"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 Raphaeclass="underline" 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).