Those eyes were glittering now, but with that fire that arises so abruptly and wants so much, and when not getting it quickly fades away, taking with it the one who carried it. This is the Fire of Freedom.

"Commander, you won't believe this…" – Nikolai looked up with his mouth open. Dust flew inward, but it didn't seem to matter.

Gora noticed something he had only seen in those who were not alive now, who had already died, "Since you think so, I won't argue…"

"Commander, this is…" "Uh-huh."

"What I found–"

"Oh, what have you found," Gabriel was already enjoying the drudgery. "Guns."

"What?"

"Weapons. Commander, there are tons of weapons here… It's just, I don't even know how to say it…"

"Okay. Throw something on the hoist, I'll get it up," the commander was ready to see anything; the people in this pit were going crazy by the dozens.

Something rattled below, whereupon Gabriel began to spin the winch.

Half a minute later the rope rose to the right level: an AK-74 was lying on the hoist. Gabriel looked around: there were no plagues.

"And you have a lot of that?" – he asked in a low voice.

"I don't know myself… But it looks like a whole warehouse," came the reply of a somewhat thoughtful man – apparently he really didn't know.

"Hold on, I won't be long," Mountain tossed down and, putting the machine gun aside in the shadows, went to the purification room.

Three minutes later the commander, held by Konstantin, was sinking to the bottom of the pit. Now it seemed to him that it was not so dark and damp, but it stank of decomposition more strongly, and his opinion about food had changed: strange as it may seem, but here in the pit, for some reason he felt hungry.

At the very bottom stood Nikolai, already calmed down but still as eager for "free air", with a pickaxe in his left hand and another AK-74 in his right.

"They're hungry for it, aren't they? – Gabriel thought. – They are tired of being slaves… It's not just one tortured man, it's all of us… We are all in his face now… Everyone here is already dreaming of war… I'm already dreaming about it… For example, today. I dream Manhir comes down to us. He comes up to me. He looks me straight in the eye. And then falls to his knees and says, "Forgive us, my lord. "Save our lives. And everyone, all the plagues do the same… God, we're supposed to be free, aren't we?"

"Commander?" – Nikolai asked, coming up to Gavriil. He immediately came to his senses, recognizing to himself that this had become a habit, and replied, "Well, Kol. Come on, show me what you've got here."

The one waved the machine gun back and stepped aside… A pile, just a pile of weapons was visible from the hole made in the ground.

"Ahem…" said Gora. – Okay, we'll take five of them with us. We'll leave the rest here – the plagues won't come down here anyway…"

"That's it?" – Nikolai was stunned, and had obviously planned a lot of things, so this answer knocked him for a loop.

Now he could be tricked or killed-what he had planned, he couldn't help but do.

Gabriel chose the first: "We need to prepare. I promise we will rise, but it will take time. Will you be patient? For my sake."

The authority is so strong charismatic, no one could argue with him, and if he asked for something, respect will make him do it. Gora, he's like a father.

"Commander," Konstantin heard from above.

"What?" – The voice took on its usual not-so-"charismatic" forms. "A1's here to see us. Himself."

The five minutes during which Hora reached the second sector were filled with deep thoughts: the people really need freedom as much as sunlight, which they are not allowed to see enough of, and the most important thing is that one day they will get it. Gabriel kept tying his son and daughter-in-law to all this: he wanted them to be free, and his grandson to know no slavery at all.

Sector number two was the office. Here everything is counted, everything is reported, and there was a separate room, though entirely empty, for separate meetings, which were very few (A1 really rarely went downstairs – it was difficult to breathe for the unaccustomed).

When Gavriil and his deputy arrived, everyone else was already there, including Pavel Pozharin himself. All but A1 nodded respectfully, Volin even smiling: a nice man after all.

"Well now that everyone's gathered, I can tell you what's the matter…" everyone could see how difficult it was for him to speak, and how he was greedily gulping for air. – I'm ready to take ten of your men upstairs with me. I was wrong about them. The plagues are bastards, they must die. They…"

Dominic was the first to speak: "You'd better explain what's going on today. My men are working like hell, and at night they can't sleep and they're thrown out to work. We need rest. Does this have to be explained in writing?"

Of course, his deputy Peter added oil: "They should not be explained in writing, but in a practical form. You should hit them between the eyes!"

Golushko and Preskovich, commander and deputy commander of Soma No. 647, had a friendly swearing, but to the

point.

"How much do you want us to load? Twenty-four tons? – Dubrovsky was perplexed. – Do you understand this

figure? Or is this someone joking?"

"Nah… They're devoid of a sense of humor. – Georgie intervened. – I've already tried to tell them a couple of jokes.

They thought I was crazy… I can tell them the Stirlitz joke now.

"It's Manhr," Pozharin tried to stop the onslaught against him. – It's all him."

Volin laughed from the bottom of his heart: "No, Stirlitz's name was Max von. Only he was Russian… Anyway, you're not used to such subtleties. Except that he was Russian from birth. And you became a plague in the process." The others, except Gora, told Pozharin in brief everything they thought of him. The "brief" was enough to make him wish to vaporize – the truth can be kept out for a long time, but once it's out, it won't come back.

"Explain his fault?" – After Gora's words, everyone fell silent.

"He… Ah, he…" Pozharin stiffened from his knees to his neck. – He got a message from the broz. With an accusation."

As each word was squeezed out as a confession, and few wanted to wait, Dominic began to encourage him with exclamations of "Well done," "Well," "Come on more," "Don't give up," and "Go ahead."

It went like this: "Well, well, go ahead. – Corruption. – Well done. Do more. – He's been told to… uh… – Give more. Don't give up. – To give it back. Give it all back. – More. More! That's it. – Well, no.

At the end of his mad speech, Dominic gave a look of extreme displeasure, and Peter folded his lips and nodded sympathetically.

"Yeah we should soak him," Dominic said as if drawing a conclusion from his part of the dialog. "Why, he's not a Jew," the deputy deduced.

"I'm sick of him too," Dubrovsky confirmed.

"Maybe…" – A1 started to say, but then Golushko interrupted him: "Shut up. You're not being asked," – in another way, ashamed to admit, I couldn't say it.

Pozharin shut up. He looked at his patch, which had a number in black and white, with "A1" at the end, and shut up like that. He could have called the guards right now, as he had done before, and told them to shoot anyone for disobeying him, for disobeying the hierarchy, which in the plague empire was akin to heresy, for thinking of killing a karak, which, though he had submitted – anything; because they would listen to him, he was "A1," above them. But he didn't. Couldn't. He saw their faces: scarred, dirty, tense with worry for his subordinates, and knew that his face was not haggard, not dirty, and really didn't deserve to be. Pozharin had never been loved, and knowing this, he raved about the plagues who hated him, even more than other people. And when the plagues turned their backs on him, showed that he was a tool for them, he decided to "change sides." But who needs such a man but his mother.