A letter to an old friend

[Carys]

It has been a long time since Shmatko joined the coalition army. Battle after battle, victories and defeats. It's all exhausting, as are the internal intrigues. After recent events and, one might say, his exile to the planet Tangier as commander of a penal squadron, Alexander's emotional state and even his physical health have been severely shaken.

Noticing Alexander's rapidly deteriorating condition, the commanders of the penal wing camp sent the penal squadron commander to the planet Jiangxi for treatment, seemingly out of pity for the sick man. Knowing that he would not have to stay in the hospital for very long anyway, he remembered Vladimir Biryukov, an old comrade with whom he had gone through thick and thin. After thinking for a while, he decided to write to his old friend:

-"Vladimir, greetings. I hear you've risen to the top of the command structure. Congratulations on your promotion. Maybe you could get me out of the hands of the doctors and nurses for a while? We haven't seen each other in a long time, and I understand we have a lot to talk about. I hope the “power” hasn't gone to your head. I'll be waiting for your reply."

After writing and sending the message via a secure channel, he waited for his comrade's reply, thinking to himself:

-“How life can change... I remember him as a weakling under my command, and now he's risen to the top...”

---

[Bussie]

The ship, commanded by Colonel Vladimir Biryukov, call sign Smolensk, required repairs and refueling. Several critical components of the aircraft carrier had been damaged after several heavy battles, forcing the Colonel to return to Omega-52, where he was informed that repairs would take approximately a month and that he would have to remain in New Moscow for the time being. Sitting in his office on the planet Volgograd, Colonel Vladimir Biryukov carried out the duties assigned to him by his rank and position.

As usual, he dealt with paperwork, compiling reports on activities in Omicron Theta to destroy Corsair vessels, conducting combat exercises in the immediate combat zone, and numerous other duties. A multitude of information was being sent to his server, and Shmatko's letter was lost for some time and was forwarded by his secretary as "not particularly important." The Colonel was only able to read the letter four days later. The workload was colossal, even after reviewing and delegating authority to his subordinates to handle certain matters. But that's a different story.

After reading the letter, the Colonel didn't immediately recall his former commander; much time had passed since then. Finally, after checking old records, the Colonel remembered his old comrade-in-arms and was extremely surprised to find that he had disappeared without a trace after Biryukov's return from the emergency jump. Having coordinated his schedule and issued instructions, the Colonel decided it wouldn't hurt to take a break and see his old friend and commander, to clear his head, so to speak. In the message, Shmatko didn't specify where exactly to visit him, but fortunately, the post office had attached the appropriate information about the sender's address, allowing him to be sure of Shmatko's whereabouts. Before leaving, Biryukov wrote a reply to let his comrade know he was on his way.

- "Nice to hear you, Alexander! I apologize for the delay; my workload has only gotten busier lately than in the past. Thank you for your congratulations; your path to this position was a bumpy one. I read your message and will be at the hospital shortly; it'll take about a day. So be prepared to meet soon."

[Carys]

Lying in his hospital room, Shmatko received a message on his NeuralNet. It was from Biryukov. After reading the message, he replied with just a short:
-“Understood, I'll wait.”

After sending it, the officer waited humbly to be taken away from the white hospital walls, so clean that they seemed to glow along with the sun of the new Moscow.
-“They could at least hang some dark curtains...”
he muttered to himself and stared at the ceiling, as if dying from the lack of anything to do and the silence that reigned in the ward.

---

[Bussie]

The shuttle, carrying the Colonel and his guards, departed to Planet Jiangxi that same day. The trip would be covered by the budget, and the Colonel would explain that he needed to visit a military hospital for an inspection or other purpose. The appropriate reports would be prepared and submitted upon returning from the "inspection," as Biryukov called the trip.

A day later, the shuttle arrived in Jiangxi around 12:00 a.m. New Moscow time, and soon Biryukov was strolling through the military hospital, accompanied by guards and a nurse who kindly escorted them to Shmatko's hospital room. The guards stood outside while the Colonel conversed with his old commander and comrade.

"Zdravya zhelau, Comrade Shmatko!" With a slight, playful smile, Biryukov stood at attention and greeted the patient with the Coalition salute.

[Carys]

Shmatko slowly shifted his gaze from the ceiling to the man who had entered. The light from the window fell in such a way that Vladimir's figure was at first only a dark silhouette against the blinding whiteness. But the voice, that emphatically formal greeting—he would recognize it among a thousand.

“Zdraviya, Comrade Colonel.”

Shmatko's voice was hoarse from long silence. He did not try to stand up or salute, but only nodded slightly toward the chair by the bed.

"Come in, Vladimir. Or, excuse me, should I now address you as ‘Comrade Paper Tsar’? With all due respect. Have a seat. Be careful not to knock over the bowl of porridge—they say it has a mind of its own and a nasty temper. Just like me."

He tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. His eyes, dull and tired, slid over his guest's face, searching for traces of time and power in familiar features.

"I appreciate you coming. I see the reports and secretaries haven't eaten you alive and spat you out yet. Although, judging by the delay in your letter, they came close. Never mind. I've managed to make friends with the walls in four days. They're very talkative, by the way. They told me all about the local antiseptics and the sad stories of the guys who lay on this bed before me."

Shmatko raised himself up on his elbow, and his voice, which had sounded like a tired whisper before, suddenly took on a harsh, almost familiar tone.

"You know what? Let's get out of this white tomb. I know a place in Zvyozdny Gorodok. The Bar ”Blade”. The vodka there is so good it would make a colonel talk. The beer is thicker than the philosophy in these hospital brochures. And the best part? It doesn't smell like antiseptic and defeat. Khalid runs the place. He's a former penal battalion soldier. He's as tough as an armored hatch, but if you drink his vodka without complaining, he'll take you in without asking any questions. So, what do you say? Or are your new epaulets welded to your chair?"

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