скачать книгу бесплатно
Struggle: Grip of steel
Vladimir Anderson
The fifth installment of the Struggle saga. Metropolitan Guzokh, who has declared himself Pope of Arkhan, forms a new wing of the church, eclipsing the majesty of the patriarchate of Nevrokh. Within his shadowy retinue, a cult of belief in the omnipotence of the Black Stone and an all-consuming thirst for mastery over other minds flourishes. Gora, with the help of Cobra, expands his power into two key sectors of the Ekaterinoslav-Kremenchug faction. But a failed assassination attempt on him seems to inflict an indelible wound on his psyche and his understanding of freedom itself. While "Detachment-14" heats up with new strife, Bolotnikov, gathering his Maquis detachment, appeals to those who are ready to shed their blood for the right to live freely. Power, betrayal and revenge take new, unexpected forms. Each character balances their ideals and reality on a knife blade. Witness this epic saga, where even in the darkest corners a light can shine.
Vladimir Anderson
Struggle: Grip of steel
Prefect
The dream lasted a long time. Actually, it was not even a dream, but some other world, where everything around existed in a different way than one was used to seeing it. A world in which Raphael was alive, and his wife and their child were beside him. Already grown up and looking with such lively and full of something new eyes. Something new that his grandfather could give him. A grandfather who is still a prefect.
So many times these thoughts have gone round and round in circles, and they only stopped at the word "prefect". Yes. It is. And no one else can be. No one else is capable of even thinking about being in this place. It was created by him, for him, and for no one else. All others are just parts, cogs in the mechanism in which he is the brain. No organism can live without a brain, and the business of the whole organism is, first of all, the preservation of the brain. If the brain dies, the whole organism will die.
Somewhere outside, Gora felt a light. A slightly different one, not the one that had been there before for this long time before. A simpler light, not capable of opening his eyes, but only to keep his eyes from getting in the way of scrutiny… His eyes began to open. And along with his eyes came his essence. The essence that wouldn't let him lose.
Around him, he immediately recognized the bedroom walls of one of his offices. It was impossible not to recognize those walls – the Deese sector. His cradle. Where he had risen from the ashes to give people freedom and safety. Yes, that was exactly what he'd been thinking when he'd started all this. No one should die by accident. Or at the hands of the plagues. No one.
Then he made the rules. And no one got killed at all. At no one's hands. He remembered it very well… The mortality that had gone before had ceased to exist as a given. People became different very quickly, no longer seeing death. Sometimes they even started fighting each other.
The very people who just yesterday could have been killed for nothing, suddenly suddenly forgot to value their own lives and the lives of those around them. Simply because they stopped seeing death. Gora, in making these new rules, forgot something very important. Something he had
realized while he was in the other world, raising the dead.
He turned his head and saw two men from his guard. One of them, seeing the waking prefect, immediately ran out of the room, and then slowly approached him. It was Kolya Lesin, who had once been in his own 381st soma of workers. Gora's personal guards were selected exclusively from there.
– Mr. Prefect… – he said timidly. His eyes showed that he trembled at the mere sight of the living leader of an entire faction.
– Who did your partner run to report to? – The Mountain asked immediately.
– To the doctor. – A little lost, Kolya answered. – To Dr. Kupavsky.
At least as long as things are set up properly. Once upon a time, Hora had ordered their best doctor to be kept as a practitioner for the entire sector, not a personal one for himself. His qualifications were too high for him to treat just one person, rather than several thousand. But times were obviously changing, and he would definitely need his own personal doctor. One who, for obvious reasons, would not be allowed to have contact with other patients.
– Give me your gun.
Kolya looked back at him at first – the TT-33 holstered in his holster was an addition to the main weapon of the security units – the AK-74SU. Even when the units were being formed, there was a choice between what to give them as a supplement. That is, the weapon that, in fact, they would not use, but rather for status. The choice was Makarov (PM), Tokarev (TT) or Stechkin (APS) pistols. And, although by all accounts the APS was indisputably better than all the others, then personally Gora chose the TT – this gun was legendary, of the times of the Great War, and of the power he considered exemplary for himself. Especially now. When he had survived another assassination attempt.
Retrieving the gun, Gora pulled out the clip, checked the cartridges, then inserted it back in, carefully twisted the bolt, and placed it under his pillow. This was a time when one should especially think about the fact that a gun for his position was far from being a weapon for his position.
Then he pulled his legs out from under the blanket and placed them on the floor. There wasn't much strength in them, but there was some. And he didn't need more than that. Next to it was a drop cloth with a needle stuck in it, which he carefully pulled out and stuck into the mattress.
Getting up, Hora went to the closet that contained his clothes, opened it, selected his tunic with almost no insignia, except for the Self-Government chefron, consisting of a large fang in the middle and crossed working picks. To the tunic the same dark brown pants and black boots.
By the time he had time to put on his boots the second guard and Dr. Kupavsky had returned. Both of them looked dumbfounded, though the doctor tried not to show it:
– Mr. Prefect, you can't move so much at once, we've had several blood transfusions, blood pressure is very unstable after something like this.
– Thank you, Doctor. – The prefect put a boot on his other foot and, whimpering, threw on his tunic. – Now you'll have to study and analyze my health the whole time you're here. Without being distracted by anything or anyone. Consider this your constant and only duty from this moment on.
Gora walked over to his bed, pulled his pistol out from under his pillow, and looked at it – yes, I should get a holster first, it wasn't very respectable to go everywhere with it in my hand:
– Kolya, give me your holster for now. You'll get a new one during the day.
The prefect left the bedroom and found himself in his office: a desk and chair, a closet full of weapons, a nightstand full of documents, and a large canvas with the image of autonomy. It's his. It belongs to him. And no one else will be able to use it.
– How many guards are present outside the door now? – Gora asked Lesin, who was the last of the trio to leave the bedroom.
– Your entire security company. One hundred and twenty men.
– All right, then. Don't let anyone in without my knowledge. And find me Tikhomirov.
***
Sitting at his desk, Gora realized the reality that was right for him at the moment. The power he had gained not so long ago was pressing down on him with its weight. And not at all from the outside, as he had expected – all those awkward outside efforts, like trying to break the Inquisitors into the Korsa sector from the surface, or firing on the repair team near the Deese sector. It was child's play compared to what was happening in the reality that enveloped him.
This reality of controlling your environment. Near and far. And now, if the inner circle was relatively controlled by the pressure of his well-deserved authority, the outer circle, the people, were very loose. The people knew the Mountain, understood his nature of action and his rigidity in making decisions and enforcing them. But all the advantages ended there. After all, he was not feared, as once the plagues were feared.
Yes, he was the sole owner of the power of several production facilities and even a certain portion of the surface over them. Yes, his orders were unquestionable and the only thing to be obeyed was execution. Yes, everyone was confident in his strategic thinking and firmness of will. Yes, everyone was afraid to interfere or even pretend that they did not like something But no one
was afraid of him anymore. And they weren't afraid of losing him because of it either.
The security the prefect had given them was already taken for granted. A given that could be and would be without him. And it was that message that began to give rise to wrong thoughts.
Wrong thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. The ones that shouldn't have been there by definition, but which were formed because they had to fill the vacuum of fear with something. And since there was no other fear, that vacuum would be filled by thoughtlessness.
Yeah, that's what happens. When people are afraid of something for a long time. That something disappears, stops weighing on them, and they start to think they've done it. By
themselves. And if they did it themselves, they will be able to cope with it again, if it arises. So they relax. This is the very levity that arises in the place of the vacuum where fear used to be.
This is it. Where this and the last assassination attempt came from. None of the people were afraid of losing their leader. They weren't afraid of being left alone to face what the chief used to face. Because they'd come to think of it as nothing. A worthless trifle, handled by a worthless chief, whom nobody fears It is very common for people to mistake kindness for weakness, and it is this
attitude that causes the need to become a terrible ruthless despot who does not value their lives, their attitudes, or their needs. Because now their needs and their life will become the iron necessity to keep the leader alive. And their attitude will become so insignificant in its importance that it will simply be forgotten.....
Now it's simply not possible to be kind and caring while still alive. Either you have to sacrifice your life or these qualities. And people themselves do not realize how important it is to sacrifice the latter in order to preserve their lives. Nothing requires security as much as the need to preserve life first of all. And nothing demands fear as much as security itself, which without fear is simply not appreciated. They do not see that it is there. They do not want to realize that it is the life they have.
There was a knock at the door. First Lesin came in with a report of Tikhomirov's arrival, and only then did Tikhomirov himself come in after approving his entrance. Something had clearly changed in him, something very deep inside, but this change was more surprising than alarming.
There was no competition for him in this something – it was as if his inner core had changed, which probably made him act differently himself. It was reflected in his eyes, in the way he moved, and even in the way he breathed.
– We have much news, Mr. Prefect," Tikhomirov began at once.
– Have a seat and let's go through this in order. Start with who was it? Who tried to put a knife to my throat?
Tikhomirov sat down on a chair opposite the Mountain. It was obvious that there was neither fear nor doubt in him. Only pre-calibrated steps. There were already a thousand of them in his head.
– We have only theories, Mr. Prefect. He never regained consciousness, and there's nothing to hook him to....
– You don't have to hook it. No need for that. Organize a public execution by hanging.
– Mr. Prefect…
– I know what you want to say. But no. I don't need that, either. Executing him, on the other hand, would be a good idea. Let everyone watch.
– As you command, Mr. Prefect.
Gore was all impressed with the qualities of the man he once looked out of the crowd. He was clearly progressing, and very quickly at that. It was still unclear why this was happening, but his performance was encouraging.
– Here's a look at the new set of laws I'll be distributing this week. – The Mountain handed him a piece of paper on which were handwritten, point by point, the "Rights and Responsibilities of the Self-Governing Territory". – Study it now.
Rights and obligations of the Self-Governing Territory
Everyone is responsible with his life for the life of his boss.
Failure to obey the orders of one's superior is considered an act of sabotage and is punishable at the discretion of the superior up to and including the death penalty, approved only by the prefect
Members of the SMERSH organization shall have the right to search, detain and use any physical restraint, if necessary, against any citizen of the Self-Governing Territory.
The Prefect has the power to reward, pardon and execute any citizen of the Local Government Territory without cause
All efforts and measures taken by the citizens shall be directed solely towards the fulfillment of the will of the prefect
No one has the right to question, even in thought, the correctness of the prefect's actions.
Openly not accepting the will of the prefect is considered an act of sabotage
Tikhomirov continued to hold this piece of paper in his hands, reading it, and didn't even blink an eye when he finished doing so:
– Most of these measures have in fact already been approved by me, Mr. Prefect. There are no superfluous words here, except one. In the last paragraph, the word "open" is still superfluous. If in the previous paragraph we believe that one should not be against it even in thought, then we should also consider sabotage a crime even in thought. Whether we know about it or not, we must consider it a crime.
Gora looked at the paper, then at Tikhomirov, then shook his head slightly affirmatively:
– Yeah. You're right. The word "open" doesn't belong here.
Inquisitor
This cell was even smaller than the one he'd been sitting in a few days ago. This one contained only a bunk and a garbage bucket. It seemed to him that the warders had something special to do with buckets – you couldn't just take them out, or cover them with something, or even fill them with water at first. They are inviolable except when you defecate in them. I guess that's what it looked like in their heads.
It was a punitive isolation cell, where prisoners who violated something flagrantly or repeatedly were sent. The priest had violated several times – he was wearing clothes that were not according to the regulations. He had one button undone on his collar and one on each sleeve, plus his sleeves were rolled up. He was reprimanded the first time, and sent to the detention center the second time.
Of course, he tried to convince them that there was no malice in it. That the button on his collar was undone because otherwise the collar squeezed his throat and it was hard to breathe. And the sleeves don't button up properly at all. And that the whole prison uniform was too small for him. In response, he heard that it was not a problem for him to button up, that he sometimes did so during inspections, that it was the same with the sleeves, and that all these were gross violations of discipline.
And again he tried to say that, indeed, technically he could zip it up, but not for more than a couple of minutes while the inspection was going on. And that he was only doing it so that his actions would not be seen as malicious, which they were not.
He was once again told that there was a malicious intent to return everything back to the wrong position after the inspection had left, and that if he did not understand it in a good way, he would have to understand it in a bad way and sit in the isolation center.
With a garbage can, and two square meters of free space. That's all you can count on, Your Eminence Samoh.....
Not a few hours later, the same mentally ill person, who could shout day and night without tiring, was moved to the cell opposite him. And once again, in addition to the acrid stench of his own feces and urine, the sound accompaniment from the room opposite was added.
On the first such day Samokh did not fall asleep, and spent the whole next day in endless efforts to stay awake, pecking his nose at every minute. From time to time the warden looked into the cell and tapped the bars with his baton, on the one hand insinuating that he could see everything, and if you covered your eyes a little longer than the blinking time, he would immediately report a violation – a prisoner in the SHIZO was sleeping at the wrong time. On the other hand, such attention gave Samokh some confidence – he continued to realize that the whole damn structure of the prison administration was probably designed around him to get something out of him. That realization kept him from extinguishing his sense of self-importance to those around him-so necessary when there were no rights to anything.
This one, too, he fell asleep. There was no strength for anything, and even the shouts from the cell opposite eventually merged into such a background that it ceased to disturb him. He dreamt this time of his drill of unspoken resource and of Rambanhr, who is at the head of it. They had beaten Guzokh to a pulp to begin with, then they had taken out some chums from the BSS and shot them, then they had brought in Ananhr herself and started mocking her, calling her an upstart and a whore working her sweet spot. It was impossible to see her reaction or even her face properly in the dream. At those screams the dream ended, Samoh woke up and heard that they were screams from the cell across the hall. And it was so easy to feel the presence of the Church's combat unit near him…
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.
