by Allan Cole
Okay, the kid was a rookie. But he was a two kill rookie looking for one more body bag to make the big three.
Three hits and the kid was solid.
Three hits and he could join all the other men and women who made up America’s elite Corps Of Last Resort.
It was called the Odysseus Corps. Named for the first guy in history who kicked ass and gave no names.
And if the kid wanted to get into it he had to pass the Test Of The Three Kills. Stupid name. Davyd had been around enough centuries to know it was nothing more than Zen trash from the Corp’s early days of Moral Excuses.
Trash or not, the tradition had lasted. The Three Kills Test. Three sanctioned hits and you were made.
The kid had worked for years to reach this point. Intense study and unpleasant training. Months of surgery endured for the bioplants that gave Davyd and his kin the physical and mental edge over ordinary beings.
Now all the kid had to do was pull the trigger. Boom! No more Generalisimo. Big drunk. Welcome to the fraternity of Hell, kid.
Say hello to us sinners. And goodbye to your soul.
The kid would get a place at the Bar Of The Damned, where every man and woman had sacrificed this life and the afterlife for the good old Red, White and Blue.
He’d even get a place in the Hall Of Peace, where the sleep was long, the dreams kept sweet by strong spells.
Spells no nightmares of murders past or future could penetrate.
All those things, those marvelous things, would become the kid’s upon pulling the trigger. He had everything going for him. Mentors willing to coax him along. Powerful men who could wake up Davyd— the best assassin in Odysseus Corps— to supervise and mark this private historic moment.
What more could he want? And why was he hung up? Didn’t the kid believe the story?
Old poisons leaked through Davyd’s armor.
Shit, did somebody tell him? Did somebody tell the kid sometimes the Ghosts got through?
Hammering on the big glass tubes where the heroes slept standing tall and neon ready, glaring lights swirling all around. Dreams playing out in electrical arcs leaping from crown to groin to toe and then back again. Scores of years passing in each long sleep.
Hospital quiet all around and then the Ghosts would come howling forth. Shrieking, “Murder, murder, murder!”
Like a panther’s scream, catching you by the heart and lungs and hauling you down to Hell to meet your Maker and His Opponent.
And then they’d both look at you and shake their heads, saying, “No deal here,” and you just goddamn burn, boys, you just goddamn burn.
Sweetjesus, Davyd had suffered that dream too often and now he wondered, every nerve, every muscle and tendon soaked with adrenaline and testosterone, if somebody with a big mouth had maybe dropped this dirty dime on the kid and now he was having second thoughts.
Davyd’s gut squirmed as the memory of his own first hit tentacled through.
A Rooskie, natch. Tall and thin with cold KGB eyes set in a hawk’s face. Mother Russia’s second elected president and all progs indicated that he was a grave danger to America’s freedom loving cause.
Least that’s what Control’d claimed. Davyd was young then, so what the hell did he know? Except that the quote— fate of the free world— endquote, hung in the balance.
So Davyd had taken him out. Right there in Athens, in the middle of the opening ceremonies of the 2004 Olympics. What the hell was his name. Started with a “P.” It was a super symbolic ceremony, with the American president— Bush, was his name, but Davyd couldn’t remember which Bush … there were two of them— standing beside the Rooskie. The two of them opening the games together while the whole world cheered.
Davyd snorted. It was so long ago— a thousand years or more— that he had difficulty remembering all the influences that had led him to that first assassination.
He tried not to bother himself about the details, most of which were propaganda anyway and not to be trusted.
A child of the Twentieth Century, he recalled a time when the Cold War between the U.S. and Russia was only fifty years old. He remembered when it supposedly ended— when the wall came down and Pink Floyd threw a rock concert to celebrate a “new era of peace.”
Damned Commiesymps propagandists. The said the Cold War was good and over now that Russia had shed its Soviet empire. Another snort from Davyd. That sure as hell didn’t last long.
The symbolic meeting at the Games was crucial to this “new era of peace.”
But Davyd’s superiors had known better than to be fooled by all that Rooskie-inspired claptrap. They knew very well who was really behind all the so-called terrorist attacks. Exploding jetliners, diseases sprayed from crops dusters, suitcases filled with radioactive medical waste blasting apart at malls and supermarkets.
It sure as hell wasn’t the mad mullahs who were behind those attacks. Nor the crazy Christian right-wingers at home.
It was the Rooskies who were doing it, same as they always had all the way back to the days of that bastard Stalin.
Davyd’s bosses knew damned well that strong action and severe sacrifices by a few patriotic individuals were required to save America from being destroyed both from within and without.
And so Davyd Kells, a patriot to the core, had been America’s first hero in a new world order that would last a thousand years.
To save his country, Davyd had put one round right through that damned Rooskie’s heart.
Images from that moment rushed forward to swirl and spark in Davyd’s mind.
He’d pulled the trigger.
There was a nearly silent whomp! Followed by the rifle’s recoiled kiss against his shoulders.
Screams and shouts and in his scope blood all over the place.
And he’d run, run, run, all the Rooskie hellhounds at his heels.
He’d escaped. How? He couldn’t recall … Oh, yeah. Now he remembered. It was the strangest damned thing. After he fired— and the Russian president fell— and Davyd started turning away, there had been another shot. Coming not that far away from his hiding place. And he’d caught a glimpse of the American president tumbling back, his head a bloody pulp.
Someone had killed George Bush. Davyd had no doubt then— and his suspicions had long since been confirmed— that a Russian assassin had taken out the American. So the filthy ones had planned it all along. It was a good thing Davyd had been set to strike as well. Revenge had been delivered for Bush’s murder before he’d even been shot.
So that’s why the escape had gone so easily. The total confusion caused by the two assassinations had agents and bodyguards falling over each other— even shooting at each other— while Davyd made his escape. Of course, the Russian killer had escaped too. But the world was not a fair place, had been built for villains as a matter of fact, and Davyd had long since learned to accept that fact.
Davyd shuddered as the full memory of that first hit crept. Most of all he recalled how he felt when he depressed the trigger. And had the sudden cold, slimesweat realization he’d just passed the point of no soul’s return.
He knew at that moment that he’d crossed some terrible line and there was no going back because the foulest, blackest sin of all now stood in his way— Murder.
Shit!
The images dissolved and he was back on the hill, tensed for yet one more killing.
And Davyd got really, really angry because the third hit point was coming up and he knew the damned kid was going to blow it.
The kid was frozen.
Damnhissoul he was frozen and now Davyd, who was prepped to kill but not for actual murder, felt his whole heart burn with despair.
It was the anguish— never lessened in a thousand years and hundreds of kills since that first time— of the moment between thought and action.
Father Zorza, the wizard priest who had been his Control in these later decades when each murder became harder to bear but easier to accomplish, defined this moment as “Free Wil
l.”
A conscious decision. A knowing action. The long shadow between think and do.
“Be at peace, my dear boy,” Father Zorza always counseled. “The sin you accept is the ultimate sacrifice for God and Country. And in the end God will forgive you because it was for a just cause.”
Davyd played Zorza’s speech in his mind and shot the Generalisimo.
What else could he do?
The kid was no good, but the mission was still running and the target was important, so Davyd pressed steady as she goes, sir, on the trigger and saw the Generalisimo’s chest explode in his sights.
Just like that, pull and it was done.
Got the aides as well, God bless them. Or damn them. Or whatever God wanted, it was no business of Davyd’s who had his own problems in that department.
Boom! and then he could hear the jackalspirits released by his rifle squabble over the carcasses of their souls.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Nice to see you, master. Home at last…” The old wrinkled face of a Brownie presented its most pleasant smile.
Actually, it was a pleasant smile as the Brownie understood the term. But to human eyes it was the terrifying mask of a bloody nightmare.
Vlad, however, was very familiar with that ghastly grimace. “Greetings, Brosha.” Quite cheery. “How is everything?”
“Everything is all right, master. All in proper order, in its place, and in good condition…”
“Damn it, Brosha, let the Elves have you! Is it too difficult to just say, ‘Everything’s okay?’”
A grimace made Brosha’s face more terrible still. “Oh, master, it is not good to use that filthy Amer word…”
Brosha, an old Brownie who was once in the service of an RGF Army Transport Chief Director, was currently in the employ of Vlad Projogin, a major in the Russian SPETZNAZ commandos— Brown Bears Company. A company where only the best of the best were welcome.
Vlad was the best of that best, a “free fire stalker,” meaning when on a mission he needed no one’s permission to shoot. In fact, few could command Vlad under any circumstances. And those few were among the hierarchy of the mysterious “Church Of The Sword,” where he was an acolyte.
“Okay, no okays, old pal, old buddy,” Vlad teased his batman, deliberately adding a cacophony of American slang— all terrible obscenities to the sensitive Brosha.
Vlad was standing in the hall of his Moscow flat. Moscow, Belokamennaya, the City of White Stones. Whatever the name, old or new. It was his home. What the hell, home at last!
He threw his bag into the corner and Brosha immediately swept it up.
“A proper place for everything, and everything in its proper place,” Brosha said, repeating his favorite motto for the thousandth time.
Vlad tried to ignore this and stepped into the living room. Immediately his Brownie hurled another chastisement.
“Boots! Boots, master!”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Another Brownie rule. No one was allowed to cross the threshold in street boots. Even the Lord Emperor himself was required to obey that rule.
Vlad imagined His Royal Majesty, surrounded by a brilliant court, stamping into the hall and Brosha the Brownie, hands spread, a terrible smile scarring his face, barring the way, mumbling:
“Boots! Boots, Sire! Your Majesty, boots! Slippers, please, Your Majesty!”
Vlad had no doubt even the Emperor would not have the nerve to penetrate Brosha’s defense.
But Brosha was Brosha and Vlad had grown used to his batman’s ways. To the point that nobody other than Brosha would ever dare to speak to him in such a manner. Even that ass Brand Carvaserin, Master Wizard of Special Services.
Brand’s younger brother, Daniel, was Wizard-in-Chief, or something, on the Borodino battle station in the Frontier Zone. Vlad knew the brothers well and disliked them both.
Never mind the damn wizards!
He was home at last. Home, sweet home. His greatcoat flew away and he slumped into the sofa, running strong fingers through his light brown hair.
Then he sighed a great sigh and rubbed his tired, pale blue eyes. Yes, home at last…
Vlad had just returned from a six-month expedition. One of the most curious missions he’d ever encountered. Never mind that six months was a most unusual length of time for someone with Vlad’s talents.
His specialty— the deadliest of all the military arts— usually took no more than a few minutes… once he was in place.
But this latest mission had been rather extraordinary— an expedition into the fiendish Regions Of Reality.
Certainly not a task normally among his common duties…
* * *
… The General was uneasy. Strange for a man proudly wearing Russia’s highest mark of valor— the St. George Order with the Full Bow. His stone-carved face glistened with sweat. The upper button of his high-collar military jacket was undone.
“Please sit, Major,” he said. “Feel free to smoke, if you’d like.”
“I don’t smoke, General.”
“You’ll live forever, Vlad.” The General lit a Havana. Vlad noted his trembling fingers.
“I have a task for you,” the General said. “If you’ll agree to it, that is. You’re my weapon of last resort, my friend.” His smile was bleak.
“Listen, son,” he said, “One of those thousandtimesdamned-devils we depend on has taken it into his fool head to escape.”
Vlad only stared, waiting. His long chin thrust out. His wide shoulders squared.
“I’m told he was a damned useful fiend and quite clever,” the General continued. “The incident has our wizards tearing out the last of their hair. I don’t know exactly what the fiend’s motives were, or how he did it. But somehow he got away.”
The General shrugged. “It’s been four months now since he escaped,” he said.
Vlad allowed his heavy eyebrows to lift. The General saw and nodded.
“Yes. I completely agree. Those asses from the High Wizardry Corp are all mad. At first they insisted the situation was an internal matter. No one else’s business.”
The right corner of the General’s mouth twitched. “They sent an expedition to the Fiendish Worlds to get him back,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a complete failure. Shit! And mind, please, that it was headed by Brand Carvaserin himself!
“Accompanied by two— if you can imagine— two Master Wizards. With five of our best Brown Bears to back them up.”
Vlad was astounded. “And the Brown Bears failed?”
Some of his steely facade cracked. On the left sleeve of Vlad’s jacket there was an emblem— a red circle enclosing the snarling head of a brown bear.
Satan’s balls! Brown Bears! His company! Defeated?
The General snorted, disgusted. “Yes. Gottmituns, yes! I couldn’t believe it myself! Five men from the Brown Bears is the equal of a damned airborne regiment!”
“Yet they failed,” Vlad said, flat.
“Yes, Vlad. They failed.”
“Did they survive?”
“According to the last news from the Wizardry Section— yes. But I don’t know for how long. This Carvaserin is a maniac, Vlad. He’ll kill my boys before he’s done with his foolishness. And it’ll be for nothing. Stupid deaths.”
“You want me to rescue them,” Vlad said, quite matter-of-factly, “and get rid of this Carvaserin. Right?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “Sounds easy enough. A Wizard in the fiendish world is somehow like a girl in a perfume shop. He’ll be overcome with all that magical scent.”
“Alas, no!” the General grinned. “The order is simple. To capture the runaway devil and to deal with those who helped him.”
“Helped him?” Vlad was surprised.
Who in the whole Universe, by the Great Buddha’s Balls, could help a damned fiend escape from under a wizard’s eye? And another thing— a most disturbing thing— this was not his normal job: dealing with naughty fiends.
To send
HIM, master of killing— swiftly, shortly and without any traces— to send him to the fiendish world for such a hunt?
Well, one runaway devil is not an Amer’s penetration to Belokamennaya. And as for those mysterious traitors who helped the foolish devil— that was more of a job for the counter-intelligence staff.
Not Vlad Projogin.
“Are you sure he had help?” Vlad asked.
“Yes. This famed demon was not alone,” the general said. “Somehow he recruited some allies… from among us mortals. But that’s not the worst of it. When he escaped he managed to steal some piece of shit device that has the wizards running around in a tizzy.
“Our Wizards say this device is more priceless than the Kremlin itself and more powerful than the damned Spell of Creation. They call it the SelfGuard Charm. And they insist that in a month all our devils will flee like rats from a sinking ship.”
Vlad was always the doubter. “That doesn’t sound possible,” he said.
“Well it is,” the General said. “Or the wizards say it is, at any rate. Apparently this Charm— and may its creators be roasted in hell— will allow the devils of this race— I cannot say its damned name, only Wizards can pronounce it properly— to flee from our control and to help other fiendish creatures do the same. From ODD dwarves to engine devils.”
Vlad’s eyes narrowed. He was getting interested.
“Surely this is a dirty trick of those damned Amers,” Vlad said.
The General snorted. “I don’t suspect it. I know it!” He tapped his chest. “I feel it here.
“So, Vlad, you must act immediately. Strike! Strike before all those fiendish shits can even wrinkle!”
Vlad glanced down at the mission folder in front of him. It had a red leather cover. He knew without looking that all its contents were paper.
Not a disk, not a magic crystal, just a thick sheaf of paper. In cases such as this the General would trust only paper and nothing else. When paper was properly shredded and burned not even the strongest Wizard could resurrect a single word from all those top secret paragraphs and pages.
Vlad nodded and took the report. The nod was his acceptance of the mission.