“I'm not sure I can contain my disgust, Klein. We spend four and a half years trying to take the mining capitol of the province and the lunatic... lays siege to it?” the man mumbled, pausing to ignite his lighter and drag until the cherry crackled, pluming thick aromatic tobacco smoke from his nostrils that smelled of vanilla extract and toasted sesame. It was so strong that a man need only smell it to become nauseous, provided he had not eaten.
“Bad business, that.” Klein affirmed, sipping his mug with both hands as to prevent it from shaking. “But I wouldn't be too vocal about my displeasure, sir. He was not nicknamed Nero by chance.”
Save for the two sitting opposite each other in a booth, the luxurious train car was empty, but fully furnished. The room had all the makings of luxury, cream white embroidered seats with gold lining and ornate marble tables. The chandelier beamed dim amber light, and the faint haze that began to envelop the room slowly lapped at the frosted blue windows. Of course there was a bar, but with the bartender wholly absent its bottles would continue to look so pristine they would almost be considered decorative. There was certainly no mistaking the arrogant opulence of the booth, of the room, of the train. Vagrants in the lower Sectors would probably shoot, stab and strangle one another just to get a chance to
beg
for scraps from one of its waste receptacles.
“Are we but mere barbarians again?” the other man said, angrily pulling on his cigarette and spewing smoke with a burst of malice in his eyes that looked as if it had been pent up for years. “Being mentally impotent and gruesomely sexually dissolute does not give him cause to be governed by his childish impulses like a damned fool. Royal lineage notwithstanding, his mother was still just a slaver's whore before Antros found her. No matter how many people he has flayed for saying it.”
“Could I... trouble you for one of those, sir?” Klein asked, indicating the special cigarette. Even a former provocateur as himself was beginning to feel slightly uneasy. Being given audience to an unnamed clad-black Dilletan officer in a previously non-designated location could only mean two things. One of them was death. But it had been longer than twenty minutes and he had not been restrained, beat or spit on, so the chances of that were as slim as they could be. The situation was technically looking up.
The intelligence officer's eyes went slack again, their previous intensity vanished for the time being. A few seconds later and the heavy vanilla scent increased twofold. Soon the whole train car would look as if drenched in fog.
Klein took another gulp of his coffee. The silverware, plates and cups clinked against each other as the train picked up speed.
“I suppose I should get to the point. Come in.” the man called out.
From the rear end of the train car entered two. Another officer with a different uniform, possibly from the diplomatic division, and an armed guard.
“You will assassinate the King. He is to attend a conference in Zossen two days from now where they will discuss how to proceed with the situation in Westeria. As I understand it he wants to launch a full fledged invasion on the entire state of Deimos just to cut through the Eastern front. That I cannot abide by. I have assured the Chancellor this situation has been dealt with. That waste of oxygen will draw breath no longer. I trust you sympathize with our cause?”
Klein paused, taken aback. The ash on his cigarette had slowly begun to build and form a skeleton's finger.
“You will kill me if I don't?” Klein breathed. He was not one for treason, but also did not favor an early death.
“God, no. I'm not as cruel as you might think.” the secret police agent replied with a smirk.
From beneath the table he procured a large silver revolver and shot the standing officer in the throat. Klein simultaneously felt cold steel press against the back of his neck. As he watched the man collapse and convulse, the life draining out of his body, writhing in the ground as blood spurted out of his neck and engulfed the carpet in crimson, he understood what few men ever experience: there was a marked difference in watching another man die when you had the upper hand, and watching him die when you
didn't
. The dark red blood contrasted sharply against the angelic white of the floor. Klein shuddered briefly as he watched the officer twitch one last time before he went still for eternity.
“Hold this. And that was the only round I chambered. I suggest you do not try to shoot me.” the Dilletan said, flipping the gun around and extending it to Klein.
The rifle barrel dug deeper into his neck. Klein took the gun.
“Finger it. Feel the trigger. Grip it tightly.”
Klein did as he asked.
“Now I suspect a rogue agent who just murdered a military intelligence officer would not receive much sympathy in a court. Despite your many...
achievements
.” the man smirked, blowing out another puff.
Klein said nothing. He could barely manage to flick his ash and drag it again, fingers shaking.
“ Where would you seek refuge? Not anywhere in Eastern bloc. I've informed the NSSR that you took part in the bombing in Vladivostok. Very need-to-know information, I'm aware. I suspect you'd be tortured for
fun
before the firing squad dashes your brains upon a brick wall. The communists are not very subtle these days. And the Arabs won't protect you. I've told them that you are Mossad. Your options are limited at best. And with the report we're about to put out on you, you try hiding
anywhere
in this Republic and you'll be dragged out, stampeded and hung. And then I can't save you. Right now, I am your only salvation, Klein.”
The bastard was right. His only option was to acquiesce or suffer an even worse fate.
“So what do I do?”
“You'll be given a fake identity, passports and such. We'll alter your appearance and supply you with everything you need. On that night, when the King goes out onto the balcony you will shoot him. Failing that you will have to get close and murder him. Dangerous, yes, but a last resort. And we will know the second he dies. We will know if he does not. After you will be cleared of all suspicion. You might even be able to retire. I'll take care of you. Now doesn't that sound nice?”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Klein had been distraught. Running on no sleep, the thoughts that permeated his mind were not friendly to his conscience. He could only think of the man who had been shot before his eyes and how helpless he was to resist. The plot he had been coerced into carrying out. How many were behind this, obscured in the shadows? How many things could go wrong? What would happen if he was interrupted? If he failed? There was a vantage point picked out from where he would snipe King Alerod, but he feared it would not be that simple. And if it was, he would have to escape in haste. The King's Guard would not hesitate to scour the snowy woods to crucify him. Klein was rightly nervous. Two days without sleep had him hearing footsteps and occasionally seeing people in windows and corners who would just elude him when he looked. He had been making his way to Zossen via several trains and was now en route to the secluded vantage point. Reconstructive surgery had given him new retinas and a slightly altered face with a new haircut. The conference was due to convene in a hour or so. Then all he would have to do was lie in wait with the sniper rifle and anticipate his mark. The highest power in the Republic of Asteros and the most feared. And he would have to be the kingslayer. Soon the trees made way to a small hill covered in rocks. Up there would be his weapon, supposedly. As he trekked he felt the frigid air blast his face and wondered what he did to deserve such a fate. But he knew he was lying to himself. There was no fate. Only what you did and did not do. But you decided your own destiny in the end. His vision was blurring and the cold snow seemed like it was trying to suck him in as he strained to take each step. At last the rocks came, and then he searched for a long case tucked away in a little alcove. Inside was a high powered Magnum rifle. A shot anywhere above the torso would obliterate any man. Bullets respected no hierarchy. He ran his hands slowly across the pristine rifle and the bulging scope. The gun was a work of art. When was the last time he sniped someone? A few months ago in Prague. He winced when he thought about the collateral. A girl, no older than twenty, who stepped into the doorway at the wrong time. But feelings never mattered. Emotions never mattered. In the end he was just a piece to be used. More like a machine in the way that he operated, but maybe now most of all he understood he was just a means to an end. It was too late to question anything now. Now he had to gather whatever strength he had left. Sleep deprivation instilled determination. Or was it mania bordering on psychosis? The line between right and wrong was as nonexistent as it had ever been. Of course he despised the savage King and all the atrocities he committed. But for as long as he remembered he was an agent who helped carry out such atrocities. Would this absolve him? Or would only death be adequate repentance for his guilt? Either way it didn't matter. Readying his rifle and going prone, he focused on the large manor in the distance. Like the Dilletan said, there was a visible open balcony which was presumably the King's. The windows allowed sight into the room. And all he had to do was wait. Wait. Wait. And not sleep. He wouldn't be able to anyway. It was
far
too cold.
And when his mark finally came into view a few hours later, the resulting recoil from the shot nearly broke Klein's shoulder. But he had hit what he was aiming at. He'd murdered a lot of people. Taking in the details of each one became boring at a point. Nero or not.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
An unknown amount of time later
“Huh. You've looked better.”
Klein found himself in a parlor. Besides the operative who he now knew as Renault, the other men in suits and trenchcoats were unknown, casually smoking and sipping from chalices. A few generals were present as well.
“Bang-up job you did there. Apparently you could see through his chest. They tried to put his organs back in, but they kept falling out!” Renault said, stifling a laugh.
He was clearly in a much more giddy mood. Whoever the conspirators were, they were well off.
“What now?” Klein asked, emotionless. He had slept since the shooting, but it had not really been sleep. Just brief unconsciousness mingled with overwhelming nightmares. Horrible visions of being tortured by Nero in a pit of hellfire as all his victims watched. Talking to men with gaping wounds that did not even faze them. His own doppelganger trying to murder him. And nearly succeeding.
“Now, my friend, a new era begins. The king's death has preceded an election, as while you may not have known it, we...
disappeared
all his successors. Even the boy. I cannot even comprehend what the future will bring. And with the full support of Deimos we may be able to annex Westeria without spilling a drop of our troops' blood. I'd say it looks beautiful.”
“I meant what now for me.”
“Oh. Sorry, but I'm going to have to kill you.”
The room burst into hysterical laughter.
“I'm, I'm only kidding. You can have any position you want. We'll install you anywhere. You can retire with all the riches you desire. What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost.” he said, nearly doubling over.
“I've seen a lot of them.”
