisoners should sleep. But about fifteen minutes later, wild screams came from somewhere in the distance. They increased with each passing second, until this someone was brought to the cell directly opposite Samokh's.

The warders opened the bars, shoved the poor man in, and then quickly locked him in. He kept on screaming: before he was there, during the warders' actions, and after them. He shouted something unintelligible, sometimes mentioning the phrases "it's not my fault" and "get away from me". He sounded a lot like the people the Inquisition periodically sent to the stake or to the asylum, depending on who was doing the procedure. Those who ended up in the asylum would continue to yell until they tore their ligaments, and strangely enough, in a healthy plague, this would happen much faster if he yelled that much. In such patients it went on for months.

Samohu wasn't surprised that such things were being done to him by the SRs. First the abuse in the train, then at the checkpoint, the purple-colored robe itself, and now this madman who would definitely not let him sleep. And what kind of sleep — he has nothing to cover himself with, and the stench from the toilet, which is obviously disconnected from the water so he can't flush it. One thing is clear — they want to bring him to a state where he will ask for a text to be read out and then confirmed. And all of this is just to soften his own terms. That's the maximum he'll get from them: a cell with a working toilet, a blanket and no screaming lunatic in the cell across the hall. That's what he'd get for agreeing to cooperate with them, completely betraying his faith and putting his career on hold.

***

Strangely enough, at some point he fell asleep. About two hours before he was awakened. And though it wasn't enough, it was better than nothing. Samoh dreamed he was standing in the altar room of the Black Stone Temple in Chum Batu, alone. And looking at the throne. The very throne that was reserved for the patriarch in case he conducted the service… What an unattainable throne it was, because Nevrokh did everything he could to make sure that no metropolitan would be there.

In normal times all the services were conducted by the rector of the temple, Dolonokh. But on special feasts the patriarch personally conducted such services, and it turned out that either Dolonokh or Nevrokh sat on this throne. None of the metropolitans during the patriarchate of Nevrokh received such an honor. While in times gone by, this was practiced annually.

It is only a symbol, nothing more, but to hold a service in the main temple of Chum-batu would now mean to aspire to the holy throne. It was to Samoh that Nevroh promised this place after himself. To the one who would continue his work and strengthen the supremacy of the spiritual

authority. He would do everything to make the word of the patriarch more important and weightier than all the words of the Central Committee of the Empire. And most importantly, that this word was final.

That's what the Inquisition was so necessary for, and it was necessary to keep the imperial army, the administration, the common laborers, and especially the BCC in such fear.

To his right, Colonel Bazankhr appeared in the altar room. Not burned at all, but rather in some new uniform… And with different epaulettes. General's.

Samoh looked at him in surprise and asked:

— When did you become a general?

— The day we managed to burn me, having previously blabbed and poisoned me with their poison. The same day I became a general. Posthumously.

— And for what merit?

— Self-confidence, vanity and braggadocio. For which you have been rewarded.

Bolotnikov

Bolotnikov sat in a not very dark room, not very damp and not very nasty. What he had expected to see in a quivi prison was very different from reality, and for the better. The hand basin had fresh water, the bunk didn't creak as much, and the springs didn't rest against his back as they usually did, and the toilet was a bio-toilet that could be flushed into a tray, so the cell didn't stink as much.

Not only that, but there were no rats at all — only mice, and not many of them. There were much more of them in the temporary maquis barracks, and sometimes it seemed as if they were loaded with the cargo on purpose, so as not to be left idle for nothing.

We were fed three times a day, and the food was not only tasty, but also varied. Buttered buckwheat, chicken broth with vermicelli, and borscht. The news that the Kiwis ate borscht for dinner was a stab in the back — how much better they lived than the Maquis. Of course it was no secret, and of course it was logical, given the situation, but when you saw it with your own eyes and tasted it, it was hard to stop yourself from thinking about things you had forbidden yourself to think about before.

Why all this running around, death throes and struggles, which in many cases turn out to be of little use to anyone. In fact, no miners and metallurgists in slavery escaped en masse from places of confinement under the oppression of plagues. They didn't really need to try their fate somewhere in freedom, given that under the Maquis there were enough areas where neither plagues nor chiwi appeared at all. Almost complete safety — sit and work just the same, but in much better conditions. And no. People did not try to change their way of life to such a way of life, although you just had to run away from them once.

Yes, it requires a certain amount of courage and some preparation. But compared to the daily fear of death and more and more humiliation from the plagues, this courage and preparation is nothing. To spit and grind was all the effort it took to start living normally. And even more so, if some of them were worried about those who would stay, it would be easier for all of them to agree, and to escape en masse — it would be more organized and efficient.

But no. The people haven't gotten to that point. For over a hundred years they had been enslaved in monstrous conditions, unwilling to change anything… So then why the Maquis? Why undermine something, try to free something, destroy new and new echelons of imperial troops? Why do what no one asks or expects?

Bolotnikov used to have an unequivocal answer, that there was simply no other way. That it was their duty. But now… When he had seen with his own eyes that even a quivi prison looked better than the usual miner's dwelling, that answer had ceased to be so appropriate. Now it just seemed pointless and of no use to anyone but himself….

And yet, the Maquis had never once taken any significant area from the Empire. Not once had the Maquis taken a sector, a mine, and freed the miners there, if only to take them with them.

It's never happened once. And, most importantly, there was not even an attempt to do so… And this was now causing a huge number of questions….

As he saw for himself, there aren't many Kiwis covering the mine — a battalion, maybe two.

There's one or two more drills of chumas in the area. That'd add up to a thousand and fifteen hundred men at most, if you counted at the most. And that's if you count the most heavily guarded sector, where Ananhr herself sits.

Let's say it's not easy to get here, as many Maquis fighters. But there are other sectors within easy reach. Without having to go through Bakhmut. And waste routes would be more convenient.

The same Kremenchug — there is also a mining sector nearby. Why Khmelnitsky's group, which at that time numbered almost 20 thousand fighters, did not repel this sector and did not release the prisoners who were there. Several thousand metallurgists who are still working at the steel plant near the city. What were we guided by when we were there ? I can remember that. We were

guided by the fact that the group was trying to be surrounded, and it was actually coming out of the cauldron, and delay could cost us too much….

Maybe. Maybe But it turns out that for every such case there is an excuse. And it's the best

one every time. We almost got surrounded here. There's not enough of us out there. It's hard to get close. There's something else. And the bottom line is that in all the time the Maquis have existed as an organized resistance force, they have never once managed to raid a sector to free, in fact, those they are fighting for.

Bolotnikov got up from the bunk and walked to the entrance grate, then quickly turned around and went to the window with the grate, then back there again, then back again. And so, for about twenty minutes, until he was dizzy. It didn't work well to dash around the two-meter-by-three cell, but this lack of answers kept him on his toes.

The Maquis have never recaptured a single site inhabited by humans. Not one. So many battles and operations, so many sabotages. Seizures of bridges and fortified areas, summits, bases. And never once have we recaptured a place where there are people to liberate. Why is that? Having considered everything from this angle it became obvious that it was the complete absence of this fact that gave rise to the presence of the reason for it. One thing was clear: capturing such a Maquis facility would do more harm than good.

What harm could it have done? Could the miners have been a burden? Or perhaps the losses from liberation could have become so great that it would have offset the gains of victory? But no. It doesn't add up. There are several thousand people in any production facility, and even if we hypothesize that the losses from the Maquis operation against the Imperial army would be two to one, there would still be more free workers. And that's even with such devastating losses.

No, something's not right. It's something else. And it's not numbers. It's something psychological or ideological. And maybe the very thing that was thought of in the beginning. The miners themselves don't run away en masse. They rebel very rarely, and that's when they've overreached somewhere. Maybe the point is that the miners just won't go after the Maquis. Maybe the answer is that simple. But the only way to find out is to liberate at least one object. At least try to give the miners a chance to be free. And where is that chance?

Someone tapped something tinkling on the prison bars, and Bolotnikov turned around. At the entrance stood the shaven-headed commander of the Hivi, who not so long ago had himself hinted that it would be a good idea for him, Bolotnikov, to liberate some industrial sector. The thought flashed through his mind that he should try it. He should see for himself what would happen if he gave the miners the freedom to go away from the mine to the free land and live their lives, instead of working for the plague empire.

— How's the mood, Penal Major? — the commander of the hevi asked as he entered the cell. — Why don't I stop calling you "punishment major" for starters? How do you feel about that?

Bolotnikov nodded his head a little, after all, he had been unjustly assigned to the penalized

men:

— Yeah, that'd be nice.

— Very well… So, Major, will you tell me whether it is good or bad to relieve the miners of their plagues? — It was a bit surprising, but the commander of the chiwi sat down carefully on the bunk and put his hands on his knees. It looked as if he trusted Bolotnikov well enough now, rather than just being sure that the latter wouldn't try to escape or attack him. And then suddenly he continued, as if reading his thoughts:

— Well, where would you run to, Major? Back to the Maquis, who will hang you or, at best, put you to waste? Or to the plagues, who won't even look into it, but just kill you at their pleasure? Which of them? At whose hand you would rather be killed? At the hands of friends or enemies?

Bolotnikov looked at him and could not answer anything. It was as if a devil was sitting in front of him, reading his thoughts and finding the right words along the way. It was as if these words were woven from those in his own head. Or, perhaps, shoved there by him? He even seemed kind enough now — indeed, he had never been hit, never even pushed, well fed and given a clean, tolerable cell. It couldn't have been better.

And now this man sat beside him, so confident and poised, and right in front of him laid out everything that was true about his life. Poppies, plagues, miners. Life and death. The answers seemed so right there. In this cell. And especially in the presence of this man. A name he didn't even know.

— At the hands of the enemy. — answered for Bolotnikov, the commander of the Hivi. — At the hands of the enemy, of course. At least it won't hurt so much. Did you guess?

— Yes… You guessed it… And exactly, because it would be less offensive. — agreed Bolotnikov.

— Well, then, let's get acquainted, Major Bolotnikov. — Hivi stood up and extended his hand. — My name is Cobra.

Without thinking, Bolotnikov stretched out his hand and shook it. There came a very strange relief, as if he had made a decision that had been looming before his eyes for a long time, and now there was no need to hide it from others, and especially from himself.

— Sergei Bolotnikov," he replied.

Cobra smiled. Not snide or malicious, but confident, like he was glad to meet a new person: