Struggle: The Path to Power - Владимир Андерсон

just touched me. What can you do? Nothing. And it's not your fault… Death can be so sweet… Like the morning sun. Or the warm flow of a river.

— Death is sweet?

Misha looked up at the sky and, seeing the clouds as gentle as love, nodded: "Yes. For the one to whom it came… But for the one it didn't touch, it can be just a pile of stones on the soul… You know Sasha Rucheyov, my old friend, right?"

— Rooks? Who was promoted to major last month?

— Yes… Which was posthumous… First his old friend was gone. He wanted to die… Well, now he's gone… — Misha wanted to say that "now he wants to die, too," but didn't; it's a weakness to share your stones in your soul with everyone. — And it's like this everywhere… War. Nothing can be done… Everyone does what he can…..

Something wrong skirted in Grisha: the last four words struck a small nerve in a place that could not be touched, but only felt: "Everyone as much as he can for others?" — Yes. To others, Grisha.

— Everyone. Everyone… Everyone… Everyone, but not me! — he jumped up from his seat and, swinging his arms to his side, shouted what was "rocks" on his soul.

— You can yell, Grisha, if you want, but everyone knows.

— Know what? — Listov turned to Zhivenko sitting on the steps. — No, they don't know! They can't know!

— They know. They know you ran away from the plagues, leaving your family behind. Mom and sister. They know, Grisha, they know. You can blame yourself, but everyone has their weaknesses. God has made it so that not everyone can tolerate "his", the right. You can blame God if you want. He created this world… But you'd better sit down and think how best to defeat the Chums. — I couldn't say any more, I couldn't take any more.

Grisha walked back up and sat down, no not sat down, but rather plumped on the stairs.

— You think about the future. — Misha continued. — When we defeat the plagues, how will everything be… East-West again? Yes, I think so… The earth stores all thoughts, all spirit. Even according to Herodotus, the character of peoples, their mentality was determined by the terrain, the land they lived on… Oh, you know, how different it all is!

Nothing seemed to bring Grisha out of his state: he sat with drooping eyes.

— Here I read some old newspapers. They are there, Grisha, around that corner, whole stacks of lying… So, there all….

— No, Comrade Captain. — not looking at the commander, said Grisha. — Do not understand me… I'm trying to help them because of all. I try… And I don't even know if it's any good… I just try and that's all.

Misha didn't fully understand what this tirade was and how it should be understood. He only saw a man who was lost in all his thoughts, and who apparently didn't even understand how he could get out of this corkscrew. If he even realizes that there must be such a possibility somewhere. And all of this at a

moment when Misha so desperately needs the right people by his side. At a time when they've found themselves in the penalty box, with a redistribution of power in all of Unit 14, and at a time when he's simply forbidden to screw up in his personal life.

— No. — Misha thought. — Maybe I have such lax subordinates, but I myself will turn all the problems

into a ram's horn… If not for myself, then for Natasha….

Masha

A small wooden cabin. Spacious fields. A quiet river. Masha at the well, alone, but not as sad as before.

She looked at the bottom for a long time, at the waves, at the water beating against the walls, and all the time she saw her beloved. They stared at each other for four hours.

In the time Masha had lived in that house, her belly had hardly grown, but the baby… The baby… The fact that it was there, that it was calculating and would already be born so soon… It was so beautiful….

Masha thought about the word again.

She was not allowed to do anything around the house lately, and all she could do was read and admire nature. And, in general, both. Pasternak, Yesenin, Pushkin… forests, lakes, rivers, fields, flowers — all this is beautiful. Yes, exactly, beautiful… And music, and painting, and sculpture — beautiful. And singing, and painting, and writing are not good, but beautiful. And fields and flowers blossom, and the wind whistles in the steppe, and the Sun breathes fire, and the Sky floats in the distance — all this is only beautiful, and no other way.

Masha realized this as she looked up at the sky, the sky looming above her. Clouds, gray and blue. They're the kind of shape that consciousness presents and the mind doesn't project, the kind you can only see, and only above yourself… Maybe that's the point of the Sky. To remind people of beauty when they can't see anything else… There were wars, there were generals. This general won a hundred battles, destroyed a hundred cities, and looked at him, the Sky. Onon did not become lower, did not become more submissive, but remained just as beautiful and kind, no matter how much blood he saw spilled, no matter how many lives he saw ruined… And this general stopped, said: "There is no point in our wars. There is no point in our dark hearts that conquered the world, killing everyone. "We submit to the Earth because we are its children.

— Maybe it never was — Masha thought, lifting her head up, facing the Sky — but it's beautiful… Maybe they didn't spend decades in the mine and got used to Him… Still, that doesn't diminish its beauty. It's not food that you can get enough of, it's endless, like love.

She