Struggle. Prisoners of Darkness

Vladimir Anderson

Struggle. Prisoners of Darkness

Prologue

No one remembers the time when we were free anymore. Once upon a time, long ago, there was a war between us humans. We didn't know we'd have to face anyone else. We thought we'd conquered nature, split the atom, mastered space. And then they came… And all our equipment, all our "artificial minds" refused to work… not for us, but for anyone at all: they simply failed. All our achievements became nothing in an instant: missiles, computers, distribution systems, what's more… half of everything became junk. And the shuttles and satellites… who knows what happened to them. Maybe they fell into the ocean, or maybe they are still flying… in fact, nobody is interested in it now....

And all because of some crystal. None of the humans have ever seen it, of course, but the plagues (the very ones who consider themselves our masters) have always propagandized its power and greatness, claiming unimaginable size and intelligence Yes, it's alive. What's more, according to them, he's the one who told them to start the war, and then opened

the portal, after which he jammed all our electronics. Jesus, we're down to one firearm and a couple thousand tanks that survived World War III.

Some put their hope in KAZ (active protection complex; armored vehicle defense, which works on the principle of throwing metal balls in the direction of a flying shell), but it was so little, as well as forces, and the enemies were so many that. God, why did we fight each other?

There's what's left

Why the plagues needed us is quite clear – raw materials, material and labor. Now they pump our oil, our gas and coal, and everything else is also ours and only by ourselves. Here we are slaves and have no rights, that is, not that to our oil or gas, but to ourselves and our children. And how many of us are left? I don't know. maybe a third or a quarter of a

billion. Who cares, as long as there is enough for production?

People are finally equalized in rights. Nonsense, but that seems to be possible when there are no rights at all. When everyone has to work for the chums.

There are those who disagree with this – the Maquis (in honor of the once former rebels). They hide somewhere, they are few in number, but they attack, though rarely. We are all with them, but we see perfectly well that we can do nothing now.

After the conquest of the plague divided all several groupings by continents, and already there formed into several columns. The largest grouping is Eurasian. It consists of four columns: Iranian, Indian, Chinese and Slavic (in the last one everyone was shifted, so in some way it became as before).

Gavriil Zheleznov (for chums he is 643075A2) was the commander of the 381st working soma (in their language "soma" – slave). In the soma he was called no other way than "Gora". Sometimes even in a direct manner. The nickname was justified for a number of reasons: firstly, his orders were always given clearly and unambiguously, secondly, his decision, at least outwardly, could not be shaken by any arguments, thirdly, the very appearance (taller than two meters, heavier than a hundred kilograms, and his face face – a combination of wrinkles and folds, however, not tense muscles),

and, finally, most importantly, the permanence of his position. On this he became a legend. The thing is that it was impossible to hold the position of A (commander, which is written at the end of the serial number) for fifteen years: in case of failure to fulfill the plan, the plagues killed, in case of fulfillment – the Maquis or those who cooperated with them, and such, for some reason, always found. But Gabriel did both with strikingly correct alternation. Some let him live because they thought he was sometimes capable of exceeding the plan. Others, on the contrary, hoped for purposeful "hackwork".

What remains to be noted is his "blood". His great-grandfather was in the war (the name of it his grandfather didn't want to tell his father), and his grandfather was in the war (no one gave it a name), and his father was in the war (no one saw the end of it). Despite such a list, the plagues were unaware of this. They were also unaware that people still have names and surnames, marry, though only in their minds, remember the past and their ancestors, believe in God and deep down cannot live without freedom. They were only interested in the result, and they considered the study of people unworthy of their power.

Work. Now it meant literally everything, and it all existed in the understanding of the plagues, how they would decide to feed and how much sleep they would allow.

A mine, a rig, a mine – all the habitats of an unwilling man.

The 381st catfish worked in a coal mine in Makeyevka, Donbass, along with the 420th, 647th and 253rd. It is impossible to explain what it is like to work in a coal mine, you can only feel it.

Thoughts of a free slave

March 25th, 2170.

Today, the 381st catfish got sorted and cleaned.

"So, did you get any sleep?" – Gavriil joked, approaching his deputy Konstantin Bogatoy (number 5396413B2; category "b" – deputies). The latter was glad to hear such a joke, because all the other jokes he had heard concerned his surname.

"You know… How I'd like to get into a fight with you," he replied doubly: plagues were killed on the spot for fighting, but it was an easy death.

"Should I take it in a positive light?"

"And only with her. All day long I think about death…"

"Good. Even great for the start of the work week. That we have a plan."

Konstantin opened his decrepit yellow-and-black (half charcoal, half clay) notebook and tried to read something. "Okay. If the 420s make it to 11-all and the 647s make it to 13-all, we'll have to clean all 24."

"Is there a deal on the 'exit'?"

"Output" was "left" cargo, which the plagues did not know about. That is, it was extracted, but it was not registered anywhere – it was given to "blacks" (in other words, "doomed" workers, who were put into separate pits with a small layer of coal and in three cases out of four were never taken out of there; only two of them were really saved).

"No," the deputy proclaimed.

"All right, I'll handle it myself. Keep an eye on things here. I'll be back in twelve minutes." "Got it."

Gora motioned toward the 2 way.

The sorting room was a large hall with a total area of 30000 square meters (100x300) and a height of 3 meters, so that the plague was easier to observe. In addition, there was electric (though weak) lighting in the form of bulbs covered by a thin grid. In spite of these "conveniences" it was the most difficult to work in the purification room: the plagues were too visible. Every time one looked at that gorged face breathing fresh air through the mask, listened to that disgusting laughter spewed by yellow throat and pale green snake tongue and realized that it would go on forever – it was a real torture.

Rounding the corner, the commander looked around the room – empty for now, just two chum booths on either side; Groups A and B wake up early for five minutes to study the plan.

Entering the "coal face hall" (the room where direct mining was done), two figures came into view: Dominik Brazik (number 572644A2) and Piotr Dożyk (number 323372B2). Their faces were not grim with the gravity of the task at hand, but they were squinting from sleep.

"What, didn't sleep?" – Gabriel greeted the miners. He liked to inspire the people with such remarks, arousing anger and rage in strictly limited quantities (and it didn't matter who it was poured out on, the main thing was that it would help them survive). Today, the plagues were only allowed to sleep for 4 hours, as opposed to the usual 8; generally speaking, this was the only thing humans were lucky with – the plagues needed 16 hours of sleep, and they thought it was similar to humans, so they cut it down to 8.

"Sleeping. – whispered Dominic to the approaching commander, "Those bastards got in the way. Don't know what's causing all these surprises today?"

"It's not hard to understand," said the deputy. – They've got their hands full."

"Two boots to a pair. How lucky they are to work together. – thought Gora. – Even their eyes are the same… Dark blue with spark and hate. How come they haven't been caught yet?"

"What do you think Gora?" "What can I say… Assholes…" Everyone laughed in unison.

"From words to action. – Gabriel continued. – Here's a question…"

Their foreheads tensed, their eyes glistened, their mouths opened slightly – in short, every part of their faces was engaged, as if in anticipation of a lightning strike in a clear field where only one man stood.

"Exit."

"Well, I thought so," the muscles relaxed.

"Don't tell anyone what you're thinking. It's not time to think yet… But it's time to dream." "That's what everyone's thinking about, and you know very well."

"And plagues, too," Gabriel brightened here. He had said the phrase before, but only now did he realize the power its realization gave him. It's a chance.

"Well Exit…" – Dozhik said.

"This is a chance. It really is a chance," thought Gora. "Kilograms 125, ah…"

"What?" – Stumbled the commander. "YOU asked about Exit."

"Ah, yes. И?"

"We're 125, 647 is 80. I've already talked to them, so you don't have to try, they say they're getting hit hard today." "They haven't finished their work yet and already they're seceding…" – the chums had a whole charter on

punishments – "All right. We'll organize the transfer," Gora replied and thought again: "This is really a chance.

When the commander returned to the sorting place, the catfish began its work. But Gora didn't care about that now: for the first time in his forty-five years he saw a real chance to free people.

"Gora," Konstantin called out to his commander.

The one in turn "woke up" for the third time that day, "What?" "Raphael. He decided to come out today."

"Where is he?"

The deputy pointed somewhere in the middle of the hall, where it was impossible to see anything behind the backs and faces, as well as, of course, the methane dust that littered every corner of the mine.

After a ten-minute search, the young boy Raphael (number 97899213B2; category "B2" – "gray" worker) was found. "Are you doing that on purpose?"

Five days ago, methane exploded and the 381st Soma lost three dead and one wounded. That wounded man was Raphael: second-degree burns on half his arm. Gora had given him a "leave of absence" (those who didn't work, the plagues didn't follow, as long as the plan was fulfilled).

"I'm already healthy," the boy replied, continuing to scrub the ground of embers without raising his head. The bubble from the burn burst, then another burst: clear liquid flowed into the water. Raphael shuddered, then his hand shook, but he kept his head still.

"Stop it. That's an order," Gabriel commanded.

Raphael stopped and raised his head. The gray, impenetrable eyes expressed calmness and restraint. A high forehead and strikingly white skin. It seemed white, despite the obvious charcoal grime that covered it almost everywhere; and even gave off a bluish color. Gabriel saw him as a descendant of the Aryans, who were considered a remarkably advanced and harmonious civilization.

"I can't not work. You understand that," the boy replied and fixed his commander in the eyes with his heavy glassy gaze. The only person capable of "translating" that gaze was Gora. He often observed his most poised subordinate and always saw sadness first. His eyes often looked not at the chums, but at the men at work; they poured blood from the fact that all the hardships the men went through were of no avail. The eyes watched and suffered the slavery of others. And now Gabriel saw those eyes; they wanted, by all means, to end the suffering of the people, including by means of their own sacrifice – for this Hora loved his son very much, but it was beyond him to watch such altruism.

"Raphael, listen to my command. – The commander switched to a completely businesslike tone. – Go to Sector 1 (something like a "human house" a place of rest after work; also in the mine, the plague surface was taken out twice a month for about half an hour) and sleep. Don't come out of there for a week. That's an order."

The Son of the Mountain turned his eyes away and looked at the woman in her fifties washing coal two meters away from him, her eyes bloodshot and another blister bursting on her arm.

"Got it," Raphael replied and wandered off toward Route 1, tilting his head even more than before. He never wanted to be thought of as lazy or afraid of death. Although no one thought so – on the contrary, they called him "The Rock" rather than "Son of the Mountain" for his strong character, as if to separate him from his father's merits, even if they were not so great – even his father had not been so eager to work.

"And don't forget to bandage your arm," Gabriel shouted after him. On top of the fact that bandages were terribly scarce (so scarce that you had to wash old ones several times until they were completely washed out), the plagues also forbade them to be worn outside of Sector 1. This went in as an appendix to the "Clothing Charter", where you couldn't wear any items that weren't work related, and went on to list those items. And if something was forgotten (this was the case with Stanislaw Leszczynski, who wore a chain with a cross many years ago; generally speaking, many people wore them, just as long as they had one, but it was him who was noticed for it), it was immediately introduced, including the "first case" (Leszczynski's head was cut off, because it was the chain that held the cross).

"That's a fine son you have," the same woman addressed Gabriel. "Yes… Yes…"

"His fiancée is the same, isn't she? It's like they were made for each other…"

"What?" the Mountain turned to the woman and, seeing her sincere and joyful eyes, asked. – What bride? Elizaveta Mikhailovna, aren't you confusing anything?"

"Gavriil Vladimirovich. How can I be confused? Her name is Maria. You know her… She's so light-skinned… He wanted to tell you himself, but obviously he didn't have time…"

"Wow… How long have they been together?"

"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 fiancé, 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.