[ooc: Big note: None of this is applicable to anything cept modern tech, Eastern Europe Trostia.
On this forum Trostia is future tech and completely different, and this no longer counts in the II/NS universe.
Return
He took six different cars to the motel in the outskirts of Sletz.
The last was a dull orange 03 Eskva, the first in an experimental line of "western" looking designs, in response to the growing trend of anticapitalism in general among the Trostian consumers and an effort to expand the sales market. It was half succeeding, or did until Virali's government cronies built a wall of bureacracy against such things. Preserving, or perhaps merely trying to rebuild, the culture of communism in Trostia.
He chuckled. The real problem was the new Eskva used entirely different brands of internal components. Brands which he did not own entirely or partly. And no one wants to be lose an investment, do they?
It had snowed the night before, and the roads were icy. He drove carefully, blending into traffic, and to avoid getting into any stupid accidents. Besides, there was no rush.
He hadn't been gone that long, really.
--
The man looked pleased to see him, which wasn't surprising. He was always such a bad liar, but you had to give him credit for trying. He stood up, gave an appearance of surprise followed by a politician's smile, which wasn't returned.
G. was never much for politicians. They were too specialized a breed of dog; good for racing, perhaps, but not much help to a hunter. They learned how to make it in the Game, but G. was a man who made that game; circumvented it. He was born to rule, and rule he did, and he was a hunter at heart. It was not enough to gain power, as the politician was satisfied with, but to wield it, to accomplish change, to use power, was key.
The man realized his smile wouldn't work here. G. was angry.
"It is good to see you."
"Marco," he replied quietly, ignoring the politician's naked lie. "What are you doing to Our great nation?"
Marco had the sense to look humble, as a dog does before it's master. "Your will, my Lord."
He sat down in the big chair. The Civil Ministry had been smashed, and was being rebuilt, but the rulers of Trostia had never done their real work there. That was not the way, in this country. "No, Marco. This is not what we had wanted."
"The East Trostians have... proven to be difficult to deal with. More so, I think, than you had expected."
That was a mistake. G. had expected this. He had planned for it. "We hadn't expected them to roll over. Fight they did, but we outnumber them on battle, and in the cities. I give you every advantage, Marco, and yet still you fail."
Marco seemed to have gone a few shades paler, if that was possible. The man had obviously not gotten much sleep lately. It was as he'd thought; the stresses of rulership had worn this fragile politician down, like rocks in the breakwater. But no rock was he. He even stuttered in his response. "My Lord, forgive me, I have only done the best I can."
He seemed truly apologetic. It would have moved him, had he been a man capable of being moved.
It was such a shame Virali was still required.
He smiled-- a terrifying smile, one that spoke of murders both remembered and planned. "It is good that I have returned, Marco, to set things right. Perhaps now with proper guidance, we may yet prosper from this situation."
"Yes. Yes, of course, my Lord, Trostia has it's ruler again." Virali was obviously beside himself with relief, but to his credit managed to still look humbled and apologetic. Good for him.
But in the mind of the butcher of Sletz, Virali's days were now numbered, apologies or no.
--
The job was finally ready to be enacted.
Plans had been made.
He felt exuberant, lively. Not like the shithole of death he'd been in for weeks. No, now it was nearing the end of the task, a completion. Encirclement. His gun was loaded, and although he'd been trained to fight and survive, there would be no survival for him. There was only fight. A righteous struggle against the murderers, that false prophet, the heart of the worm which had so fatteningly taken over Trostia.
The target liked to travel in slick, armored black limousines. There was no stopping them. They were escorted by police and monitored from air.
But the target, he'd found, was much more confident when it came to 'off duty' hours. In the night time, he would often be found walking in the city, bodyguards nearby of course, but in the open and easy to get to. With martial law enforced, it would be hard for anyone to get anywhere near close enough to do the job.
Anyone but him. A Colonel in the TGF, he would meet him tomorrow, get within hand-shaking range, and be armed as a matter of course. He was a loyal and trusted commander, and the target was the commander in chief.
It would almost be easy. Within seconds he would be gunned down himself, but not before ridding the CPT of a so-called "progressive" communist, who was really nothing more than yet another fascist, stamping out the Revolution wherever it was whispered to be.
Six hours. He had six hours to live.
--
The target stood behind an oak podium, as if it were a shield. His voice was even, and almost bored sounding.
The troops he talked to, however, ignored this slight on trust, and their eyes shone with pride as he bestowed upon them, in turn, the medals of honor for their performance in the recent, brutal and senseless fighting to the east and north.
Colonel Arven Guobo, an officer of some distinction, but not too much. He'd been wounded in combat, his record showed, and served in an armored company which had faced off waves of East Trostian infantry almost single-handedly. Gunning down with the 7.62 mm barely-trained, barely-equipped boys who were barely men. Honor.
In truth, "Arven Guobo" was a fiction. The real Colonel had been killed, quietly and unnoticed, and papers had shifted, orders transferred; some ignored. And a soldier of the Revolution found himself in the shoes of a hero of the capitalist oppression. It was a shameful, hateful guise, but both neccessary and opportune. There was purpose in the madness.
At last his turn came.
He looked the man who called himself leader of the Trostian people. His black hair was shiny. It had probably been sprayed before this performance, since surely, everyone thought, he would not be such a slob as to have greasy, unclean hair. But the "Colonel" did not put this past him. Capitalism itself was an unclean act.
He noted the blue eyes. They noted him, at last, but there was no real recognition other than the show he gave to indicate he was a real comrade. He was so full of himself, now, enjoying his power, enjoying the unfounded but automatic respect the troops and officers gave him, so confident.
"Colonel Guobo, the State, and the People of Trostia, recognize your heroic performance in loyal, national duty, in defense of--"
It was time. Now, as the lies were coming out of his mouth.
He stepped forward, his face passive but showing what could be interpreted as an expression of servitude and honor. And so it was. But the honor was yet to come.
Quickly, as he'd been trained to do through years of military service, and months of specialized training from the Revolutionaries, he drew his sidearm, an Ort-2 semiautomatic pistol, which had been loaded with 15 live, armor piercing 9 mm rounds.
Now the hangar, strewn with the flag of Sletz, seemed to go into what the westerners referred to as "slow motion," and which he knew as a calm clarity. His right arm raised, and the barrel pointed up at the liar's face, which showed true recognition. He cringed, and of course the IIA men had also recognized what was happening, and were pulling their weapons from holsters in their pressed, designer suits, ready to fire--
He pulled the cold trigger, twice, and in his hand the piece bucked back against his extended arm and shoulder heavily. A hole appeared in Marco Virali's shoulder just before a second appeared on his forehead, just beneath the shiny [greasy] black head of hair, a violent red hole which was accompanied by violent red blood spattered behind him, on the very bottom of an immense green, white and blue flag; the flag of Sletz, the flag of the usurper capitalists.
Not too many microseconds later, the man known as Colonel Guobo was hit by the bodyguards; multiple shots impacted him from the front and back, but before the shot that put him out destroyed his skull, he had time to reflect upon the delicious irony of that flag coated by the blood of the "democratic" communist leader's death throes.
Revolution. Betrayal
Night. A hotel in Sletz
Two men talk, in slightly hushed voices. The rooms have all been checked for security holes, but one could never be sure, with today's technology. There were many eyes and ears. Few were friendly.
"This cannot continue," the first man says. "That's clear."
"We will decide what is clear and what isn't," the second man replies. His voice is cultured and deceptively warm.
"Of course, of course-"
"Where is the Princess Lara, the Princess Marina, pray tell?"
"We've got them secured in Central Sector 13. Secure lodgings, luxurious; they have not complained."
"You have been monitoring their communications."
"Yes, your Grace."
"I shall want to review your reports. Psychological. Physiological."
The second man, almost imperceptively, licked his lips. The first man began to sweat. "We have top analysts on that right now, your Grace."
"You are delaying Our grand plans, General. Let us hope this situation does not overcome your abilities, of which We suspect you have few."
--
Several Weeks Later
The General approached. It was night; pleasantly warm, though not so warm that exhalations did not appear as smoky puffs in the air.
"So, Mister Duvo," the cold voice spoke. "Or should I say, Comrade Duvo."
He smiled at this, understanding the humor of it. Not half a year ago, and Duvo publically held loyalty to the anti-socialist, traditionalist government at the time-- though even then, no one knew his true loyalty, to the truly traditionalist government. So many lies. And now he was Chairman of the Communist International. Irony.
And yet, a truth had emerged from amongst the lies. Irony upon irony.
"Indeed, Comrade Duke," he responded, laughter in his voice.
A pause. Olik was not used to being addressed this way. Calculations, silently, could be sensed from the powerful mind. "So," the cold voice again uttered, "You have begun to believe your own bullshit."
"No," Duvo said, "I do not believe the Marxist tripe. All are not equal."
Again, a pause, while Olik thought on this. "Of course. So now what is your plan? Or has this moderate amount of power gone to your head, as it had with Virali?"
The mention of Virali was a not-so-subtle hint. Yes, General Duvo had not even known about the assassin; yes, Olik's connections were powerful. Very powerful. But he was a proud man, as the aristocracy always was; blinded. Things were different now than the Winter War.
"My plan," Duvo said thoughtfully, "No longer includes you."
A snort. "I had considered you beneath stating the obvious, Mister Duvo."
"So many misconceptions."
"And? So? You will force my hand? Are you prepared to take the consequences of not having any tradition to maintain order?"
Again, feigning thoughtfulness in his expression, Duvo nodded seriously. "Only, I do not think your play will best my hand. You have made the error of your kind. I will nationalize your friend's corporate assets, and I will bring you to trial. You will not escape this time, Olik."
And now, emboldened by his action, Duvo gave a snort of genuine disgust, contempt for the former Grand Duke. He was free.
But Olik did not seem perturbed or offended. In the darkness, his features were unreadable. Duvo knew they would be unreadable in daytime as well. Cold as a snake, but caught at last; perhaps he didn't believe the shift in power, or perhaps he trusted his plans and connections.
That was worrisome. But no matter.
"When I speak, the world will know your part in the crimes," said Olik, casually.
The guards had already been ordered. They stood outside the doors, ready to move on the old man if he chose to run. Truly, he thought, would be no getaway vehicle for Olik this time.
Duvo allowed a smile. "Speak? Why do you think I would let you speak, Butcher? To hear your poisonous tongue flap? It's done it's last flapping, I'm afraid."
--
A man slipped silently from the shadows into the lonely and forsaken glow of a street light. He surveyed the scene cooly, lit a cigarette, and waited. He noted the world outside the dim circle in which he stood. There was really not much to see, except a black car, a Trostian model from about ten years ago so as to be inconspicuous, perched by the bridge to his left. There were other cars there, of course, lined up along the streets, but this one had a special feature distinguishing it from the rest: There was someone inside.
The man breathed deeply. He didn't like this. He didn't like it at all. Here he was, in a strange and potentially hostile place, looking for a man he had been taught from birth to hate - a man that, truth be told, all of Eastern Europe had been taught to hate practically from the cradle. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't even sure if the target was still alive. All there were were rumors - no evidence, no facts. At least, none that he was aware of, which at this point could have meant anything. But it's for the good of Eastern Europe, he thought. He's the only one here that can stop the communists, and without Trostia, the Comintern will fall like a house of cards...
Ironic that I should be thinking finding him will help Eastern Europe. He smirked. But I have a job to do...
The man strode toward the car. On the driver's-side window, he tapped out a strange rhythm. The glass slid effortlessly away, revealing a man inside whose features were indistinguishable, illuminated only by the feeble attempts of the light emanating from the street lamp to penetrate the darkness and whatever moonlight could scratch its way through the overhanging clouds. In a low, smooth voice, the man spoke.
"We have a butcher to find."
--
[Note: This last section written by Galicia.]
Escape.
The cool sensation of metal cuffs binding his wrists, he let himself be lead away from the vacant hotel, down the halls, two guards in front and two behind. There would be no overpowering them.
The General, apparently, was leaving by another parking lot.
This one was vacant, except for a single army truck, to which he was escorted. He knew the General would be surrounded by highly loyal guards whenever he moved in public, even at this time of night. That was a lesson learnt from Virali, he noted with grim satisfaction.
His truck was not to protect him from assassins, but only from escaping.
Wordlessly, the soldiers, who were dressed in field attire and carried rifles - no fanfare for the Duke here - shoved him around to the back. They discussed something in low voices, calmly, and with laughter - parted ways.
He could hardly believe it. Only two of these soldiers would ride with him in the back. It was a stroke of luck. More would be required, of course, and he hated this. The key to living was planning, both in a metaphorical and a very real sense.
"Get up inside," one of them told him, dispassionately. His rifle pointed to the concrete.
He looked at the other, a light haired and younger one. His rifle also pointed downward, but he clutched it with white, sweaty looking hands. He looked nervous. It was understandable. He turned and did as he had been told, precariously grabbing hold of the vehicle as he clambered up into it.
The covered-wagon-like interior was dark, dusty. There were two long benches along the edges, and he was commanded to sit on the right by the push of a rifle barrel, and he did so.
Rumbling and sudden, the diesel engine started up, and the old truck shook and reverberated with the power as it idled. The smell of oil and engine fumes became noticable. He waited until the truck began to move, after the older soldier lifted up the stepway and put in place a large metal plate, which served as a kind of half-door.
The air became colder as they moved, whistling through the cabin and the rear like an arctic blast.
He sized them up. It was natural; he had already gotten a good appraisal as a matter of habit so far. Now he considered their personalities without so much as talking to them. The old one was bored, slightly impatient but cautious. His eyes told of no drug habits, not even the signs of caffeine. Probably, a high ranked enlisted or NCO, who might want more or less important details, but at any rate a different detail than this one, whose assignment seemed silly or beneath his talents.
The younger one, on the other hand, was made nervous, and it was by the Duke's presence and the weight of his responsibility. For this one, it was quite clear he was worried that the Duke would escape, and that he would be accused of failure or collaboration. By the way he handled himself, and by his youth, he was also less experienced. Unlike the older soldier, he was somewhat proud to have been assigned suchan important detail. Probably, it was a lot better than peeling potatoes, or whatever his normal routine might be.
Sounds continued to come from the engine, sounds which spoke, like so many Trostians could speak, of defeat. Sputtering and hacking, the truck lurched to a halt, and Olik could hear the driver cursing in the silence that followed.
Making no movement, Olik appeared to look vaguely interested in the goings on, lifting an eyebrow aristocratically.
The older trooper scowled, and swore. "Damn these old beasts," he said, standing up roughly. The second soldier started, but he was chided. "You stay here and watch over him." He jerked his head in the direction of Olik. Then he bounded over the rear divider and walked around the truck to the front, his footsteps echoing in the vacant night.
For a few moments, Olik said nothing. The young soldier was listening intently, still looking nervous.
"So, how old are you, soldier?" Olik asked, at last. He gave the man the dispassionate but leaderly look he had managed so well, during his public reign of office. A grandfatherly look, some might say, though he wasn't a grandfather. Not really.
The soldier didn't answer at first, and he looked unsure but mustered up an expression of defiant professionalism.
"Come, come, I am only curious," he said. "Aren't you a little young to be in the army?"
"Ground Defense Forces," the soldier muttered in correction.
Olik smiled. "I would never have had it this way..."
There was silence, but Olik had piqued the boy's curiosity. Seeing this, he went on. "When I was young, all men were required to join the army, but they were also required to go to the universities as well. An education is a wonderful thing for a man your age to have."
"I'm educated enough," the sandy-haired kid replied, defensively.
Nodding, Olik said, "Yes, and they teach you in the army, as well. But they do not teach you enough, how to survive in the real world, after they downsize the military and discharge you."
He knew he had scored now, for the kid, whose nervousness seemed to dissipate as easily as Olik could look grandfatherly, widened his eyes. "Discharge me?"
"Yes," he replied. "General Duvo wants a smaller, more professional military, and so he thinks it is best to create tens of thousands of unemployed ex-soldiers, so he has more money to spend on the few he lets stay."
"You're lying!" the kid exclaimed, angrily. The mention of the word "unemployed" had spooked him.
"I swear, I am not. Why would I make such a thing up? I have nothing to gain from it. The General, on the other hand..." he let his voice trail off, and shrugged his shoulders.
He let that sink in, as the driver could be heard cursing once more, and talking in exasperated tones to the older soldier. The kid's face showed confusion and worry now, not nervousness. He looked down at his feet for a moment.
A sound from the front of the truck again. The hood must be up, and the two working on the engine, for the ignition noise was followed by a sputtering, whirling cycle that stopped very quickly. The truck stopped shaking again.
But the kid was now craning his head around, as if he could somehow watch the process despite the lack of a line of sight. He had underestimated the Duke's reflexes and position.
Quickly, he lurched forward, as if falling, crashing clumsily into the soldier. But his arms had been lifted, and now he brought his cuffed wrists down around the young man's neck, as if about to kiss him. Heaving with his might, he pulled back, forcing the metal chain against the kid's skin tightly, blocking the air passages.
They struggled like this for a moment, silently, with the kid attempting first to use his rifle-- he couldn't bring it around and up, and Olik now stood on the bench he was sitting on, almost directly behind him-- then the implement fell to the floor, noisily--
--just as the engine lurched, whirred and coughed again. Marvelous timing, Olik appraised.
Now unarmed, his face turning violent red as the blood flow was restricted, the kid was unable to get out of the grasp. He tried, his hands grasping vainly at the chain, attempting to position fingers between skin and steel. Olik pushed again with his body, and then lifted his right leg up, planting a foot squarely on the kid's back and using it as leverage. He continued to pull, with the cuffs digging in mercilessly to the skin of his wrists, seeming to chafe the bones. He felt blood and knew it was his. The chain was not cutting into the kid's neck, merely choking the life out of him.
Olik would have continued, knowing that the kid was still alive, but he was unconscious and time was short. He unwrapped himself from the now inert body, making certain not to make any conspicuous sounds. He unbuttoned the pistol holster on the kid's hip, and with his bleeding wrists still bound, he lifted the Ort-9 semiautomatic out.
He moved to the back of the truck, looked back, and pondered putting a bullet in the kid's skull. But again, time was short, and there was no such room for luxuries in his schedule. He had been able to make sure this truck would not make it to the prison, but there was the driver and the other soldier to worry about.
He aimed the pistol haphazardly at the chains of his cuffs and squeezed off a round, shutting his eyes. The shot was loud, and the round hit the floor of the truck with an echoing plink. His cuffs remained, but his hands were now completely free.
He leapt out the back of the truck and hit the pavement running. This area of town was dark now; there was a chemical factory nearby and a refinery's glowing lights further beyond. But the road passed only dark warehouses and, further back, a wooded creek. Olik made for the shadows, and ran to darkness, like Ulysses returning home. His heart maintained it's steady thumping in his chest, like a resting animal calmed instead of alarmed by violence.
Behind him shots could be heard. He didn't look back, knowing speed and stealth were his only advantages; the pistol would be useless against alert, trained soldiers. But the older soldier was apparently shooting blind or as a signal, for Olik felt no shots hit him or nearby. The army could afford night vision goggles as part of the standard equipment, but the older soldier had either not expected to need them or been unable to justify their weight on this mission.
He continued to run, along the darkened street, heading for a bridge and the thin but useful foliage of the creek it crossed.
He waited, hidden by bone-dry, twisted branches and twigs, the darkness, and the small bridge overhead. Coated in filth, half soaked in polluted mud, he had waded downstream under cover for over two hours, knowing that the military would be looking for him and knew he was still on foot. The creek was a likely avenue of escape, however, Olik also knew that Duvo knew how well his connections were. For all the good General knew, Olik might have been holed up in an anonymous apartment building somewhere, sipping tea. His search would have to include that possibility, and the possibility of dissent within his own ranks.
In reality, his position was not as strong as that. What Kassos had started, Duvo was now finishing. He had the loyalty of all the generals, whether he believed it or not. Olik could and did give bribes, but without the old networks this did not amount to the kind of opposition that Duvo was expecting from him.
Otherwise, he wouldn't be soaked and chilled, underneath a bridge.
Silently, he formed his plots. A map of Eastern Europe appeared in his mind's eye, as clear as day. Though geopolitics was more complicated than a basic map could ever represent, this helped him visualize and order things mentally.
To the east was Qabrestan. There was to be no salvation there; he would be shot by the first civilian to spot his face. Closer, there was East Trostia, yes, the new Asovyan republic. That was where he had been regrowing his power base most, besides Sletz. And it was close. But it would fall quickly if Duvo even suspected his presence there.
No, best to leave that card in the sleeve.
To the west, Romania and Galicia. Galicia, he suspected, would aid him willingly, and the factionalized Romanian governments would be unable to do much about him in any case. They had bigger fish to fry. As had the Vhorenians to the north, but he would no sooner join a Vhorenian than eat his own foot. Besides, the Cossack States were in the way - still. After all these years, that passive-aggressive pack of subhumans sat there on the Trostian border, preventing expansions that were so clearly needed.
He frowned, in the darkness. Other powers would support his goals. The Nordic government had long since collapsed; now that area was governed totally by a corporation, the Shinra. That was useful information to know.
And Vexia. How foolishly they had informed Duvo's government of their support. Could he trust such fools? Or were they not as foolish as that; perhaps their goals were simply to capture him and use him as a puppet, as Nikolaykraina had done, so many years ago, without his knowledge. But Vexia, and Wertanzen in general, was so far away. He had spent much time away from home, seemingly running from one Trostian dictator and the next. How was he to make a comeback when his lack of presence gave the communists time to dig in and set the people against him?
The sound of a car door shutting, on the bridge above, interrupted his musings.
--
General Duvo cursed.
Ordinarily, in other countries, in his situation, the correct action would be to clamp down hard, imposing martial law. Unfortunately, martial law was already in effect and had been for months. But the criminals could handle MPs as well as NPs; the bribes just got higher. Being criminals, they could afford it.
It was foolish to send him along with only two guards and one truck. He would never have ordered such a thing.
While initiative could be useful and effective when employed on the battlefield, this particular show of it might yet cost more than the nation could afford. More than the region could. He made a note to bring charges down on the COs of that detail, as well as investigate who had sabotaged it.
But this was no more than the dressing of a wound. The battle still raged. Olik the Butcher, who he had himself talked with no more than two hours before, was free and somewhere in Sletz. He had to act quickly or lose him.
Luckily, the international press had only vague rumors of his escape -- or his latest capture, for that matter. Guesses. They always guessed, always the news reported Olik sightings, from Turkey to Iceland. It was a favorite game of those reporters, whenever news was slow, to stir up the Olik pot again to discover if it smelled less rank.
To capture him he would either have to outwit the Duke at his own game, the game of cat and mouse, the game which Olik had been masterfully playing with the world since the end of the Crimean War; or he would clamp down hard on Sletz, posting guards at every exit and every port and sending teams throughout the city to hunt up leads. Informants and spotters were everywhere, but not all could be trusted to be accurate or honest, and Duvo didn't have the manpower to waste.
No, Olik, he thought. I will not play your game.
Within the hour, the 13th, 14th and 15th infantry divisions, stationed in the greater Sletz area, mobilized and began setting up roadblocks. The 6th Armored and 1st Motor Rifle were called in from further southwest. Helicopter patrols within the city were doubled, then tripled, and although it wouldn't be announced until morning, all flights from the city were grounded and none were to be allowed in.
And just in case, naval Task Force Five's patrol boats were brought in from Black Sea excercises to closely guard nearby ports and coasts. Olik escaped Asovyan District Prison, after all, by boat.
--
The man was fortunate.
He was fortunate to have such well-prepared fake papers from such a well-funded intelligence organization as his own. He was fortunate to have had a Trostian mother, enabling him to speak Trostian so impeccably. He was fortunate that in all the insanity in Sletz, with martial law being tightened and roadblocks being put up at all entrances of the city, he had been virtually ignored by every man, woman, child, and most importantly, policeman he encountered. However, he was most fortunate for having found - him.
His spine tensed. His blood coursed with an unprecedented intensity and yet at the same time an unparalleled chill through his veins. He, a mere mortal, would finally come face to face with the man whom, in his childhood years, he had been taught to fear as a malicious and evil deity of some wild and long-deceased pagan tribe. A Hun, quite possibly a Mongol, the son of Genghis Khan himself, half-human, half-goat, half-wolf, half-shadow, which made him equal to exactly two whole men. But the problem was the man didn't even know he was here to help him. For all that man knew, this man could be one of Duvo's cronies. He was surprised that the infamous Butcher had let himself be caught in such an awkward position - another manifestation of his fortune, for had the scene been one iota different the Butcher's presence would have been no more than a fleeting memory. Here the two were, though, in one of the few remaining "green" - well, not really green, but with plants - areas on the outskirts of Sletz. He suspected that he was waiting to be passed over. He was about to be very surprised.
The man had one hope - not probable to succeed, but still there - to convince the Butcher to remain and speak with him. It was a bit of the old code in use by Trostia's government several years ago. Top secret, hush-hush, and what not, but mysteriously uncovered by some unknown source and sold to his government, no doubt, at an extremely unpalatable cost. He removed a paper and a pen from his overcoat and scrawled a short message in the old code. Quietly, he dropped it over the edge of the embankment on which he was perched. He turned, walked several paces in the other direction, and then circled back. Looking over the ledge, he saw that the paper was, in fact, gone. Now only to wait.
He didn't have to wait long. Olik, having heard the man's position overhead, made some calculations silently, waited several seconds, and took off. The man watched him dart from the grotto in which he had hidden himself and disappear in a flash through the gnarled trees on the riverbank. In several seconds, he was gone. The man had no path by which to feasibly follow him. His heart sank. He swore under his breath.
Turning, he began to search for a way down the bank to where the Butcher had stood minutes before.
[Note: The section immediately above was written by Galicia.]
--
Olik recognized the code for what it was, of course, but never having been a military man, he could not decipher it. It was a Trostian military code, at any rate, and that was enough to tell him that it was time to move again.
He scrambled through the brush. Still soaked and shivering, he slashed his skin and fine suit on the wickedly sharp, dead branches as he struggled past. The other was somewhere up the river bank. What was he going to do now?
For the first time, Olik was aware that he had run out of plans. Oh, he had options, vaguely. Galicia and East Trostia, he told himself, but it was surely the end of the line. He'd heard the sirens and knew Duvo was clamping down on the city, hard. He would block all roads and ports.
He chuckled. Perhaps the general thought he had another hypersonic global range transport hidden away? Oh, if only. It had evaded Trostian military radar and air cover when he last used it, and that in itself was an amazing thing.
But it was in Camhin somewhere, and he was along a river in Sletz.
Being hunted like a beast.
He looked ahead, peering into the darkness, wondering how many cameras would spot him, had spotted him already. Not as many as would have when he ruled directly, that was for certain. Ironically, his own fall from power gave him just enough freedom to elude capture - or so he hoped.
On and on he scrambled. Duvo would block the roads, but what of the rivers? Small, non-navigable ones such as these? Would he think like a hunter or a general?
Towards the sea, Olik went. It had only been 20 minutes since he'd almost gotten caught, and he felt somehow close to escape (although he was hours from the coast). He felt a rise of jubilation and triumph, and knew it was premature.
And as if in response to his pride, a stern voice called out from a nearby road: "Hey! You down there! Stop right now!"
Followed by the unmistakable sound of assault rifles being loaded and slung, the military precision halting him in his steps.
"Yeah, you, the one sneaking around in the bushes!" the surly voice of the soldier called to him, still apparently ignorant of his identity. "Come up here now, you shouldn't be-"
Then the pause. Olik had frozen of course, like a deer in headlights.
There was muttered talk, and then there really were headlights; bright and illuminating, blinding him temporarily. He held up a hand to his eyes to shield them from the sudden change.
"Dear God," the soldier said with recognition. Olik smiled internally at the fact that recognition and God were both on the man's face, when viewing him. "Look at who we've got here."
Another soldier appeared next to the first, or perhaps he had been there a while. It was hard to tell. He gave Olik a once-over with his eyes, which widened. To Olik's surprise, the man crossed himself. Then he spoke aloud. "Get him in the truck," he said, with his nasal voice slightly trembling.
From behind, Olik felt the pressure of a baton or gun barrel. Two soldiers had appeared as if by magic behind him; apparently they had been waiting in cover and flanked Olik. Olik realized he was wise not to have run; he would have been shot and that would be the end of things.
Another truck, he thought. Only this one didn't have a fixed engine sabotaged by a choice agent. And it was loaded with soldiers. There would be no repeat of his violent escape.
He looked around, seeking an advantage. The driver was talking with another trooper, and although nine followed Olik into the rear of the truck, a number of them stayed behind, watching him in silence. Olik did a quick count and estimated that this was more than a squad. Reinforced, perhaps, or thrown together at the last minute. Such were the ways of the Trostian military.
He judged the demeanors of those near him; steady, perhaps even bored. To some Olik was a great man, whether evil or good. But to others he was a name in the press, and to these, he was a job.
Then he noticed the ones outside, while in possession of night goggles, did not bear rifles.
Olik noted an air of tension. The driver and the other man were still talking. The one outside wanted to transfer him to Sletz Prison as part of state orders, while the driver said he had strict orders to take the truck back to the company HQ. They argued with tenacity but quiet, quickly spoken words.
Olik pondered the equipment choice. Night goggles were, as he had showed them himself not a few hours earlier, necessary for finding a target in the dead of night. But if they had been awaiting along the road, covering it under concealment or out, why wouldn't they have rifles to do so?
No sooner had he asked himself this then the men outside quickly drew pistols. Olik didn't have time to react; they were fast draws, and had trained to do it immediately. Olik himself, of course, missed the cue.
But the pistols fired, the pinched sound of silenced barrels followed by blood and death. The troops beside him clumsily attempted to react, too late. Most fell with bullets to the head; those who did not got one in the head after being put down with body shots.
When Olik realized he was not dead or even hit, his mind narrowed in suspicion. The deaths of the soldiers had meant little to him emotionally, but what was the purpose?
Him, of course.
"Olik, you're coming with us," the man who had been arguing with the driver said. Well rehearsed on this, the soldiers - for surely they were soldiers, though perhaps not Trostian - piled into the truck, and quickly took it over.
The man extended his hand to Olik, who did not take it. He noted the trace of accent. Tulcean? Galician?
"I have little choice in the matter," Olik replied stolidly, as the truck moved forward into the night.
--
The group of five men gathered in a dark alleyway. They were inconspicuous in every way. Their accents were nondescript, their clothing was nondescript, their physical features were nondescript. However, there was one thing about them that set them apart from the people walking in the street just meters from where they stood. It was a small thing with potentially very big consequences. They were Galician. They knew they were Galician. They had papers stashed on their persons stating that they were Galician and stating their mission in Trostia - both of which could make them very, very dead, very, very quickly. It could also make their families and compatriots very, very dead if they didn't eat those papers along with their cyanide pills very, very quickly should there be even a hint of a threat of capture.
"This is insanity," muttered one of them. "Why would high command tell us to do something like this? The Premier must really be off his nut this time..."
Another scolded him. "You fool! Don't you see? Our previous efforts to show... 'the target' that we are on his side, part of his own, were in vain simply because he is not looking for one of his own. In trying to show him that we are on his side, making an effort to bring this onto his terms, we used Trostian military code - when he is being hunted by Trostians. What will that achieve? Convincing him that we are a part of Duvo's hounds sent upon him?
"No, we must be forward with him. If he knows that we are the enemy of his enemy - then he will be more convinced to come with us than if he knows we claim to be friends."
Just then, the speaker paused. Moving aside the flap of his coat, he withdrew a small communication device. It vibrated weakly, indicating that there was an incoming call. He silenced the whispering of his companions and spoke tersely into the receiving end. "Have you been tracking him?"
The response was long in coming. This was not a good sign. When the man on the other end spoke, it was in a shaky and uncertain voice. "There has been a... complication." The man prayed that it was only that the transport was late. He knew it wasn't so. "The target has, um... been found. By..." His voice trailed off, but it was clear what was going on. Things had just gotten much, much worse for the group.
Silently, the man put the device away. He made a motion toward the street. One by one, leaving space in between each to avoid suspicion, they left the alleyway. Silently, each ran over their predetermined course of action, trained professionals whose granite faces mirrored the boulders forming in their stomachs.
The group fanned out, each member heading toward a different vehicle along the block. They would not meet again until they reached they surrounded the target and neutralized the threat to his security.
Then they would run...
The man's hands tingled with excitement as he fished in his coat pocket, gripping the cold, smooth handle of a silenced pistol. He looked very smart in his Trostian military uniform, no matter that it had the illegitimate flag of the illegitimate communist government on one shoulder. At this artificial military checkpoint on the outskirts of Sletz, it would be enough to convince any passerby of his pretended identity.
He glanced to one side, noting the skill with which his companion was distracting the driver of the truck around which he and five of his coworkers were situated. Noting an imperceptible hand signal from the distractor, he and the three other men crowding around the canvas covering of the truck bed silently donned their heat-vision goggles. Faintly, he could make out the forms of nine figures within. Eight were guards and one - he was the one they couldn't shoot. But luckily, like always, he was the only silent one, the stillest one, the one seated irregularly while the soldiers guarding him lined up like ducks to his sides.
With a flick of the wrist, the man distracting the truck's driver withdrew his pistol. The entire entourage of six followed suit. In a split second, there were six shrill squeaks, followed by four more and the dull thud of bodies slumping to the ground. He rushed around to the back of the truck, threw down the gate, pulled off the goggles, and extended his hand to Olik. His face was expressionless, as always, as he sat perfectly still amongst the bodies of his captors.
"Olik," the man said, "you're coming with us."
The entourage jumped in the truck, turned it about, and headed for a second truck and then the bread truck stashed in a shed on the outskirts of Sletz from which they would make their escape.
[Note: The above section also was written by Galicia.]
Behind the Headlines
Hours turned into days.
Olik came to know his rescuers. Oh, he didn't figure their names or life histories. The Galicians were too professional; their role in this was not an emotional one, and they weren't officially allowed to speak more with him than was absolutely required.
But he came to know them nonetheless. The leader, the one who he mentally referred to as "One," had Trostian blood in him, but had lived much of his adult life abroad. He had therefore missed a lot of propaganda; the kind that worked to create the Grand Duke and that used to make him the Butcher. He held Olik in neither awe nor fear, but the calm, detached poise of a soldier.
Their conversations were never much. And One talked with the others, about him, discussing the mission and their thoughts. Olik didn't push to overhear, and they weren't as careless as to have open discussion with him. There was an understanding.
For two days he waited, being carted from location to location like a secret cargo, perhaps a weapon. From what he could understand, these men were his best chance out of Sletz. The military still amassed in and around the capitol, but the search was less overt and more silently determined now. They had to move often to stay ahead of the patrols; the Galicians had good intelligence planning. Even had they not, Olik himself knew more than one way to skin a cat.
Duvo passed his anti-procreation laws. A good policy - in theory. Olik had always found it more convinient to control death than birth. And of course, the House of Lords - long abolished, by that bastard Kassos, continuing only in the underground - would not take kindly to such measures.
Duvo was making the same mistakes Kassos was; a General, acting as leader of a nation. A good leader would delegate tasks to those who knew it best. And who knew better than the ruling families which had overseen Trostia's growth into an international superpower? Certainly not some barn-raised General.
And that got Olik thinking. Escape was still the primary concern, yes, but -
- well, he did know more than one way to skin a cat...
--
The preparations for the final sprint were finished. The group was en route to its final Trostian destination, a fact for which the One fervently thanked God. One had to keep sharp in this hostile territory. He could only guess how good the Trostian intelligence force was, and if their military was any indication of this, then he could potentially have a very large problem on his hands.
The truck ground to a halt. The group peered into the empty warehouse, established that all was clear, and piled into a series of trucks marked as belonging to one tiny, private Trostian bakery. Their destination was one of the former Cossack States, or so said their papers. Quickly, they donned the appropriate costumes. The One apologized briefly to Olik before having him firmly ushered into the back of one of the trucks. It was filled entirely with bread, in a rather disorganized fashion, although being a supposedly tiny bakery, unable to afford the great packaged and processed amenities enjoyed by larger corporations, that would be permissible to the border guard. So they hoped. Olik complied rather willingly with the request, or so it seemed. One could never tell with that man. Once soundly in a small compartment in the rear of the truck's holding bay, the agents piled bread inconspicuously to fill his path. They then piled into their respective vehicles, all carrying similar loads.
The truck bumped for several hours. Its first stop was a checkpoint - a real one, this time - on the outskirts of Sletz. The pause seemed far too long. The One's palms started to sweat as he watched the guard talk to the driver of the lead car. One walked around to the back of the lead truck, opened it, and seeing nothing but bread, allowed it to pass. The One's truck pulled up. A young guard started to walk around to the back. Serious doubts crept into the One's mind about the whole ordeal. Olik was well-hidden back there, but still... The young guard reached for the bay door. At the last possible minute, the head guard waved his hand dismissively. The younger stepped aside. The truck rumbled into motion. Olik was out of Sletz.
The border came, and went, though it was the farthest possible point from Sletz by which to leave Trostia. With such heavy concentration on Sletz, scrutiny was rather mild. The trucks rumbled off into the distance, leaving Trostia a vivid memory. For the first time in history, a ship's rat was more important than its cargo. And certainly never before had a rat met with an admiral...
[Note: The section immediately above was written by Galicia.]
--
A nondescript factory basement in Ulntz...
Yuri literally gave a jump with joy. Grinning, he re-checked the calculations through the computer. Yes, the chemical was possible to manufacture - but the price tag would be enormous.
Years of government subsidized efforts had so far failed to create this. But, he realized with a sly grin, where others had failed, Yuri had succeeded.
Well, almost. It still had to be tested. The physiological effect was supposed to be addictive, and almost certainly was. But how addictive? That, and so many other questions, were left unanswered. The testing process would require years of further paperwork and careful research. But there was no time for that, Yuri knew.
So he called a 'friend' on the telephone.
"Gregor," the friend answered. His real name was not Gregor, but what did it matter? Identity was cheap these days.
"Yuri," Yuri replied. His real name was not Yuri.
"Do you have a delivery order?" came the interrogative. Yuri replied to the affirmative.
"I have a destination."
Yuri hung up. So, that was that. No red tape. Testing would begin immediately. Live testing.
Despite his efforts to maintain a sense of scientific criticism, he couldn't help but plan what he would do with the money. Buy a new car? A house? Eat well for the rest of his life. Buy a small country? Anything was possible, these days.
He grinned and continued his work.