* * *

A low ceiling, covered with gray cloth, a deafening barrier to the right. My attempt to twitch was cut off by a tight tourniquet across my chest. And then, at the same time as my lungs filled with screaming, came the realization that I was still in the car. And there's nothing at all holding me back in the uncomfortable bed - it's just the seat belt. The seat was tilted back, resting on the second row with the headrest, so that on my right hand was the deaf side of the car instead of the window, and the driver's seat blocked the view on the left.

And in general, it's bright outside, but whether it's a summer evening or the early morning of the next day is unclear. And there's no way to know. There's no one in the car but me.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car, writhing against the tingling in my stiff body and shivering with a pleasant chill. It was the morning, after all. On the right side of the road was a neat row of young apple trees blocking a small clearing with a pergola, behind which a high fence looked out. On the left was a two-story house wrapped in granite, with a porch a meter above the ground and a pretty patch of grass that encircled the whole building with a three-meter-wide ribbon. It was a beautiful house, but it had obviously not been lived in for a long time. It was not even because of the tall grass that sprouted near the foundation but because of the worn window frames with peeling paint, the tiles that had fallen off in some places, and the silence that was not typical for such a vast building.

Probably mine inside since the car stays here. I climbed the seven stairs and politely knocked on the door with a large iron ring-no bell. I heard a quick clatter of feet, and the door swung open, pulling me inside in a whirlwind named Fyodor.

"You're awake! And we wanted to wake you up, but your little star wouldn't let us," he said happily, pulling me inside. "Reach out your hand, and it hurts!"

The lobby ended in a two-story high hall, with wooden staircases running up the walls on the left and right. Two sofas stood in the center, creating a triangle with the apex as a mighty fireplace, now extinguished. A spider-web-covered chandelier, about two meters wide and two meters high, gleamed dimly over our heads, but the first thing one looked at was a huge portrait of a strict military man in a black and silver uniform, with two long and very handsome pistols in his hands above the fireplace.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Noticing my interest, my brother shared his delight. "Someday, I'll be able to do that, too!"

"Paint?" I wondered, being dragged behind my brother again. This time to the stairs on my left.

"Making pistols," Fyodor explained reproachfully as if at a bad joke.

"Where are we?" I asked, slowing down a little.

The second floor wasn't as remarkable as the first - it creaked with old parquet and breathed the dust of the green upholstery, but it gave a good view of the common hall.

"At home," my brother reported with a smile.

"And that's our apartment, isn't it?" I carefully clarified, nodding in the direction of our movement.

"No," Fyodor shook his head.

"A room?" I got a little sad.

"No! The whole house is ours! And there's Dad's office and workshop. Come on!"

And, having already let go of my hand, he rushed forward, bouncing with impatience.

"But could one family live in a house like this?" I didn't believe it, touching the wood of the corridor paneling, the heavy bronze candlesticks, peering at the faces in the darkened paintings on either side of the long corridor we turned down on the way.

"Well, it's small, yes," said Fyodor guiltily, "we had a bigger one before. And Mishka from the class has a palace!"

"Wait, what do you mean "small"? It's huge!" I couldn't help my excitement.

"Really?" My brother smiled cautiously.

"Of course! And we're going to live here alone?"

"Aha!" he smiled happily again.

"How long would it take to mop the floors?" I scratched the back of my head in bewilderment.

"No, the servants do that," he brushed it off, taking my hand again and leading me down another corridor to an ajar door.

"But we have to pay their salaries, don't we?"

"We're not that poor, son," they greeted us from the office. "Come in!"

Two bookcases placed across the large hall divided the room into quite cozy rooms under a single high ceiling. The left part, not visible from the entrance, was probably the workshop, and on the right, at a wide table and a small laptop, among dozens of neatly lined rows of jewels, Mikhail was smiling. He looked a little shabby as if he hadn't slept at all, and he probably had. Because find a house in an unfamiliar city in one evening is not exactly a simple thing.

"Through your efforts and God's providence, we have a roof over our heads," he got up from the table and came out to meet us.

We got a hug, one for two, and Fyodor had his hair messed up, too.

"I'm glad," I responded to the praise with a pleasant warmth in my soul. "Did you find buyers so quickly?"

"In our family, we choose the clients, not they choose us," Mikhail said with modest pride, gesturing to the table.

"Is it worth that much?" As I took a seat in one of the chairs and gave up the armrest to my brother, I pointed to the jewels carefully laid out to his left.

"It's not worth anything," my father shook his head negatively and added to my surprised look: "We'll return these things to their owners."

"But..." I got a little confused.

"Things were made for them," he picked up the last brooch in the row and looked at it with a warm smile, like a good acquaintance. "Margarita Ozhegova's medallion. Red rubies, chrysolite, silver and copper. For blood pressure and arrhythmia. On someone else's neck, such a thing would be dangerous. And here are things without individual attachment," he pointed to a similarly sized group of jewels. "Here, put this on."

My father's hand moved a massive ring with a large blue stone embedded in the white metal to my side. It was heavy and weighty, and it fits loosely on my finger, dangling slightly.

"Can you feel it?" My father looked at me carefully.

"Mm, no," I confessed.

"Let some power into the stone," his brother whispered in his ear.

A hurricane of freshness went through my body, washing the tiredness and drowsiness out of my body, making all the objects around me sharp and clear - and as if I could see a wider room. Suddenly I was ashamed of my appearance - my clothes didn't match my inner state at all.

"Wow!" I exhaled.

"It works twice a day," Michael smiled flatteringly, taking back the ring I'd extended. "How much is vivacity worth to a weary warrior? Measured in gold or life? We were given this house, along with the land, on a five-year lease for the same ring."

"Not bad," I looked at my father respectfully.

How much it could cost to rent such a house, even in the suburbs I had a pretty good idea. At one time, we spent a month looking for a place for our production.

"A cheap price, of course," he sighed. "We'll use this ring to fix up the place, and the rest will get us into the good graces of the local prince," he said, eyeing the two dozen pieces with regret."

"Isn't it too much?" I asked cautiously.

"We're nobody here," Michael bemoaned, "Either we give it to them, or they take it away. No need to object!" He grinned, seeing the rage in my eyes."

An unpleasant lump of regret and anger settled in my soul, but I suppressed it for the time being.

"Besides, we can always make a new one," he winked at me and Fyodor. "And the Prince, having accepted the gift, will be the only customer, you'll see. It's a profitable investment!"

Fyodor hissed next to me and coughed distinctly.

"But that's not why I invited you," he nodded to Fyodor with a smile and took out two identical scarlet stones from a leather pouch on the corner of the table. "Fyodor asked me very much that you and I should try to look at these stones more closely," he said to me. "Of course, it's all right if you don't see anything! - He added soothingly."

After looking at them carefully, twisting them in my hands, and furtively tasting them, I put them back on the table with mild disappointment. Nearby, Fyodor sighed sadly.

"No," I found no difference between the two stones.

"It's okay, it's okay," the father reassured him, gently smoothing the stones along the same line as the edge of the table. "Every family has its own secrets, destructive or constructive."

"What's in them?" I wondered, moving close to the table again. "'In the stones?"

"One ruby has the Spark of Creation in it. The other is nothing, much more common," he pointed sequentially at the stones. "We see the soul in gems, metal, and stone, and we can make useful things out of them."

"Magical!" whispered my brother in my ear in confidence.

"And those pistols in the living room?" I glanced down to the first floor and then back up to the table, trying to make out something in the regular ruby.

"They were made by another family," Mikhail clarified for the sake of order. "But yes, if there's an order. They're made to a person's height, weight, strength, and Gift."

"Will they shoot further and more accurately?" I was pestered that the stone wouldn't tell me its secret, but I was stalling for time.

Otherwise, they would ask me to leave, and then such a chance was taken out of my hands ... Although inside me, there was a certain humility - in fact, not everything at once.

"It depends on whose hands," Father said in a measured voice. "In the hands of an ordinary man, even without a gift, perhaps. In the hands of a strong gifted one, such a weapon could destroy combat vehicles and buildings and penetrate enemy shields."

"Really?" I didn't believe it.

"Well, such a gift is rare," Mikhail still corrected himself, taking the miserable rubies from under my nose, "and almost no one has the money to order it," he finished with a touch of pride.

"Even the Prince?"

"My great-grandfather's weapon is more powerful than I can make it," he shrugged, respectfully acknowledging someone else's skill. "Unless Fyodor can do better if he learns well."

"I will!" My brother declared firmly, stunned by his optimism.

"Speaking of studies. Tonya, Katya, stop eavesdropping and come join us!"

The sisters emerged from the workshop with a mask of guilt and sly eyes and attacked the vacant armrest.

"We're going to the school today," said Dad. "I've been there. It's just a wonderful place. It's not a lyceum, really, but it's very clean, tidy, and most importantly, it's five minutes from home. Maxim, what grade are you in?"

"Ahem," I coughed, damping a sharp panic, "and I don't have to go to school..."

"All children have to be educated. It's necessary for life, for going to university and for a career," my father explained patiently.

"I am an established adult entrepreneur!" I tried to make a tactical retreat down the chair, but my ear was suddenly held by Tonya. And running without an ear hurts.

"So you're in the seventh?" I was completely tactlessly ignored.

"I have other documents!" I jumped up, taking out of my shorts pocket a stack of plastic passports given by Sergeant Teterin. "Here, Maxim Fedotov, eighteen years old," I put the card on the table.

"It doesn't look like it," my father shook his head skeptically and returned the passport with a smile. "And in the document, where you are my son, it says: Thirteen years. Maxim, what's the problem?"

"Well, um," I hesitated, feeling the three stares and the teeth on my ear.

"Don't tell me you've been bullied at school before," Mikhail said sarcastically.

"I don't know how," I whispered softly, staring at the floor.

"What? Is there a subject you're not good at?"

"I... I can write and count. And that's it..." I admitted on the edge of hearing.

"It's no big deal," Mikhail said, overly cheerful, scratching the back of his head. "We'll help, won't we, girls?"

"Yes!" they squeaked in my ear and clenched their teeth on it.

Oh, no, not again! I recoiled in horror at Fyodor and looked at him for protection.

"You'll do fine," my brother took off his bowtie and carefully put it on my collar, "because everything works with it, right?"

Calm down, just calm down! Run! No, you're a man. Deep breath. The plan! That's it! Scare the girls so they're afraid to come close. Make a deal with the teachers! Let's do it.

I gestured to my sisters that I wanted to say something in their ears. They turned around trustingly and even folded their hands to hear better. Such naivety.

"Do you know what a burned man smells like?" I whispered in an eerie voice.

"Ho-w?" They immediately asked with admiration, demanding an immediate answer.

My left eye twitched distinctly.

"Katya, stop eating your brother! Now we're going to the cafe, get ready," Mikhail rescued me. "Fyodor, you should change too. Maxim, hold on."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

After the children had left, their father closed the door behind them and hung a small pendant with a dark blue stone on the handle.

"No offense, we didn't mean to offend you," he began softly. "Please don't run away from us. We really need you, Fyodor needs you, and you're really important to us."

I scowled and stared at my feet, hunched over. It was unpleasant to realize my imperfection. And if I imagined what it would be like at school... Taunts that would have to be beaten with fists. And these kids were not orphans, which meant I would have to deal with their parents. Then the police. Easier to run away. Although, I do not want to.

"His mother will be here soon, and I won't be needed anymore," I said wistfully.

"Our mother," Mikhail corrected and looked sadly out the window. "Our mother has gone very far away. I'll probably catch up with her in about forty years." His voice cracked. "And in a hundred years, we will all meet again, as one family, in the best of worlds."

My father turned to me and looked into my eyes with incredible longing.

"Please don't go," he asked softly, and then he added more quickly, hopefully, and pleadingly. "I will make you a medallion for good memory, rings for vigor, we will hire the best teacher, and you will quickly improve your knowledge! We really need you! Me, sisters, and especially Fyodor. Become our family, please!"

For some reason, it got hotter and hotter inside.

"I'll try," I squeezed out, hiding a tear in my palm.

"Come on, the others must be ready," he fussed, tactfully not noticing my weakness.

On the way, we stopped at a small ready-to-wear store, where they picked out two shirts and a pair of pants for a good chunk of money, except I re-hung my bow tie and put my phone back on. The store next door exchanged our money for new shoes, fancy ones with pointy toes. And somehow, it turned out that after the change of clothes, I looked equal to my family rather than the occasional wet sparrow. And if you look in the big mirror of the showcase, we really seemed like relatives - the same eye color, similar facial features, only our hair was different. As Fyodor responsibly stated - it was my mother's. And he even promised to show me her picture if she didn't come sooner.

After two servings of ice cream (ours tasted better anyway!) and a hearty lunch, we were driven to school, a little stupefied and therefore, helpless.

It wasn't a bad place. It was also behind its own fence, and it was solid, shared by the school and the huge factory next door. Only the lattice gate allowed me to look inside, and I liked what I saw. Half of the area in front of the school was a recreation ground, with horizontal bars, swings, and a merry-go-round. The other half was fenced off as a basketball court, and if you looked into the fence at an angle, you could see the edge of the soccer field from the left side of the school. The building itself looked like a snow-white toy from who knows how it came to be in town - not a single swear word on the marble walls, the windows gleamed, and the two four-story wings that extended slightly forward over the three-story center made it look more like a palace than a school. I had never seen anything like it. And it was all called "SOS with profound study of individual subjects," under the three-digit number.

"Wow," Fyodor summed up all my thoughts.

My sisters were asleep in the car, so we stood near the fence, looking at each other for the heights and the empty merry-go-round. My father stepped aside, trying to call the number listed under the school sign, but so far to no avail.

"What's your question?" A young man in his thirties, wearing a snow-white shirt and the same pants, which must be their trademark school color, came out of the school.

"Good afternoon," my father stepped excitedly toward the fence. "We recently moved into a house not far from here. We'd like to sign up for school for the new school year. Here are my sons and two more daughters in the car."

The fence opened, letting out a school employee.

"I'm sorry, but there's no place at the school," he discouraged us. "Try the one hundred and six. It's not far away.

"Maybe we can somehow resolve this issue?" Mikhail didn't give up. "Let's say, help the school. Or its teachers..."

"No, I'm sorry," he smiled weakly. "Good day to you."

"Dad, may I?"

"Yes, boy?" The man looked at me patiently.

"There will be places for us," I pressed with the Voice.

"Alas, no," he didn't even bother.

I looked at the man confused - it didn't work with him! But I did everything right...

"Are you sure?" A new attempt, with a will-breaking tilt of the head.

"Absolutely."

Had I lost my gift? Panic ran through my body. And the star?! A native spark was immediately born in the palm of my hand and was quickly hidden. Ugh, it's okay. Probably just a defective person.

"Boy, what's that in your hand?" he asked affectionately.

"Nothing," I muttered, turning away. "We were just leaving."

"I'm sorry I didn't ask your name. Such rudeness on my part!" He came up to his father again, holding out his hand. "Ruslan, let's get acquainted."

"Mikhail," answered the father warily, who was not unaware of the reason for the behavior change.

"What is your son's name?" The employee asked me, with a satiated cat's eye.

"Maxim."

"Pardon my tactlessness. Is he Gifted? It's just that if he's Gifted, that's a completely different conversation!"

"I think we'll go to the one hundred and six," Dad took his hand away.

"I'm going as a set with my brother and sisters," I warned the man glumly.

I liked school. And Fyodor liked it. And I couldn't hide the gift anyway, so who cares?

"No problem at all!" The man was enthusiastic, opening the gate affably. "Couldn't you let your son go for a few minutes just to test his Gift? I'd invite everyone, but we're strictly forbidden to let outsiders in, and your daughters are still asleep in the car. We're not going to wake them up, right?"

In the purring voice, I could clearly hear the notes of my Voice. Only different, not pressing, but as if leading a thought.

"Sorry," I forcefully stepped on his foot and looked at him with confused eyes.

He frowned, pulling his leg out from under mine.

"Maxim?" Mikhail asked me. "We can go to another school."

"This one will do," I looked around the walls and stepped through the gate.

"If anything happens, call me immediately!" my father belatedly worried.

"If something happens, you'll see and hear it," I muttered. "What's the test?"

"We'll take some of your blood for analysis, it doesn't hurt at all!"

"We'll do without blood," I said glumly and lit the sun on my hand. "Will that do?"

"You are all accepted!" Ruslan shouted happily towards the gate. "But there must be order," that's for me. "Come on. I need to introduce you to my colleagues."

If you combine an enthusiastic young manager, an important mission, and a huge pile of money, you get something that the nurses at the typical school nurses' station will stare at long and bewildered. Some of them will even search for the name of the machine, on which it is so convenient to put a mug of coffee, and then share with colleagues that they can do pinpoint anesthesia here. And if you take the cooler off that thing over there, you can do heart surgeries. Everyone will sigh, but the machines will be spared, moving the water tank and cups to another mysterious machine, which will later turn out to be a state-of-the-art device for treating the lungs. Another six months later, someone will ask for the key to one of the two doors at the very end of the room and find an MRI machine there. After that, both doors will have beautiful children's drawings, the equipment will be covered with cute tablecloths, leaving themselves a cabinet with greenery, absorbent cotton, and bandages. And they will continue to work in peace - with such a salary it is better not to disturb the bosses by reminding them about themselves.

This is the kind of office a couple purposefully entered: a young man in white clothes and a boy in a neat shirt and beige pants.

"There's nobody here," the boy said with mild suspicion.

"Summer, vacations," the man strode confidently to the second door at the end of the room and put his hand to the drawing of the giraffe.

The door clicked open quietly.

"Come on, it's this way," he waved, stepping into the next room.

Behind the door was a short corridor with an uncharacteristically low ceiling, with the only exit after the L-shaped bend.

"Don't be afraid, let's go," the adult encouraged his companion, noticing his timidity "he was still standing at the entrance."

"And I'm not afraid. You just have an interesting door," he rocked the sash and looked closely at the end.

"On magnets, I'll show you later," the man hastened. "Even a gift," he generously promised, implying neodymium magnets.

"All right, then," the boy agreed solidly, glancing at the door one last time.

"There, that's our office," a new door swung open, revealing a wide hall filled with equipment, among which were four desks for the staff.

Half of the tables were indeed empty, and of the two men, only one greeted the couple, distracted for a second by a document on the monitor.

"Ruslan?" smiled the cordial gentleman warmly, managing to stare with an icy gaze at the same time.

"Meet Maxim," said Ruslan with an ostentatious cheerfulness that hid a slight nervousness in front of his senior colleagues. "Gifted. He wants to learn from us.

"Good afternoon," the boy muttered, lighting a dazzling glow ball the size of a ball over his hand. "I'll tell you right now. I'm against blood, so let's part peacefully."

"What are your demands?" the man at the computer became nervous, slowly hiding his left hand under the desk to the panic button.

"Four places in the school," he shrugged perplexedly, glancing at Ruslan.

"You've got it all wrong! Maxim, his brother, and two sisters want to study with us," his attendant immediately explained, waving his hands. "Maxim put that away at once!"

"You'll have to explain that to the Special Forces," muttered the silent man without turning around.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, there was a sharp bang, followed by the distinctive noise of a falling door and the stomping of feet.

The door was gently opened with a machine gun, and immediately the command was yelled at everyone to lie on the floor and put their hands behind their heads while they counted to three.

"It's not boring here," tugged the young man by the hem of his shirt, and the guy shared. "But you better lie down. I'm about to fight."

He looked away from the door to the guy in confusion as if he had frozen out.

"Stop! False alarm, we're fine!" he shouted through the door, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Is that Ruslan Artemievich?" They clarified warily on the other side.

"Yes, false alarm, I confirm!" He glanced angrily at the bewildered man at the table.

A man in a gray bulletproof vest came into the office and carefully inspected everything.

"And we kicked your door in," he said apologetically, shuffling his foot.

"When you leave, leave it by the SUV in front of the gate."

"What?" The soldier was confused.

"The door," the guy explained, "he gave it to me."

"Stop!" said Ruslan. "Cancel the alarm! Don't touch the door!"

"What do you mean?" resented nearby.

"I'll get you a new one," Ruslan sighed heavily and turned confusedly to his colleagues. "Take it, huh?"

"Ahem," coughed the taciturn man, and with a commanding gesture ordered the soldier to leave the room. Then he took out from somewhere massive glasses with several ovals of lenses on each plane of glass, put them on his nose with a hooked nose, and looked at the guy with interest. "Maxim, whose are you going to be?"

"With lemon."

There is a play of words here. Maxim decided that he was asked if he would have tea.

The man froze in a stupor for a few seconds and then even shook his head slightly.

"What family? Wait! What's your last name?"

"Samoilov. We moved to your town yesterday. We live nearby. We wanted to study, but we'll probably go somewhere else," he confessed.

"Why?" Ruslan was confused.

"You're nervous, you won't get along with me."

"We'll get along. We'll get along," the man with glasses fussed, coming out from behind the table and looking at the boy with a squint. "Ruslan, did this miracle just walk in on your doorstep?"

"Together with the family," he repeated with some pride, "there are two more girls and a boy."

"Four with a gift?" he groaned, putting his glasses in his pocket and immediately fidgeting with a mysterious apparatus that was the size of a pedestal and the appearance of a microscope.

"I'm adopted," the boy added.

"Mm," he chewed his lips grudgingly, not interrupting his cryptic work.

"And they need places, too," pressed the boy.

"I promised," Ruslan inserted timidly.

"They will, they certainly will," nodded the apparently in charge of this collective and pointed to the seat next to him. "Maxim, come here a second."

"No injections," he replied sternly, taking a step back.

"It doesn't hurt!" resented the man. "Once, and that's it! It's a big deal! You want to know how strong you are, don't you?"

"You're not a girl, right," Ruslan coaxed, pushing forward by the shoulders.

Maxim frowned but approached without any enthusiasm - or rather, was towed into place.

"Oh, your machine doesn't seem to be working," the guy chuckled, looking at the puffs of smoke from the device.

"How so. I didn't even start it!" The chief clutched at his hair.

"What a shame," sighed Maxim. "Well, I'm off?"

"That's okay. We have a backup machine."

"Is there a third?" asked the boy.

"No."

"Then how will you work afterward?" he reasonably stated.

"With the working device..." answered the chief perplexedly.

"I don't know..." said Maxim thoughtfully.

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh." The man scowled, glaring at the teenager. "I see."

"I just saved you a device, by the way!"

"And before that - ruined!"

"What side do your windows face?" The boy started backing away.

"Maxim, don't make any sudden moves!" Ruslan shot up. "Everything will be all right."

"Should I call in the SWAT team again?" phlegmatically clarified from across the table.

"Shut up!" yelled the headman. "No soldiers! Maxim, forget about the machine; if you don't want it, don't do it. Ruslan, call Svetlana right away!"

"Maxim, wait two minutes," Ruslan pleaded, dialing the number.

"Two doors?" The man raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Three!"

"All right, then," the boy sighed and settled on the edge of the empty table.

After a while, a dazzlingly beautiful woman entered the room, and with her, a delighted silence. In a snow-white dress, with hair as white as snow, she stepped into the center of the room as a magic fairy to sing in an unearthly voice:

"Did you call me?"

And that melody made everyone's soul ring subtly. In any case, that's how it was for Maxim.

"Svetlana, we have a unicum in your area," the main man addressed her respectfully. "Maxim, if you would be so kind..."

With a stunned, slightly bewildered smile, the boy lit the sun above his head, half the distance to the ceiling height, with one sweep.

The equipment squeaked pitifully, rebooting from the electromagnetic flash.

"My report!" a wounded rhinoceros roared from behind the table.

"That's about the effect," the man summed up with his hand. "And he burned our device, too, and I didn't feel a surge of power."

"Lightmaster, according to the Western category," the woman said confidently. "According to our classification, Peresvet."

"Prospects?" he clarified businesslike.

"We can't teach," the lady shrugged. "We don't have people like that. Using is easy. Sabotage, de-energizing power facilities. You can see for yourself," she pointed her hand at the man moaning quietly over the computer. "From small nodes to a city, depending on the potential. Is he ours yet?"

"I'm my own," Maxim managed to defeat the charms, catching the wrongness in his emotions by some intuition.

He remembered such a thing in his past. The fascination with the gift of Snickers, the excited anticipation of its taste in the silence and loneliness of the common room, because everyone had gone to exercise. And there were thirty extremely angry and hungry ninth-graders. And the door was shut immediately as soon as he stepped inside, promptly propped up on the other side. But he ate a Snickers. All of it. And he kept the wrapper.

"Boy, you're so cute," she waved her eyelashes. "Will you come with us?

"Will you show me around the school?" With an ironic smile, Maxim clarified, and then walked over, confidently placing her hand on his elbow. "I don't mind walking, let's go."

And he led her out of the office, causing his companion to look back at her colleagues with fright.

"Tell me, are all the teachers here so beautiful?" it came to the men.

After a moment's stupor that overrode even the tragedy of the lost data, an uncertain voice rang out:

"Look, forget it, this sabotage... How about the intelligence unit?"

"No," said Ruslan uncertainly, responding more to his thoughts, "it can't be..."

"Can or can't..." the chief grumbled, hiding a satisfied look in his eyes. "Go save Svetlana."

"What's going to happen..." he brushed it off weakly.

"The maternity leave will be there. I'm going to charge you for both of them, mind you."

"No way, Svetlana hates men."

A beautiful woman's laughter came from the corridor as if bells were ringing.

Ruslan's eyes widened, and he fled down the corridor like lightning.

"Saboteur," said the chief and looking with satisfaction at a couple of hairs in his hand. "Now let's see who of the prince have fun on the side."

He walked to the other side of the office and tried several times to call to life a large gray machine that would not turn on. Then he unplugged it, plugged it in again, and, with a satisfied sigh, noted the green flashes on the light bulbs. With a click, he opened the guts of the machine, which opened like a shark's mouth, and dropped the genetic material into the center of the special cavity. He returned everything to its original state, clicked a key, and paced around the room for a dozen minutes until a characteristic hum reported the completion of the analysis, and a sheet of paper with the report slipped out of the side flap.

"So," he impatiently glanced over the dry formulations to the list of matches with the percentage of matching genomes, alas, arranged not in ascending order of probability but by the alphabetical order of genetic templates laid in the database. "The Godunovs... The Romanovs... Yep, shhhh..." he crumpled up the paper, grinning at the completely unrealistic percentages of relatedness, and threw it in the trash. "Ugh, man, He's ruined such a machine! Saboteur."

"I don't see our saboteur on the cameras for some reason," came from the back, where the other man who remained in the office was thoughtfully clicking on the computer keys.

"How that can be?" the man in charge ran up to him and personally flicked on the cameras in the corridors of the school. "They took him where?!"

"Maybe to the closed part..." they cautiously suggested in response.

"Are you out of your mind? Show me the territory."

A couple of keystrokes and instead of a grid of miniatures with views of the school was a similar one, but with completely different interiors, not at all school interiors, and in much greater numbers - the whole supposedly "factory" in the neighborhood served as additional space for "the most ordinary school".

"Here they are!"

"It's a restricted section!" the boss howled. "Give me the connection!" and immediately reached for the phone himself. "Sergeyich, why the hell do you have outsiders at the site? What do you mean by "personally responsible"?! Get them out of there now! S-saboteur!" He jabbed his finger at the end of the call button.

"Or a scout?" I was careful to clarify his colleague, for which he received an angry look.

"And you go run over there!"

After waiting for his subordinate to depart quickly, the boss took a chair and waited for news.

Only instead of iron discipline, the soldiers who arrived on the scene were very interested in something on the guy's phone that he and Svetlana had been looking at with interest. Then Peter, who had arrived on the spot, was interested in the same thing. Then the specialists from the nearby laboratory came and crowded around the boy and his phone.

"What the hell is going on?!" he asked the head of security after a minute, demanding that order be restored immediately.

After a minute, Sergeyich, too, was watching something on the phone screen, shaking his head in surprise. But the contented crowd still took them to their places of work - after a general picture with the guest and the charming Svetlana.

The owner of the office very slowly turned off the screen, leaned back in his chair, and covered his eyes. Then he straightened his fingers, which were clearly strangling someone's neck, and smiled peacefully.

"Where is Maxim?" he asked Ruslan softly when he entered.

"He is gone. Can you believe he's got a video of him chasing tigers," he shook his head in surprise as he headed back to his desk.

"Hold it right there!" the man jumped up. "What do you mean, "gone"?!"

"He had three doors loaded there, especially since his father had already called twice."

"Go after him!"

"He promised to come tomorrow," said Ruslan.

"He has a picture on his phone of our entire Special Department!!!"

"It's just a memento... Oh, shit!" The subordinate rushed to the door.

"S-saboteur!" the boss squeezed out of himself. And then he pondered and asked himself thoughtfully: "Or a scout?"

* * *

Epilogue