"I should definitely thank you! Slave!" – Roared the plague. Pozharin lowered his broad head and stared at the floor. "You don't know why?!"

"Nah, sir, I don't know."

"Ahh… You don't know… Ah, what I'm facing for this, do you know?" – Manhir got up from the table and walked over to 'his guilty self'.

"No, sir, I don't."

Manhir swung his palm at his opponent with a wide, nasty swing. Pozharin flew aside, against the wall, and fell to the floor; he knew well enough that if he tried to get up, he would get hit again. It was useless to argue with the chums – they were incapable of admitting their mistakes.

"They'll twist my head, that's what they'll do! Me! I, Manhru, will have my head cut off! Do you hear me, slave?! Me! Manhru! Do you hear?!" – Manhru went up to the lying man and kicked him with his foot as hard as he could. Then again. And again.

"Do you hear, slave? Do you hear?" – Karak went into hysterics. He couldn't believe this was even happening. It was simply impossible. He shouldn't be the one on trial – someone else. For thirty-five years he'd been in charge of this region, he'd had no complaints, and then suddenly here he was.

After a series of blows of varying strength and emotional coloring, Manhir stepped away from the half-dead, universally hated number 726629A1 toward the window and gazed into the distance. And for the first time in his destructive lying life, he looked objectively at the sky. Imperial propaganda had portrayed the Earth Sky without a shadow of a doubt as some kind of natural error: in their world, the sky was purple. Now it didn't seem like dogma, or a weighty statement at all. For the first time, Manhir could feel his own self, already separable, albeit at an insignificant distance, from the Empire. He had formed his own opinion.

"Your own opinion? – thought the karak. – What does it represent without everything else? Nothing. No… It does. It's me, after all. Manhr. But I'm separate now… Nonsense. How can anyone be separate? It's impossible. It's possible. That's how the Maquis live. No. That's humans. It's not like that with humans. They're people. Not us. We're better. Why are we better? Why are we better?"

Something stuck in Manhra's head, then everything else stopped. The whole machine came to a standstill. And all because of one trivial question, "Why?"

Chum turned around and looked at the still lying Pozharin, "How am I better than him? This is nonsense! He's a piece of garbage incapable of anything. Of course I'm better than him!… Him yes, but there are millions more people… They're working now. They sleep only eight hours. They endure such conditions… I couldn't do that… But then why did we defeat them if they're stronger?"

Manhir sat down at the table and leaned forward and clasped his head with his hands: he had never had to think before, he had only thought of money before. He was faced with a dilemma: on the one hand he thought of the superiority of the humans over the plagues, on the other hand he knew for sure that the humans had lost the war. It was impossible to reconcile the two, and it was simply not possible to cancel any of the theses. The second thesis was almost an irrefutable fact. And the first one was so ingrained in his soul, so obvious that it made him literally pick up arguments in his favor.

"Do you hear that, slave?" – Without moving his hands away from his head, Manhr asked.

Turning from his stomach to his side, Pozharin opened his mouth and tried to make a sound, but he couldn't – his breath wouldn't let him, it was too heavy. Manhir had broken three of his ribs.

"Speak!" – The karak's hands remained in the same position. Number A1 mumbled something and immediately coughed.

"Who's the strongest? – Manhr spoke loudly and menacingly as usual. – Tell me, who is stronger? Us or the humans?"

Seeing no options, Pozharin opened his mouth and, nodding in agreement, tried to answer. "Don't you dare lie to me! Think before you answer. Think! And tell me, who's the strongest?" The answer came out quickly crisp and from the last of his strength, "Chum!!!"

Manhra's eyes turned away to the side, his hands moved away from his head and rested on the windowsill, "You're lying to me. I know. You've all lied to me, all this time… But that's okay. I won't kill you… Okay. Go and get everyone working. Today's plan is to double the workload. Go and tell everyone that."

Chum turned toward the window and looked at the Sky again, "I don't know how much stronger humans are, but their Sky is a hundred times more beautiful than ours."

Same on March 25.

After explaining all matters: family and work, Gabriel finally took charge of the purification. The task was extremely difficult – to clean no more than 12 tons. Ah, what a difficult word "no more" was, and what it meant to the miners. They had to hit that number: more than that, and the 253rd catfish would give everyone a long life; less than that, they themselves would give everyone a long life; the others were on a slightly different calculation, but still they would probably get some too.

In the past, coal was cleaned automatically – it was placed on a conveyor belt with water sprayers along it, which was necessary to prevent methane from condensing: it penetrates the lungs and can explode. Now we used our hands. Everything was long, and there was nothing to breathe, and everyone worked, and eventually everyone died from it.

The commander was somewhere in the middle of the hall when Deputy Rich approached him: "Commander, urgent business."

"What else? Some of the chums are in danger of not fulfilling their plan to stone us – do we need to help?" – Gora looked at his assistant with a look characterized by the phrase "we will help in this – we will help in this, as long as our old men are not touched" (only the old men kept them from "running over" to the Maquis).

"Kolya. The black laborer. I'm told he has something to say…" "Which one of us doesn't?"

Nikolay Zemlyakov (number 52436483C3) is one of only two black workers of 381 Soma, the other was Sergey Chernousov (number 77242388C3).

What could he say – they prepared him a royal "exit" – 20 kilograms. Is it too much for him? Nevertheless, seventeen minutes later Gabriel was standing by the pit, "You called, buddy?"

The six-meter-deep pit seemed like an infinite space, that all the coal mined for a month could be thrown in there, but in fact it reeked of rotten decomposing corpses of former workers: and no matter how many of them died there, the space did not get smaller – it is hard to believe that the bodies of the dead can so easily fold into nothing…, but it is so. Inside, the miners got used to it quite quickly, but those who came out of there alive told me that even after a full day's work the first week it was impossible to fall asleep, and then it was terrible to wake up, in the bones of their comrades and continue working.

In fact, they were "thrown in" ten or fifteen kilograms a day, and then honorably pulled out in front of the plagues, writing down the "plus" in a notebook. But no matter how much they wrote down in a day, they gave us almost no food, so that in case of rescue it was not difficult to get it at all. Skin and bones alone; the ribs were so prominent that the skin covering them was folded between them; the hands were almost immobile for a couple of days afterwards, the disease was called "Life Syndrome", because the patient did not quite realize that he was alive, it was as if he were born again; the face protruded forward with the cheekbones and especially in the chin because of the almost exhausted muscles. But there was always one factor that never faded to death: the eyes. They glittered with a fiery luster, and no one could understand whether it was from joy or from the grief of not being able to die.