Voltage

Prologue

A network of cirrus clouds looked unkind in the sky, illuminated by the lights of a sleeping city - opening from horizon to horizon, it seemed to lock millions of citizens with black-gray bars of a gigantic lattice. Don't run away, don't run away. However, no one tried. On the contrary, thousands of voluntary prisoners arrived in the capital every day, full of hopes to stay forever in the gray, dirty prison of the capital ... and if they were very lucky, they could exchange their freedom for the service of those who lived in one of the hundreds of skyscrapers-representations, whose peaks floated above the lattice of clouds . Aristos liked to climb higher.

Those who were not lucky enough to be born with a coat of arms over the cradle had a long way of self-improvement in order to become useful to a noble lord. Unique skill and professionalism, solid work experience and great capacity for work, loyalty and high military rank - much was valued by representatives of dynasties that traditionally elected the best of the best to serve, and there was no end to applicants. It's not about money or luxury - a true master of his craft, an experienced specialist or a strong fighter is unlikely to need finance. But only there, near the aristocrat, there was power - crumbs in comparison with the power of the master, but even these crumbs raised a person to a height inaccessible to the rest. For the servant of the aristo is his left hand. And if a commoner is struck by the left hand of an aristocrat, his destiny is to endure, swallowing resentment and rage.

Here are just a servant - also a particle of the honor of the family, so that the owners themselves turned the neck of the true power-hungry. Most often, even before he had time to plant a stain on the honor of the master with an ugly act. However, the servants were quite pleased with the very presence of great power, respect for status and protection for themselves and their own families - for this alone it was worth not sparing yourself, working twenty hours a day. The reward will not keep you waiting - the ascent through the hierarchy of servants will one day end at the very top of one of the ancestral skyscrapers. What could be better? Is that the right to retire, leaving his place to the children - for one generation. If they turn out to be at least a third as capable as their parents, a well-fed life is provided for them - along with a chance to found a dynasty of servants. Few have been able to do this.

Perhaps the personal assistant of Prince Mikhail Vikentyevich Pankratov was closer to the award than the others, continuing to serve the family with the loyalty of a dog for the fourth decade - and with an equally strong grip, young to envy. He did not look at all for his age - tall, lean, without a hint of senile wrinkles on his hands and face.

The referent did not even suspect about the prepared reward, continuing to exaggeratedly cheerfully declare the successes of the clan. In the last six months, the old man has developed such a trait - to report bad news at the very end, dumping tons of pleasant facts ahead. As if afraid of anger.

However, really important things did not fall under this rule, so the definition of "bad" included trifles, unpleasant, but quite tolerable, and even against the background of the previously listed successes, they were completely trifles. Nevertheless, this did not allow him to leave the office, taking precious minutes from the short sleep of the prince, the owner of one of the hundreds of specific principalities of the vast Empire, the owner of factories, corporations and mines. It would have been another day - it's okay, but the last week went without sleep at all ... and the referent seemed not to notice this, continuing to chatter about useless, in general, information. So, it's time to change, generously endowing others as an example - not this year, then next.

The prince sighed, standing in front of the window, clasped his hands behind his back and exhaled sharply with an imperative phrase, interrupting the referent:

- Anything else?

Fortunately, the servant understood it correctly and leafed through a dozen plastic-sealed report rectangles at once.

"Slight difficulty under Karatobe, sir. The Oster family retreated deep into the refinery complex. Active actions are difficult and threaten to destroy the object, the enemy has two fighters of the "teacher" rank. Sabotage units are ineffective, the enemy knows the territory perfectly. NPK is Oster's family business, sir.

The referent was silent, waiting for the command of his head. And he was in no hurry to answer, slightly grimacing in annoyance. That's the reason why the list of praises turned out to be surprisingly long - the problem is commensurate with it. Nothing urgent, nothing important. You just have to decide: live for a proud family, unable to understand that if not the Pankratovs, then others will come, or die. Not the first time this week he decided someone else's fate, and certainly not the last.

The war broke out in the south of the country without any preparation, unexpectedly. There was no malice or cunning planning in that - otherwise all actions would have been thought out five steps ahead by the analytics department, and he would not have stood looking at the city and deciding what to do with the remnants of the dead clan.

It's just that the old owners of vast territories slightly overestimated their capabilities, lost two fighters of the "master" rank and ceased to exist.

Dry, concise, tragic - quite enough to intelligibly explain to anyone that the smile of a pretty stranger in a nightclub is not at all a reason to drag her into your car. Even if you are a "master", like your brother, and a guard of two "teachers" is laughing approvingly nearby. Because the generic skills of the ancient families, in general, do not care about your rank and the rank of the retinue - the main thing is to stand compactly. So the young beauty was frightened and burned two idiots, along with a retinue, cars and half of the building by the road, and the family, frightened with a tearful voice, massacred all the remaining heirs that same night - none of them fell short of the "master". By the way, they were in their right, and they could not be afraid of revenge at all - there is no one to take revenge on, and the vassal families of the clan will not declare war, defending a vile act. Now, if someone from the main family survived, then yes, the oath would oblige to fulfill the will of the master ... Perhaps that is why they were all massacred, methodically, in cold blood, knowingly preparing a version of fear for the heiress - it is much more plausible that way. In general, it doesn't matter. The main thing is that one single stupidity crossed out six centuries of the existence of a famous family, and with it the clan. Weak, little respected (with such and such leaders), but still - a clan: an association of tribal corporations, soldered by an oath to the main clan. And without this kind, albeit inferior, the rest alone simply could not survive. The main thing is that one single stupidity crossed out six centuries of the existence of a famous family, and with it the clan. Weak, little respected (with such and such leaders), but still - a clan: an association of tribal corporations, soldered by an oath to the main clan. And without this kind, albeit inferior, the rest alone simply could not survive. The main thing is that one single stupidity crossed out six centuries of the existence of a famous family, and with it the clan. Weak, little respected (with such and such leaders), but still - a clan: an association of tribal corporations, soldered by an oath to the main clan. And without this kind, albeit inferior, the rest alone simply could not survive.

Therefore, the question instantly arose - who will get the now ownerless lands, with people, cities and industries on them. The perpetrators of the death of the clan defiantly stepped aside, showing the wealth of the family, honor and pride - they say, they were completely satisfied with the death of the offenders. The former clan families hesitated... thought that everything would be the same? The emperor half-eyed and returned to choosing a new favorite.

Catching the mood, the capital immediately began to methodically divide someone else's, negotiating, intriguing, gathering alliances and stirring up old contradictions. By the end of the month, everything should have found new owners - without a single shot or surge of power. Respectable people preferred to fight, sitting at long tables, advancing armies of bank account numbers, shaking the air with volleys of shouts about the antiquity of the family and listing the military ranks of their relatives and vassals. The opinion of future victims was of no interest to anyone - they themselves buried themselves with delay.

While intrigues were seething in the capital, substantial sums were roaming from one account to another, duels thundered during the day and favorites whispered at night, the Pankratovs with the grace of an ax threw half of their own army onto the land of the dead clan. While the others were talking, the clan's specialists worked without sleep or rest on what was delicately called "loyalty assurance". It came out surprisingly quickly and easily, practically without blood. It was just that there was one master, but there was another, and even reduced the burden of taxes - ordinary people accepted the changes quite calmly, and the aristocrats were even glad to go under the arm of a respected clan - en masse, without losing established ties and production chains. Most of them, anyway...

So when everything is divided in the capital, it suddenly turns out that the lands de facto already belong to the Pankratovs - oaths are taken, standards and coats of arms are hung. The rest, of course, will be dissatisfied. Of course, they will gather a meaningless talking shop and even write a letter to the Emperor. And, of course, they will fade away. Because sharing someone else's is one thing, and fighting, paying with blood and lives, is quite another. In the capital, they forgot how to go to die, preferring to send vassal families, mercenaries, debtors to death, at worst - the younger generation. But this will not be enough, it will not be enough at all - you will have to fight not with the frail clans of China, who hunted for raids and smuggling, not with the freemen of the Free Lands, not with the rebellious region, stupefied by extortions, not to wage a sluggish "tribal war" for the third hundred years in which some remote corner of the earth.

Mikhail Vikentyevich bared his teeth with a predatory smile and cracked his fingers, stretching out his clasped hands. He knew how to fight and loved, like the fighting backbone of the clan. As well as the three allied clans. So the old intriguers will not get anything, except that they will hide evil and try to win back in the future, which they don't give a damn about - because everyone is hiding and trying against everyone .

For a moment, a thought flashed - I wonder if his son had survived, would he have become the same cautious metropolitan sage, for the sake of peace and the life of his grandchildren, great-grandchildren? Instead of a fight - the warmth of the fireplace, a small peanut on his knees, clinging to his beard ... The prince shook his head, driving away the warm image. It is not destiny for him to check.

"You have deprived me of my son, and I will deprive you of everything," he said quietly, using only his lips, angrily examining the cluster of giant towers in the center of the city.

He was not afraid of wiretapping - the windows on the other side looked like a solid mirror, and the efforts of those who used the equipment to pick up sound from the surface of the window blocked a tiny mechanism glued with a dozen rubber pads to the inside of the window pane, which, barely noticeable to the eye, brought out a silent rhythm. The owner of the cabinet touched the cool surface with his fingertips and listened. No, it's not audible, only a slight tremor pricks the fingers. But on the other side of the street, the legendary bass rattles in the headphones, holding out "What a wonderful world". A little hoarse, for sure - after all, interference ... Perhaps it's even better - as if from an old record, on which the player's needle slides. In any case, this feeling is much brighter than the colorless conversations on this side of the window.

- The opponent does not have the strength to break through the blockade. Given the lack of significant stocks of products, analysts predict capitulation within a month ...

- Not. Withdraw the troops, apologize to the Oster family and pay an indemnity. Do they have losses?

"Three wounded, sir.

- Provide medical assistance, select a healer. Offer on my behalf to restore the infrastructure, and several lucrative contracts.

If the Oster family shows a grain of ingenuity, they will prosper, and there, you see, the Pankratovs will have a new fighting family. Fighting against an army and managing to retreat without loss is worth a lot. These should be protected, slowly connecting by kinship and business, since there were no corpses between them - and therefore, walls of malice.

- Yes, sir. By your word.

- That's all?

- No, sir, - the referent hesitated slightly, turning the page back, and imitated sight reading - implausible, with his perfect memory.

So, another nuisance.

- The head of the Kolobov family insists on a personal meeting with you.

The prince half-turned, throwing an inquiring glance at the servant.

- Financiers, bankers, a little moneylenders. They live with the whole family in the capital, two days before the start of the conflict they moved to the Karl Ritz Hotel, under the protection of the emperor of Germany. Previously, they serviced the clan's accounts and all its payments.

"It will require special conditions," Pankratov said affirmatively, turning back to the window, "but we don't need a duplicate financial structure.

"If the families that have joined the clan transfer their assets to us, they will go bankrupt, lord," the servant prompted gently.

Are they going to obstruct?

Already, sir. They have already exchanged the real money of their bank for the junk papers of a dozen shell companies around the world. The reverse exchange is possible only at the good will of the Kolobovs, and this will be the subject of bargaining. Otherwise, all your new vassals will become beggars.

Does he consider himself immortal? snorted the prince.

"We can't get to our relatives, and he himself will be protected by the status of a guest," the servant said judiciously. "Anyway, we need the money more than his life.

"Reputation is more important than money," Mikhail Vikentievich grumbled, swaying from heel to toe, pondering the decision. - It is necessary to prepare him for a conversation, to put pressure on him, to unbalance him.

- Accident on the way, sir?

No way, he's a guest! While he is coming to us and away from us, not a single hair must fall from his head! Here's what: put before him a petitioner who is not sorry. Plant them together, let them get bored in the company, get used to each other. Then we will drag the corpse of the petitioner right in front of Kolobov. It is advisable to carefully open the aorta, clamp it with something and pull the body at the right time so that the blood gets on Kolobov's trousers and boots.

"Sir, there is a suitable candidate!" the referent brightened his face, again creaking with the plastic of the pages. - Someone Samoilov Maxim Mikhailovich, nineteen years old, from the middle class. Director of a contracting company, serves our hospital in Yelniki.

Does he steal from us?

Analysts say no. Costs have been cut by a third. Samoilov has a conflict with the new head of the hospital, he wants to take over the business for himself. However, the request for an audience comes from the director. We clarified this point - the hospital secretariat knows nothing about the letter. The guy forged the form and signature.

- Or imperceptibly slipped the director, outwitted.

"However, he is willing to spend your time, lord, on his own petty problems. That alone is worthy of death.

Pankratov felt some inner discomfort - it turned out that the guy was promising and brought money to the family. He was very disapproving of the translation of such a valuable resource.

"Besides, the guy is gifted," the assistant added cheerfully. - He will be able to die colorfully and for a long time even with large lacerations and having lost limbs! We can make him look Kolobv in the eye while they drag him past.

- Okay, get to work. And arrange everything beautifully - our guest will not be impressed by the death of an uncouth poor man.

"We'll do it in the best possible way, sir," the referent bowed respectfully.

Chapter 1 Thirteen years ago

Chapter 1

thirteen years ago

Mindfulness replaces foresight. The light of a cigarette in the darkness of the entrance, the drunken laughter of a large company, the clinking of a broken bottle, the groan of a mechanism - any sign is quite enough to predict trouble and try to avoid it. Of course, if the trouble has not already chosen you as its target.

The younger group of the Verkhne-Novgorodsk boarding school also had its own signs, predicting pain and problems. The screeching cry of a nurse, the dull sound of a ruler hitting the wall, the rattle of pedestals turned over during the inspection. So-so problems - those who did not make it to bed, kept their hands and nails clean and did not drag food from the dining room, were only touched by the edge, for warning.

The trouble, much worse, moved after the owners of the sonorous voices of the older group, from boredom and impunity, falling to the smaller ones several times a day. And if it was still possible to evade the rest of the troubles by getting away from the culprit and his problem in time, then this trouble itself chose its victim from among the frightened children huddled together in a common crowd. This time they chose me, dragged me out of the second row of a frightened pile of children and dragged me, stubborn, behind them. I directly heard how the crowd exhaled behind me - if only not them.

A standard divorce is to surround a loner and with a serious look to persuade him to do something that is absolutely impossible to do. In my case, the base looked like two knitting needles peeking out of the outlet. Nearby, on a stool, lay the yarn forgotten by the nanny, from which they fished out the pieces of iron - for some time they fencing, poking those who did not have time to escape in time, then they got bored and came up with a new fun. Starring with me.

"I bet you can't get it with one hand?" the elder loomed over me, curling his lips in anticipation of entertainment.

- Yes, he is weak! sang along.

"And nothing is weak," I puffed out my cheeks, annoyed at my own bad luck. I was six, which did not interfere with a clear realization: being a victim of these four is extremely bad and most often painful. And any of my actions under their prodding brings this pain closer.

- Quickly took! - they barked from behind, providing a slap on the back of the head. Commercials and the nanny can return, and all the fun is over.

The spoiled yarn will be hung on me - to understand this was quite smart enough. But I didn't see the danger in two knitting needles - somehow no one in the shelter explained the danger of electric current, occasionally just shying away from the outlets of the curious. The socket - it was "not to be approached", "not to be touched" - the same taboo, like a first-aid kit or handles on windows. So I hunched a little and sharply clamped the knitting needles in my palm, puffing angrily, and at the same time desperately wishing that the nanny would return right now and see the whole scene in its entirety. Yes, and froze, closing his eyes and waiting for developments.

- Doesn't work, does it? The guy on the right said in disbelief.

"There is light," they echoed uncertainly, flipping a switch nearby.

I looked at the elders with fear, afraid to move.

"Come on..." The chief touched his shoulder... and immediately pushed me sharply towards the wall – not on purpose, just the guy was literally thrown away from me, thrown to the floor, where he froze with a frightened look, a moment before yelling and tear up.

The nanny flew in at the cry, gasped, seeing me first of all at the outlet, and rushed to save me. She was thrown a little closer, and she came to her senses almost immediately, giving out in a shrill voice about thirty incomprehensible words, from which it was easy to put together a picture of the future punishment. Then I took the knitting needles out of the socket and handed them to the nurse, with apologies. It seemed to me that it helped - the flow of screams immediately dried up, the woman herself backed away from me without getting up, then famously for her size turned over and ran out the door. While I was thinking about whether I should burst into tears and what to do with the knitting needles, the nanny had already returned with the headmistress - a tall, slightly plump aunt with an evil look and that very long wooden ruler.

The headmistress slowly looked around at the instigators clustered against the wall opposite me, fixing her eyes on each one for a few seconds. As if guessing her thoughts, the nanny immediately began to whisper in her ear the name, age, group number, her lamentations and praises. According to her, it turned out that the guys were good and not at all guilty at all, on the contrary, they were saving a foolish child who had stuck the knitting needles into the socket. That's when I burst into tears - because of resentment at such lies and injustice. At six years old, there are good and bad, white and black, evil and good, so there is an unspoken alliance of hooligans who intimidate four dozen children, and the only nanny on the floor, very pleased that the children do not yell, do not make noise and obey - albeit at the cost of impunity four freaks - looked like a terrible crime.

Then I remember in fragments - they lifted me up, led me to the bed, gave me something to drink, and then the next morning came.

Since that day, everything has changed dramatically. No, I was not scolded or beaten - on the contrary. Everyone seems to have forgotten about what happened, as if nothing happened yesterday. But the new day was still strikingly different from the series of previous ones - firstly, they began to feed differently. Another table was placed next to the common tables, for four people, at which only I was sitting, and the dishes that our meager dining room offered me were many times different in quality and quantity from what was spread on the plates of the others. Of course, this did not go unnoticed by the group of peers - they have already learned to envy, but so far they are not very thinking, preferring to act. To my sincere amazement, a conversation in the spirit of "why are you, now I'll give you in the eye" was stopped by four of those same elders, who competently beat off the offenders and threatened each of the involuntary spectators to repeat the same thing, if someone lays a finger on me. It was as if I had become a reserved animal of this institution - they fed me, guarded me, and controlled my health. Among the shortcomings are daily running in the morning and evening, several painful injections, separate exercises during the day and bitter pills along with breakfast and dinner. Another would have been delighted, but I, with some animal instinct, inexplicable neither by experience - which had nowhere to come from, nor by anything else - there were no obvious facts that a six-year-old could understand - I felt unkind. Every day looked like a twin brother of the previous one, minor details changed - like the weather, food, flashing faces. And then the bell rang in the hands of a first-grader, the first of September - the day on which all my peers went to first grade. But not me. It was as if I had become a reserved animal of this institution - they fed me, guarded me, and controlled my health. Among the shortcomings are daily running in the morning and evening, several painful injections, separate exercises during the day and bitter pills along with breakfast and dinner. Another would have been delighted, but I, with some animal instinct, inexplicable neither by experience - which had nowhere to come from, nor by anything else - there were no obvious facts that a six-year-old could understand - I felt unkind. Every day looked like a twin brother of the previous one, minor details changed - like the weather, food, flashing faces. And then the bell rang in the hands of a first-grader, the first of September - the day on which all my peers went to first grade. But not me. It was as if I had become a reserved animal of this institution - they fed me, guarded me, and controlled my health. Among the shortcomings are daily running in the morning and evening, several painful injections, separate exercises during the day and bitter pills along with breakfast and dinner. Another would have been delighted, but I, with some animal instinct, inexplicable neither by experience - which had nowhere to come from, nor by anything else - there were no obvious facts that a six-year-old could understand - I felt unkind. Every day looked like a twin brother of the previous one, minor details changed - like the weather, food, flashing faces. And then the bell rang in the hands of a first-grader, the first of September - the day on which all my peers went to first grade. But not me. separate exercise during the day and bitter pills along with breakfast and dinner. Another would have been delighted, but I, with some animal instinct, inexplicable neither by experience - which had nowhere to come from, nor by anything else - there were no obvious facts that a six-year-old could understand - I felt unkind. Every day looked like a twin brother of the previous one, minor details changed - like the weather, food, flashing faces. And then the bell rang in the hands of a first-grader, the first of September - the day on which all my peers went to first grade. But not me. separate exercise during the day and bitter pills along with breakfast and dinner. Another would have been delighted, but I, with some animal instinct, inexplicable neither by experience - which had nowhere to come from, nor by anything else - there were no obvious facts that a six-year-old could understand - I felt unkind. Every day looked like a twin brother of the previous one, minor details changed - like the weather, food, flashing faces. And then the bell rang in the hands of a first-grader, the first of September - the day on which all my peers went to first grade. But not me. Every day looked like a twin brother of the previous one, minor details changed - like the weather, food, flashing faces. And then the bell rang in the hands of a first-grader, the first of September - the day on which all my peers went to first grade. But not me. Every day looked like a twin brother of the previous one, minor details changed - like the weather, food, flashing faces. And then the bell rang in the hands of a first-grader, the first of September - the day on which all my peers went to first grade. But not me.

Classes were held right there, in the eastern wing of the boarding school, so I simply could not miss this significant day - I even went out into the courtyard with everyone, lined up in rectangles in front of the white line as part of the "a" or "b" class - depending on which of lists will be my last name. It turned out that I was not in any of them, so I just stayed next to the "b" class, easily examining the area in front of the entrance over the heads of my peers - in a year of individual lessons, I solidly waved. The headmistress's welcoming speeches and a small concert performed by high school students fit in half an hour, after which the first-graders were given the right to be the first to enter the building - only this time for the first time they will go not to the left wing, to the living rooms, but to the right. At the entrance, the headmistress intercepted me, easily pulling me out of the general crowd, and in a stern voice ordered to go to her. So all the peers had another reason for envy - while they pored over the lessons, "this slacker" could lie on the bed. True, I didn't lie down, but ran and jumped under the supervision of a nanny, who carefully checked everything that I had to do today with the plan in a green notebook. For roommates, all this did not exist, but there was a lucky bastard who should have been taught a lesson long ago.

The people's retribution came on the last Thursday of October, two hours after lights out. Tired after another many hours of running around the building - my studies continued in the winter, under the vigilant gaze of a personal overseer, who, however, preferred to watch from behind the window - I chose not to notice the unusual silence when I appeared in the dormitory, ignored the sharp glances and wry smiles, I gave it all up and fell asleep. For which I paid - when the weight of several bodies suddenly fell on me, they threw a woolen blanket over my face and began to shower with quick, without scope, blows, it was too late to do anything. The scream did not break through the dense fabric, arms and legs were firmly pressed to the bed, preventing them from moving. He only twitched when especially painful flashes of pain passed through his body, but this strength was not enough, to throw off, as it were, not a dozen guys. Then it got even worse - having spent all my breath screaming, I realized with horror that I could not breathe - the blanket was pressed too tightly. This time he twitched in frank panic, but the enemies only piled on stronger, continuing to "teach" the stubborn reptile with passion. And I already had purple circles before my eyes and wildly rustled in my temples. With the last of my strength, I tried to push away my tormentors, putting all my rage, all my desire to live and all my fear into this attempt. The result came out completely wild - it flared up so that even through closed eyes and dense fabric there were circles before my eyes, it jerked sharply, removing all the burden from me, I breathed a scorched and immediately - the smell of a past thunderstorm. Silence reigned for a second, which was immediately replaced by children's yelling and crying. The footsteps of the nurse on duty pounded along the corridor, ceiling lamps flashed overhead, illuminating the place of the massacre, in the center of which was my rather shifted bed, on both sides of which the tears of wild resentment were smeared by the "advocates of justice". And not only from resentment - someone was thrown onto the frames of nearby beds, someone bruised his elbows in the fall and unsuccessfully hit his head. The nanny clucked, seating the children on the beds, brilliant green and cotton wool appeared from the first-aid kit, and I continued to squeeze in my hands a burned-out blanket with dark stains in several places, with which they almost strangled me. There were no thoughts at all - it was knocked out by a bright flash, from which ovals still flickered, it was worth moving the head sharply. And not only from resentment - someone was thrown onto the frames of nearby beds, someone bruised his elbows in the fall and unsuccessfully hit his head. The nanny clucked, seating the children on the beds, brilliant green and cotton wool appeared from the first-aid kit, and I continued to squeeze in my hands a burned-out blanket with dark stains in several places, with which they almost strangled me. There were no thoughts at all - it was knocked out by a bright flash, from which ovals still flickered, it was worth moving the head sharply. And not only from resentment - someone was thrown onto the frames of nearby beds, someone bruised his elbows in the fall and unsuccessfully hit his head. The nanny clucked, seating the children on the beds, brilliant green and cotton wool appeared from the first-aid kit, and I continued to squeeze in my hands a burned-out blanket with dark stains in several places, with which they almost strangled me. There were no thoughts at all - it was knocked out by a bright flash, from which ovals still flickered, it was worth moving the head sharply.

The next op was raised by the nanny herself, seeing on the hands of the "innocent victims" light silver mesh patterns stretching from the fingers to the shoulder. An intricate drawing - as if lightning had frozen ... and he didn't want to wash off in any way ... My stomach turned cold, I picked up my legs and wrapped myself deeper in a blanket and a blanket, trying to protect myself from the evil, heavy look given to me by the hostess of the floor. She bored me for half a minute, brushed aside the remaining children not smeared with green, and went deep into the floor. As it turned out, she went to call the authorities.

Everything in the room more or less calmed down, they moved to the place of the bed, the blankets rustled - sleep did not go, after this, they tossed and turned. There was too much fear for conversations, and instead of threats, heavy, resentful breathing and quick, slightly frightened looks were quite enough. I got up to straighten the tangled sheet and straighten the bed, and just froze, longingly studying the black stains in the parquet floor where the metal legs of the bed had stood. This is exactly what I'm going to get for.

The night was long. The headmistress's voice pulled me out of sleep again - unbeknownst to myself, I managed to fall asleep, leaning against the headboard. On her orders, as he was - in slippers and pajamas, clutching a blanket and a plaid to himself, he stood in the corridor for a long time, while the nanny and director walked in circles around my bed, examining the opal marks on the floor, studied strange patterns on the hands of other children and in a strict voice asked about what happened. Then followed a long journey through empty corridors, going up to the second floor, the light of a lantern, going to the east wing and waiting again - this time near the half-open door of the director's office. The door was closed tightly at first, but then I was already frightened - the impenetrable darkness of the unlit corridor crushed and terrified to such an extent that I thrashed my arms and legs, demanding to let me in.

I was not interested in the conversation inside the office, I almost did not listen, wrapping myself in a blanket and staunchly fighting sleep, but something reached me and involuntarily remembered. For some reason, I could not be left in the old room, and a new place had to be found for me. But ... adults, as it turned out, also have a lot of fears and prohibitions. You can't move my bed to the older group - "He will kill everyone there!". I wonder who the scary "He" is? Cannot be placed in the library - "Vera Sergeevna will tell her husband!". In the corridor - "It's cold there." In the first-aid post - "You can not interrupt training!". Or even here, in the director's office - "Are you laughing? I have visitors, how can I work?!". The nanny also refused to take her home - no doubt, fortunately. Gradually, sorting through the rooms and names, the adults stopped at the watchman's room and suddenly fell silent. All sleepy haze instantly disappeared, replaced by a feeling of ice crumbling on the back. Just not there!

The caretaker is a terrible person. Anyone will tell you this. And he also has a scar across his entire face, instead of a leg - a crutch and one arm is tied to his body! And he is also vicious, he throws stones so that he flies evenly between the shoulder blades, neither to escape, nor to hide! They also say that he eats children. And cats. And dogs. This is the person I was led to. Or rather, I pretended to be a step being towed by a nurse along the corridor - that is, languidly moving my feet while my body was being dragged to inevitable death.

The cannibal's lair looked cozy, probably also because the owner himself was not there, and the aroma of mint tea floated in the air. The usual setting: two beds with adjoining bedside tables along the walls and a table near the window. Exactly the same as in the medical block. A two-liter jar of tea leaves, covered with a white lid, hovered on the table with smoke. There was an unfolded newspaper with photographs of unfamiliar, beautiful people. On the windowsill huddled forlornly a boiler, wrapped in cord lengthwise and in half. There was nothing else to look at. Even by the appearance of the beds it is impossible to determine which one belongs to the caretaker - they are all equally cleaned, with neatly fluffed pillows.

"Get in there," Nanny ordered, nodding toward the bed farthest from the door.

The story about Masha and the bears had already been read to us, so I tried to do as little damage as possible by sitting on the very edge of the bed, and even wrapped myself in what I had brought with me. Nanny just shook her head and flopped right on the fluffed up pillow. Well, okay, if anything - he will eat it first.

By the time the main bear arrived, my teeth were already rattling out a discordant rhythm - firstly, it was scary, and secondly, the wall was cold and I was pretty cold, and moving was even scarier.

The sash silently opened, letting in the main nightmare of the surrounding lands - wide, tall, with a terrible muzzle and a black cane in his hand, he bared his teeth in thirty-two hefty fangs and boomed in a low voice, shaking the walls and floor. Or was it me trembling?

"Masha, you're late," the watchman shook his head reproachfully, reaching out with his healthy hand to the belt buckle.

"Beat will!" - flashed through my head, I myself twitched, involuntarily creaking with a spring.

The watchman's hand stopped.

- Who is this? He looked at me suspiciously with his creepy eyes.

This is Maxim. The main ordered to place with you, for a while. the nanny stood up to meet him, bravely holding the monster by the shoulders.

- Why should it? There was not a hint of kindness in his voice.

- Fights hard, violent. If angered, she immediately corrected herself, catching an unkind look. "He can't stay in the ward - he'll cripple someone else or strangle him himself. To the elders, you yourself understand, also in no way ...

"And why should I?" the watchman interrupted her roughly.

- Money will be added, for supervision. Moreover, you still do not sleep at night. Was it just me, or did she pat him on the shoulder?

"Where are you going to sleep now?" - he pressed her to him - not for long, they immediately threw off his hand and stumbled to the side.

- Kohl, not with a child! Let's find. In the gym, on soft mats. Will you come? she wriggled her bodies, managing to rub her thigh against the scarecrow.

"Let me at least get to know the guest," he chuckled contentedly, escorting the nanny out of the room.

- I'm waiting! purred from the corridor.

I didn't know she could have such a voice, different from the rasp of unoiled door hinges or the yell of a cat whose tail has been stepped on. We, I remember, somehow specially caught and checked ...

- Fought, they say? the watchman pulled out of his thoughts, already seated on the bed opposite, closer to the table. The cane lay carelessly on his right hand - there was no way for me to reach it.

I shook my head.

"They beat me," he muttered, looking askance.

- Were there many? The man carefully poured the tea from the container into a miniature cup, as if by magic, hollowed out from under the countertop.

I don't know, I didn't see it.

He put the second one next to him and looked at me questioningly.

"They covered their heads with a blanket and piled on in a crowd," I said, looking greedily at the enamel cup painted in blue ornament.

- Oh, so interesting. So? - He, instead of tea, threw three cubes of sugar into a cup, greatly raising the stakes. - Something you whole too.

"I don't know," he sniffed, not wanting to deceive. Yeah, I didn't really understand what happened either. "Something hit them.

- Yah? The watchman snatched one cube from my mug and threw it into his.

- Honestly! I exclaimed, not wanting to lose the sweetness. - It came out by itself, they didn't let me breathe.

- That is? - A sharp look of gray, scorched eyes, clung to me, not letting me breathe.

- It flashed and the smoke went, and then - as after a thunderstorm. And the guys were thrown away. And black footprints on the floor. And the blanket is smoking," I swallowed hard, shrinking even tighter.

- Plaid - the same one? he pointed with his finger at a grey-black patch that was escaping from my duvet cover.

I nodded hastily and quickly pulled him off me as soon as he made a characteristic gesture.

Rough fingers touched the burnt fabric, clung to small marks, rubbed them together. The watchman looked at the holes in the light, carefully sniffed at the cinders and even tried on his tongue. After that, the plaid, to my regret, went to the corner of the room. It would be better to return - it's cold.

"Seven years, really. Is that how you wanted to kill them? he said thoughtfully, tilting the tea jar over the second cup.

- I did not want! I protested from the bottom of my heart.

The watchman froze, pouring quite a bit.

I didn't mean to kill anyone! I flared up indignantly. It was scary and I wanted to breathe. That's it ... It's just that, - he muttered, deflated.

"I didn't want to kill, and even without hatred ..." already stating, he nodded to his thoughts and added in a barely audible voice:

- Strong blood.

The tea finally reached the brink, leaving the mouth feeling dry, like running twenty laps in the summer heat. And then ... then this bastard knocked over the contents of both cups and watched with incredible contentment as my face was stretched.

"This is a brew for vivacity, you don't need it," he hobbled to the door, grinning wryly. - Settle down, little one.

Chapter 2 Fate in the Neighborhood

Chapter 2

fate next door

The door slammed inaudibly, separating two generations. Half a century of difference between a young man, full of hope and energy, and a crippled old man who also once believed in his lucky star and did not at all imagine himself as a useless cripple, a watchman on a meager salary. However, life has decreed just so.

Nikolai Ivanovich Roskov was not born a disabled person, on the contrary, in a family of philistines, with delight and bated breath, they listened to a slightly drunk (how can you not drink for this!) And graciously smiling paramedic, who repeated to his happy relatives for the tenth time - "your son is absolutely healthy ... and he is gifted." The father, they say, was a little less happy, he drank the vodka and looked askance at his spouse - the gift was most often inherited, and he himself, and all his ancestors, could not boast of such, just like the second half. It would have come to a massacre, but then the great-grandmother creaked that her grandfather served with Prince Novgorod, and not by anyone, but as a combatant. And this means - the rank of "knight", no less. Could and hatch through the generations.

Kolya was not a fool either - grades not lower than "good", attentiveness, an excellent memory would open the way for him to any university. Moreover, the gifted were taken much more willingly, making indulgences during the entrance exams.

But the thirst for adventure was seething in the blood, the attention of those around was dizzy, enthusiastic ahs warmed the soul, it was worth "reaching out" for the native element of the wind and slightly misbehaving. Something beat in the chest, demanding action, exploits and new horizons. Nikolai could not sit quietly at his desk, absorbing knowledge.

So he met his eighteenth birthday at the recruiting center of the Drevichi detachment - the largest and most famous in Verkhny Novgorod. Slightly drunk, full of courage, Nikolai almost danced, waiting for the duty officer to open it for him. The point worked around the clock, inviting everyone who wanted a new life or fled from the old one. The main thing is the gift and the absence of blood feud behind your back. In general, Kolya approached - which he was informed about, taking his passport along with the contract signed without looking.

Training, training, working out joint actions, a little mathematics, chemistry, physics, landing in the Arctic Circle, dedication. A dozen operations - to begin with, in the security perimeter, then - directly. The first corpses from his own hand, shock, pills from a metal pencil case, adrenaline, courage. A week of drunken spree - and everything repeats again. The stripes of a junior lieutenant, his own combat troika. Flights around the world that no longer bring pleasure - because they have become work. Fifteen years of service, six to eight operations a year, new shoulder straps and five subordination triples, a solid score and thoughts of retiring.

And then - a new flight, a dead-end street in the reinforced concrete jungle of Tokyo and an unnaturally serious boy in a strict black suit near a blank wall, with a scarlet coat of arms of the school in front of his heart. The wind roared evilly, shrinking into a whip under the pressure of Nikolai's will, a fire born for nothing flared up between the hands of his deputy Sementsov, the earth trembled, blocking the close rumble of machines with its groan. They hit, all three of them - it's not so difficult to hit a figure that hasn't left its place. Pure physics - pressure, an ideal environment for combustion, stone walls of the furnace - all so that the three elements, when combined, hit an order of magnitude stronger than one by one. The worked-out bunch, run-in more than once, this time did not even damage the shape on the shoulders of the dude, who stood there, looking at his executioners with an impenetrable oriental face. And then came the answer who crossed out two-thirds of the detachment from the list of the living, turning Nikolai into a cripple ... The rank of "teacher" is approximately a tank platoon. A tank platoon, which worked along a narrow dead end between two warehouses, into which, as it turned out, they did not drive the Target, but it brought them along.

Nikolay woke up in the prison hospital - for some reason they were not finished off on the spot, they were not taken to the birth torture rooms. They were simply left to die in a stone crumble, under a blockage of cobblestones and rebar. The news gave hope - the "Dreviches" did not abandon their own, which means that they should soon be pulled out, transported to their homeland, provided with healers and prosthetics. I was terribly sorry for my legs and I was very worried about a disobedient hand, but if I had money, this could also be solved.

They were refused. Some big politics related to the rapprochement of the two empires. There were no "Dreviches" in Japan, there was no detachment of Nikolai Roskov, but there were bandits who committed a robbery attack on an aristocrat from the Great Family. Punishment - to rot to death in a damp punishment cell of a local prison, the sentence was passed and carried out. A year in captivity put an end to the restoration of the leg, the left arm completely failed. Added hacking cough and swelling on the healthy leg. It's funny, but a new disease saved him. Due to an unknown distortion in the brains of the locals, they diligently treated even such condemned men as him - in order to throw them back into the cell and prolong the agony. In the sunblock, I managed to hook my tongues with an Indian orderly. English, seasoned with the language of big money, helped to get closer and build relationships,

Nikolay ordered the Drevichs to rescue themselves - a set of measures with the evacuation of one person from a restricted institution and transportation home. The letter strongly recommended that he be given a substantial discount, but there was not a single threat or swear word. They gave me a discount.

However, the operation cost most of the funds set aside for retirement, the rest of them went to treatment - and even that was not enough. A cripple with a twisted energy system of the body was leaving a private clinic, now unable to do anything more than sweep away leaves and snow with a gust of wind. Thus appeared in the boarding school janitor and watchman - in one person. Here they fed, there was a bed (there was no housing of their own, and the younger brother and his family occupied the parents' apartment), they did not ask about the past and preferred not to notice those days when Kolya drank vodka to the trash, trying to drown out the terrible pain in his whole body that came with each abrupt change in weather. In another place, they would have been thrown out a long time ago ... And there was even a woman ... whom he would not have looked at before. Now the bar has pretty much fallen, to the very bottom, like his whole life - so he was glad too. Life got into a measured rut and slowly rolled, eating day after day. Up to this day.

My heart was in a fever, giving a quick pulse to my temples, the palm of my right hand was covered with sweat - do not rub it on your jeans, it's all to no avail. And even in a numb hand, it was as if fire sparks were shooting from tension. The last time this happened to him was a long time ago, when Target, drunk to amazement, decided to crawl out from under the armor of the tank and take a pee near the nearby bushes. And Nikolai, then only a week as a "combatant", hastily set the aiming frame so as not to miss his Chance.

Now there was nowhere to hurry, but how to explain this to the dispersed imagination, urging the body to go even faster? It is difficult to remain calm when the same Chance with a capital letter, which now looks like an extremely offended child, comes to you - just like that, casually, taking the next bed.

In general, the watchman wanted to tritely beat the boy, immediately putting him in his place and indicating seniority. With the locals it is impossible otherwise, they only seem to be innocent lambs, but in fact they are still beasts. If you turn away - they will steal, if you believe - they will deceive you, if you become attached - they will sit on your neck. Even if the new guest is not one of those, it does not change anything. He will simply be forced to steal by the elders. There was only one solution - the little one had to be afraid of him more than anyone else. And here's how it turned out...

It's all about how the guy dealt with the offenders, namely in those small details that are hardly known to someone who was not one of the small number of gifted ones. One gifted in ten thousand - a community is involuntarily formed, it is strictly not recommended to release information from within. And if you remember what a meager percentage of them belong to the supreme aristocracy and how they guard their secrets ... In general, Nikolai also knew far from everything, but he did not doubt something.

Aristocratic families dating back more than half a thousand years may have a generic ability - completely random: combat or defensive, peaceful or created to kill. The ability is simply by right of blood, it does not need to be studied - as if a characteristic feature, like a strong-willed chin, only at the energy level. Initially, the skill is weak, at the level of "apprentice". However, with each generation, its strength grows - if both parents of the new carrier are gifted, and fades (or may disappear altogether) if one of the spouses does not own the gift. Over millennia of competent dynastic selection, the ability evolves into a real horror for enemies, a weapon of the "master" or "virtuoso" rank, into a real trump card, which can be pulled out of the sleeve by anyone in the family, regardless of military rank, gender and age. It's not customary to talk about it and even more so - no one will approve of talking about the belonging of a skill to one or another kind. Only the aristocrats themselves, from among the highest, follow the Power of Blood, weeding out any mention of them in newspapers and books, on radio and television. This topic is taboo for discussion.

Therefore, the two clowns - the headmistress and Mashka - hardly realized what they saw. The fact that the guy was gifted - they knew without a doubt, but that this was not an ordinary kid, whose mother had sinned with an aristo and handed over the fruit of a short passion to an orphanage - they could not understand.

And even more so, they did not know that the key to the Power of Blood is pure emotions. The stronger love, curiosity, rage, hatred - the stronger the dormant power of generations unwinds in the body. But the guy ... Maxim, it seems? so, the guy didn't even hate his offenders - he was angry, yes ... So, he hit with a grain of strength - from the ocean, with which he was awarded a whole abyss of noble generations behind his back.

How did it happen that the aristo ended up in a boarding school? Yes, in general, a small secret. During the period of tribal wars, all newborns are forcibly registered under false names and surnames, entering the refusal of motherhood in the "parents" column. All so that the executioners of the opposing side do not kill the baby.

State clinics are under the protectorate of the Emperor, but they are not a fortress at all, and do not stand at the door of the "master" and "virtuoso". And those who attacked still needed to be caught and blamed ... Cruel, dirty - of course. But if you imagine that such a charm will grow, guided by hatred for the murderers of parents, and one sunny day will cover the estate of its offenders with the Firestorm of the Tribal Force, with everyone who is in it - including children ... Then you will think, choosing - one innocent someone else's life now or hundreds of your relatives, just as innocent, after.

That is why they renamed the children, pointing out the ungifted, did not write down the mothers in the journal - all in order to give them a chance to survive, to remove them from the fire of war.

The mother, of course, knows the name of her child and will easily find him later, when the threat to the life of the baby passes, that's just ... sometimes the secret goes away with the mother. And there is such a round orphan - Maxim. Nobody needs a child, whose fate - once the gift has awakened - is to decorate the armed forces of the Emperor with his person, working off the money spent on his maintenance ... Unless the kind, kind uncle Kolya arranges for him to reunite with his relatives much earlier - of course, for a huge reward. For some reason, Nikolai had no doubt that a family with such Power of Blood would have a huge reward.

Kolya wiped his forehead with his sleeve and caught his breath in front of the next staircase, this time to the third floor, where there was an archive with a card file of the pupils' files. And Masha will be patient, she will not go anywhere ...

There are no closed doors in front of the watchman - and a bunch of keys on the belt is the best confirmation of this. The larva of the lock turned carefully, the warming rectangles of lamps fluttered, illuminating a dozen shelving placed across the long room. Nikolai did not need the boy's surname - are there many Maximovs on the stream? He had quite estimated the approximate year of birth, so the task of finding his Chance's personal file and finding the blood type and number of the maternity ward in it seemed not such a difficult task. And then - to visit there, ask around: maybe someone was looking for a little boy. It was necessary to start with something, to have some data on hand in order to act on your own or ask for the service of old acquaintances.

Rack with peers was found pretty quickly. Only now there was not one named Maxim among the named cardboard folders.

- Maybe you didn't guess with the year? Kolya muttered, scratching the bridge of his nose.

There really were Maxims in the next counter, only they were already twelve, and they looked - in black-and-white three-by-four photos attached to the case - not at all like his neighbor.

It's okay, there are general magazines, there are magazines for the allocation of allowances and bed linen, there are vaccinations, finally! Nicholas completely immersed himself in the search.

An hour and a half later, he brought the file cabinet back to its original form, turned off the light, slowly closed the door, and only then allowed himself a strong word and hit the wall with his open palm - and just froze, leaning on his hand. There was no Maxim. As if it never existed.

However, the boy in question was sitting in his room. He lived here, studied, slept, fought. So, the information was simply withdrawn - the subconscious shared the answer.

It is easy to determine who did this - only the director would have the power to do this, on his orders, with his participation. Much more difficult - why? A difficult question, a little nervous, as in any other case, when someone, albeit without knowing it, climbs into your plans.

Nicholas needed a guy to give to his relatives and receive his reward. To do this, you do not need to hide documents, hide and engage in forgery. Family reunification - what could be more legal and easier? A drop of blood, a DNA test, a lawyer in a good suit - and the state will easily refuse a dependent.

The headmistress needed a... gifted one? Not taken into account by the state, slipping, due to the peculiarities of birth, past the well-functioning mechanism for determining the gift ...

"No, it doesn't fit," Kolya shook his head. - It is easier to legally adopt him, like an ordinary child without a gift. New parents will be adored, hand weapons will turn out, which can then be easily sold.

It turned out to be nonsense: no matter how I figured out the reasons and motives, I did not find the need for early removal of a whole person from the list of the living. Everything was much easier to solve with a couple of fake certificates, a signature and a seal.

But the director must have accomplices. There is no way to hide this alone, someone should look after and fence off the boy from unnecessary questions. Masha, for example.

The name was built into the overall system perfectly, immediately lowering the degree of mood by a couple of points. I recalled other bed conversations in which an exasperated friend painted pictures of a life together. Nikolai hooted and remained silent, but, in general, he didn't mind - who else would need him like that? It turned out that for some cases their relationship was not close enough. Or Masha was intimidated.

Spinning around on the landing, toiling with heavy thoughts that he could not have imagined two hours ago, Nikolai took the next step. Or rather, he went down the flight and confidently stepped into the darkness of the corridor, following from memory to the director's office. He used to go there often, not on official business, but in a pleasant female company - for some reason Masha liked to do it on the boss's desk, but Nikolai, in general, didn't give a damn.

The necessary key was found almost immediately - as it differed from the rest in its solidity and relief. Which did not stop at all from opening the door in a second, feeling for the switch and peering intently into the familiar environment with a T-shaped conference table, at the head of which was the headmistress's massive workplace, with a leather armchair under the portraits of the living emperor and the prince of Verkhny Novgorod. Curtained windows hid the street from Nicholas and Nicholas from the street, the left wall was occupied by two sideboards separated by grandfather clocks. The worn parquet floor successfully concealed the red and black carpet. As if not a boarding school, but an office of an official. But the character is immediately readable, along with ambitions. This one could well go to the forgery.

Nikolai was brought here more by intuition than by arguments of logic - she indignantly reacted to the idea that a stolen personal file could be hidden like that brazenly, and intuition asked not to rush to assess the reasonableness of a certain person.

"Isn't she supposed to carry such papers home?" a timid thought floated by.

"Put it in an anonymous safe box, since you can't burn it!" - army barked in response.

Nevertheless, Nikolay nevertheless decided to check. He took off his shoes at the entrance - dirty, still leaving marks on the carpet - and slowly walked up to the prince's portrait. It was behind the canvas with the wise face of Yaroslav Semenovich that the mistress of the office equipped herself with a small safe for personal use. Masha somehow boasted - and he remembered, noting at the same time the strange awareness of his girlfriend.

The massive, gilded frame with the portrait moved to the floor, giving access to a white rectangle of a door with a mechanical butterfly handle and a key hole. My heart was a little relieved - if there were cunning electronics or the Demidov monogram in the corner of the door, it would be easier to leave, convincing yourself that the boss could not be such a fool ... And so - Kolya grinned - let's see what else he is capable of.

Breaking safes was not his profile at all, but it was hard to even call it a safe. So, a parody based on random thieves, but rather an interior detail to complement the image of a big boss. The only thing to do is to estimate the location of the spring-loaded part, which blocks the bolt of the lock from moving, and "press" on it with the elements, even a crumpled gift is enough for this. A click - and a heavy, seemingly reliable door, easily swings open to his complete pleasure.

He breathed in the cloying smell of perfume from an open bottle at the very door. Nikolai staggered back - it was still not enough for Mashka to sniff out - and picking up the bottle with two fingers, he set it aside with his outstretched hand to the far edge of the table. On the way back I grabbed a chair - it's easier to see the contents of the safe from above without touching it.

Inside there are papers bound with paper clips, stacked in colored plastic files, neatly folded in a pile. At the left edge are several miniature cassettes and a black body of a voice recorder - all in a transparent file. Two plump packs with scarlet banknotes against the back wall, covered with a weekly from casual glance.

And at the very bottom of the safe, under other papers, a gray cardboard of a personal file was visible - exactly the same as hundreds of folders in the archive.

For another ten minutes, Nikolai carefully examined the contents, imprinting in his memory the location of each leaflet, each bend of the plastic - after he left, everything should look exactly the same. The thought that he had already crossed the line that separated mere curiosity from breaking and entering forced him to act as carefully as possible. The visit to the office could still be explained somehow - they say, I heard a noise, the clinking of glass, I decided to check ... but about the safe, I would have to explain it to the prosecutor. That's why he stood, now closing his eyes to restore the contents from memory to the last detail, then opening again, checking the memorized with reality. When Nikolai was sure that he remembered everything exactly, he carefully poked it to the very bottom with his hand to squeeze his palm under the base of the pile of papers, and slowly transferred everything to the table. Next, lay everything out in layers, "smearing" the contents on the plane of the table. And the last chord is to take off your jacket, tuck it in the bottom of the door so that the light does not break into the corridor, and close the door with a key.

Reading turned out ... entertaining. So much so that Nikolai, without even looking through a third of the papers, began silently repeating: "Bastards. What bastards they are."

The information didn't fit in my head. They are women! Even wild animals pity babies, and these ... it's hard to find a word. Nikolai could not call himself "clean", but neither he nor his detachment climbed into such frank dirt in their lives.

If you remove emotions... bitches, what kind of bitches are they after all... So, if you still remove emotions... The gifted have a logical, in general, peculiarity - the body changes under the influence of the gift, getting used to passing energy through itself, it intensifies to take the load. The nature of the changes is individual, like an iris pattern or a fingerprint - everything affects it: age, experience, elements, frequency of practices, heredity, favorite spells and a hundred other reasons. The gift draws a unique picture of energy lines and their interaction inside the body - therefore, having lost his leg, Nikolai practically lost control over the elements. Now imagine that some organ fails as a result of injury, illness or old age - the gifted are not immortal and are prone to disease, albeit to a much lesser extent than ordinary people. You can turn to the Healers - they will help, but also far from omnipotent. Sometimes there is no other choice than an organ transplant.

And now, a fragment of someone else's body is inserted into the body of the gifted, into his energy structure, into the picture of the gift. If this is the organ of another gifted person, the effect will be worse than a nail hammered into a mirror. Unless the son shares a kidney or part of the skin with his father, but only on the condition that they practiced the same element ... and further down the list. No guarantees. Therefore, they are transplanted from ordinary people. An extremely fragile part appears in a well-oiled mechanism, akin to a clay gear in a cast-iron mechanism of a steam locomotive. A little strain - and shattered to shreds, cutting off the life of the owner. It will take a very long time to work on a new part, and the greater the age, the more capricious the gift is to the damaged canvas of the body.

But let's imagine an impossible situation - a well-developed, athletic, absolutely healthy gifted, who by the age of fourteen had not really touched his gift. His body is permeated with energy, but due to the lack of practices, instead of a picture of the gift, there is a blank canvas. Cut and patch any old canvas - the drawing on it will be restored by itself ... and there are no restrictions on the use of the gift.

An impossible situation, absolutely. Firstly, the guy must pass the test for a gift at birth, when entering kindergarten, at school, and then at school medical examinations. Secondly, to follow a diet, go in for sports, be intellectually and spiritually developed enough. Thirdly, do not use force, do not train, do not realize yourself as gifted at all - otherwise, after all, he himself will be drawn to the elements, he will not be able to resist. It is impossible, especially when the ratio of the gifted is one to ten thousand .... Impossible, especially given the NIB's scrutiny... Or very, very expensive. What bastards they are, Maksimka...

Nikolai at one time was very closely interested in this topic - after all, he himself is a cripple, but even he turned back from the thought of killing a child, for the sake of gaining a leg or arm. It is necessary to be completely turned with your head, satiated with power and lawlessness, in order to wait indifferently until a new heart, liver, kidneys are grown for you. The thought echoed - where did he get into? ..

Much more calmly, he listened to the recordings on miniature cassettes - the recorder showed an almost full charge, so Nikolai hoped that the hostess would write off the absence of one division of the battery for self-discharge ... if she noticed at all. Only Mashka spoke, giving out plans in plain text in response to the seemingly harmless questions of her boss. If you listen, it seemed that the only and main organizer of everything was precisely the portly nanny. The headmistress was obviously taking precautions, stepping on a slippery path. True, these records will not help her at all: as soon as the edge of the truth comes out, they will kill everyone. Those involved, not involved, his - Nikolai, will burn the entire boarding school. The customer will not give the NIB a chance for a lead. Because there are such crimes that neither a title, nor money, nor old merits, nor one's own army will help - everyone will come to kill such nits.

And the recorder continued to sing in the thin voice of a woman who was close yesterday ... And there was even about himself there - an edge, when Maria discussed how she would spend a whole lake of money. There was no cripple in the plans, and when the boss reminded me of the watchman ... The answer made my heart ache, the temples filled with heaviness, as if the weather changed. Nikolai did not even expect that it could be so painful.

Outside the window, the dawn was red, gently hinting that the gatherings over papers should be turned off. Kolya put everything back in place, carefully recreating the original appearance, picked up a jacket from the floor, put on shoes and left the office, gloomily reasoning: what should he do next?

Take everything and carry it to the nearest branch? Let's assume the most ideal option - that he will not be killed immediately, the case will get a move, the guilty will be wheeled. What's next? And then the relatives of the executed man will find him - something like second cousins ​​​​who cannot be attached to the case - and arrange a very long and very painful death. Justice and its absence have nothing to do with it, such traditions. It is impossible for a commoner to be the cause of the death of an aristocrat and remain alive.

He will not go to the share of women - the crumbs of the soul have not yet burned out to sink so low. And they won't take him as a share - it's cheaper to kill.

Dump information to journalists, throwing off the envelope without specifying the sender? The boarding school will burn down on the same day.

So he hobbled to his room, rolling over unhappy thoughts. And then he looked at the sleeping boy, buried under three blankets - and everything fell into place again. Does he have a plan? Find the boy's relatives, earn a lot of money and live like a prince! So why is it bad? And as for the big people's plans... Kolya smiled passionately and moved his right shoulder, kneading - the guy is unlikely to refuse the lessons of the elements of the wind. And if he refuses, he will get hit in the neck. The old methods are reliable methods, any of the Dreviches will confirm this to you.

Time will pass, and the guy will get his power drawing. And then - how lucky. If everything goes badly, at least he will take the customer with him to the grave. And the relatives of the dead man will destroy the perpetrators for such a setup. It is also costly...