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.