“The underground knows damn all,” Zef morosely said. “How do we know what it’s like—a war with radiation emitters right behind you?”
“You’re all totally worthless,” Maxim exclaimed, unable to hold back.
Zef immediately flared up. “Why, you!” he barked. “Ease up, now! Who are you to say what we’re worth? Where did you spring from, massaraksh, to start demanding this and that from us? Do you want a combat mission? By all means. See everything, survive, go back, and report. Does that sound too easy for you? Excellent! So much the better for us… And that’s enough. I want to sleep.”
He demonstratively turned his back on Maxim and suddenly yelled at the dice players, “Hey, you grave diggers down there! Go to sleep! Onto your bunks.”
Maxim lay down on his back, put his hands behind his head, and started looking up at the ceiling of the car. Something was crawling across the ceiling. The grave diggers were quietly and spitefully arguing as they settled down to sleep. The man to the left of him was groaning and whining in his sleep—he was doomed, and he was probably sleeping for the last time in his life. And the men around him—snoring, sniffling, tossing and turning—were probably sleeping for the last time in their lives. The world was a lackluster yellowish color, stifling and hopeless. The wheels hammered, the locomotive howled, a smell of burning blew in through the little barred window, and outside the window this weary, hopeless country went hurtling past, this country of cheerless slaves, this country of the doomed, this country of walking puppets…
Everything has rotted here, thought Maxim. Not a single living person. Not a single clear head. And I’ve ended up in a fine mess again, because I put my hope in someone or something. You can’t count on anything here. You can’t rely on anything here. Only on yourself. And what good am I on my own? I know that much history at least. A man alone ain’t got no bloody chance…
Maybe the Sorcerer’s right? Maybe I should abstract myself from it all? Calmly and coolly, from the height of my knowledge of the inescapable future, observe the raw material seething, boiling, and melting, the naive, clumsy, and amateurish fighters rising and falling; watch as time forges them into Damascus steel and plunges that steel into torrents of bloody filth to temper it, with the slag sprinkling down in showers of corpses… No, I don’t know how to do that. Even thinking in categories like that is repugnant… It’s a terrible thing—an established equilibrium of forces. But then, the Sorcerer did say that I am also a force. And there is a concrete enemy, which means there is a point to which the force can be applied…
I’ll get whacked here, he suddenly thought. For certain. But not tomorrow! he firmly told himself. That will happen when I manifest myself as a force, and not before. And even then… we’ll see…
The Center, he thought. The Center. That’s what I have to search for, that’s what the organization has to be directed against. And I’ll direct them. I’ll make sure that they do something real… And I’ll make you do something real, my friend. Just listen to how loudly he snores! Snore on, snore on—tomorrow I’ll drag you out of here…
OK, I have to sleep. But when will I ever get a proper sleep? In a big, spacious bed, in fresh sheets. What kind of habit is it they have here, sleeping over and over on the same sheet? Yes, in fresh sheets, and read a good book before I fall asleep, then retract the wall between me and the garden, turn out the light, and go to sleep… and in the morning have breakfast with my father and tell him about this railway car… I can’t tell Mom about it, of course… Mom, you just remember that I’m alive, everything’s all right, and tomorrow nothing’s going to happen to me… And the train keeps on moving, there haven’t been any stops for a long time, obviously somebody somewhere has realized that they can’t start the war without us…
I wonder how Gai’s getting along in his corporals’ car? He probably feels pretty weird right now—they’ve got enthusiasm in there… I haven’t thought about Rada for a long time. Why don’t I think about Rada now… No, this isn’t the time. OK, Maxim, my old friend, you lousy piece of cannon fodder, sleep, he told himself, and immediately dozed off…
He dreamed about the sun, the moon, and the stars. All of them at once; it was such a strange dream. He wasn’t allowed to sleep for long. The train stopped, the heavy door swung open with a creak, and a strident voice bellowed, “Fourth company, out! Move it!”
It was five o’clock in the morning, it was just getting light, mist was hanging in the air, and a fine rain was sprinkling down. The military convicts started feebly clambering out of the railcar, convulsively yawning and shuddering in the chilly air. The corporals were there in an instant, spitefully and impatiently grabbing men by their feet, dragging them down onto the ground, giving the especially sluggish ones a thump, and yelling: “Separate into crews! Line up!” “Where do you think you’re going, you dumb brute? Which platoon are you in?” “You, fat-face, how many times do I have to tell you?” “Where are you off to? You lousy, worthless mob!”
They raggedly sorted themselves out into crews and lined up in front of the railcars. A drunk who had lost his way in the mist ran around looking for his platoon, with abuse being barked at him from all sides. Zef, somber and short on sleep, with his beard bristling, gloomily and distinctly croaked, “Come on, come on, line us up, we’ll wage you lots of war today…” A corporal running by smacked him on the ear, Maxim immediately stuck out his foot, and the corporal went tumbling over in the dirt. The crews roared in delighted laughter.
“Brigade, attention!” someone invisible roared. The battalion commanders started howling, straining themselves hoarse, the company commanders picked up the refrain, and the platoon commanders started dashing around. No one stood to attention; the military convicts huddled over with their hands stuck into their sleeves, skipping about on the spot, the fortunate rich ones smoked without trying to conceal it, someone relieved himself, politely turning his back to the gentlemen commanding officers, and little conversations rippled through the ranks about all the signs indicating that they wouldn’t give the men anything to eat again, and they could go to hell with this damned war of theirs.
“Brigade, stand at ease,” Zef suddenly shouted in a strident voice. “Dismissed! Fall out!” The crews gladly dispersed, but then the corporals started bustling about again, and suddenly guardsmen in gleaming black cloaks came running along the line of railcars, holding their automatic rifles at the ready and stretching out into a sparse cordon. A frightened silence ran along the line of railcars after them; the crews hastily lined up and leveled off, and out of old habit some of the army convicts put their hands behind their heads and spread their legs.
An iron voice from out of the mist said quietly but very clearly, “If any of you scoundrels opens his rotten mouth, I’ll give the order to shoot.” Everybody froze. The minutes wearily stretched out, filled with anticipation. The mist thinned a little bit, revealing a rather ugly station building, wet rails, and telegraph poles. On the right, at the head of the brigade, a dark group of men came into sight. Quiet voices could be heard coming from it, then someone querulously snapped, “Carry out the order!” Maxim squinted back over his shoulder—the guardsmen were standing motionless behind him, glaring out from under their hoods with expressions of suspicion and hatred.
A squat figure in a camouflage coverall separated off from the little group of men. It was the commander of the penal brigade, ex-colonel of tank forces Anipsu, who had been demoted and jailed for trading in government fuel on the black market. He brandished his cane in front of him, jerked up his head, and began his address: “Soldiers!… And that is not a mistake, I am addressing you all as soldiers, although all of us—including myself—are still just shit, the garbage of society… Blackguards and bastards! Be grateful that you have been permitted to go into battle today. In a few hours’ time, almost all of you will be killed, and that will be good. But for those of you scumbags who survive, it will be the beginning of a glorious life. A soldier’s rations, vodka, and all the rest of it. Now we shall move into position, and you will board your vehicles. This is a paltry job—just ride a hundred miles on caterpillar tracks. Making tank soldiers out of you is about as likely as making bullets out of shit, you know that yourselves, but everything that you can get your hands on is yours. Gobble it up. This is your own battle comrade, Anipsu, telling you this. There is no road back, but there is a road forward. If anyone backs down, I’ll incinerate him on the spot. And that especially applies to the drivers… There are no questions. Brigaaade! Rrright turn! Forward… Close up! You blockheads, you centipedes! Close up, I told you. Corporals, massaraksh! Where are your eyes?… A herd of cattle! Separate out into fours… Corporals, sort these swine into fours! Massaraksh…”