Being a hero of the Old Brigade required only a single victory, but the price of even a single victory was often too steep. Sergeant Shamil opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a missile that passed through his head at great velocity, scattering pink and crimson on a snowy field that’s already forgotten how it felt like to be white. Count Ivanov spotted the attacker and returned the favor. He didn’t stop with the shooter, but also dispersed the shooter’s spotter over an area of at least twenty meters, because a proper Russian always returns twice what he is given. Then he saw another figure moving along the ridge and blew it to smithereens as well because there is no limit to the depth of the Russian soul.
He scanned the hills for more gentlemen to bestow his kindness upon but found the landscape to be devoid of anything but mangled remains of men and machine. However, just like fleas in the barracks, they would soon return, in greater numbers and with a greater thirst for Russian blood. They always did. If Ivanov was forced to summarize Russian history with a single sentence, that would be it.
The brigadier promised him a mission that would be no more challenging than a parade in the Red Square. Even less so, because they’d not be scrutinized by anyone save the brigadier and his staff.
However, the enemy failed to oblige, and now Count Ivanov would have to spend the whole evening writing sad letters to people he didn’t know, a task he found even less pleasurable than waiting to be brained by a faceless stranger in the snow.
The brigadier had informed Count Ivanov that the enemy was armed with crude slugthrowers and as such posed no more threat than a light hail. The first part was true—their slugthrowers truly were quite primitive. The slugs themselves, however, were state of the art and programmed with the exact frequencies of the personal shields used by Ivanov and his brave companions.
“Shamil,” Ivanov started to say, but stopped when he realized Shamil was no longer alive. “Tsoi, are you still alive?”
“Yes, your Illustrious Highness,” the Far-Eastern sergeant said with a slight bow.
“Very good. Contact all units and prepare a status report at the earliest possible leisure. We only need one victory, sergeant. I hope the price won’t be too steep.”
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“Comrade Brigadier,” Ivanov said, offering a stiff salute to his commanding officer, General Brigadier Alexi Borisovich Susanin, a sloppy figure slumped behind a massive table of wood and ivory. The disheveled general looked bored and irritated by the young count’s presence.
“I have come to deliver an oral report of the battle of Koralinko,” Ivanov said, not bothering to mask his disdain for this lowly bourgeois elevated above his station.
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“You didn’t have to come all this way, Ivan Ivanovich,” the brigadier said, pouring some vodka into a coffee mug while pointedly not offering the young count to sit or to drink. “I can still operate a flexipad.”
“Nevertheless, may I deliver my report now?” Ivanov said curtly.
“Go ahead, Captain.” The general gulped down his drink and poured himself a second cup.
“We won,” Ivanov said.
“Very funny,” the general replied glumly. “Anything else?”
“I would like to tender my resignation effective immediately.”
“Accepted,” the general snapped. “Now get out of my sight and go to your dacha to drink tea and read poetry and whatever it is you soft rich kids like to do while we real men manage your wars.”
“There is one more thing,” Ivanov said flatly.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Your death.” Ivanov’s stiff posture and formal tone didn’t change.
“What?!”
“Someone has betrayed to the natives the frequencies of our shields. We were not equipped with any other kind of defense. Either you’re guilty of criminal negligence or high treason. In either case, I demand satisfaction. Sir.”
“This is insane! You have no evidence of any kind!” the general shouted.
“I do not need evidence. I just need to kill you,” Ivanov answered calmly.
“You can’t challenge me! I’m a general in the Patriarch’s Holy Army!” The general stood up and leaned on his table for balance, hysteria starting to creep into his voice.
“Hence my resignation, sir.” Ivanov kept his military bearing with a straight back, eyes on the wall, and his helmet under his left arm. “Now that I no longer occupy an inferior rank, nothing bars me from challenging you to a duel. Summon your adjutant and let us appoint a date. I would like to be done with this as soon as possible.”
“But Ivan Ivanovich, please be reasonable. How could I—”
“I have said all that I have to say. Summon your adjutant at once or I will drag him here myself.”
Ivanov turned toward the door and Susanin saw his chance. He pulled an ancient pistol, a collectible he kept in his drawer, and aimed it at the back of the young Count. Before he had a chance to pull the trigger, the Count was on him, twisting his right hand with the sound of breaking twigs. The gun fired once into the wall and another time into the table before being wrenched from the general’s broken hand. He wanted to scream for help, for mercy, for God even, but the nimble Count smashed the pistol into his mouth, shattering his teeth and dislocating his jaw.
“Paskuda! Suka!” The count shouted with froth on his lips as he stabbed the general again and again with the barrel of the gun, reducing the man’s face to a puree of bones and flesh and denting the weapon out of commission. When there was nothing more he could stab, he threw the gun at the corpse in one last expression of hate. Leaving the corpse where it lay, the young count smoothed his uniform and walked out of the door.
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“I’m done with wars,” Ivanov told his retainer who waited outside with a hovercraft. “Too much senseless slaughter.”
“Very good, your illustrious highness. Where would you like to go now?” The chauffer opened the vehicle’s door, revealing a lavish interior decorated with traditional Russian art done by Italian masters and French designers.
“To my dear aunt, Maria Borisovna,” Ivanov said as he sprawled on the inviting seats and poured himself a glass of champagne. “She told me there’s a message for me in the Old Brigade network.”
“Very good, your illustrious highness.” The chauffer replied and started the engine.