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Struggle: The Path to Power
Vladimir Anderson
The second part of the Struggle saga. Gora takes control of the entire Deez sector and is now the prefect. In his hands is concentrated all the power to make decisions about the fate of people. He sets the standards for reward and punishment, and his decisions are non-negotiable. With the protagonist's power comes a myriad of opportunities and resources to fulfill his schemes. He begins to gather supporters and allies around him, increasing his army and influence. His opportunities are limited only by his own aspirations, and he seeks to gain strength before he strikes his decisive blow. *** Reveals the complex moral dilemmas that arise when unlimited power is wielded and shows the consequences of decisions made by one man for many.
Vladimir Anderson
Struggle: The Path to Power
Prologue
It's evening. It was getting dark, and it was time to go to bed. Masha was given a spacious room with three windows, two large oak cabinets against the wall, and a bed.
The girl was left alone, saying "Good night". It became so unclear to her what to do now that she was even a little afraid: her conscience would not allow her to disturb these kind people, and she did not know what to do.
First of all, what is a bed? Grandma took so much care in laying it all out: the sheet, the duvet cover, the pillowcases… What is all this? Can't you just lie down and cover yourself with a blanket? Put your hand under your head and sleep… Why climb on something? What's the pillow for? That's not what everyone in the mine is used to. And it's more comfortable this way.
The hosts had already gone to bed. Time was running out.
Masha never took off her clothes before going to bed, like everyone else at the mine, but now is different. It was all so clean, and her light jeans were half in the ground and no longer light at all, her gray jacket was wet, and she didn't want to get it all dirty with what Maria Sergeevna had obviously washed for so long.
Carefully placing her clothes on the dresser, Masha lay down on the bed and covered herself with a blanket.
Nice and easy.
"These people are right. It's much better to sleep this way," Masha thought.
That dim and mortal moonlight. It was carried all over the room, and in every corner it reflected a plague. The girl remembered her husband again. The vile yellow images of his dead body hovered before her eyes. How he had stopped breathing, and she had been left alone, without him.
And there's nothing you can do about it!
"Jesus. – Masha covered her eyes with her palms. – How can I live without him? Why did you take him and leave me…? I want to go to him. I can't live without him… Lord, why did you take him away?"
"I'm always with you. – it was that inner voice in the middle of my chest. – Mash, I'm always with you."
And neither the moonlight reflecting the plagues in every corner, nor this high bed with white sheets-nothing could suppress that voice. He spoke to Masha for half a minute, or half an hour, or half a night, and it seemed to her that it was an eternity. That it was the same eternity that could never end. Because in these moments he was beside her, and he was a part of her… Just like that dream, which gathered all her tiredness of the previous days and took her to itself until the morning.
Prefect
Weeks had passed since Maria's escape from the Disa sector, then another, then a month…
Life was different, different for everyone.
Gavriil Zheleznov decides who will work at which site. Gavriil Zheleznov decides how much is extracted per day. Who and how to punish and reward decides Gavriil Zheleznov.
The only direction from the chums is the monthly plan.
Now nothing happens in the whole group without the knowledge of the Mountain. The only two sectors that remained under the control of the chums: 2nd and 5th (the guards rested in the fifth sector, and the access to it was from the corridor connecting the purification room with the loading room – this area was closed off for the night).
Moreover, Gora had a separate office at the exit from the purification room to Sector 1. Even though he was rarely there, the fact of having a room for the prefect of the group was important, which, by the way, had a file cabinet with reports on all the advantages and disadvantages of mining with different tools in different conditions: to tell the truth, everyone knew it by heart and without any reports.
On April 27th, the prefect appointed his former soma to the cleaning sector. His place was by this time occupied by Kostya Rich.
Immediately after the instructions were given, Gora would retire to his office behind his oak desk and chair. This was a special maneuver: everyone had to think over their task and come back for explanations, if they needed them, and if they didn't need them, then get to work. But do everything quickly, or else Hora himself would appear with his iron dictatorial voice.
Sitting down in his chair, the prefect froze. Every day, for him, those few minutes of waiting were incredibly long. He was even thinking of abandoning the whole "big boss" and "unshakeable tyrant" strategy. The waiting was getting harder and harder with each passing second: he saw his dead son everywhere and how dozens of trains carrying tons of coal were passing exactly where he was buried. The constant bad thought that he could have found a much better place than that.
This time it was Volin who entered the room; his position as deputy allowed the maximum possible. And he was darker than a cloud, and with good reason. How long had it been since he'd seen his child?
"Gavi, will you explain to me what's going on?" – he said even a little too calmly for his condition. The question had been on his tongue for a month, and now it came out like this.
"Sit down," was the only correct answer now: start telling him anything at once and he wouldn't stand for it.
Volin sank down in his chair, staring at the wall to his left. His face showed no resentment or anger: it was just scolding itself for the fifth week in a row, which made it lose its expressionit was painfully tired.
"Let's deal with this in order…" – Gora felt that something harsh should happen after these words, but nothing of the sort happened: the man simply shook his head and sullenly agreed. – Masha had to get to Razdolnoye. Right?
– So
– There were poppies waiting for her. Until April 10th. Right?
– Well, well, well. But there's nothing.
– The group that was supposed to meet her was ambushed before reaching the rendezvous point 26 kilometers away. There were two survivors. They turned back. The next group was sent later and arrived on April 8.
Volin listened to the whole story and could barely hold himself together: the Maquis had failed to meet his daughter, and he already hated them: "Gavi, you understand me… I have no one but her. And now I don't have her either… You…"
– I didn't finish. She was never seen, that's true. And there was no trace of her anywhere in the vicinity. But. You realize that at any other time no one would have taken this seriously, but one of the Maquis saw a girl, tall, long blond hair. You know there aren't many of those out there....
– Where?! Where have you seen her? – Volin jumped up so that the chair flew back against the door like a deflated chair.
Gora smiled, albeit a little fake: "It's all right. It's okay… That rebel didn't remember the exact location. It was on the other side of the river. Not for long at all." – Where? What river? Don't drag it out!
– Kalmius. Where it was supposed to be… It was near the town of Novy Svet… Don't worry. Ask Tikhomirov, he'll tell you everything. Who better than him to know such things?
Volin's face twisted in an unknown direction. Creases popped up on his forehead, stretched by old wrinkles. These wrinkles had been going on for a month now, and here they cracked. The miner began to slump down and, unable to find a chair, sat straight down on the ground – he felt no better and didn't know what to do next. All these messages only added to the heaviness of his soul, and with time he stopped feeling both time and the surrounding reality.
Nikolai Lesin burst into the room without knocking: "Gavriil Vladimirovich, there's a mess going on in there!" His face was filled with something unnatural, something that had never occurred before.
"You should get some rest. – Said Hora, standing up from the table and picking up a chair lying by the door. – Just sit for a while. Don't do anything."
Coming out of his office, the prefect immediately realized what the matter was: two miners, right in his soma, were fighting with each other.
The prefect understood this situation, but Gavriil Vladimirovich didn't get it at once – his mind was going through some hitherto unknown thought processes: "Two miners got into a fight… They are both miners. They share the same fate. Shoulder to shoulder. And they fight. Fighting is a way of showing dislike, hatred, maybe attempted murder, loss of self-control…
Hate. Murder. Emotion."
One miner beats up another. When did that happen?
Nearly two hundred people, including Rich, were watching all of this, and no one had a thought to do anything about it.
No one could believe it.
The oldest man still living underground, miner Nikolai Pavlovich Krasnenko, thought he was suffering from marasmus. He thought that by the time he was eighty-two years old, it was time for his mind to move. And to this he was presented with strong evidence … That he himself has ever even thought of the fact that you can hit his comrade … Yes never. Never even a thought. Getting mad at someone, yes. An argument, yes. But not hitting. The plagues do that for us. But to hit a fellow man. Never. How can you do that? We're shoulder to shoulder. You can't survive here without each other. We're all family here! No, such things just don't make sense. "Young people? No. What youth? We didn't do that when we were their age," thought Galina Borisovna. It seemed to her that all this was some ridiculous coincidence that these two had misunderstood something about the relations between everyone at the mine, about the fact that here one individual person does not represent anything without the rest of the collective.
And in spite of all the excuses for their stupidity, she still felt sorry for them.
The thoughts of all the miners went around these two words: stupidity and pity.
Gora moved toward the fighting men. They were fifteen meters away, and when it became ten, they both spotted the approaching man. Immediately they separated and froze in their places.
Gora didn't even think about what was going on; he walked over and cracked one of them so hard that his head flew back a few meters and he fell to the ground. The other didn't move, for fear of doing something worse. A broad, sweeping blow knocked him aside. Both were now lying on the ground, barely moving or breathing.
Kirill Stolov stood aside, not even blinking. He had seen Pinishchev executed once before, and he knew perfectly well that he himself could have been in his place. That incident had been enough for him for the rest of his life, and now he wanted it all to be over and the work to go on.
Gora spotted the one he needed and beckoned to him with his hand. It was Stolov. His eyes fell open in fear and froze at their last point. His legs slowly swung forward.
"For the first time they will live," said the Mountain to the one who feared him most. – But the next time will be the last." His voice was quiet enough that no one but Stolov could hear it, but as soon as he was gone, every word he said would be known to everyone. And Stolov would tell it all so that no one would ever think of doing anything like that again.
Zhivenko
The city of Kremenchug. It is quite warm and the snow is almost melted. Spring is almost here.
Victor Khmelnitsky and his "Squad 14" moved here for a while.
A house among the houses, as wooden as all the others. Inside, an unheated stove and Misha Zhivenko at the table. His eyes darkened and his head drooped, but his hands did not drop.
His thoughts are slow and anxious. For a month now he had been blaming himself for letting Sasha go alone, for letting his horse twist his leg, for giving him a chance to change everything.
The commander of the Nikopol group wrote him a letter personally. He had read it so many times that he had learned it by heart: "My friend! I cannot write officially, because this is an unofficial letter. It contains neither secret information nor instructions for action. It is only to help us in these difficult times.
I am sure that you, like me, have seen our comrades die and give their lives for the sake of victory. You and I have lost many friends and family members. And there is nothing we can do about it. We can only endure and continue what they died for and what we may have to die for.
This is our destiny, and we have no choice but to follow it.
We all think that way and strive to do what we have to do at all costs. But there are moments that push us forward even harder, that make us believe in victory. That's heroism.
More than once I have seen it on and off the battlefield, and each instance I will never forget.
That morning was unusually beautiful and sunny. The ancients believed that the beautiful days of the Earth should be beautiful for man as well… I stood on the porch then and felt that this was that beautiful day.
Two of them were returning from the patrol, but soon I saw a third with them. It was Sasha. At first I thought he was all right. He got off his horse easily and came toward me. But then I noticed that his fingers weren't moving, they were blue and dead. I don't know how, but he pulled something out of his jacket with them. It was a letter. And then he collapsed on his back and never regained consciousness. I didn't even get to hear his last words. Then I remembered his eyes well… I didn't immediately realize what their expression meant. They were calm and contented. I had never seen such eyes in the dead.
Only the next day it became clear to me why he looked at the sky like that for the last time. He didn't need anything else, he wanted to die.
Then we found his footprints. In the snowy steppe. I can't describe how I felt then… Those footprints went into infinity. I can't imagine what it must have taken for him to walk all that way.
I couldn't help but write you this letter, I had to at least tell someone about our friend's courage.
Heavenly kingdom to him!
Your eternal friend, friend of Sasha Rucheyov."
Quite some time had passed since that incident. Misha had been promoted to captain and had recently been in charge of three officers and a platoon: Max Rozhkov, Grisha Listov and Kostya Metsov.
There was a light knock on the door, and Major Sergei Bolotnikov came in. He looked quite satisfied, though he didn't say anything, but still reassuring.
"And today is a good day…," he said cheerfully, rattling his boots on the creaking floor. This is a typical Soviet officer: neat, but not dressed up as for a parade, with apparent adherence to the rule "A healthy body has a healthy spirit" and without unnecessary forms of ostentation like a wide step a meter to the side.
"Yes." the captain answered him without raising his head. – Just like when Sanya died."
– You know, your insubordination is gonna get you to the edge someday. I'm okay with it, but you know how it is. It's not like we don't have it.
"You're right," Misha simply brushed it off now, not wanting to spin such a pointless conversation with only one ending in prospect.
– Come on, that's not why I'm here. I have good news for you. Don't ask me why it's so late, I won't tell you… A month ago they sent Sanya and you a letter. You've been going crazy about this story. I hope you'll feel better. The letter contained an order to mine the
Dnepropetrovsk-Donetsk road near the Volchya River. Thanks to Sana, they managed to do it in time. Five buras were ambushed. That's more than two hundred chums.
It really made me feel better: "Two hundred plagues. Well done, Sanya."
– On top of that, the river flooded the tunnel. It is not known when they fixed it and whether they fixed it at all, but they got it in the nuts, that's for sure.
Both postants smiled sarcastically.
"All right, Mish. We're on the right road to victory. – Bolotnikov deduced and made his favorite greeting sign – tapping his heels, soundly and decorously. – Bless you, my friend."
This rebel was quite encouraging to the man who had become miffed with himself, and he decided to walk through the camp.
When he went outside, Misha found the place full of people. Why did everyone come out like it was a holiday?
After walking past a few cabins and saying hello to a dozen wonderful and not so wonderful people, he came across someone he never would have wanted to see and wouldn't have approached, but that person wanted something, so she approached herself.
Captain Raniere. He's a real loudmouth. Every time something came up in conversation, he'd start an empty argument. Just about nothing. I don't know why, but on some genetic level he was trying to prove that his point of view was right and everything else was worthless. Not only that, but if there was no business to be done anywhere and no one called him, he would come in with completely useless questions and almost demand answers, especially from the lower ranks.
Having experienced this more than once, Misha prepared to open his mouth and send him away.
"Have you seen Kostya?" – Ranierov asked.
A rather odd question, and the answer was a negative nod of the head with a continued forward motion.
– You've heard of Wolfsbane, right?
Maybe we should give him a chance. At least this time he'll say something nice.
"I heard," Misha replied haltingly.
– They're all right, aren't they?
– Uh-huh. Probably just a little bit more and that's it…
