– 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.