But the dream made it unmistakably clear. It was the same dream now. A clear field without any armies as before. No thunderstorms or rainstorms. Just light clouds blocking out the sun so it wouldn't bake. And Raphael so calm, standing beside her. Very close. And watching her with his faithful, peaceful eyes:
— My love, you will know the secret for sure. But first you must wait for her. Natasha.
Without her, this secret is too dangerous for you. And it's better for you not to know it at all than to know it alone… Wait for her. Wait for Natasha.
Masha woke up every time she heard that word, because she realized that her arms and legs were twitching — she was trying to reach out and hug him in her sleep. To hug her beloved husband, because she missed him so much. To hug him and tell him that their son had been born healthy.
And ask him what name he would like to give him.
She wanted to do all this, and at that moment she realized that she was asleep… That's how she woke up every night, feeling next to the peacefully sleeping infant, who now seemed to fill some void in her, still leaving room for Raphael.
— I miss you so much. — every time Masha whispered aloud. — How much I miss you every
day…..
Metropolitan
The church's railroad train arriving in the Deese sector was not just luxurious — it reveled in that word. Even the carriages of the rank-and-file novices-and those destined for the punitive drill of the "unspoken resource"-were decorated with silk, varnished oak wood, and in places gilding.
Guzokh could imagine that such a thing might be in the Metropolitan's own wagon, but to see it in the rooms reserved for the fighter monks was already astonishing.
Well, at least it became clearer why the chief of the punitive borax Ruminhr so easily believed Guzokh's story that he was given in charge of this borax on the personal orders of the patriarch, and to doubt the words of the Metropolitan — is not allowed even in thought… All this was supported in fact also by the desire of the chums from the borax of the "tacit resource" to live rather than die in a stupid shootout with the SSchekists.
Obedience is in their blood. So they obeyed. The Metropolitan. Albeit a different one. But it doesn't matter. They have no responsibility when the plague with such a high dignity has it.
The train was now moving back to the Korsa sector. Guzokh wanted to keep his unit away from the captured Samoh as a last resort. He could really massacre if given the chance. Especially now that his slippery mind games had failed so miserably.
Before departure, of course, the railings were removed from the roof of the metropolitan carriage, so that it would not differ from all the others. And by his personal order Guzokh allowed to pass through the chambers of the central carriage in both directions. And himself calmer, and to get their favor to himself — let them see that he was not a stranger to their presence, and once again ready only to bless for a holy cause, especially if it concerned his personal security. Exactly so.
Now this drill is his personal security, not some punitive operations, for which both the Imperial Army and the SCK have enough forces. And let them deal with it by his own decree.
How foolish were those who decided that the Inquisition should be carried out by the hands of the Inquisitors. It's not their business at all. It's their business to judge, to pass judgment. But others can carry it out. And on the one hand, this will whitewash the executors from the gravity of the decision, and on the other hand — will not waste a single drop of blood and sweat of the clergy … Guzokh became directly disgusted with Nevrokh's approach to understanding the role of the holy Church in the modern world. He wanted to substitute himself for the given, to become the head of everything and subordinate everyone to his will, including the Central Committee of the Empire … What absurd stupidity. What an unprincipled departure from the essence of the holy Church, which presupposes wise counsel for rulers. Advice that cannot be refused. Advice that is given as if by the Black Stone itself. As opposed to the heavy words and orders that the current patriarch wants to enforce.
He doesn't deserve to be a patriarch. From the moment he stopped understanding the importance and advantage of soft power, capable of controlling the completely heterogeneous subjects of the Empire. He emphasizes brute force, which, while destructive in nature, will only do irreparable damage to the reputation and influence of the Holy See.
That is why they are so caught up in luxury, because they think too much about the strength and rigor of their beliefs, which must be extended to other minds. Therefore, for them, material things have become the main foundation on which they stand too shaky… And it would not be shaky if the strength of beliefs were held on the sure proof-grounded word that passes from mouth to mouth by itself. Without any pressure. When the plagues themselves want to tell each other the truth that they like, and that they will want to see everywhere.
The "unspoken resource" is a tool to shut the mouths of the irrepressible… But you can't shut the thoughts. They will remain. And will continue to spread like a plague from one to another at a rate faster than the real plague. And unlike the real plague, completely untreatable.
Just look at Samoh and what he's gotten himself into. To openly provoke in front of witnesses an official of not just the Empire, but the SCK itself. Weaving intrigues on the fly, in the
office of the head of the entire sector… And it's amazing that such things sometimes worked out… Although it's not so surprising when you find out that the deputy commander of the Korsa sector was in fact a full-fledged member of the Church, not the SCK. With such nefarious methods, one can really believe in one's own infallibility… Though what it leads to… Self-confidence… Careless self-confidence that has one tiny end.
They were now passing the section of road that the Maquis had recently blown up and the miners had hastily repaired. They had been shot at, and the Kiwis had had some kind of strange conflict. In general, of course, these Kiwis have become completely detached from reality, the reality that was even some 30 years ago, when they performed only security functions, and their numbers were so small that there was no thought of forming large units of them. Not like now, when they are doing the most dangerous and bloody work for the imperial army and the S.S.C. combat units.
Guzoch learned all this from a confession five years ago, when one of the veterans of the JFK needed help in easing his fate before he passed away. It happened at one of the defense plant security conferences. Guzoh was there, of course, on business for his favorite worker-chums. And one of the speakers had a heart problem, like a heart attack. He wanted repose for his soul and immediate confession, which Guzokh, as a clergyman of the highest rank nearby, provided.
The SSchekist told him of the complexities of his apparatus and how he had done nothing on his own to save the true foundations of the Empire, which was rotting from within and decaying like a human corpse. As he said, the Hiwi now made up the main fighting force of the JFC, and in some cases even the Imperial Army itself, rapidly approaching it in numbers. It was an experiment at first, but the effect was so striking that it was quickly adopted as a practice, and after only a few years of use, the balance had shifted dramatically. The commanders of the imperial ministries were constantly reporting to the top about successful operations to suppress the Maquis and establish links between the disparate parts of the empire with minimal casualties. Human casualties, of course, were of no interest to anyone, but no one thought that such practices would only multiply the influence and role of the Hiwi in the vital processes of the Empire. In some instances, the Hivi leaders themselves set the price for completing tasks, and given the balance of power, the price had to be paid — imperial officials were addicted to this means of solving problems like a drug. The dying SSchekist didn't give the exact numbers, but it was hundreds of thousands of fighters. All he asked was to be forgiven for the criminal inaction of this cancerous tumor against which he dared do nothing.