"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 fiancе, 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.
