left in his place. After all, under the current circumstances, if he started to interfere, he might well be brought to justice himself.

— My father is from the central apparatus! — shouted Bazankhr. — He'll blow your heads off!

— Sacrilege is punished very severely if the guilt is not immediately confessed. And a sincere petition for clemency is not immediately presented. I urge you to repent and confess your sins…..

— I'll shoot you, priest! And then I'll shoot your whole stinking church!

— Threatening the holy Church is punishable by death.

The novices dragged Bazankhra into the reception hall, and he was surprised to see his men standing quietly around him, watching peacefully. The Boer punishment unit was no longer standing in a row, but was scattered around the room, taking up a thorough defense. A fire had been prepared in the middle of the hall, and it was only necessary to light it.

The unspoken resource always gave just such an impression: fear and terror before unearthly punishment. The SCF fighters were not accustomed to being prey, and not even to being outnumbered at that: there were three Boers in total, but only the first was inside and lightly armed. In the absence of a clear order of action, nothing could follow, for Bazanhr himself had ordered that everyone be let in. And since he was accused of heresy, the Inquisition had good reason to do so.

Bazankhru was gagged so that his screams would not be heard as he was burned at the stake.

Samokh stood close by and felt a slight heat from the fire.

— How wonderful it is when they say what they think. — the inquisitor said in a low voice. — And it's even better when you know you were the one who helped make it happen… We won't put a gag in Ananhr's mouth. Let her scream from the bottom of her heart…

Zhivenko

What it means to execute an innocent man. Or executing for something you didn't do. Or executing for a great cause. For some great common cause. Is it worth executing an innocent man for that?

Misha wandered through the streets and couldn't get these thoughts out of his head. It was as if someone had gotten under his skin and was rubbing, rubbing, rubbing until the hole was ripped. And, to all appearances, the hole had already rubbed, because he had decided to go to Ranierov himself and talk about it. To go, of course, was a strong word — who was he to let him see a detainee accused of treason. Captain, yes. Only, first of all, of the Penal Battalion. And secondly, it's not his business. They'll ask questions about how he knows about it and whether he's in cahoots.

Bolotnikov first. At least ask him what he thinks about it. It'll be easier to act there and easier to think.

He lived in the same unit where all the other penalized soldiers lived. There was plenty of space in Severodonetsk, and no one tried to take better places or assign someone worse. There was too much choice around.

The major chose the first floor of an old khrushchevka building, which had survived to this day — back then everyone said that such housing was dangerous and that it was all just for demolition. But in fact it turned out that it had been standing for 150 years after the Great War.

On the door he hung an old rusty doorknob on a rope, apparently to make his hands smell better of rust….

It's me, Zhivenko! — knocking on the door, Misha shouted.

The major was in his uniform as usual, except that he had taken off his tunic. Apparently, he didn't want to wrinkle it, even considering the new chevron on his sleeve. Tidy and tidy again. Even in such a position he looked as if in this uniform he could only go on dates and show off in front of girls.

— Oh. Come in — Bolotnikov let Misha inside, and then carefully locked the door: there were three locks and a good steel deadbolt.

Everything inside was neatly tidied and laid out exactly where it belonged: there was a chair with a tunic hanging on it beside the made-up bed, a closed ancient closet next to it, and a table at the side of the window, next to which was another equally old chair. There was a loaf of bread on the table and a knife next to it, and a tin army flask to the right.

— You don't have to tell me why you're here, I already know. — Bolotnikov started from the beginning. — I don't even want to hear it.

— I just got in.

— Then tell me more about Natasha, about your dreams, about what weapons we lack. — The major continued, curling his fingers one by one, and then waved his hand negatively. — But about that rotter, who is now in the brig, I don't need to tell you….

— Serg…

— Yeah. (chuckles)

— Is everyone here not convinced he's guilty?

— Maybe it is. Maybe not… It won't make us better. I was thinking about it myself, and Khmelnitsky reminded me. That if he'd been decimated, he'd have been sent to the Penal Corps.

That's what I've been thinking the most lately…

— All right. Uh-huh. I'm not arguing — I'm not arguing. I just want to understand. What are the grounds for believing that he is a traitor… I want to understand that. Otherwise, you and I will be accused tomorrow, and others will also say that we deserve it, and that it's all in the interests of the state.

Bolotnikov changed his gaze slightly as he listened to the last sentence. What Misha was saying now really did make some serious sense. If the penalty battalion could stay afloat and not sink in a couple of months, then its commander, the former commander-in-chief, would remain alive. And this is certainly not favorable for Zubkov. So