Victor means "winner"

Against the starry sky, the small, silvery

dot remained unremarkable as long as it remained

stationary. Its previously imperceptible movement increased with

each passing moment, further accentuated by its increasing

brightness. Soon, the dot split into a series of

multicolored lights, and after a while, the shuttle's potbellied body and the four slender spindles of its escort coleopters could be seen

emerging from the halo of the airport lights . The landing platforms glowed violently with laser- like markings, and then the heavy PT-2 landed majestically on the largest of them. The escort craft continued to maintain their perfect formation, their onboard searchlights sweeping the field around the shuttle, supporting the ground-based light sources, which focused their full power on the vehicle's motionless silhouette. As the last of his engines died, a previously invisible hatch opened, and before it even touched the ground, two commandos jumped out, immediately aiming their weapons into the dark abyss of the exit. A faint figure appeared, a man bareheaded, his hands clasped behind his back. Tesseridge shifted the image slightly to the left, pressed the transfomer button, and released it only when the captive's face filled almost the entire screen. Large, dark eyes stared at Tesseridge, their penetrating gaze heightened by the drawn brows and slightly furrowed eyelids against the blinding light. A mouth, twisted in a grimace of proud contempt, complemented the expression of a face no older than twenty, occasionally obscured by the flowing strands of long, black hair. "So this is what Victor looks like... Robin Hood," Tesseridge thought. "What a look! What a look! Oh, you boys with roses on their sleeves, you have no idea how ridiculous you are." He zoomed out a bit as the prisoner disappeared from view, and in his place appeared two more heads in commando helmets and two machine gun barrels. Without lowering their weapons, the soldiers climbed down the outer, stair-like surface of the hatch and closed the modest procession that had accompanied Victor from behind . All five of them headed for the oncoming personnel carrier and disappeared into its

The car sped toward the

airport buildings, constantly followed by the glowing eyes of the ground

searchlights and spotlights of the shuttle's still-hovering

escort.

* * *

"Commander Tse-se-rydz! Now I understand the stench

around here. My disrespect!" Victor exclaimed,

standing at the entrance to Tesseridge's office, flanked by two

guards.

"Your name sounds much more

amusing in the context of the current situation. And without the misspelling," Tesseridge retorted

, and motioned to the soldiers, who promptly left the room.

"Sit down, we'll talk.

" "I'm afraid we have nothing to say to each other.

" "But we do, we do.

" "You won't learn anything from me!"

Tesseridge stood up and reached into his drawer for a pack

of cigarettes.

"That's not the point," he said, burning a roll of

white paper dating back to the days before the Invasion.

"Really?" Victor asked ironically.

Sensing he wouldn't be leaving the room anytime soon,

he settled comfortably on the couch, crossed his legs,

folded his arms, and fixed an expectant gaze

on Tesseridge, who was pacing the length of the office,

trailing bluish smoke.

"What are you getting at, Commander?

" "First: let's cut the titles."

Victor smiled.

"Oh no! I don't get along with people like you," he replied

contemptuously.

"That's a shame," the Commander interjected. "Contrary to appearances, we have more

in common than we do differences.

" "Like being human? I assure you,

Commander, you're a perfect example of a furry creature,

even though you weren't born on Ces.

" Victor's aggressive words made little impression

on Tesseridge. He continued pacing back and forth,

cigarette in between, as if preparing for a longer

speech.

"Well, besides the fact that we're both human,

we're also on the same side of the barricade.

" Victor sighed.

"Did you bring me here to

tell me this, Commander?" he replied, slowly rising

from the couch. "It would be better if you called your

psychiatrist. He'd be more understanding and patient."

Listening to such idiocy. Tell those furry creatures

to escort me out of here," he added, stopping at the door.

"Before I let you go..." Tesseridge began

, and headed for the wall where the screen

on which he had recently watched Victor's arrival stood. "...before I let you

go, I'd like you to see something that

will surely interest you," he finished, and inserted the previously

prepared OptoDisc into the reader.

Victor, leaning against the wall with one hand, watched

Tesseridge's actions impassively until

the first images of the film appeared on the screen. The mocking expression quickly

vanished from his face, and his other hand, about to nonchalantly

tuck into his pocket, stopped midway. Now Tesseridge

sat down on the couch and, in a defiantly calm tone, drawled

the words, which echoed unbearably in Victor's head.

"Yeah... the main outpost in the Alps. The Cessians are

sensitive to low blood pressure, so maybe we should look into

Tibet?" Here you go... a hidden nuclear generator... one

of many... that's practically energy independence...

getting back to the point: maybe we should look into the Sahara?

You've already sent a secret reconnaissance team there—and rightly so—furries, as

the name suggests, don't tolerate the sun as well, they won't be

eager to scour the deserts... oh! Who do we have here! Mr.

Victor! Colonel Victor, commander of the General Headquarters, and...

the rest of the gang. Quite a polite organization, the best

models tested long before the invasion... complete conspiracy...

please, ammunition depots... preserved food...

for a "rainy day," eh? And here's the legendary squadron... three

flights of Harriers... taking to the air with something like that

is truly your style... ah, sorry! There's

also a "surprise"... an old SR-91 converted

into a nuclear attack aircraft... I wonder where it'll launch from...

whew, whew... maser communications... when you're in the mountains,

you can send rabbits flying quite far... there's

propaganda... oh yes, you have to fight with your spirit, the

obligatory blotter... these titles, my God... "Freedom," "Jutrzenka,"

"Victoria"... you're so monothematic... yea... half a

million boys and girls playing war...

sad... and such ambitious plans... are we counting on a surprise?

Wrong! The Cessians don't think the way you think...

Victor stared stonily at the screen, where

the computer was modeling the schematic of a secret

prototype of a small thermonuclear power plant under construction.

"Leaving a prisoner unprotected with his hands free is

also a mistake!" Saying, or rather shouting, the last

word, Victor lunged at Tesseridge.

He just had time to see the commander leap to the side with unexpected

swiftness, the entire room illuminated by a sudden

flash—and a terrible pain knocked him unconscious.

"...need it, so stay close," he heard

Tesseridge's distant voice.

He lay on the couch, numb and dazed by the electrical

shock. The commander, dismissing the soldiers, lit another

cigarette and sat down in the armchair opposite. His

calm gaze rested on the man lying there.

"If I recall correctly, we were discussing mistakes, were

n't we?

" Victor remained silent.

"Did you really think that so many

select furries escorted you so that, unchained, you could attack the defenseless

commander of the United Armed Forces and the head of the

Information Center? You weren't thinking at all. You only saw that

there were no sentries, that your hands were untied, and I wasn't holding you

at gunpoint. That's what you all do!"

Tesseridge's voice grew louder. "How simple!

The invader falls from the sky, so a bullet to the head! Then into the forest,

and again: a bullet to the head! Fewer and fewer bullets, more and more corpses—

it doesn't matter, to the last drop, we will prevail in spirit!

" Tesseridge stood up and began his characteristic

wandering from corner to corner. Victor, now completely

recovered, sat down, still silent.

"Everything begins with a too-brief assessment

of the situation," Tesseridge continued, calming down. "How many

furries are there, eh?" he suddenly turned to Victor. "Well,

how many?" He waited a moment to intensify the effect of his answer. "

There are over thirty billion of them! Thirty billion

Cesians, strong and healthy, because it's a civilization that maintains

natural selection in its sociostructures without any

sentiment. It would take a long time to talk about them... and so what if they don't

have well-developed computer technology, thanks to

which I'm here? They destroyed us in two months! They could

cover us with just helmets, and your ridiculous guerrilla warfare

will only hasten that moment. Instead of sacrificing, we need to

To save as much as possible...

"For example, my own skin," Victor interjected.

Tesseridge narrowed his eyes.

"Many, many skins..." The point is, for four

years of work... oh, excuse me, for four years

of treacherous collaboration, I've done nothing but

try to correct your idiotic actions. These are

pathetic stunts, when, as in the old, pre-invasion

days, you shoot down a transport or

destroy a few important furries. But then you're not the ones

who go to the wall for revenge and fear. The innocent go,

and not, like in the good old days, a hundred, but

five hundred, and they take another hundred to the camps after each of your

"actions." There are so many of them because... I'm the one giving the orders.

Yes, "the bloodthirsty beast Tse is on the rampage again! We will avenge!"

If a furry creature were sitting in my chair,

thousands, not hundreds, would be lost.

Tesseridge walked over to the console beneath the screen. "This is the terminal of the largest computing complex

currently operating on Earth. The furry creatures have no idea about this generation of machines, but they trust me. Thanks to my apparent loyalty, I became head of this facility, and only I have all the data. I've simulated every uprising, revolution, assassination attempt, and coup, analyzing every possible scenario. There's no chance. It's a pity you don't have at least some of the information to which I, as a member of the occupation authorities, have access. Perhaps then your vision would clear, because you can't see much through your visors. For now, you're behaving like those mythical sailors, lashing out with their chains at the stormy ocean that's sinking the ship —you, on the other hand, throw people overboard to lighten the ship! Bravo! " "There's no other option. In such cases, the only ethics is mathematics. You have to balance losses and survivals." That's why I work here and sign death warrants, trying to limit their number as much as possible. Thanks to this..." Tesseridge pointed to the rows of keyboards below the screen, "...I am certain that I have managed to reduce the destruction to a minimum, to the limit beyond which I attract suspicion, am executed, and my successor ruins everything. " "Therefore, I can only fall on my knees before you and cry: 'Savior of the world, forgive me my blindness, tomorrow

I surrender my entire army to you!” Is that right, Commander?

“Not to me, but to those who

are dying because of you! There would be far fewer of them if you stopped

fooling around. For four years you have been serving the furries

much better than I have by giving them pretexts for revenge.

” “So we are all to get out, lay down our weapons, and politely

go to the slaughter, and then the savior of humanity, the messiah

Tse-se-rydz, will save the world, that is, postpone its end

by a few years, which he will calculate on computers beforehand.

Indeed…

” “…a spectacular suicide would be better, wouldn’t it?”

Tesseridge finished. “You like it. It’s enough to be born

in a country where everyone is a knight in the cradle, and after a few

drinks, a national hero, gather a band of similar

warriors, and—go! ”

Victor clenched his fists. Tesseridge noticed this

and smiled.

“Do you want to try your luck again?”

Victor measured his face . He glared at him with a hateful look.

"You'll be hanged, Commander.

" "Howgh! That's what I call warrior spirit!"

Tesseridge said approvingly. "But you have a short memory, great

leader, I think I need to refresh it. Just a short while ago

I showed you a nice video from which, as I see, you didn't

draw any conclusions. I'll help you with that. You're

completely exposed. It's just a huge cauldron.

Skillful processing of information is valuable for gaining it,

the furries are only capable of the latter for now, so they know little.

But they will find out. You'll be picked off like rats. "

Victor stood up. His face betrayed no

emotion. He stood by the door and stared at

the white rectangle of the screen for a moment.

"You're wasting your precious time, Commander. Our discussion

was pointless from the start.

" "Nothing of the sort. We're approaching him now.

" "Nonsense!

" "Don't play Greek. You know what I mean. I know

you know. And you know I know.

" "No." This gibberish amuses me.

"Okay, I'll be brief: it's about the uprising. "

Victor frowned.

"...and you already know that?

" "I know," Tesseridge replied. "They'll find out

in due time. "

Victor frowned.

"Since you know from your computers, or rather from

more... human sources of information about only

"Electronic terms—we call such 'plug-ins'—

if you know... then why the hell should I tell you?

" "Oh, I don't know everything yet.

" "And my visit was supposed to deepen the knowledge?

No way!

" "It's already deepened considerably, more than you think.

I need you for something else.

" "Get to the point, Commander.

" "Fine. The uprising won't break out. You call it off."

He pointed a finger at Victor, who, speechless for a moment,

burst into loud laughter.

"No problem, it's already happening, boss!"

Tesseridge sighed.

"Tell me, are you really counting on victory?"

Victor continued laughing and didn't answer. The Commander

began his characteristic pacing back and forth

with a new cigarette in his hand.

"It's so sad it's laughable. Hopelessly

laughable. I ask again: what are you even counting on?

Why? Where's the point?

" "The point of the uprising lies in the uprising."

Tesseridge chuckled.

"One to one in ridicule." If

your soldiers are buying into these arguments, then bravo. But time

for specifics. I'll start by way of encouragement.

It will take us about three days to crush your rebellion. Admittedly, you have

enough forces for almost a week's fight, but knowing your

positions, junctions, lines of communication, and

plans, we can deal with you in twenty-four

hours. Why three days? Firstly,

it will take us some time to move the main battles away from larger

population centers, as we're aiming for the lowest number

of casualties. I wonder if you too... Secondly, there's something

the Cessians call fanaticism, you call "spirit," and what I call

emotional potential, and I'm taking it into account, because I

take everything into account. I've already developed a detailed plan of action;

the furries will only make a few minor adjustments.

According to my calculations, about five million people will die,

plus or minus half a million, if I manage

to implement my tactical system in its entirety, which I have no doubt about.

Otherwise, the death toll will double.

Retaliatory reprisals after the uprising cannot be avoided.

I will try to minimize them as much as possible; I have already convinced the furries

that the most economical are labor camps, where

Hallucinogens, so those who end up there will be in paradise

until they exhaust themselves. It's the most... humane

solution there is. You, however, will all die

instantly. It's necessary. Besides, from what

I've heard from you, I can confidently conclude that's what you're after.

So you'll be given the "death on the field of glory" award. Three days

and no more screaming. What do you think?

"See this sign?" asked Victor, pointing to

the emblem embroidered on the sleeve of his jacket, depicting

a stylized red rose.

"Nice.

" "Imagine, Commander: you're walking along

a flowerbed and you see a rose. A beautiful, blood-red rose,

growing among the inconspicuous flowers and grass. Who's

going to stop you from picking it? There's no guard. Just stretch out your hand...

and you pick it. It can't hurt you. And you have it in

your hand, it's at your mercy, you can

put it in a vase, give it to someone... or throw it away, break it,

tear off the petals. But right now you're hissing in pain because

you've pricked your fingers with its thorns. We are those thorns...

" "Ha, ha, that's good! Although I hear your diagnosis

of the situation is quite accurate. The rose can't defend itself. But

a thinking rose will hide its thorns and perhaps be placed

in a vase. A choleric flower lover, and such are the Cessians,

when pricked, in the first impulse of rage, the rose will throw it to the ground

and trample on it. There's a certain difference between a vase

and being trampled.

" "Only a matter of time. In a few days, the vase will be

empty, and the rose will be in the trash. There's no difference. Better

right now...

" "...to die with honor. But that's the thorns' point of view.

And the rose?

" Victor lowered his voice.

"And what do you know, Commander, about the rose?"

Tesseridge shrugged, and Victor shouted

triumphantly:

"You know nothing, Mr. Tse-se-rydz! Thorns are part of

the rose, the rose thinks like thorns. The rose is people,

those innocent people whose lives you fight so hard for!

If it weren't for them, we would have been finished long ago! They support us,

feed us, give us quarters, keep weapons and papers, draw roses

on the walls, tell us about our every action, join us

in crowds! All this despite the threats and terror of the furry creatures! They are with us

in thought and deed! We are all of them! How can you not know this

? You may just not want to know, because it's hard to...

To undo... the error! We're talking about errors again. You supposedly

calculated everything, and it's easy to make a mistake in calculations.

You even calculated our "emotional potential"! Great!

How much did you get? It's nonsense! "The only ethics is

mathematics"—your brilliant words. So let's calculate, let's create

an equation! On my side—everyone killed. On yours

—too, only a little later and in a worse, slower way!

The same number, so it reduces. And what's left? On your

side—disgrace, those few miserable years of prolonged

agony! And on mine? "Emotional potential," precisely!

The joy of people who see furry creatures getting hit between

their stubbled eyes. The joy of people who feel like

human beings again, not slaughter cattle! In all people,

not just us. That's the result of the equation. Any computer,

even a tenth-generation one, will agree with us. Yes, but

you program computers, Mr. Tse-se-rydz. You'll

still prick your fingers... over roses.

"Fine. Tell me one thing, Victor—have you

ever studied history?

" "I study it all the time. I create it!

" "Fine... but enough of the battle trumpets. You don't

create history, you finish it, so it doesn't matter anymore

whether you've learned the fate of such universal liberators and sons

of the people who, every fifty years or so, took

to the barricades with roses on their banners. Now I'll tell you something

about the rose from my side of the equation. Of your beloved

people, on average, one in four has voluntarily denounced it at least once

. One draws a rose on the walls, and another immediately

erases it. In the camps, fellow prisoners turn out to be worse than furries

. One person is furries to another. Fathers

give up their sons to organizations because they want to live, not die

with honor. There are several other

groups besides you, and somehow you don't share the spirit of fighting. What's more,

you're at odds with each other because, God forbid,

your views disagree. Under the guise of grand affairs,

you settle your private accounts. Even in your

staff, Colonel Victor, there's an opposition group

of passivists and compromisers. You're right, computers don't give me

all the data as a gift; I have my own "insiders." Their

names would make your hair stand on end. One of your

trusted officers personally came to me and ratted you out .

So shamelessly, until one day I ordered him eliminated because

I was utterly disgusted with him, but you thought we killed him

because he didn't say anything. A joke! Forty-three percent

of the people, "all of whom are you," belong to "New Earth," only

most of them mask it well. That's how it looks. I have no

intention of changing the resolutions. The equation is

precisely constructed, and it contains everything: "fighting spirit," "

people's spirit," "love of freedom," and other things. Just as

they really are.

"If my country recognized such truths, it would have perished

hundreds of years ago.

" "Man, the world is dying here...

" "It will die anyway! At least let

some furries die in the process. It will be easier to die.

" "Only it will be easier for you! You're simply selfish.

You want to sacrifice people for the satisfaction of death

by gunfire.

" "You really don't see anything!

" "You're repeating yourself. Stubbornness always accompanies stupidity.

Finally, understand that we mean the same thing!

" "And we can't communicate." What dialectical

tragedy...

The conversation was interrupted by the buzzer of the teletransmission. Tesseridge

walked over to the console, looked at Victor, and instinctively switched off

the direct vision and audio, even though

Victor couldn't have used any information that way. He picked up the handset.

"Information Center, Commander Tesseridge, I'm listening."

The interlocutor clearly had a lot to say, because

Tesseridge said nothing more, asked no questions, didn't even

nod. After a moment, the commander put down the phone. Silently,

he lit a cigarette and smiled sadly.

"We can give it a rest now. The uprising has just

broken out...

" * * *

The shuttlecraft slashed through the thin air of the atmosphere,

leaving behind a trail of condensing engine gases, gleaming in the sunlight . Two rocket planes

flew nearby , providing more of a token shield, for at this speed and altitude, the threat was unimaginably small. However, they kept a watchful eye—on board the shuttle were Tesseridge, Head of the Information Center and Commander of the Armed Forces, and Victor, the would-be leader of the dying rebellion. "As I said," Tesseridge said, "three days. And today is day three."

Victor silently gazed at the magnificent

horizon, its curve emphasizing the stratospheric

altitude. Tesseridge, too, glanced at the viewport.

"From a distance, everything looks wonderful. Only when

you look closely does the truth emerge," he said

, half to himself, half to Victor, and as if to confirm

his statement, he switched on the transmitter. The Cessan's

brown, bearded face appeared on the screen

.

"Commander, here are the latest reports from the front,"

Victor read.

Thanks to Tesseridge's generosity, the translator

immediately translated the furry creature's incomprehensible gibberish and

displayed text at the bottom of the screen.

"Most of the operations are proceeding as we

expected. We have prevented the assault on Cape

Canaveral, as well as the attacks on the industrial centers

CHIC.PB-104, SDOP.DX-190, DETR.OH-030." The insurgents

intercepted four General Dynamics

YF-28 orbital aircraft, attempting to cripple our satellite communications system

. All were destroyed. We

also eliminated most of the rebel energy sources, as the majority

of them were nuclear generators.

Local contamination was unavoidable in the areas of MONG 25-3-8-21, ITAL

5-11-10-34, GBIRL 14-8-2-3, and the exact locations of

YOUG, SWED, ESP, BENEX, SOVLIT, and USWASH. The main

enemy force groups were defeated.

The attack aircraft demonstrated particularly effective operations: the 34th and 35th Squadrons

under the command of Captain Harley Guidrod...

"Man!" thought Victor.

"...during the operation to outflank the NPL army in ALP.DS-309,

the missile forces performed excellently—the 12th Division, commanded by Colonel

Thomas Bryce...

"A human again," he shuddered.

He saw many more of them later, when it came time for

first-hand accounts from the battlefield, or rather, from the slaughterfield.

He also saw the Cessians, but they no longer made much of

an impression on him. He saw columns of captured insurgents, saw

bombed-out machines still in their hangars, crater-sized explosion

craters, blackened fields strewn with piles of corpses...

"...the final battles take place only in

urban centers, where the rebels find shelter in houses,

basements, and sewers. The pro-insurrectionist stance complicates the action."

civilian population, but currently even there the resistance

has been broken, the hunt for survivors is still underway

in the vicinity of MONACH. TORON. BERL. and in...

At the sight of the last abbreviation of the city's name, Victor flinched

and looked at Tesseridge.

"That's where we're going. Surprise, eh? Well, we'll see your country, the one you're so proud of," the commander

said . Victor bit his lip and turned to the viewport. The squadron was just entering the clouds, and the view was repeatedly obscured by clouds of white fog. The barely audible hum of the engines dropped to a lower pitch. The ship was losing speed and altitude, but dark clouds still lingered outside. Victor watched them, and at some point he understood. These were no longer clouds, these were the smoke of a burning city. * * * The shuttle landed softly in a small square near the concentration of Imperial soldiers. There was also a transporter and a communications vehicle, from which an officer ran out to meet the commander as he disembarked, and then two... men, Victor noted with disgust. He didn't need to listen to the furry man's report to understand the situation. The fighting was long over; the soldiers were moving calmly, not ducking for fear of gunfire, not hiding behind armored vehicles. Tesseridge dismissed the Cessian and turned to Victor. "This is the second line. They'll simply be clearing the area and repairing the roads. Your men have been driven back... there." He pointed to the sky, a sliver of blue briefly appearing amidst the clouds of smoke. Victor remained silent, though he was experiencing a veritable storm inside . He knew this place perfectly, recognized it even though it had been reduced to burning rubble. Years ago, he had passed this way every day, rushing to school, then to university. Here, with a pounding heart, he had come for the first time to a conspiratorial meeting, here he had taken his oath, and now... "Let's go then!" Tesseridge called. They headed toward what must have once been a house, now an irregular mound of brick and reinforced concrete. Tesseridge led the way, then Victor, with the furry assigned to guard the commander bringing up the rear. They moved rather slowly, often having to skirt mounds of rubble bristling with incredibly twisted rebar.

From time to time, they encountered impenetrable walls of smoke,

which, however, were everywhere.

Silence reigned all around, broken only by the

occasional sounds of falling ceiling fragments, small shards of plaster sliding

, and the occasional roar of flames,

so the footsteps of the traveling trio were the only sound

disturbing the dead calm. For Victor, however, it was a very

apparent peace; in the air, saturated with the smell of burning,

he could still hear echoes of the recent battle that had raged perhaps

two hours ago, perhaps an hour ago. He heard

shouts, the clatter of feet, gunfire, low-flying

stormtroopers, the thunder of imploding shells...

Suddenly, he was startled by the sound

of a gunshot, a real one this time. The Imperial soldier assigned to cover was aiming

at the solitary protruding fragments of wall and would have surely

fired a second time if Tesseridge hadn't tipped his muzzle

upward.

"Leave it! No need." They're gone now," he said

, turning to Victor. "It must have been a cat,

or a pigeon...

" "No. It wasn't a cat," Victor replied emphatically,

staring at the shelled recess of the wall. "Or a pigeon!"

he added, and without looking back at Tesseridge, he moved in that

direction.

The commander and the Cessian followed him.

As they reached the wall, the hunched silhouette of a seated woman appeared before their eyes

. A dark

shawl, draped over her head, hid her old, wrinkled

face, which was etched in a grimace of mad fear.

The old woman tried

to retreat with hesitant movements, terrified by the sight of the enormous furry creature standing

behind Tesseridge.

Victor approached her.

"Don't be afraid, we won't hurt you."

His words had no effect; the woman seemed not to hear him, and her eyes darted fearfully

around . "What's your name?" "...I don't know..." she whispered. Victor glanced at Tesseridge and asked the woman again. "How long have you been hiding here? " "...I don't know... " "A day, two, a week? " "...I don't know... " "Why didn't you evacuate with everyone? " "...I don't know... " "You must remember something!" " ...I don't know... " "Where are your loved ones, your family?"

"...I don't know...

" "Where are your children?

" "...I don't know..."

The woman's voice rose to a scream. Victor looked at

her closely and only now noticed that she was still clutching

a scrap of fabric.

"We won't hurt you, just show us this..." he held out

his hand.

The old woman responded with another burst of sobs and

curled up, protecting the precious piece of fabric.

Tesseridge nodded to the furry man, who approached and brutally

snatched the rag from her hands.

It was a bloody scrap of an insurgent's uniform, on

which the outlines of the insignia

and a faded red rose could still be seen.

Victor fixed his gaze on Tesseridge. The commander

returned the gesture, and they stood there for a moment, wrestling with each other's

gaze. Victor shifted his gaze to the sobbing

woman, then moved slowly forward.

"You can't escape this!" the commander shouted after him. "

This is all your doing, and you have only yourself to blame!" That's

all..." Tesseridge's voice was drowned out by the gunshot.

Victor looked around sharply.

"It was best for her,"

Tesseridge said quickly. "Euthanasia...

" "And recently, 'salvation'?" Victor interrupted. "And what

else do you have to tell me? "

Tesseridge, in response, picked up

a piece of cloth belonging to the dead woman and tossed it to Victor.

"Take this. As a souvenir."

Victor gritted his teeth and turned away.

Arms folded across his chest, he gazed wildly

at the bleak landscape of the ruins.

The setting sun had bathed the earth in a brownish red,

across which, like ominous black birds, shadows darted, cast

by the flying clouds of smoke. In the distance, small figures of Cessians loomed

, bustling around a crawler excavator demolishing

the remains of buildings. Nearby, the violet-blue rays of thermal emitters glowed

, burning away the rubble

and reducing the insurgents' bodies to ashes, thus providing them with

the most economical funeral possible. Even from this distance,

Victor could hear the characteristic hiss of these devices.

From the opposite direction, he heard the sound of footsteps

from a larger group of people.

Victor looked around and started.

He saw a column of captured soldiers, led by several Cessians .

The rebels' captives. They passed right by where

Tesseridge stood. They walked slowly, so Victor could

study them. Rarely did

any of them hold an unloaded weapon, a few

wore silver, anti-laser jackets, most

trudged along in homemade camouflage, old leather

coats with clumsily sewn-on rose emblems. They walked

ravaged, grimy, and only the glint of their eyes shone against

their dusty faces.

"This is my place," Victor said suddenly

, turning to Tesseridge. "And now, I bid you farewell, Mr.

Tse-se-rydz. I hope we never see each other again.

" With that, he turned toward the rebels.

Tesseridge stood motionless in his place, making no

attempt to stop him. He watched calmly as Victor

joined the last ranks.

"Oh, you boys with roses on your sleeves," he sighed,

"you are truly very funny."

At that moment, he heard a thunderous chant:

"Red is blood! Red is us!

Red is the banner red with blood!

Red is the rose! It's the call of its thorns!

Red is us! Red is blood!

" "God, how ridiculous you are!" he thought.

"We'll make red crosses on your graves!" he shouted back,

and then he saw the cross.

It was a large, concrete cross, part of a former monument,

now lying on the ground, crushing a stone figure

with an outstretched hand, pointing somewhere toward the sky,

a blue sliver of which appeared for a moment above the heads

of the singing insurgents.