A day later, the punishment days in the SHIZO were over, and Samokh was taken back to his regular cell, where there was a broken toilet bowl with shit in it and, of course, a swarm of flies over it. This day he was not supposed to leave the cell except for the evening formation and rotation, and if it were not for the constant companion from the cell opposite, who had also been released from the isolation cell and brought back. Apparently, he was treated the same way as the holy bucket in the SHIZO – he could not be touched, changed, paid attention to by the warders, and in general the only thing that could be done with him was to move him from one place to another, and in strict accordance with the location of the Metropolitan. And if the bucket was ordinary for obvious reasons, this unicum was undoubtedly dug out of some other prison and placed in this one, so that a famous person would not be bored.
At the evening inspection, where Samokh, believing that it was not necessary to arouse another hatred of him by unbuttoned buttons, decided to be a little patient and put everything in visible order before the cameras were opened. Of course, he looked like a clown in clothes several sizes smaller than his own. And in spite of the fact that there were no remarks to him during the inspection, fifteen minutes after the inspection, several prison officers broke into the cell in an urgent order, who recorded another malicious systematic violation in the uniform, which entailed, of course, a new transfer to the SHIZO. The second in a row.
Nothing had even had time to change, including, of course, the bucket of slop, which stood in the same place as before. There was no doubt about who would be brought to the chambers opposite in a few minutes. And moreover, if it had not happened, Samoh would have thought that something even more terrible was being prepared. So when the cutthroat appeared, it already calmed him down in a way.
This night I didn't even sleep that badly, though I didn't dream about anything. There was no strength at all, as before, so the process of sleeping was equal in an instant – I closed my eyes and opened them almost immediately. The warden tapped on the bars with his key, a traditional way of getting up in the morning for the isolation ward.
And it was somewhat surprising that Samokh had not been taken to any interrogation or other investigative measures. He was being held here simply to bring him to a certain condition, and, assuming that it had not yet been reached, was waiting for his time.
The second visit to the SHIZO was not so long – only one day. And the Metropolitan was taken back. But this time not to his cell, but to a double cell, where at first there was no one. In addition, the cell had a heavy steel door with a window that opened to serve food. The toilet worked, too, and it seemed that these conditions were much better than before. Samoh even thought that they had simply had enough of bullying him, and finally gave him a break, so that he could redouble his strength in the new stage. But he was wrong.
Half an hour later, a prisoner was placed with him, who was not only sick, but was radiating bacilli and germs. He went straight to his bunk, even in front of the warder, who did not prevent him from doing so, even though he was only allowed to sit during the day. In a room of two by three meters it was unreal not to be infected by such a neighbor, and already by evening Samokh felt how from inside he began to feel fever, and darkness appeared in his eyes, and everything dimmed.
Close to bedtime, the patient was taken from his cell with a loud notification that he needed hospitalization due to a corona virus – the same one that periodically appeared in one corner of the
Empire or another. In general, the story of the disease seemed to be over, but periodically new outbreaks appeared, which were quickly localized, preventing the spread. And there was no doubt that this patient had been brought by the S.S.C. from a fresh region, where a new strain of the virus had formed.
Samoh began to vomit, and considering that he had eaten practically nothing, nothing came out. Even before lights out, he collapsed on his bunk and fell asleep half-lying. Then in the morning, the inspection burst in on him after his official rise. They had decided to arrange it not at six-thirty in the morning, but an hour and a half earlier, and the guard went around banging on the cell doors with a key, waking up the prisoners. All the doors except Samoh's cell, who didn't wake up. The inspection recorded a new and vicious demonstrative violation of the order of the pre-trial detention center – it was necessary to continue pretending to sleep after the official wake-up, when the warden woke up everyone personally, and when it made no sense, because anyway they would wake up by force not immediately, but in five minutes. It was impossible to think of anything else but the SHIZO, and the Metropolitan went there again. This time he was already sick.
Of course, no one was going to send him to any hospital as the one who had infected him. They said that he would only infect the recovering plagues there. He would only violate all their loyal and understandably written norms, and here he would also cause physical harm to the people around him. Later Samokh learns that the sick man who spent a few hours in the cell with him, lying on his bunk, was convicted of murdering his sister and her friend at their home during a week- long binge – he broke into his sister's house demanding an explanation, and then stuck a knife to her throat and then strangled her friend. For him, the wardens considered it more necessary to take care of his health by hospitalization.
The third visit to the SHIZO differed from the previous two except for the presence of fever in his body and constantly cloudy consciousness. Samokh regularly puked his nose while sitting on his bunk, and his surroundings in the form of his eternal companion yelling and the warden occasionally banging his key on the bars had merged into a single entity that was purposefully trying to tear his mind away from him. Eventually, sometime toward evening, someone tapped him with a baton – first on the shoulder, then on the ribs. Then in the ribs again.
It made him even more nauseous, and the pain played through his temples like a needle, but he got up. He got to his feet and collapsed. He vomited some kind of sludge, probably bile juice.
After that he felt a little better, though not for long. The warder kept demanding to get up, and it was unclear to the metropolitan himself how, but he succeeded. After shouting something directly at him, the SS officer went out and locked the bars behind him.
Samokh fell back into his bunk and, without even trying to make himself comfortable, fell into sleep. He dreamed of Nevrokh. Finally, someone who had given him the right advice, from whom he had learned to defeat his enemies and to weigh his strength before he acted.
– There is a man who is very dangerous to us. – the patriarch told him. – A man, not a plague.
Who is more dangerous to us than anyone else. Don't be a fool like others, don't think that people are weaker than us just because we once defeated them. Don't underestimate your enemy – there is a very high price to pay for that Don't underestimate your enemy. Don't underestimate your
enemy....
The last catches swirled in a merry-go-round around Samoh's consciousness. In the middle of the night he woke up remembering that dream. And then he remembered another one, where Bazankhr with general's epaulettes tells him about self-confidence, vanity and bluster. It all comes from misconceptions about his enemy. An enemy who now seeks to break him and make him beg for leniency.
– There will be no leniency. – The Metropolitan whispered aloud. – There will be nothing but one. The fires of the Holy Inquisition, which will make everyone tremble at the mere mention of it.
He felt a fever inside him even greater than the one he'd felt when he'd contracted this virus.
A heat that burned away all the sickness, all the weakness, all the indecision. His eyes seemed to come back to life, and he began to see clearly. At the same time, his hearing began to return to him. And then the screams from the cell across the hall.
Samoh winced. Pain shot through his temples from one to the other, a little nausea and it seemed harder to breathe. His eyes darkened momentarily, but he kept moving anyway. And the sensations of reality took hold stronger than the pain.
It was dark, for at night only a single light bulb at the beginning of the corridor illuminated the passage, but the prisoner in the cell opposite was clearly visible.
The Metropolitan stood up and walked to the door grate, still staring at the screaming madman. Raising one hand and pointing it palm up at him, Samokh said:
– Blessings on your healing, my son..... Only Jah's faith will heal you.....
Bolotnikov
That inane inability of people to become better than they can be. And the anger with which they meet any attempt at change. They see you as the enemy. An even bigger enemy than the person who actually made them live worse and make themselves worse. And weaker. What a hard line those two words have.
Weaker and stronger. If we allow ourselves to change, is it strength to change things, or weakness to allow change? Or conversely, is it strength that leaves us the same, or weakness that prevents us from changing error to truth?
Colonel Bolotnikov had no answers to these questions now. He was simply leading the very ten percent of people who had accepted the new changes, and agreed to be free against the will of the majority. About seven hundred people in all. And how they were still being looked at when they left. They even tried to shout phrases like "weaklings", "broken", and even "damned", the latter even caught on amongst themselves. When Bolotnikov gave them the opportunity to choose a name for the new Maquis unit they were now, they all eventually agreed on the word, and it was now the Cursed Battalion.
And the timing was perfect. They really were the cursed ones who stayed. Who didn't want to leave. Who didn't want to give themselves a chance to be free. And take responsibility for it. This word for Bolotnikov became something like a red rag for a bull. He always took responsibility for himself, as if it were a gift, not a burden to be carried on his back.
It was that word that brought him so close to his entire new squad. And everyone could see that their commander was someone who was just as damned as they were. And who has nowhere to retreat to, who, like them, also has all the bridges burned behind him. Want to even go back, and they'll tear you apart on arrival just for not dying when you were without them. That's the kind of hatred you can't confuse with anything.
When people who have let someone go start wishing hard for the suffering, pain and death of the one they let go. While outwardly saying that this is a pattern – a natural position of the wrong decision that was made about them. And internally realizing that if this person succeeds, it will mean that they themselves are wrong.
And they cannot allow themselves to be wrong, first of all, for themselves. Therefore, any return will be interpreted by them as a victory of their opinion and their way of life, which means that it is necessary to punish those who denied it, resisting it. And this will also mean the complete abolition of any framework of punishment for this, because the punished will be a priori infinitely guilty.
The "Damned" battalion was moving from the "Archa" sector towards Poltava, to then reach Kharkov. There was to be a small base of Detachment-14 there, and Bolotnikov expected to meet some of his own, to at least find out the latest news, and what status he himself was now in: deserter, traitor, or whatever. Frankly speaking, he was not much concerned about what word they could call him, but more about the fate of "Detachment-14" itself, which in his understanding had gone down with Khmelnitsky's overthrow. And now it remained only to find out where this bottom was, and how his former comrades-in-arms would behave on it.
And how Misha and Natasha were doing was also important. Still, there were almost no close friends left. And the fewer of them there were, the more precious became those who still existed. After all, you can't lose friends indefinitely. You can only keep their memory endlessly....
And especially now he was curious to ask if they were having the same dream as he was. After all, no one among the "damned" had ever had such a dream. He had asked several of them, and then somehow he had asked them at the general meeting in the evening. He had nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of being misunderstood or thought he was crazy. He had long ago passed those boundaries, and the only criterion for him was the practicality of something, not how it looked from the outside.
No one laughed or looked askew – it was just that no one had ever dreamed anything like this. He stood at the edge of a grove and saw that in the middle of the grove, where everything was illuminated by light, stood a girl and a boy in smart white clothes. "Only together with Mary can you discover the secret of the Black Stone," he only heard from their side.
Raven
"He has a man in there who will blow himself up along with everyone else if ordered to do so," those words loomed in Raven's mind as he stood in the corridors outside the main hall in the Diza Sector administration building. Of course, Cobra's men had let him and his escort of 120 fighters through, pointed out the right roads, led him past the mine barriers where necessary, and now all he had to do was press the button for the elevator to take him downstairs.
But he remembered those words of Cobra's at the meeting. Where he'd said that the prefect's authority was different from the authority within the Kiwi units. The miners followed the prefect's orders as if the sword of Damocles hung over every one of them and would cut them in half for the slightest offense.
"Will blow himself up if so ordered," Raven heard within himself again. He couldn't believe that anyone around him had been able to control his subordinates to such a degree. He had worked so hard to keep discipline among his own people. He had been executed for almost nothing, and kept in pits for weeks, and socialized the families of the dead. But to get that kind of discipline…
No. It seems impossible. And yet there's a man alive who organized it right here. A hundred meters underground. If he's still alive, as they say.
But if you agreed to take it, you're alive. It can't be otherwise. Especially alive since he's determined that the meeting can be underground. You can't smoke him out now. If he survived an assassination attempt, you can't smoke him out. Actually, it's not the first assassination attempt.
He organized the past. Even though he knew it wasn't gonna work. And the guy was just a waste of time. He never made it past the entrance. I'm surprised he even got there. He was supposed to be shot on the way in and just report to the prefect about the weirdness. And he even went through the elevator… However, it wasn't too hard for such an unnecessary little thing to get through the elevator....
All we had to do was break up the Mountain and Cobra. It was immediately obvious that they were going to work too closely together. An experienced politician like Raven didn't need this strengthening of Cobra, especially from outside. He knows how important it is to make sure that the spikes are not out of the ordinary, but like everyone else. Which is more than can be said for Cobra. He's out of line. And the incident with the failed assassin didn't help matters much. But it worked pretty well for someone else. I don't know if the prefect is dead or alive.
No, I'm alive, of course. Otherwise they wouldn't have agreed to take me in. They would have found any reason and said that it was not the right time, that they couldn't do it now, and all the other things they usually make up when they are not supposed to give the right answer. So the Mountain is alive and waiting downstairs. After that damn elevator, where his man is like a zombie and everything can go off just on command.
Raven exhaled the air to relax a little. It had been a long time since he'd been so hesitant to do something, especially something he'd already decided to do. This demonic component of the Mountain's power was becoming all-consuming, all-encompassing, pervasive....
Who was it that said the days of the Kiwis were numbered since the Mounties got self-rule?
The Jackal? Yes, yes, the sly shifter we didn't have time to execute in front of the entire Hivi
leadership… But just because he's a traitor doesn't mean he's wrong. There is, indeed, good sense in his words. The power of the Mountain is fundamentally different from that of the Hivi, who do not have their own backbone, the structure of the organization that he has. A subterranean organization, where one can only enter and leave by strict permission. Where they don't see the sun every day, but only when they are allowed. Where the Sun for them is a prefect who does what he wants with them with the permission of the plagues. And, as it turned out, also decides to live or not to live for them as he wants … No, these are not the Kiwis, who have been rattling their weapons for a hundred years, but cannot seriously agree with each other....
Raven pressed the communication button, and he was immediately answered…
***
The plan was to send the first platoon first, then the second, then descend with the third, and leave the fourth on the surface. But the instructions from the prefect went against this understanding. "Only 20 men and no more," it was said from downstairs over the communications, and it was clear that either this would have to be agreed to or just leave. Raven had to agree.
He stood next to the elevator, realizing that this way he would have more control, and perhaps even something to negotiate if something went wrong. Besides, he was genuinely curious about what a man who was always ready to die might feel inside.
– My name is Raven. – He began, realizing that he had to start somewhere when talking to this man. – I'm the Hivi commander. Do you know about us?
The elevator operator was quite neatly dressed; his work clothes were clean, straight, and well-groomed. It looked as if he loved his work, his clothes, and even his own life. There was nothing terrifying about his eyes, except that the depth of thought coming out of them was a little startling, as if he were very old, though he was clearly in his early twenties. And it was no surprise that his left hand was always in his pants pocket, just as Cobra had warned.
– I know. Everybody here knows a hevy.
– Will you tell me your name? You know mine.
– Name? The name I used to have is gone. A ghost has it. I was once called Kiril. But that name means nothing to me now. It's just a shard of the past.
– Why? Isn't driving an elevator a man's job?
– Ooh, so worthy. That's why the past name doesn't matter And we don't call it an elevator,
we call it a cage. I don't know if elevators go that far.
– I understand. It's really deep. I thought it was a few hundred meters.
– More than a kilometer. Our mine is one of the deepest in the world.
Raven shuddered a little. He felt as if he were really going down to the devil, with whom he had started a conversation.
– So you're not a lifter, what are you? A lifter?
– Yes, a cagey one. And now the name Cage suits me. As long as the cage lives, I live. As long as I live, the cage lives. It's a very important position in the mine, because there's no other connection to the outside world. We go in and out only through the cage and no other way. And I am very proud to be entrusted with it....
– Is the coal lifted through the cage, too?
– No, it's a skip. It lifts the coal up, and there are no people inside, just coal. It's run by other people, and I'm not even allowed in there.
Raven was a little surprised that this man always answered his questions in some way. If he were in Gora's place, he would have forbidden his subordinates to communicate with any outsiders, not to mention the structure of anything. And given that the prefect was obviously not a simple man, there must have been some sense in not giving such an order among his own people. But there was nothing to be shy about, and it was almost straightforward to ask.
– Didn't you ever want to go to Maquis or someone else like us if you had the chance? Kirill shook his head slightly negatively, pursing his lips slightly:
– No. There can be no better leader than our prefect. There simply can't be. And I was lucky
enough to be born here to be under his command You know, Crow, sometimes I can't even
believe it. I could have been born anywhere. In any mine. In any industrial sector. But I was born here. In the Deese sector, where the Prefect himself is from…
A shiver ran through the raven slightly. He tried not to show it, but he was sure it was noticeable. The sight of this man was maddening in a way, his eyes, the way he spoke, and the feeling with which he told it all. In front of him stood a fanatic who had apparently willingly sold his soul to the devil and now marveled at it. Where such a thing could come from, and what should be done to people to make them think like that and even worship their commander, was a mystery. But the worst fears seemed to be justified – these men were ready to bravely give their lives not just on command, but perhaps even begging for that command. Maybe not all of them were like that, but if there were some, it was safe to say that in time they would be the majority, and in a year, if not sooner, there would be no other type of people there.
And it is now very clear that why the Mountain does not forbid or talk to anyone. Why should he? Let them talk about their loyalty, they have nothing else in their minds. And no secrets are obviously not to be entrusted to them. It's not a problem to find out about the whole mine.
Nothing's changed there since the 20th century. And when people feel more free, it is much easier to brainwash them – they will consider themselves volunteers, and all the ideas are their own, which just someone voiced for them, wrapped in a verbal form to make their lives easier.
The Jackal warned me. He had warned, albeit with a sort of fateful tone, that this would happen. That the Mountain would only expand its influence over time and draw more and more territories and people under its power like a snowball. And how many idiots turned out to argue with this point of view simply because it was voiced by a traitor. That traitor is probably laughing his ass off now when he sees that we missed it. And his laughter will probably be heard soon when we finally arrive in hell.
– I understand, Cyril, I understand… The Prefect is indeed an outstanding leader. And it's good that we're on the same side.
Kletovoy nodded slightly but quite confidently, while the fire of pride in himself, the mine, and his chief essentially burned in his eyes.
***
The checkpoint, and now the iron door in front of the prefect's office, removed all doubt from Raven's mind that the devil himself was sitting here. His group was stopped as soon as they left the cage, and only Raven and one of the others with him were allowed in, both being searched and their weapons confiscated. The others were told to stay at the entrance.
All the people in the mine were as if zombified. They walked down several corridors, then past the main crossroads, which apparently gave access to both the mine face and the underground transportation point. In all this time there was not a single worker who looked at the guests with any interest. They only moved a little to the side, so as not to interfere with the passage, when they saw the Prefect's security men, who were looking at the workers and the guests with all eyes.
At the checkpoint near, apparently, their headquarters, they were searched once more and, having let them through, told to wait at the door of the prefect's office itself. It took almost half an hour to wait by the last door. And Raven was already sure that this was on purpose. That the Mountain was making him wait just to wait. To make it clear that there would be no trading inside – there could only be requests, which the prefect would consider at will. But that wasn't enough – the atmosphere itself seemed so dark and terrifying that one wanted nothing more than to get out of here. No agreements, no understanding of anything, just to be left in one piece.
I wondered if Cobra also left his guards at the entrance, also surrendered his weapons, also waited at the door until called? I guess not. That times were a little different back then. Times when one could get a good place in this arrangement, and Raven would have gotten it, if he hadn't been so arrogant and conceited about his position, treating the Mountain as a temporary and not viable entity.... And that's the price he has to pay for it now....
Finally, he was called inside. He thought that now his assistant would be ordered to stay where he was, but no, he was allowed to enter as well.
Inside stood several men on different sides of the table, another on each side of the front door. Several of them had one arm behind their backs, no doubt holding weapons in a concealed hand. Standing closest to the prefect was a much younger man in camouflage, not black like the rest of them, but a man in a camouflage uniform. Apparently the second face of this autonomy, Tikhomirov. Stamina and cunning, exactly as he was described by informants. Hora himself sat at the table with a very stern expression on his face, which was especially colored by a large poster behind him with a huge fang and two picks crossed under it – the symbol of the Donetsk- Makeyevka Autonomy.
– You can sit in the chair opposite," said the one to the right of the door.
The chair directly across from the prefect's desk looked in some ways like an interrogation room, albeit without the bias. But apparently it was not expected to be otherwise. The man in charge of the whole thing was clearly not going to demonstrate that he was anyone's equal. The chiwi commander sat down in a chair.
– You've kept me waiting, Prefect," Raven began, and then, realizing that it wasn't a good start, continued. – I hope this isn't a sign that you've got a grudge against us for something?
– You've been waiting, Mr. Raven. – The Mountain answered without even blinking, not angrily or menacingly, but like the devil himself, explaining the gist of things to the man who had sold his soul to him. – Because that was my order. No one else's. And you've already realized that nothing is done here without my consent. You wanted to talk to me in person. And now you have that opportunity. I keep my word.
