by David Bishop
"What's your name?" Dante asked.
"Rai."
"Where did you join us? You don't look local."
"I'm from the Himalayas. My people live in the mountains, an area we call the roof of the world."
"That explains your appearance. We don't get many people with brown skin and Oriental eyes in Rudinshtein. You're a long way from home. Why?"
"I was arrested shortly before the war began, for protesting against Tsarist oppression in the Himalayas. For centuries one regime or another has been trying to lay claim to the mountains, hoping to exploit them and the native people - my people. I decided something had to be done about it."
"On your own?" Dante asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.
Rai nodded. "I thought I was being brave. My father thought it foolishness."
"You were both right."
"Perhaps." Rai could feel Dante's eyes examining him.
"So you were arrested and...?"
"Brought before the Tsar. I told him to desist any and all incursions into the Himalayas, or else he would suffer the consequences."
"Consequences?"
"My people believe that in the time of greatest peril, our living goddess the Mukari will strike down forces intent upon destroying us, our way of life."
"And you told the Tsar this?"
Rai grimaced. "Once he'd finished laughing, he marked me for execution as a political subversive. But then the war broke out and-"
"The Imperials decided to concentrate their fire upon Romanov forces."
"Yes. We were left to rot in prison, until your men found us."
Recognition crossed Dante's face. Rai could feel the captain staring at him, some inner calculation being made behind those piercing eyes. Finally, Dante spoke again, his voice a low whisper, his face grim and serious.
"Rai, I've been moving among the men tonight, talking to them one by one, looking for someone special. I think you could be that someone."
Rai shifted uncomfortably on the ground. He'd been afraid of this: first the bribe of alcohol, then the proposition. He hadn't expected it from the captain, who was reputed to be a womaniser of great enthusiasm, but war did strange things to men. "Captain, I'm flattered, of course, but I'm not really like that."
Dante gazed at Rai, bewilderment evident on his features. "Sorry?"
"No, I'm sorry, honestly I am. If I shared those sorts of feelings then I'd be more than happy to oblige you, but I don't. If you see what I mean."
"Rai, I'm looking for somebody brave enough and foolish enough to lead a group of civilians out of here at dawn."
"Oh."
"What did you think I meant?"
"I..." Rai couldn't think of how best to explain his mistake and decided not to try. "I'm not really sure, sir. My mistake."
"How do you feel about it?"
"About...?"
"Leading the civilians out."
"Fine. Not a problem. I'm your man. For that job, I mean."
"You sure? This isn't an order. Andreas has said he will take one group of women and children out, but I need more volunteers to take the others. The Imperials have made it clear they'll slaughter anyone who tries to escape, soldier or civilian. In all probability, what I'm asking you to do is a suicide mission."
"We've all got to die sometime," Rai said firmly. "It might as well be for a cause we believe in, right?"
Dante didn't reply. "I'd take the civilians out myself, but the men need me here to lead them. We'll begin a diversionary attack before sunrise. Try and draw the Imperials away from your route. That should give you a chance."
Rai nodded.
In the distance, sounds of a brawl could be heard, two men shouting over a spilt drink. Rai recognised the higher pitched voice as Flintlock, while the other man could only be Spatchcock, judging by the odour souring the air. The scuffle stopped briefly as a bottle broke, before the thud of fist on skin and a muffled sob of pain concluded the conflict.
"If those two spent as much time fighting the Tsar's forces as they do each other, we'd have won the war by now," Dante muttered. He stood and stretched, twisting his neck from side to side. Joints clicked and popped. Overhead, the first glints of light were colouring the early morning sky. "It'll be dawn in an hour. I'd better get the civilians ready."
"Captain?" Rai said, as Dante turned to leave. Dante paused and looked back at him.
"Yes, private?"
"What were you planning to do after the war?"
Dante shrugged. "Hadn't thought about it much, to be honest. I'd like to get back to being me - a rogue and a renegade, the lover not the fighter, always looking for a good time. Why, what were you planning to do?"
"Find my sister. We're twins. I haven't seen her for years, but I know she's still alive somewhere. I can feel it."
"You're lucky. I can't feel anything anymore," Dante said, before going. "I'll call you when it's time."
"Yes, sir," Rai replied. He looked at his fingernails and sighed. I wonder if it's true that they keep growing after you're dead?
General Ivanov watched as the first rays of sunlight stained the clouds red over the Governor's mansion. The battle to seize Rudinshtein from Romanov control had taken far longer than should have been necessary, thanks to the unconventional tactics of the opposing commander, the tenacity of his troops and the stubborn attitude of Ivanov's superior. Count Pyre had left orders that the pleasure of killing Captain Nikolai Dante should be his and his alone. The general argued that Dante should be assassinated, either by a sniper's bullet, or strategic air strike, whatever would do the job best. Once the Rudinshtein Irregulars' charismatic leader was dead, the remaining forces would be smashed within a day and Rudinshtein taken.
But Pyre was adamant that Dante must die by his hand and no other. So Ivanov had pressed his men into service elsewhere along the frontline. The Imperial Black inflicted more damage on the peasant army than all other infantry units combined. The men's uniforms were still glistening hours afterwards, wet with the blood of slain enemies, such was the ferocity of the regiment's attacks. Ivanov smiled to himself, pleasure creasing his cruel-looking features. The pincers were closing around the last stronghold. Soon, the final pocket of resistance would melt like a candle in a firestorm.
Then there would be a reckoning, the general had decided. For every day he had been forced to tarry in the godforsaken province, he would revisit that misery upon Rudinshtein a thousand-fold. For every wound sustained by one of the Imperial Black, a thousand people would be maimed. For every member of Ivanov's regiment that died, a thousand citizens would be executed in front of their families. For every hour the general was forced to remain, he would inflict a thousand hours of torture upon any civilians who survived the coming onslaught. And Ivanov would rejoice in the experience, savouring their suffering and their terror. It gave him a thrill so complete and a joy so satisfying, he wished the war would never end. He was a born warrior and the prospect of peace was like approaching purgatory.
Ivanov removed the black, peaked cap from his bald, polished pate and mopped his scalp with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. Just thinking about the delights that were still to be savoured was arousing him. His thumb stroked the livid scar that ran down the length of his face, a souvenir from the first woman he had ever killed. A hellion from Mongolia, she had sliced his face open like a peach with her fingernails, as Ivanov crushed her windpipe. He was a captain back then, sent into the east to subjugate a minor rebellion. The ringleader proved to be a woman, but Ivanov had not flinched from giving the order for her execution. That was when she attacked him and he had found the delight of mixing pleasure and pain.
Watching the life slowly fading from her eyes, Vassily discovered just how much he enjoyed inflicting pain. Not satisfied with a single victim, he had personally throttled every adult living in the ringleader's village to make an example of them. His superiors had been appalled by his bloodlust, but it made him a better soldier, propelling him through the ranks in record t
ime. An Imperial psychologist, tasked with assessing Ivanov's mental fitness for command, had once accused him of being a sadist with homicidal tendencies. That diagnosis was confirmed by the time Ivanov finished torturing the psychologist, but the poor man was in no state to file his assessment, having recently choked to death on his own, severed genitalia. When the Tsar heard about the incident, he rewarded Ivanov with command of the Imperial Black.
Approaching footfalls attracted the general's attention. He replaced the moist handkerchief in a pocket and glared at his second-in-command. "Report."
"Sir, our scouts have spotted two sets of movement, one striking out northwards from the Governor's mansion, the other heading toward the south-west."
"Excellent. And which one is led by Captain Dante?"
"The strike to the north, sir. The other is mostly made up of civilians."
"No doubt the captain seeks to create a diversion, drawing our focus away from those hoping to elude our wrath. Very well. Inform Count Pyre his quarry is heading directly towards him. Since our glorious leader is so intent on killing Dante personally, he can have that pleasure. Instead, we will gorge ourselves on the civilians. They shall bear witness to the fury of the Imperial Black!"
"Yes, sir." The second-in-command saluted crisply before leaving to carry out the general's orders. Ivanov smirked. Already he could feel the excitement coursing through his veins, that familiar thrill of a forthcoming kill bulging the crotch of his black uniform. His fingers twitched for a weapon. Let them come, let them all come, he thought. I shall bring them pain and death as they have never known it. I shall bathe in their blood and be reborn, for I am righteous.
Rai led the cluster of civilians across the wasteland, away from the Governor's mansion. Less than a hundred of them were making the journey, the others too frightened or infirm to leave their refuge. Three other Rudinshtein Irregulars were helping him escort the civilians. Judging by their faces, they were almost as scared as him, Rai thought.
Vast tracts of land across Rudinshtein had been sown with a bitter crop of mines and serpent wire so, even if they somehow eluded the Imperial forces, there was little hope of escaping. Of the three possible deaths to encounter, Rai favoured stepping on a mine - at least that would be quick. Being captured by the enemy was worse as they liked to torture prisoners before executing them. But serpent wire was what all soldiers feared most.
A semi-sentient form of barbed wire, the murderous weapon responded to any movement. Touch it and the wire would bind itself round you, digging into skin and flesh. Fight to free yourself and the wire simply cut deeper, slicing through sinew and bone, feeding upon your pain and terror. Serpent wire was banned by all international protocols of war, but such treaties meant little in a conflict so bloody and brutal.
To Rai's left, a woman carrying an infant stifled a cry of pain as her legs gave way. It was not serpent wire, but sheer exhaustion that caused her to stumble. To Rai she looked less than twenty, but her hair was streaked with grey, and black rings encircled her eyes. "Here, let me take the child," he offered. The woman smiled gratefully and handed over her infant.
Rai clutched the bundle, pulling back the blankets to look at the baby within. "Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked. But he noticed the infant's face was still and lifeless, a bullet hole in the centre of its forehead, like a third eye.
"I couldn't leave him behind," the woman said. "I've lost everyone else, I couldn't lose him too."
Rai nodded his understanding. He was crouching down to comfort her when the first bullets strafed the civilians, otherwise he would have died instantly. Metal punched through flesh and bone, killing and maiming. Then came the cries of the attacking soldiers, charging towards them.
Rai pushed the dead baby back into its mother's hands, but she did not notice. She and the baby were both dead. Rai drew his weapon and began shooting as a swarm of soldiers in black uniforms grew closer.
Ivanov was disappointed to find so few of those trying to escape had survived his men's first onslaught. The fugitives had been mostly women and children, but they could have offered something better in the way of sport, couldn't they? I shall miss this war when it's over, the general decided, not for the last time.
"Over here, sir." The familiar voice of Ivanov's second-in-command summoned him across the wasteland to examine the single enemy soldier still alive. Curiously, his skin tone was a deep, warm brown, while hooded eyes that slanted upwards at the edges offset his broad nose. Most of his teeth were missing and crimson spilled from several wounds, but he was definitely still alive. Ivanov smiled at the prospect of what lay ahead.
"What kind of mongrel are you?" he began, spitting into the captive's face.
"Himalayan."
"I swear the Romanovs let any scum fight for them," the general snarled, his men laughing heartily along with him. "Himalayan, eh? You're a long way from home, my little mountain goat. Tell me, do you have any family back there, patiently awaiting your return?"
The prisoner nodded, a movement made harder by his dark shoulder-length hair being clenched tightly in the fist of an Imperial Black sergeant.
"Then tell me your name," Ivanov commanded, "so I may find your family to tell them how you died screaming and cursing their names."
"Rai."
"Is that your first name or your last name?"
"Does it matter?" Rai replied, glaring at the bulky figure leering over him.
"I suppose not," the general agreed. He dropped to one knee in front of the prisoner, taking Rai's chin in his grasp. "Do you enjoy pain, Romanov whelp?"
Rai smiled, then spat a mouthful of blood into the general's face.
Ivanov did not flinch. He waved away the soldiers who were ready to stab the prisoner with their bayonets for inflicting indignity on their commanding officer. "Nobody touches him but me!" Ivanov turned back to his captive. "When I've finished, he'll wish I had let you kill him." The general leaned closer, whispering into Rai's left ear like a lover. "I'm going to spoil your pretty face forever. You're going to beg for mercy and then you'll beg for death. How does that sound?"
The prisoner hissed an obscenity at Ivanov.
"I won't have you hearing such language," the general whispered. He closed his teeth tenderly around Rai's earlobe, then ripped the succulent pendant of flesh and skin away from the captive's head.
Dante was crawling towards the Imperial lines when he heard the sound of a man screaming in agony. The noise was unnatural, both human and animal at the same time. In war such screams were all too common, but Dante had never got used to them. He scanned the horizon for the source. "Crest, where's that coming from?"
Behind and to your left. Your other left, it prompted a moment later.
Dante swivelled round and peered across the battle-scarred landscape littered with broken metal and splintered corpses. "I can't see anything."
Try using the sight on your rifle, the Crest suggested with a supercilious sigh.
Dante brought his Huntsman 5000 upwards, pressing one eye against the sight atop the long barrel. He swept the weapon from left to right, scanning the horizon, until he located a group of men in black uniforms gathered round a single, kneeling figure. From this distance only three things were obvious: the crimson jacket of a Rudinshtein Irregular on the prisoner's chest, the blood pouring from a wound to his head and the colour of his skin. "That's Private Rai," Dante realised. Around the captive lay the bodies of those civilians that had tried to escape.
I sense Imperial forces closing on our position, the Crest warned.
"I can't leave him to die," Dante replied. "He's out there because I asked him."
He volunteered. He knew the risks. You have to withdraw - now.
"No," Dante insisted. "I won't abandon him."
If you don't pull back to the Governor's mansion in the next thirty seconds, you will be killed or captured yourself. Is that what he'd want?
"Fuoco..." Through his rifle's sight Dante could see an imposing, bald figure
with the markings of a general standing over Rai. The general gestured to one of his men, who came forward carrying a large metal box. The soldier gingerly placed the container in front of Rai, releasing the catches that held the lid in place before hurriedly retreating. Already the lid was being to open and strands of silver metal crept out from within.
Fifteen seconds until this position is overrun, the Crest insisted.
"They're going to torture him," Dante replied. "I can't leave him to die. You know what serpent wire does. Nobody deserves that, Crest."
Yes, but-
"But nothing! At least this way he'll die quickly." Dante's finger tightened round the trigger mechanism of his rifle. "Forgive me, Rai..."
ONE
"Vice is not bad, it has a bad reputation."
- Russian proverb
"For centuries in Japan, the geisha (literally translated 'a person of the arts') was a female performer skilled in many traditions of that land such as dance, music, flower arranging, poetry and the tea ceremony. It took many years of study for a maiko (trainee) to become geisha, attaining the high social status that accompanied such a career. But the number of geisha steadily declined after Japan's defeat in the twentieth century's Second World War, until fewer than a thousand remained. The geisha tradition was dying, becoming part of history.
Some seven hundred years later a much-bowdlerised incarnation of this revered profession was to be found at Okiya, the Geisha House of the Rising Sun. In essence a Japanese brothel, this establishment had pretensions to something grander and indulged these by staging pornographic versions of the art forms once practised by geisha. Thus clients could have their needs serviced while savouring the delights of ikebana (flower arranging) or listening to singing accompanied by the three-stringed instrument known as the shamisen. The okami (headmistress) of Okiya was Kissy Mitsubishi, a woman with the distinction of having worked in both the Empire's most famous brothels: the House of Sin and Famous Flora's Massage Parlour in St Petersburg.
