Chapter 4.
Day of Military Valor. Father Kom.batt.
08/15/2119. First half of the day.
RBSF, Capital.
- I don't think we'll make it to the grandstand, - Landskricht's voice sounded in English.
- That's right, - Zavirdyaev answered.
Recently, local authorities have taken to completely clearing the blocks allocated for the center of the celebration from transport - it was safer that way. The plan was that in case of an alarm, the crowd would move in an organized manner to shelters and would not make any fuss with cars, no attempts to leave, and, accordingly, traffic jams.
Besides Zavirdyaev and Landskricht, there were two more people in the salon - ordinary faceless clerks. As it happened for important events, the CSCE units received orders to send several people to a closed ceremonial meeting, and to the rally preceding this meeting with a military parade.
Today, August 15, the SFS celebrated the Day of Military Valor, or DMV, as it was sometimes called by the locals, accustomed to abbreviations that seemed to have come from the Soviet army. The holiday was established by the Right Bank in 116.
In general, the traditional Russian day "the twenty-third of February" has not gone anywhere here either, but the SFS decided that this was not enough and that another and, most importantly, its own holiday was needed.
The street with tram tracks turned right and was replaced by an avenue. Traffic was not yet blocked here, but numerous city residents, filling the sidewalks, were already trying to get out onto the roadway. Finally, the flashing lights of the traffic police cars, the GAI, as it was called here, appeared ahead. Further on, after the cars with flashing lights, the road was blocked.
Zavirdyaev turned right and dove into a courtyard drowning in greenery. Here and there some young slackers were scurrying about, perhaps looking for a place to go to the toilet. Having parked in a parking lot opposite one of the houses, Zavirdyaev announced in English that they would have to walk further.
- In such good weather, it wouldn't hurt to take a walk, - Landskricht answered simply, addressing not so much Zavirdyaev as the others.
The foreigners plugged in their headphones - this way they could also make out the conversations of passers-by on the street, which always added a certain extra comfort to being in a foreign-language environment.
Zavirdyaev sniffed - somewhere nearby a pile of uncollected and untaken out garbage stank. This was no longer an isolated incident. Apparently, another garbage crisis was approaching. On the left bank, this also happened regularly.
Zavirdyaev clicked the alarm, and everyone moved along the narrow sidewalk that led into the maple thickets. After the thickets, metal garages and a garbage heap appeared in the distance. Somewhere inside the mountain, there must have been containers. The group quickened their pace.
- How much is thrown here, - one of the clerks, a Frenchman, said dejectedly.
- A common thing, - Landskricht answered. - The locals would get seriously rich if they took all their garbage to at least a standard recycling center. It didn't work out with coal, but maybe they could have worked out with garbage. It's a long way to transport, though, so it lies here.
One of the Foreigners smiled politely.
- But I don't find it funny! - Zavirdyaev thought angrily. Instead of words, he looked back and cast a cold glance at Landskricht.
- It's not about people, but about politicians, - he said anyway.
The SFS may have been the ill-fated Super-Federate, but they were his, Zavirdyaev's, fellow citizens, and he wasn't going to listen to such barbs from some foreigner.
- Of course, I don't argue, - Landskricht answered conciliatorily.
Somewhere off to the side of the avenue, the sounds of music began to boom. "Batyanya Kom.batt" was playing, which had become something of an unofficial anthem. This was explained by the fact that the new head of the SFS, "Callsign Moscow", himself began his military career among the right-bankers from this position and declared himself in the following years as a "simple battalion commander".
It should have been said that he was not a local. Before the Super Federation began to attract everyone, including draft dodgers and even deserters, the SFS had equipped itself with some kind of military - it had gathered retired and even active but contract-broken officers and privates from all over the country into the ranks of its armed units. "Kom.batt" was one of those officers.
- Maybe we should go out to the avenue? - suggested the second clerk, an Englishman, who was clearly discouraged by the mountains of garbage.
- There's a crowd there, - answered Zavirdyaev, - Let's at least go halfway through the courtyards.
In the next courtyard, a low metal fence, only knee-high, appeared. Three young rascals were sitting in a row on the fence, one of whom, the biggest and fattest, was sitting naked to the waist, his beer tits flashing. There were bottles under the company's feet, and all of them were different. Zavirdyaev's soul became cheerful, but his expression remained the same.
- Hello, - said the fat man, perhaps seeing something alien in the passers-by, and some importance in Zavirdyaev.
Zavirdyaev nodded in a businesslike manner and greeted him in return, walking on.
- Hello everybody, - Landskricht's voice sounded in English behind him.
The others walked on in silence.
When the sidewalk turned again after twenty or thirty meters, Landskricht called out to Zavirdyaev, and when he turned around, she pointed towards the avenue.
- It would be better to go there, - she suggested, slightly grimacing from suppressed laughter.
The others looked at Zavirdyaev questioningly and hopefully.
- So you came here to restore order, but you can't walk down the street? - he thought with some malice.
At times, echoes of the old youthful worldview would surface from somewhere deep inside, when a great country was collapsing before the eyes of the then Zavirdyaev and thousands and thousands of other young people like him. First, the Confederation crumbled, and in 2089, the Union itself ended. Then came Westernized education and a Westernized social and information environment, which left no stone unturned from the previous indignation. However, the bitter kitchen conversations of the elders had not yet completely evaporated from memory.
An avenue appeared with people moving westward, toward the park. On the opposite side, on the sidewalk, here and there stood groups of people with posters and even banners. The latter mostly had the names of enterprises on them. Obviously, many of these citizens were here by order. The posters usually contained both standard slogans and printouts of local graphic propaganda, as well as scans of children's drawings on a military theme. Still, a certain number of people could prepare for the holiday at their own heart's desire, without any orders.
On the side along which Zavirdyaev and his group were walking, a row of trailers were lined up, which were shops on wheels - the authorities had allowed or ordered to set up a mini-fair. Various street musicians played there, from violinists to beat boxers. On the shelves of the vans-shops there was mostly simple, unpretentious food.
There was also honey and local taiga nuts. Further, when the rows of trailers ended, an ordinary store followed, in which everything from food to stationery was sold. In front of the entrance, several folding streetlines were installed in a row, which seemed to cut off part of the human flow and redirect it to the store.
Incidentally, there weren't that many people on the avenue. There were plenty of people, but there was no crowd that would hinder movement.
And then one, apparently an Englishman, for some reason said that he wanted to go into that store.