**Hong Kong, China**
The passing sound of trucks and light motor traffic flowed overhead. The horn of a passing train sounded, and the over-head bridge rattled as it came screaming down the tracks for the heart of Hong Kong island. The long tail of carriages and freight boxes curing down along the slow gentle incline of the ramp as a dissipating whip of coal smoke blew off into the wind.
“See, what did I tell you?” laughed Pui Tui, nudging Cong in the side with one elbow as he lay the bag of winnings on the hood of his truck. The blue tarp pulled over its bed to hide the engine slicked down with rain and traces of goopy mud.
With an enthusiastic laugh he tore open the bag, opening up to show him and Feng the wild wads of bright red Yen. He clapped happily, grinning snidely as he stepped aside to allow his two young friends to look.
“Oh look, you can buy me a pretty dress.” Feng said teasingly.
“Oh I could, but I know you'll just give it to your girlfriend.”
“I know. But she'll love it all the same. She'll think I managed to pull it off!” she smiled.
“Tui.” Cong said nervously, “How do you plan to use this money?” he asked, “Because, you know, it's not like the authorities will want to know if something changes.” The scrawny stick-figure of a boy rubbed the back of his head, bumbling as he tried to put his concerns to word, but coming up speechless in many ways.
“Oh? What do you mean? Can I not use this to buy a little bit more lettuce than I could before?” Tui asked, if a bit offended.
“Oh I'm sure you can.” Cong replied, his shoulders sinking. His entire body still felt like it was shaking from the race. He hadn't settled down, even after he tore passed the finishing line with the rest so far behind there was no point to contest it. He still felt like he was going to fly out the cabin of the truck on one of the many sharp hill-side turns. He still felt everything, and it made a mess of him. He struggled to find words, pausing and restarting again.
“S-sure you can.” he blabbered, “But the- uh... The uh stamps. They're set up because the Ministry knows you make only so much. It's a supplement. Whatever my parents don't use they can send back and we're credited. I – uh- I, imagine they'll get curious if half a damn coupon book goes back to the Hong Kong office.
“An- and I wouldn't want to get involved with the Bureau.” he said, exasperated, “If they find out you're involved in gambling now, you'll be locked away. Sh-shit. We were there, Tui!”
“Cong makes a good point.” Feng shrugged, if rather dismissive.
“You saying they'll find my money?” Cong cackled nervously, holding up the bag.
“I mean, probably. Yea. Maybe. Certainly will.” Tui stammered.
“Maybe at worse though they'll challenge you to tell them where you got it.” Feng said quietly. “Maybe they'll let you go then. It's what happens in the radio dramas.” she said, looking to the mainland.
The narrows between them and mainland China glistened in the afternoon sun as the waves beat against the concrete seawall, so low that a good lap managed to spill out onto the concrete, already wet with rain.
“Damn it, I raced hard for this. I don't want to loose it!” Tui pleaded, it finally dawning on him how much more he'd need to bend to keep it. “Here, you take it!” he demanded, thrusting it out on Cong.
“N-no no no!” the scrawny kid said, holding up his hands. “My parents are more observant than the government, I can promise you that. If they find out I got a sack of cash in any of the closets they'll have questions!”
He turned to Feng, urgently holding out the money. “Hey, no.” she said calmly, “I may have a luxury of a private bedroom the size of a broom closet but that still doesn't stop me having a little step-brother who likes to 'clean it up' and wear my bras on his head because he claims it makes his ears warm.”
“So you're saying you can't?”
“I won't. I don't want to know where he'll stuff the money.”
“Then what am I going to do with it!?” he pleaded, his heart racing.
“I don't know, you're the one driving the truck with the stolen military-grade engine. You tell me.” Feng proposed.
“B- no. This is different!” yelled Tui, “I think...”
“Then why not bury it in the backyard?” Feng asked.
Cong nodded, “I think she's right. At least until we – or you – can figure out to do.
“There's got to be a loophole.” he added.
“Yeah. All that needs to be done is to find it before someone plugs it.” Feng laughed.
“Bury it...” Tui said, nodding, “Right. I can do that. Right behind the hogs.” he closed up the bag, “I'll keep it in the car until tonight, and I'll do it then.”
“Sounds good.” Feng and Cong agreed.
“Sounds good.” Tui echoed.
**Train to Urumqi, South-west China**
A meandering range of mountains and high jaunting hills spanned out across the landscape outside the train cabin. Groves and forests of bamboo hugged clustered meadows and farm fields. A red-train streaked across the landscape, following the outer-most foothills of the Himalayas, which rose as murky, faint ghosts on the distant horizon, the higher foothills barely indistinguishable from the frosty clouds and cool haze of a mid spring sky. Villages would peel into view only to disappear gradual as the train clacked and clattered by.
“So what's on the minds of the Uighur?” Auyi asked, arms resting on the table in front of him. A cup of tea rested on a simple tin tray. The dark liquid swayed and lapped up the high ceramic walls of the glass as the train moved along.
“Well of distinct up-front importance is the autonomy zone.” Shanxi Wu said, waving his hand dismissively, “This much is known of you so far so I imagine anything said about it would important symbolically, though all the same we shouldn't treat it lightly. Anything said in support of it should be nice and heavy.”
“Yes, but I think we can expect that.” Auyi replied, scratching his chin. His eyes wandered to the window, watching yellow fields fly past.
“I would push some sort of economic development.” Bathukhan said, he sat alongside Wu. A Mexican newspaper opened in front of him and a translation book by its side. Scribbling notes mired the margins and between the lines of words as the congressman busied himself with interpreting foreign word.
“It's generic, I know.” he shrugged, “But to broader constituencies such as they it's something to take into account. Especially if we're counting on ourselves to appeal to them.”
“I agree.” Wu nodded, “And western China as a whole has been lagging behind. It's almost the untamed backyard of China. If you can promise more than military installations and one or two more rail-stations we'll be in the lead.
“The Uighur local councils should fill you in on some of the local demands of the populations there. But don't forget we've been moving Han into the area so I wouldn't ignore them, lest we alienate our own kin.”
“I know that much, who'd be our campaign targets?” Auyi asked.
“You can do a brief tour of Xianjang, which will get me time to book something in a few areas short notice. But we'll get in for a presentation at the commune chambers in Urumqi. We can make some polite bows to the rural folk on a brief tour.”
“Shake hands, as they'd say in America.” Bathukhan smiled, turning back to the Spanish newspaper.
“And here we have Bathukhan, the diligent foreign affairs specialist.” Auyi teased.
“Man needs a hobby.” he said gently.
Wu's eyes lit up at the topic. Quickly he straightened his back and said startled: “On that I do need to advise you you'll need to make a more defined stand on foreign policy. Xhang Zu is punching into that pretty hard lately.
“He's really sort of emphasizing a strong Chinese presence in foreign affairs. It's divided, of course. But NPN public opinion surveys suggest that the voting population is however leaning to Chinese presence. The Third International has been seen as a good thing in exposing China to 'healthy ideas' from outside. And it's given us a bit of a international standing.
“I'd hazard to say that we as a people are getting tired of being sleepy. But given ratings on the War in Africa we're still on a pretty narrow scope. We could defeat Zhu there if we emphasize Chinese involvement, but not so far as Africa; though it'll be worth mentioning, but not stressed. Russia is more important and how we define ourselves in the Comintern.”
“'Public Oppinion' though,” Bathukhan said in a low crooning voice, “Is only the opinion of parties interested in publishing it.
“To be honest Auyi while I will agree to a degree with you campaign manager I'm going to profess acting purely on NPN polling is not the best option. It's only telling us what the portion of the population that's voting is interested it currently. And the number of people who have expressed interest is only fifteen percent.
“I've read the numbers too.” Bathukhan smiled, turning to the infuriated Wu, “So we can't lean on it too much. Take advice, but not make it the only thing.
“We have a whole 85% of the eligible population to consider. Auyi, if we want to win and if everyone's using the same data we should make up our own data. Get in a few percent more of the eligible population to vote at all. Even if it's a one-time thing.”
“Is this topical for Xianjang?” Wu asked, voice groaning as he massaged his broad fore-head.
“Hardly, but it's a long ride from here to the land of the Uighur, so I don't see any reason why not. You can drawl on all you want about them, but with the time we got I'm sure you can cover the topic five-times over.”
The discussion was broken as from across the cabin a door opened. Closing with a crack as the wooden door snapped back into the frame. The eyes of the men turned up to who had entered their cabin, which had been otherwise empty save for them.
“Daddy!” a young boy yelled out, a large grin on his face as he ran towards his father. A large silk tunic dragging behind him through the air as he thundered forward, a small wooden train held firmly in his small hands.
“Jie!” Auyi smiled, “How was the engine?” the minister asked, sliding over as the young boy threw himself up onto the seat alongside him. Close behind the boy, the tall smooth eloquence of Auyi's wife, Bao Yu.
She smiled gently at her husband as she stepped behind Jie, gently helping the young boy up with long gentle fingers. Jie mumbled something, as if trying to decline his mother's help. But she didn't back away, and pulled her son up to the seat from his shoulders.
At only four his head hardly came up above the wooden table between the coach seats. Powerful almond eyes looked out from under a bowl cut of oil back hair. Staring along the matte wood to Bathukhan and Wu. He betrayed no sense of fear, or welcome. His passion to them a sort of neutrality with no feelings to either man in any way. They were people his Dad knew, and nothing more.
Bao Yu was by many means still a elegant woman. Though she had lost much of the youthful beauty and pride she once had when she gave birth to her and Auyi's son. But to her husband it made her all the more wonderful, and the two exchange a smile as they looked up at each other. Her hair shone in the warm light of the train cabin as they thundered down the tracks.
“How was the engine?” Bathukhan asked, lowering his paper. Jie seemed more interested in the foreign, latin symbols that cluttered the paper. They were far different than what he was used to seeing on what his father read.
“It was great.” Yu said for her son. “We got to see where they load the engines and he got to sit in the conductor's seat for a little. Wasn't that fun?” she asked turning to her son. Her voice tuning to the playful notes one adopts between child and parent.
“Yeah!” he said quietly, smiling.
“Well I'll be, sounds like we have the future Ministry of Industry.” Bathukhan joked, smiling wide, “First trucks, now trains.
“They grow up fast Auyi. I warn you.” he added in warning, “Don't let these past four years fool you. And going in for Grand Secretary: you'll only give yourself a heart-attack faster and harder when you realize you're missing a ton.”
“Thanks, but I'm sure I've been told a hundred times by the other parents.” laughed Auyi, “So I'm hungry, anyone up for seeing if we can get anything to eat?”
“I'll just go for noodles.” said Wu, looking at Auyi's son with a prying inquisitive look on his face. His fingers scratching his chin as he planned.
**Headquarters of the IB, Beijing**
A dark room, lit only by an array of lights. In front of which hung a menagerie of enlarged photographs. Photos though not of landscapes. Or of people. Or even landmarks and objects. Photos that looked to have been taken by a hawk itself, peering down on the landscape below with a sharpened eye to scour the Earth below for a mouse.
The details of the blown up photographs lost themselves in fuzzy granulates that dotted the image irregularly, creating an organic mesh that comprised the entire black-and-white earthscape. Scapes – as blotchy as they were – shone clearly. Even more clearly back-lit by pounding halogen lights that bled through the photopaper, bringing out the details with no shadows to interfere.
Huddled before the backlit photos, agents in black coats and suits pried deep into the contents. Going through and counting details. Often in teams of two. Their library running the entire length of the room they called their office, wrapping around the walls on hemp chords, strung up with simply clothes pegs.
“What are the details on the naval count?” someone called in the room.
Presiding was their commander, the dragon head of the Bureau; Yan Sing. His pale face contrasting against his darkened suit as he stood in the room's heart. Watching greedily as his men went over the newly developed pictures. A cigarette hung between long bony fingers as he looked out from skeleton eyes.
“We're counting roughly fifty confirmed vessels.” said an agent, “Backed up against the Suez.”
“Fifty?” someone asked, “What class?”
“One confirmed aircraft carrier. We possibly have fifteen or sixteen vessels matching possible standards to destroyers. Likewise: 22 that may be cruisers, maybe anti-air; maybe anti-submarine.”
“What use does the Spanish have with anti-submersibles if Ethiopia has no submarines?”
“They could suspect we sold some to them.” shouted another analyst, “We did sell them a few ships.”
“All the same, twenty-two seems to many for sub-hunting.”
“La Vanguardia, don't forget. We forced them out of a war by sinking one ship.” said another, laughing. Sing turned about, frowning as he turned his cigarette in his fingers.
“What else is there.” he said, his voice cracking.
“Five others, they don't necessarily look like their combat vessels. Perhaps logistics transports. I'm not finding indication of guns. They may also have a smattering of small shit, but I can't tell from the distance these things fly at.”
“Anything on land?” Sing shouted.
“A complete mess.” one of his agents replied, “We may have found the Ethiopian defensive line, but it's scattered and weak. We could be looking at a complete withdrawal to Addis Abada in a month at the best.”
“Can we get a manpower estimate?” Sing asked.
“Without knowing the exact size of these unknowns I'd say we're looking at an invasion force of twenty or thirty thousand. Maybe if they use every sailor. But this could be an under-estimate.”
“Glorious.” Sing scoffed, drawing on his cigarette as he glowered at the photos, “Finish up the reports and get them en'route to the Ethiopian embassy. Take a break. But not too long, I expect the next batches will come in tomorrow. This wing is no doubt finishing up refueling and resting to go out again shortly.
“Spanish territory then, comrades. We'll be well acquainted with every fucking rock.”
**Omsk, Russia**
The echoes of gunfire rolled along through the streets. In the dusty mists of morning it was hard to tell if what was being had was near or far. The fog obscured the sounds as much as it did the sight. It made prowling the streets unnerving. Even as big a piece of steel as a tank, the limited visual clarity was by no means a charity.
Through the narrow portholes in front and alongside him, Tsung could barely make out the soldiers patrolling alongside them. Their silouhettes a mere ghost in the milky soup that surrounded them. Even ahead it was hard to make out man from street hazard. Let alone buildings up ahead.
“Hell, I can't see shit.” Lin shouted, pulling herself up into the turret. Song as it would seem just barely tolerated her, leaning over in his seat to give the spry, vulgar woman room to look.
“It is a terrible day.” Song commented, hanging his voice low as he leaned into the window, “But we must do what we got to do.”
“I highly doubt the Russians are going to be moving in this. We have to be the insane ones here!” Lin sneered.
“Settle down, Lin.” Hui grumbled, “At least they won't be able to hit us in this.”
“What if we fire our gun though?” Tsung asked.
“Then oh well.” Hui muttered, “Our bullets can explode. Theirs can't. In the end of the day if we don't kill them we may as well chew them up with shrapnel and we stay cozy. Can't speak for the bastards on our sides, but fuck them, they're not tankers.”
“Hui, if I didn't know better I'd say you sound bored.” Song smiled.
“That I am.”
“Well you could walk outside then, I think it'll be an enlightening experience at the least.”
“No thank you sir, I'd rather my ass go numb here.” he groaned.
“Don't want to smoke then?” Lin asked.
“It can wait until we're safe and we're not surrounded by enough explosives to crater this street.”
“The shells aren't live until their noses collapse. You know that as well as I do, Hui!” Lin laughed, dropping down from the turret to lean alongside the breech of the main gun. “You could probably drop a match in here and nothing would happen.”
“And there's a god-damn reason they told us to not smoke in here.” he grumbled.
“Pah, engineers don't know shit.”
“The, uh. Diesal fumes?” Tsung said.
“If the two of you are this bored to fight about menial shit the two of you will take a walk outside.” Song snapped. His sharp orderly words goaded the two, and they fell quiet.
“You can bring reading next time you want to sight see and the weather's not permitting.” Song offered as the hull went quiet, “But enough is enough for fuck's sake. If we loop the block and nothing happens then so be it.”
The hull cabin fell silent again, with only the muted sound of the slowly turning engine to fill the ears. The Tei Gui continued to press through the heavy mist. Turning around piles of ruble and debris. The body of the cabin rocked as they drove through cratered roads and over large debris.
“Would have been nice if it were clear.” Lin mumbled under her breath.
“Don't start anything.” Sun Song scolded as they went.
The rest of the mission could have gone this way. Silently, without anything happening. Or with only the dimmest expectation of the Republicans moving on them. It probably would have been more agreeable if they had, and to settle the stomach of Tsung.
But none of that came. The course of the patrol shifted in a different direction. From outside muffled shouts echoed through the mist and leaked through the steel plates of the tank hull. A shocked excitement that pulled the silhouettes of the riflemen away from the tank side and ahead into the mist. And even perking the interest of the commander, or leaned up closer to the turret windows. Tsung squinted through the thick soupy fog, trying to find what was going on.
“What is it?” Lin said, “What's going on?” she asked, picking herself up excitedly to peer out the windows.
“Something's going on?” Hui asked, “I don't hear anyone shooting at us.”
“No, it's not that, they're running to something. Tsung, keep up with them. Lin, I want you at the ready in the event we need to provide cover.”
“Yes, comrade.” they both said.
The engines revved as Tsung coaxed the machine to pick up its pace. The engines coming to the familiar rattle as the soft tremors that washed through the steel hull grew in their violence. Tsung pressed his nose up against the hatch's frame as he drove after the darting patrol.
“I see them up ahead.” Song called out from the turret.
“It looks like they found something.” Lin added alongside her commander, pulling herself up by his shoulder.
“Well, what is it?” Hui shouted from below, “It's not like I can see.”
“It looks like...” Tsung started, squinting through the thick Russian mist, “A body?”
“Really?” Lin said.
“Sir, can I open the hatch and look?” Tsung asked. A part of his whined against it. If it were a corpse, would he really need to look. From outside someone shouted for a medic and there was a nervous jump in his heart. Was it one of their men.
Sighing Song waved his hand dismissively, “Sure, go ahead. No one's shot at us yet.”
Tsung nodded, hesitantly reaching for the latch above him. Lin peeled back the main hatch as he opened his own.
Laying in the street before them, surrounded by a morbidly curious halo of soldiers lay the corpse of a man dressed in the Republic uniform. His arms and legs bent horrifically he lay sprawled in the middle of the street, a wooden sign tied to a badly charred neck. Broad sweeping Russian had been painted across the plague of wood on his chest as empty eyes stared out into the abyss of death.
Tsung's stomach turned sickeningly. He felt his shoulder weaken and his elbows trembled. The mixed patrol of Chinese and Siberian troops ambled about the battered corpse. “For fuck's sake I think the last time this poor shit needs is a medic.” a Russian announced in a tired voice, “He's so burned I can't tell if he's dog or chimp.”
It was an observation that Song probably didn't want to hear. The mangled and melted flesh of the soldier laying there was so badly charred and torn that it was indistinguishable from pulp. A broken mouth hung open in a pained scream. Eyes gouged – or melted – out. And nose cleanly missing.
“What's the sign say?” someone said.
“Communist Sympathizer.” the Siberian read, kicking the rump of the corpse there.
**Southern Urals**
The radio popped and sprayed static, dead silent. Ullanhu sat by the window of the small safe house given to he and Jun. The sunlight had faded, giving way to nightfall. The wilderness outside hung in a low darkness, the depth of which exaggerated to an inky, oily soup from the lights inside. There wasn't much to do, and the Mongol was already feeling it'd be time to lay down to sleep. There wouldn't be any new messages. There hadn't even been one from the men who had hijacked Jun's coms to call back to him.
Just several hours ago the IB spy planes had managed to fly over head, establishing their brief contact with the agent and receiving his short brief before leaving. He'd have another week maybe before they came back around again. Perhaps longer, there was actual fighting in Omsk as far as he could tell.
He grumbled, leaning back in the stiff armchair, resting his cheek on his hands. He stared blankly at the radio, hoping and wishing for something to happen. Something to change the monotony of waiting. At most he hoped for paperwork, something to exhaust his time with. But he had read everything he had gotten his hands on, and his gun was far beyond clean. General Makulov it seemed had no use for him. And no inclination to act on the sudden communications he had gotten that evening.
But now nothing was being acted on in regards to that he was actually doubting, like the general, anything would happen.
Russia had become boring. And there was no Jun to debrief, so no story told by him. No matter how dry and void of attachment he had to his job. Something that was perhaps for the best, many agents seemed to have that; at least those in his exact line.
Beside him the window rattled in its frame. He looked over. Probably just the wind, he thought. He stood up stretching, and walked to the other side of the room. His boots drummed against the unstained wood floor, his hands brushing alongside the cramped furniture as he wound to a side room. Little more than an empty space with two mattresses in opposite corners.
He shuffled about the room, laying things out for the next morning. Outside he heard the sound of snapping twigs. He only looked up passingly. Most likely animals. It wasn't unlikely, this shack was little more than a shed and isolated from the rest of the village.
Standing alongside his tattered uneven mattress he went about taking his outer uniform off. One by one, opening the buttons. The heavy dark cotton opening off his shoulders and loosening until he pulled it off. He knelt down as he folded the coat, tucking in the sleeves and straightening the buttons. Preparing it as he was taught. As he was drilled.
As he set it aside he stopped to wonder. The night felt quiet. Too much so. Still and tense. As if it were waiting. He could hear noises through the walls. Soft sharp cracking and scraping. Like something was lurking outside. He wondered though, was it as close to the shack as he suspected?
The sound of the grass bustled just outside the walls. Just on the other side of the curtained window in the tiny room. He wondered if it were animals, or something. But the confirmation came far too quick.
At the snap of fingers the night time stillness erupted into a storm of thunder. An immense wave of shuddering and explosive shots rocked the night. Punching the stillness with sharp needle like precision, then ripping open to mushroom out. Ulanhu jumped in shock, throwing himself against the far wall and kicking at the musty tattered carpet on the floor. With a shocked jump he threw aside the mattress as gunpowder rippled outside his window like a chain of firecrackers.
Glass exploded and the ceiling ripped open as machine gun spray tore the wood and plaster above into shreds. Crystal shards of glass rained on the floor as Ulanhu scrambled through the door into the main room, diving for the gun on the table. The cold sharp cut of glass slid against exposed skin as he grabbed the gun and slid his palm through the fine dusting of broken glass that had rained onto the table from the window next to it.
Ulanhu felt with shuddering breath the hot stream of gunfire running across the nape of his neck. He screamed out in shock, his voice muted from the fury of the weapon's fire. Somewhere off distantly he could hear shocked angry shouts.
He hit the floor with a thud and rolled up with his hands over his head. His breath shuddered as he drew himself tight. The light dance of powder falling in on him as a full fire-fight exploded in the country night.
There was a loud buffeting 'thump' as somewhere outside a grenade exploded. Or a mortar. Rifle fire mingled in with machine gun to pound the air like rain on a metal roof. It was furious, and the most terrifying thing Ulanhu had witnessed.
Before he had merely received the briefings of such events. Or overlooked the investigation of similar affairs through pictures and writing. But he had not once imagined himself in the middle of it. Before Jun, he had not been in a combat roll. He was the meet guy. He was the guy that did the papers. Analyzed the intelligence to build the facts.
His training did so much, but he felt it drop from his self as all at once the world exploded around him.
And then at once, as quick as it had begun it stopped. The fire closest to him dulled out to nothing. The response from the village above continued, pursuing their attackers into silence. He could hear the orders barked. He heard an engine.
He shook himself out. He was visibly pale, and felt it. His body felt numb, but burned at the same time. He could see clear, yet it was like he was in a haze. He was too shocked to analyze things right and to take them in as the front door to his shack opened up, letting in a scrawny Russian; a large field-green coat on his shoulders.
“Comrade, comrade!” he barked, “Get your gear, we're extracting you!”
He talked without hesitation. He was sure of himself as he was startled. And Ulanhu. But the Mongol couldn't move himself fast, he gawked at the young man in his door, rifle held tight between hands burning white.
“Come on! Come on! You can't stay, tovarich!”
“Stay... Right...” Ulanhu mumbled. Shuffling. His entire world felt numb. The nickel-plated revolver in his hands felt limp and disconnected from himself.
“A- uhh... Radio.” he said meekly, shuffling to the counter.
The radio was a large pack beast. Cased over in metal, it looked to have taken hits. But the heavy tents in its carapace wasn't anything to threaten it. They were artificial. But he'd need to check. Need to check...
It was perhaps the only thing with weight as he hoisted it up by its straps onto his shoulders. It was the only thing with value he thought he had. Would need to make a call. Maybe patrols would be soon. Agent position attacked.
“We go to village.” the Russian said, nodding impatiently as he lead Ulanhu out. “There is no way we can have you out here.”
“Who was it?” Ulanhu asked. His voice sounded distant and drowned. His ears rung.
“I don't know.” his companion said, “Ghosts, maybe. We're looking now.”
The weight of the radio bore heavily down on his shoulders as he staggered towards the door, shoulders slouched. The Russian turned and lead him out into the cool air of the Siberian night. Ulanhu ran out with his head bowed into the misty blackness of midnight. The oily darkness now illuminated by the hundreds of flashlights of Makulov's men as they scanned the grass and brushes.
**Perm**
The gaping halls of the old house sung low and gently swinging with the easy tandem swing of an old Waltz. Soft with static, it echoed on the finished wood walls and large fading pictures of well dressed men and officers of all shapes and sizes. Furniture made of a deep bloody wood stood guard along the walls, providing a clear opening through the throat of the beast. The home was like a temple. The hall a long march to the throne room as the granular popping of a phonograph beckoned with trumpets to the rider who had just entered.
Jun Shaoquan's body felt heavy. In his own skin he felt odd. His breathing was heavy, and he coughed as he moved. Something had happened to him, but he was too numb to realize to what end. Without his pills he could feel no pain. Only the chaffing feel of his clothes against skin and the grinding in his lungs. But he had a mission to do. He'd find out how to do with his hands. Because either way he felt he would die.
And he had been invited, after all.
Jun walked on. His feet beating an off-time staccato rhythm against the thick crimson carpet. All the while the blank and disapproving stares of men who were probably dead glared at him as he passed by. As they stood guard at closed doors, or large bay windows peering into once oppulant rooms, now covered in a sea of sheets or looted to their bare bones. The entire inner-city estate bore the internal scars of a nation diving into a greater pit. There was no true wealth here any more. Not what was original. All of that had fled long ago, no doubt never to return.
Jun's thudding down the hall brought him to a door, from whence the sound of dance hall music was loudest. He propped an arm up against the warm rich wood and caught his breath. His wind rand rough between his lips. Licking his lips he took a deep sigh. Perhaps now. He reached for the curved serpentine handles of the door, and threw it open.
He stepped out into the heart of a massive vaulted room. Tiles of black and white marched across the floor to the far wall, where there were piles of discarded chairs and tables stacked underneath more white linens. Guilded hard-wood panels adorned the walls as they raced to the cathedral ceiling. A skylight opened to the sky above the room's centered; much of the glass had shattered.
And sitting under the glass canopy was a nightstand. A old phonograph sat on its surface, turning a black vinyl record of the classical European ballroom music. And two figures stood alongside, their enthusiasm for the music shifted up and over to the man who had just burst in. One of the figures he knew, the man in the black coat, a fraying and rotting horse head masking his own.
The other was tall and broad shouldered, with the face of an aristocrat. Well shaved. He looked over at Jun, and an enthusiastic smile immediately peeled across his face with a poisonous croon.
“We almost did not expect you to arrive.” the other man called out, waving his hand side to side with the dance of the song. He took wide casual strides across the ballroom floor, carrying a heavy air of confidence with each step from his dress shoes. A well ironed pair of dress pants flapped against his legs. A brown tweed vest hugged his chest and starch-white dress shirt. He was a classical man, from dress to short-cut hair, even a well groomed and cropped mustache rest atop his lip, curving at the ends like some bourgeoisie son from the turn of the century. He was in every way the sort of figure China honored itself in leveling down to their true status with the rest of man.
“I suppose you're here to kill me.” the figure smiled, laughing. His Chinese was polished and groomed, even for a Russian. Jun stood back, confused and taken with the demeanor of this figure, who treated him like any other acquaintance. Yet there was a noticeable coldness to him. It was an act, a cliché he knowingly assumed.
“He's a bastard, I'll tell you that much. Hard to kill.” Wraith boomed from alongside the phonograph. The other man was halfway between Jun and he now, still dancing his hands through the air as if conducting an orchestra.
“Do you know who I am?” the man laughed.
“I can guess.” Jun said.
“Then guess. Please. Humor me.”
“Gabriel?” guessed Jun.
“The left hand of God himself!” Gabriel roared loud, rising his own to the sky, pointing enthusiastically and accusingly to the heavens. His other still and clenched at his side as his face tightened and he grit his teeth, “I am the man to doll out his punishment! I am the man who acts as his middle! I know much, my Chinese friend. And I know you are here to kill me on the invitation of a bastard heretic!”
“That sounds about right.” Jun grunted.
“It should be, it is my right and divine position to know these things.” Gabriel crooned, “I also have it on good word you're on the trail of someone else.”
Jun didn't respond. He watched Gabriel as he walked to the side, kicking the ground with the heels of his shoes. Head bowed he nodded, “Silence is the greatest confirmation.” he said, “Prior to the closing of this nation's chapter – and I'd say abroad even – failure to respond to any allegation was in itself the most direct confirmation. It was China's biggest weakness. Every theory or public musing to what it was doing was met with only one voice: absolute silence. The dragon was unresponsive. And so it did as we accused it of doing: war, political instability on the international scale, internal looting and pillaging of its finest ideological minds.
“You are but another swathe of China's great pattern of silent confirmation. How does that make you feel?”
Jun's silence remained. Too taken by the surreality of the moment. He looked over to the Mafiya enforcer called Wraith, who simply stood by idly watching the record spin. “What does it have to you?” he asked Gabriel.
“Much. Very much.” he laughed, “You see, a man is judged by his words and actions. Do you know a man who has not matched both?” he asked suddenly, stopping his pacing.
“No.” Jun replied. Gabriel nodded.
“Wraith!” Gabriel called out, “Go and get our other guest.” he demanded, prompting a sudden bout of activity from the silent other. The horse-headed ghoul nodded and turned aside, walking towards the corner of the room.
“There may not be a lot of things we like. There is much in fact we dislike.” Gabriel said. His voice lost much formality, and he became a low droning brute. No different than what Jun might expect from his lessers, or even a dealer within the walls of Kowloon's Walled City. “And there is just as much we hate. Crimes of which involve the vary disregard of the unspoken tenants of respect between peers. To not lie, to not cheat, and to not effectively seek to usurp anything higher. We have maintained order by knowing our places as they flow and drift, and stifling or rewarding those we see fit.
“It is not by the means of offices, where we grant known and regimented promotion. You know? No, ours is dulled out much more humanistically and equally. No privileges are traded. Only abstraction and fitting and equal measures.
“So tell me, what does one do disregards the tenants I listed before?”
Jun looked to him, to the corner. Where Wraith was pulling from the door a sickly and writhing man. His head shrouded by a heavy black hood. “I don't know.”
“Then you will be getting a lesson!” Gabriel smiled, his tone of voice taking on the same powerful inflection he had before. As if he were conducting a crowd.
“Then let me introduce you to the man you've been seeking.” he smiled, bowing as he stepped back. Reaching into his back pocket he produced a small thing razor.
“Introducing to the esteemed honor of the great orient we have here today, Alexi Igorovich Sanvinski!” Gabriel boomed in a theatrical voice, reaching out to the man and yanking off the hood, “Also known as: Verkhovaya Gospod!” he laughed.
Verkhovaya Gospod – Alexi – looked up at Gabriel with a wide panicked expression. He was wide built, with great sunken and beady eyes. He thrashed against the stern and heavy grip of his own enforcer as he tried to kick away from Gabriel. But the binds at his hands and feet did nothing as he whimpered.
“G-Get me out of here!” he screamed in panic. His Russian was heavy. And his fat lips quivered as Gabriel loomed over him, “Wraith, I order you!” he called. But his subordinate did nothing.
“There is little he can do.” Gabriel called out, smacking the bound lord across the face.
“Oriental!” Gabriel shouted to Jun, “This is the face of a true prime-evil and spiritual criminal!” he boasted, “A man who has used his power to lead his men on his own path, away from us. He who has failed to share or offer his strength to his brothers. He in doing it lead himself and others away on voluntary excommunication in defiance of Bog!
“He undervalued our own respect! Dishonored many in our ranks! And is in general: a cheat among thieves. Tell me, is there anyone more shameful?”
Jun looked at the three of them. “All of you.” he delivered flatly.
“Pah!” Gabriel called, “Liberals and Communists, they are one of the same. They reject human nature to suit their golden image!” he declared, taking Alexi from his partner's hands and holding his shuddering body in front of his, holding the razor against his throat, “But they only go for fool's gold. The true merit of man is his relationships with others, and his capability. And it is so good to remove for good the faithless from the world.”
Verkhovaya Gospod had barely enough time to shout out one last protest before the sharp edge of the blade cut through the throat. Peeling wide the skin like paper and releasing a gurgling fountain of blood onto the tiled floor. His eyes went wide in shock as he gagged and chocked in Gabriel'd grips. He shook and squirmed in his grip. But it was limp and dying. As his eyes rolled back into his head Gabriel released the corpse. It fell with a wet thump in a pool of its own blood, which was spreading across the rain-stained marble tiles.
“This is our power. We deal with our enemies as we please. We have elected to show strength without reservation.” he laughed, holding up the bloodied knife, “It is why we burn. It is why we crucify. And it is why we behead.”
“Tell me Jun, what do you want from me?”
Jun's heart beat excitedly in his chest. “I want your head.” he said, looking down at Alexi's bloodied corpse then up at Gabriel.
“A man with no reservations. And here I thought you'd say you want to bring me in.”
“I know people who want that. But not today.”
“Beautiful.” Gabriel smiled, holding aside the knife. “Take this brother, and leave us.” he added, holding out the knife to Wraith. He nodded and took the bloodied blade, and walked off.
Jun didn't know how to feel. He buzzed excited, ready for something. A knife, a gun. A battalion of armed men to storm through the doors and shoot at him. But so far the only weapon had been carried off. And as the doors on the far side of the room drew closed it had left the room entirely.
“Do you know why Bog has the Mafiya as it is now?” Gabriel asked, in a subdued voice as he walked to the center of the room. To the phonograph, still playing waltzes.
“Because there's no central government. No one to keep it down.”
Gabriel laughed, a twisted smile appearing on his face as he stroked the side of the phonograph player. “That is the blunt way of saying it.” he said whimsically, “Russia is weak, as you know. As everyone knows. It lost its prestige, its power, its money, and its strength the day the Tzar died. The day his heirs perished. We had not witnessed anything so absolute then as ever since the end of the Ruriks. We had institutionalized ourselves in them. But what happens when that power disappears and is assumed to have to go to the hands of middlemen or foreigners?
“Chaos. We were strong then, but also weak and fragile. As we found to universal horror on that day, January 13, 1971. Nine years without the czar. Can you believe that?”
Gabriel laughed as he turned to Jun, “And before this all happened, and well before we could conduct any meaningful succession you Communist and foreigner types started revolting across the nation. And I dare say I do not know where the hell Peter's body is.”
“What is this getting at?” Jun asked.
“We've tried to set Russia back on track. I will not say the Resurrection was not worth the shot, but it was terribly weak.” Gabriel continued, “Its leader – the Ressurector – had no real presence. He didn't have the long-reaching punch. But I will give credit to him, he did set the stage for us. And we came in quick. So did Bog.
“Bog. He is a man with a reach. A long-range punch and the knowledge and resources to get something done. Even if no one has seen him, he has his agents. He has men like me who go out and do it.
“My friend, I only only a finger on his left hand. And if I am shot down and cut off then I know there will be more who will take my place. There are many with the aptitude for this. They will be his knife. The carrier of his will.” he paused and turned, gently laying a hand down behind the record player, “He does send me with a message for you though, if you're interested.”
“Might as well hear it.”
“Simply put: you're a strong and capable person. He admires you, for what you have shown. He merely asks you denounce China and proclaim him aim your new mission.”
“He wants me to defect?”
“It would be a shame to have someone such as yourself killed.” Gabriel shrugged.
“I don't intend to, that's your answer.” Jun sneered, pacing around the side.
Gabriel looked up at him. His face burned with a fiery passion. An consuming anger washed over him. And he clearly reveled in it as a sharp glint shone off the knife he rose in his hands. “Then here's the response!” he cried, rising the knife by the point of its blade.
His hand rose and fell from behind his hand, releasing the knife with a solid swing arcing it through the air on a spin for Jun. This was the moment he wanted. The shine of the light off that blade was what made that last spring jump. He swept to the side, out of the knife's arc and slide across the floor, watching its diving spin to where it clattered on the floor behind him.
Keeping momentum he turned back to Gabriel, who had a new knife all is own. Holding it above his head he was already midway between him and the phonograph table. The long combat knife rose over him as he charged, yelling.
Jun met him midway. Breaking the sharp downward drop of the knife with his arm, pushing it aside as he rose his other hand to strike back. He was sure he'd catch him in the guy, but to his sudden shock Gabriel moved faster than he thought. Before he could connect his fist hammered across his face, dashing him against the ground. Interfering with the counter just enough for it to slide against the surface of the vest.
He fell sprawled against the floor. The enraged hit man standing above him, knife it hand. He gave a roaring cry like a lion. Pouncing down onto Jun. He thrust the blade for Jun's face. He rolled in time to hear the steel clash against the tile and for Gabriel to tumble into a roll. He shot up as he rolled to his side.
Gabriel spun to kick out his feet. Toppling the agent as he caught his ankles, sending him back to the floor. He sprung himself over Jun like a cat, sweeping the blade from the side. His teeth barred hungrily.
The agent's finger wrapped themselves tight around the angle's blade, wrestling with him as he fought to plunge it into Jun's left breast. He could feel the strength in the man's arms. It was wild and explosive. He pushed and pushed. Jun struggling to keep the hand away, and Gabriel off of him. He felt the blood drumming in his head. The explosive stuttering in his heart. The warmth of adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was his sort of moment.
Gabriel jerked to the side, and Jun felt his moment. Throwing his own weight to the side he threw him off. He rolled on the ground, giving the window he needed to stand up, and turn to his competitor.
Gabriel kicked himself up off the ground and faced Jun. The knife still in hand. “I like your style.” he crooned, raising the knife.
Jun kept calm, collecting himself as he righted his position. Holding out his hands, and putting one foot behind the other.
“You know, the Wraith and I are one of the same.” he chuckled, circling Jun, “We both enjoy the fine art of the waltz, we hold ourselves as worldly men, and we were both military officers. But there's one thing we do not share.
“I've been in China. During your 'revolution'. I've felt this sort of thing. And it's been so long.
“And if you're not going to die easy, at least give me the satisfaction of letting me kill you with good memories!” he called, charging Jun. The knife again out over his head. He angled a shoulder out to him, coming in like a charging bull.
Jun dodged to the side, his shoes screeching against the slick surface of the old stone as he moved out of the way of the shoulder. He roped a fist past, connecting it with Gabriel's stomach. He bent over, folding at the connection. But the knife kept moving. With a solid meaty crack he dove in, carving into Jun's shoulder. He gritted reflexively. Raising an arm to the knife blade as Gabriel dragged down on it with his weight.
He reached out with a leg, kicking Gabriel across the chest. A sharp crack snapped in the hall, above the sound of the music. And Jun wrapped his hand around Gabriel's and wrested control of the knife from him. He staggered back onto the ground, falling with a thump as Jun staggered back, holding his hand to his shoulder, tugging at the blade. The steel and flesh that it met slurped wetly as it ground out through the tendons. A fresh stream of blood bled out through, staining his shirt. Yet, he felt no significant pain as it came free.
Gabriel rose to his feet, bent over as he held onto his ribs. His face hot with rage. He boiled red. “You're a fucking monster.” he cursed him.
Jun held his hand to the wound, fighting to stem the flow of blood as he took the knife with his other hand.
“You're going to bleed out before he even get out.” Gabriel laughed. The Russian nodded, taking steps back. He sized up Jun again, raising his fists, and he charged again.
The agent looked up just as he started. In seconds the weight of the Russian was against him, throwing him down on the ground. A fresh hot spray of sticky blood following suit. The knife that Jun had taken back lodged deep into Gabriel's gut. He fell hard and fast with Jun.
With a crack, they fell onto the floor.
