— it's a normal tool of self-preservation, when you realize that either you move up, gaining something new, or you lose what you've already gained and go to the point where at best you give up your authority, and at worst — keep company in prison with those whom you yourself easily helped to get there.
Bolotnikov
"First find the chums, with whom you can still fight in the Diza sector" — these words kept looming in Major Bolotnikov's mind day and night, until they turned into something more substantial. He himself was already thinking over the options when the ally of Gor, who had led an entire group and given the miners new opportunities, and, most importantly, had already eased their current fate, would become not only not an ally, but the most dangerous enemy. The Jackal had once told him about it, even showing some gloating about it. He is no longer alive, but the prophecies seem to be coming true, and becoming even more terrible than expected. But for that I must see for myself.
Shakal said that the area around the surface sectors was now guarded by hives, and since that was the case, it was at least possible to look at them. He could take one of them and have a heart-to-heart talk with them, as he'd done before. Maybe something new will come to light.
Bolotnikov took a horse and rode all night and then all day and by roundabout ways reached Bakhmut. Here, he was well aware that the Khivi dwelt, holding this town as a hub — several roads ran through it in different directions, and, controlling it, one could be sure that no one would throw any serious units to their flank or rear in any short time.
It took him another half a day to get quietly around this town and move on toward Deese, and before he reached about ten kilometers he settled down for the night. It was warm now, even at night, and after such a journey his strength was running out, so he was almost at once at his services.
He dreamed of miners and chiwis and Maquis. In a big, dark hall. They were moving around, forming some kind of demonic circle at wild speed. But surprisingly, they didn't bump into each other at all. And even though they all had different clothes — the khaki field clothes of the Maquis, the specialized "kink" of the Kiwis, and the black and gray work clothes of the miners — it was impossible to tell who was who. They moved so fast. And what's more, as the observation went on, it began to seem that there was no difference between them all, that they were all the same.
Completely the same, and even their clothes, which had blurred so much that they looked like tattered multicolored rags. It no longer seemed that they were different people. They were all doing the same thing, circling around the room in a single rhythm, not bumping into each other, clearly wanting the same thing, and certainly not interfering with each other at all. It was even somewhat surprising — how could they move at such speed, maneuvering between each other and at such speed, and not even hit each other. It was as if they were being controlled by someone else, calculating each one's route in advance.
How much did they want it? And did they want it? And who is the one who controls it all? It can't be otherwise — they weren't wrong, they were acting according to a single plan that someone had worked out. And that's exactly what they were all happy with.
Bolotnikov tried to force his way through to pull someone out and ask it, but he was immediately pushed away, just as coherently by everyone who could reach. And so, looking at him fiercely, continued their movement. Then he tried to shout to someone, asking what they were doing, why they were doing it, and who commanded them. Some of them looked at him angrily, but most of them just kept on doing what they were doing.
Then he took out a pistol and started firing it at the ceiling, shooting the entire clip. That didn't impress anyone, and he tiredly slumped to the floor. Everyone seemed to be really happy with what they were doing. It looked like his attempts to find out something were just a void in their much more real lives than the one he wanted for them… And then someone banged hard next to his right ear.
Bolotnikov woke up instantly. It was his horse, not far from him, pounding its hoofs. It snorted a little more and looked at him strangely. He must have said something in his sleep.
He had slept all evening, and it was already night. It was just the right time to inspect the positions of the chivi and look out for chums there, if they were still there, of course.
He covered the next ten kilometers quite slowly, telling himself to move as quietly as possible, in reality realizing that he just didn't want to see and accept the truth right now. When the industrial pipe showed, he got off his horse and tied it to the nearest tree. Now he moved even slower and even more quietly.
It has to be the Kiwis first, he knows that. They patrol the territory on their own, without the help of anyone else, like the Imperial Army plagues or the SCK, whom they obviously hate. And they're great at hiding, oddly enough, much better than the Maquis. They were so good at it, in fact, that it wasn't quite clear why they hadn't already identified all the rebels and killed them one by one.
Maybe they don't really need it? Really, what are they going to guard and do if there's no Maquis? A final defeat wouldn't suit them… Or is he idealizing them too much? And their abilities in general… At the same time, it's time to check it all out properly….
— Listen, quietly…" someone said in a whisper from behind. — Put your hands up.
Holy shit. How's this? Going to investigate, get a tongue, interrogate, learn something new. And this. Right at the entrance, they took him like a lousy sheep… How professional. Not shouting, but whispering and careful. They know that many people have this defense reflex to try to kill the enemy faster than he kills you. It's just automatic. While there is still a moment, and the invader himself does not want to shoot yet… And then whisper. Just to convey the humble message that we have to surrender. No shouting, no noise, no surprises.
Bolotnikov raised his hands slowly, still even hoping that it might be someone from the Maquis even and other units who decided to make a sortie for a new diversion:
— I'm my own— Relax.
— One of our own, of course, how could it be any other way.
The enemy began to step carefully around him, barely shuffling one foot after the other, and at last appeared in front of the major. He was rather gloomy-looking, small, low, somehow unevenly built and stooped, but with some very shrewd eyes:
— You look familiar, fine…..
— Of course you did. I used to guard the Jackal. Till they started moving him.
— A jackal?
— The jackal, yes. The one who was an SSchekist bitch….
— I know who you mean. Everybody knows who he is.
— All the chivvies know. That's what I'm saying. I'm telling you, it's mine.
Slouch was silent. He was already looking at Bolotnikov a little differently. He was thinking something of his own at that moment:
— I don't need to hear about the Jackal. What's your unit?
— What about you? So I told you. — Bolotnikov knew very well the braggart nature of the hivi, and how they did not like to share unnecessary information even with their own. Who knows, maybe he'll take them for his own after all.
— You don't want to take a bullet?
— Everybody gets caught at some point. Not everyone's gonna be a rotten ass in the process.
Hearing this, the slouch seemed to smile a little and even relaxed a bit, but in essence it meant nothing — he held his AK-74 still firmly and aimed exactly at the center of the major's solar plexus: