Shakal said that the area around the surface sectors was now guarded by hives, and since that was the case, it was at least possible to look at them. He could take one of them and have a heart-to-heart talk with them, as he'd done before. Maybe something new will come to light.
Bolotnikov took a horse and rode all night and then all day and by roundabout ways reached Bakhmut. Here, he was well aware that the Khivi dwelt, holding this town as a hub – several roads ran through it in different directions, and, controlling it, one could be sure that no one would throw any serious units to their flank or rear in any short time.
It took him another half a day to get quietly around this town and move on toward Deese, and before he reached about ten kilometers he settled down for the night. It was warm now, even at night, and after such a journey his strength was running out, so he was almost at once at his services.
He dreamed of miners and chiwis and Maquis. In a big, dark hall. They were moving around, forming some kind of demonic circle at wild speed. But surprisingly, they didn't bump into each other at all. And even though they all had different clothes – the khaki field clothes of the Maquis, the specialized "kink" of the Kiwis, and the black and gray work clothes of the miners – it was impossible to tell who was who. They moved so fast. And what's more, as the observation went on, it began to seem that there was no difference between them all, that they were all the same.
Completely the same, and even their clothes, which had blurred so much that they looked like tattered multicolored rags. It no longer seemed that they were different people. They were all doing the same thing, circling around the room in a single rhythm, not bumping into each other, clearly wanting the same thing, and certainly not interfering with each other at all. It was even somewhat surprising – how could they move at such speed, maneuvering between each other and at such speed, and not even hit each other. It was as if they were being controlled by someone else, calculating each one's route in advance.
How much did they want it? And did they want it? And who is the one who controls it all? It can't be otherwise – they weren't wrong, they were acting according to a single plan that someone had worked out. And that's exactly what they were all happy with.
Bolotnikov tried to force his way through to pull someone out and ask it, but he was immediately pushed away, just as coherently by everyone who could reach. And so, looking at him fiercely, continued their movement. Then he tried to shout to someone, asking what they were doing, why they were doing it, and who commanded them. Some of them looked at him angrily, but most of them just kept on doing what they were doing.
Then he took out a pistol and started firing it at the ceiling, shooting the entire clip. That didn't impress anyone, and he tiredly slumped to the floor. Everyone seemed to be really happy with what they were doing. It looked like his attempts to find out something were just a void in their much more real lives than the one he wanted for them… And then someone banged hard next to his right ear.
Bolotnikov woke up instantly. It was his horse, not far from him, pounding its hoofs. It snorted a little more and looked at him strangely. He must have said something in his sleep.
