Another night of sparse moonlight covered the remains of the metropolis, clouds interfering once more with Luna, as they had for over three years now. At least, the people often said, the clouds weren’t red at night. It was more of silver, glowing slightly, bringing calm relief to the troubled planet.
The future was supposed to be bright. It was supposed to be a place of unity, where there was no conflict, only great achievements. All of it was destroyed by one man, an evil man to be sure, but a brilliant one who had played the nations like pawns in his game of chess, and the checkmate resulted in the true future.
A cloud of red rose from a theater in downtown London. The sparks of firearms going off at a very rapid rate and the occasional screams testified to another battle. For three years it had been going on, and it would not stop any time soon, at least not tonight.
“Enemies in the basement, attic, and behind the stage,” the young lieutenant said quietly to his comrade, “Our team from the back will take those behind the stage and hit the basement, do we take them alive or not?”
“Kill ‘em if they put up a fight,” the slightly superior man replied, “But take a few alive, preferably the base commander.”
“Seems too easy, Reno.”
The officer nodded. “These Mavericks aren’t as hyped as the others. Ardonjes should be disappointed.” Jaques “Reno” Grivet turned to the lieutenant. “You have your orders. We’ll move in shortly. Take care of yourself, man.” The eighteen year-old lieutenant nodded and moved away around the building. The strike team was standing there, their bomb a success, waiting desperately for orders, but they knew enough to kill if threatened. No one would leave that base alive unless in Reno’s custody.
“Now,” Reno smiled sweetly to his five men, “We get to go kill some Mavericks. Art thou ready?”
After the unanimous response, they kicked in the front door and sent two men inside. A gun sounded once and the other four were waved in. They crept down the aisles of the theater, looking for threats. The creeping stopped at the sound of screaming and gunfire. Zemzelett’s strike team had found the basement dwellers. Reno and his allies raced backstage.
An unarmed man was standing there, Reno guessed American. Six gun barrels were leveled at him.
“Please!” He begged, backing himself into a corner, “D…don’t…!”
Reno waved off the firearms and one of his troops seized the man.
“Who are you?” Reno asked in a monotone.
“I…I…” he sputtered, “I was waiting for you! The Zemzelett, correct?”
Reno frowned. “We are. What do you want?”
The man fell silent.
“Just a cowardly Mav,” one of the troops commented.
Reno nodded. “Put him into custody.”
“You have nothing to fear from me!” the man insisted.
“I know,” Reno replied, leaving him to one of the soldiers who would escort him outside. The Zemzelett soldiers crept upstairs, ready to finish the job their strike team started. The air crashed as soon as they neared the top. Reno carefully moved to a door and listened. Nothing. It was too quiet. A strange feeling found Jaques Grivet, a feeling that was not preferred in this situation. Indeed, it attacked all members of his little band. Behind the door was the threat of a multitude of soldiers, all armed. It would be easy to clear the room, but not stay alive. They were all afraid, but the fear passed. It always did.
Reno pulled out a fragmentation grenade and a comrade produced a can of tear gas. The door was kicked open. Screams of alarm rang out and turned to fear when they caught sight of the grenade being tossed inside. Several inside opened fire at the door out of anger before the explosion. The tear gas was added quickly to the brew of chaos, disorienting those who survived. Reno made haste and picked off anyone with a weapon. Bullets flew past his head, drilling holes into the wall nearby. Before Reno could open fire, however, a salvo of gunfire ended his attacker.
“TRAITOR!” someone else screamed before they, too, met their end.
Soon, Reno’s entire team was grabbing unarmed survivors and removing them from the room, and eventually, the building. The Zemzelett gathered outside in the streets of London with their prisoners and informant, their mission a success.
In the very center of London, where there were people, buildings fit for residence, and open markets, yet the same blood colored sky, there loomed a giant fortress of a building. It was once one of the largest offices in England, now modified into the Headquarters of the Zemzelett, the leading army in the Power Struggle war. It was dark, surrounded by an ominous aura different from the deadly, radioactive aura of other buildings.
From high above, he watched the gates open for Grivet’s team and their prizes. He smiled a thin smile, his work a success. The leaders would commend him, Reno too, and shower them with praise, but he would take it quietly, as usual, and continue doing what he loved and hated at the same time, but still did with pride.
The Zemzelett were formed shortly after the Red Winter, as it was referred to, December 24th, to be exact, when the survivors of the failed holocaust began to search for order in the planet. There were no more laws except that of survival, usually of the fittest. Then, when the fit died, the human race was lessened even more. Soon, they would revert to caveman ways before dying out completely. And that, everyone thought, was a bad thing. And so, the Power Struggle wars were born when the smart ones created their guilds to take over the larger areas of the globe, restoring order, usually a form of tyranny, but it was order nonetheless. But the guilds continued to eliminate each other, meeting all levels of power and crushing themselves. Until, that is, someone even smarter created a quiet guild. He named it Zemzelett, and continued to recruit those who sought to save their race. The Zemzelett used professionals from all over the world to bring down mass numbers of rebel guilds. There was finally a dominating power in the world, and the heads of the massive guild began a rule not of tyranny, but tried to stop the combat that ranged throughout the earth. It was a worthless shot at nobility, though, since the Zemzelett had to instill a reign of terror in London and nearby areas. They could not risk a coup that would bring them down and crush everything they had created.
Those opposing Zemzelett were Mavericks, and that was all. They might have special names, but they were all part of the Mavericks, and would be regarded as animals, ripe for the hunt. All Mavericks feared Zemzelett for more reasons than one, and one major reason went by the title of Pale Horse. A strategist from the Russian VKR, he was the head of all Zemzelett special operations. Deadly with a gun or in an interrogation room, the Pale Horse was feared by all the Maverick ranks.
Now, the infamous man stood near a window in his office, staring down at the arriving detail of soldiers. Soon, he’d have to go down and have a chat with the friends Reno had brought home. He made a mental note to commend the inside man Zemzelett had integrated in this particular group of Mavericks. A feisty group under the command of a Spaniard named Manuel Ardonjes, had been gaining substantial power. Zemzelett had found a dark, dangerous Italian to get into the group, and he’d been instrumental in the recent attack. Now, based on whatever the Italian had learned and what could be learned from the prisoners, the headquarters of Ardonjes’ group would be found and obliterated. The Russian didn’t think very highly of this way of doing things, but he knew very well that the Zemzelett were the best chance the planet had. And so, he went along with all their orders, never thinking twice. Besides, each time one of those idiots died, the Pale Horse felt a segment of his burden leave him.
“Ivan,” his lieutenant and friend appeared in the doorway, “They’re ready for you.”
He turned to face the younger man. “Is everyone down there?”
“Everyone,” the lieutenant replied, “Even your fellows.”
He nodded and grabbed his suitcase. “How are you today, comrade?”
“As well as can be expected, Ivan.”
“Good. Any news from the team in Bolivia?”
“No, and our supply crew has yet to reach them.”
“And they’re still alive?”
“We hope. It isn’t easy flying through clouds that are several stories thick, comrade.”
Now ready for his job, he nodded to the lieutenant, dismissing him. He followed shortly after, ready to meet his new friends.
“London,” Giovanni Virielli insisted, “They kept referring to ‘The Palace’. Many times.”
“It makes no sense!” Reno countered, “Why would someone be stupid enough to create a headquarters in the vicinity of a palace hit dead on by a nuke? And right under the nose of the Zemzelett?”
“Why else?” Virielli smiled and sat back in his chair, “To throw us off. Think about it. There are so many opportunities for detection, but Ardonjes laughs at them all, creating a totally undercover base near the remains of Buckingham Palace, where nobody in their right minds would think to look.”
Reno took it in. Giovanni Virielli was hardly a man to argue with in this area. The Italian was right close to sixty years of age, as was the famous Pale Horse, and had been involved in four different Mafias during his prime. A deadly, deadly man, but a reformed one, Virielli had proven most useful to the Zemzelett. And, Reno had decided he wouldn’t prefer any other man on the field beside him…even though compared to Reno, Virielli was old as sin.
“I can see that,” the Frenchman conceded, “But, still, it seems very much impossible to avoid us as long as they have if they’ve been here as long as you say.”
“Don’t think we’re gods, Jaques,” Virielli warned, “There are many others out there who are as good or better than the Zemzelett, but just don’t have the size to make an influence. And that’s just tough luck.” He got very serious now. “Can you imagine it? A group so quiet and hidden, but with a good bit of power, so close to our home? It’s just like….”
“Just like we were,” Jaques Grivet finished.
“Exactly. They could paralyze us, even destroy us. And we wouldn’t know what hit us.”
“Think that’s enough to run on?”
“It’ll be quite enough to merit a search, Monsieur Reno, but I think we’ll have to wait for Ivan to finish until we know for sure.”
Reno rose from his seat. “In the meantime, then, I’ll order a search of the area within five miles of Buckingham Palace. I really, really do not want to believe this. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for saving my hide.”
“It was my pleasure, but you still owe me a drink.”
Stephen Turbin was sweating like a pig, though he hardly noticed it. He had many more things on his mind. He could see nothing in the dark cell these demons were keeping him in, and the walls were soundproof. He occasionally felt unidentified objects/creatures brush past him, freaking him out quite a bit. He was doomed, he knew, trapped in this room, this evil pit. They had to have found his suitcase, it was too hard to miss. He had been caught off guard by the strike force, apprehended like a criminal. Ardonjes wouldn’t even miss him. Turbin had nothing to lose. When they came for him, he’d tell all he knew. Maybe they’d go easy on him.
Turbin wanted to end his life now. There was nothing that made it worth living in this place. He was in constant terror, a broken man. Who would they send? Who would pick him apart? He’d heard terrible things about the Zemzelett interrogators. But he could live through most of them, he told himself, everyone except him.
When the doors opened, Turbin shielded his eyes from the first light he’d seen all day. He was grateful for the light until he saw the outline of Satan standing in the doorway. A light at the top of the room came on, blinding the unprepared Turbin. He buried his head in his arms, peeking out after a few minutes.
His eyes focused on a tall, powerfully built man wearing an ebony suit and midnight blue pants. The man had left his trademark trench coat in his office. Hair as black as his clothes covered his head, marred by a large patch of silver on the left side. The light revealed a green eye and a blue eye, completing the image of Ivan Ily’ch Revokov, the Pale Horse.
He was not pale, nor did he look like a horse, Turbin decided quickly, and questioned the nickname. Then again, the Frenchman who headed the Zemzelett attack was nicknamed Reno, and why a Frenchman would be named after an American city was beyond Turbin.
“Hello, hello,” Revokov smiled and took a seat across from Turbin. “Stephen Turbin, I believe?” Silence. “Speak up, son, I hate stupid people.”
“Y…yes sir,” Turbin stammered.
“Thank you. We found your suitcase. It contains a lot of nice data about your fellow Mavericks, so don’t think you can get away with anything, kapish?”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now,” he let out a long breath. “Let’s get something straight. We don’t endorse torture here. I don’t know what you’ve heard about the Zemzelett or me in particular, but I do know that a reputation is very useful in this business, so make your own judgments about what I’ll do to you. Now tell me what you know about Manuel Ardonjes.”
Turbin took in a sharp breath. “I…I really don’t know a lot. He’s about forty-three years old…not a very good soldier, but you can’t expect that of a family man.”
“A family man?”
“Yeah. He has a wife and kid, I don’t know where they live…”
“And he still leads you people?!” Revokov was visibly stunned, but quickly covered that up. Turbin wasn’t sharp enough to detect the Pale Horse’s shock. What an idiot! How could he put his family through that? Doesn’t he know what he has?! That fool! Revokov’s respect for Ardonjes plummeted.
Turbin, however, misinterpreted Revokov’s reaction. He’s going to kill them! Oh, God, I’ve sentenced them to death! It’s all they do here, him especially! “Keep your hands off them!” He tried hard to sound threatening.
Revokov faced Turbin with a horribly cold stare that paralyzed the smaller man. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
Turbin’s muscles would not move. He stared at the man across the table who had suddenly become an abomination.
“You are implying that I would massacre a helpless family. People shouldn’t do that.” He was making progress and he knew it.
“It’s true…” Turbin whispered.
“Eh? Speak up, Tiny Tim.”
“It’s true!” he spat, “Zemzelett is nothing but a guild of killers!”
“Well,” Revokov cocked his head and smiled without humor, “What did you expect? You have to kill to get ahead nowadays. I don’t like it, but frankly, it’s true.”
“You do like it!” Turbin was out of control, “Especially you! You have over a thousand deaths on your chest! You give the orders to your assassins. You get the praise when your killers come home!”
Revokov glowered, and to Turbin it seemed like the man’s eyes held all the coldness of an arctic gale yet all the fire of hell. “And you?” It was a dark voice now. “You know, Ardonjes isn’t exactly a peach.”
“He does not kill without reason! Not like you!”
“People really shouldn’t do that,” Revokov, the master of interrogations said in a monotone, “I have to set things right.” Almost instantly, Ivan had crossed the room and his hand was clamped around Turbin’s throat. His fist found into the American’s stomach and the other hand came down like a club into his back. Turbin lurched forward, the agile Russian already out of range. Revokov’s fist connected with Turbin’s jaw, throwing his head back and knocking a tooth out, and then his foot slammed into Turbin’s chest. Just like that, Revokov was back near his seat and Turbin felt half dead, managing not to vomit in front of the evil Pale Horse.
“Demon!” he rasped, “You’re totally devoid of emotion!”
Revokov just smiled, ignoring the comment. “I’ll give you a chance to think about your attitude. Then I’ll be back. And don’t expect any sweet goodness from me, either.”
But the smile was a façade. Revokov felt as though he had been struck. A demon? Without emotion? Maybe now… he realized. He cursed himself, taking in what had been often said about him, yet coming from this captive it had been different.
Somewhere in Ivan’s soul, it was still there. The man who had spent seven years in the Vodenanya Kontra Rozvedka and quit to care for a family in his thirties, finding happiness in what Russia was becoming. He had known peace then. He had taken up a trade of his own for a while, becoming a bit prosperous. He had a great, rare relationship with his wife, and a beautiful girl. Yes, he’d even been well liked in his community.
But then it all changed. Revokov still remembered the heat of the flames that Christmas Eve when the manmade meteors came from the sky, destroying everything in their wake. He remembered the explosion that overturned his car and the inflamed chemicals that had colored his hair. He had not seen his wife perish, but he had assumed it had been quick. He had hoped her dead, anyway. If she were alive out there, alone, he would kill himself for leaving her all those years ago. He hadn’t even gone home to look. He’d taken his daughter and ran.
She had been so scared. A terrified child had to watch the only home she ever knew erupt into flames and carnage, all caused by some idiot politicians, drunk off their power. Ivan had taken her to Poland, to a sheltered area where the survivors remained. But even in such peril, humans could not band together. His daughter disappeared and was found violated and very much dead a few days later, a ten year-old child! Revokov had killed the guilty party himself, and had taken much pleasure in his ruthless deed. It was the only time he’d killed for personal satisfaction.
Now, Ivan Revokov existed as a killer once more, the most favored tactician and intelligence officer in the entire Zemzelett guild. He was cold, he’d admit, but he would not kill without reason, he would not torture ruthlessly. The Pale Horse’s reputation was greatly exaggerated.
But Turbin had made Revokov think. Was he a monster yet? He knew it was inevitable. He’d lose it one day, lose the battle with his emotions that he’d contained for so long. He wondered just how dangerous he was, a sixty year-old man could not pull off the same tricks as a thirty year-old one, even though Revokov was greatly agile for his age.
The Mavericks are fools who they challenge order and peace. Revokov had told himself that for all this time, but they were no different from himself. They just weren’t fortunate enough to be involved in the Zemzelett, or had their own objections to the guild. But in order for peace to be restored, one guild had to triumph and end the Power Struggle. Zemzelett was it.
Ivan poured himself a cup of coffee, thankful that it still existed, and contemplated the man he’d just interrogated. Ardonjes should not be leading a revolution, that was definite. He should be with his family, keeping them safe, spending time with them. Didn’t he have any idea what he had? No, of course he didn’t. Half of Revokov wanted to alert the man to the pain of separation, so he knew what he had wasted. But Ivan knew he could never do that and live with himself. That kind of pain was such that no man deserved.
And yet, Ardonjes wanted to stay with his Mavericks. That was just fine. Ardjones had been responsible for the demise of several of the Zemzelett. Revokov might find it easier to end Ardonjes than his family, the innocents. Besides, even if Revokov refused to defeat the Maverick, the Zemzelett Council would do it for him.
And so, as Reno had predicted before the mission even began, they would be looking for the main Headquarters of the Yamatoi, an odd name for an odd band. Revokov guessed the name had to do with Ardonjes’ second in command, Li Zhang, an old Chinese socialist. Zhang was nothing but an old coot with a skilled gun arm. He served no purpose other than a disposable assassin, and yet was the second in command of the Yamatoi Mavericks. Go figure.
The Pale Horse finished his coffee and sent in another interrogator. At least now, if Stephen Turbin was still uncooperative, he could threaten to come back for another fun session.
Virielli looked over the map of Buckingham Palace and surrounding areas. Indeed, there were signs of increased activity, something the Yamatoi Mavericks couldn’t quite cover up, no matter how hard they tried. But Virielli knew he was still just guessing, just because there was more activity near the destroyed palace, it did not mean that the Yamatoi were responsible.
Reno was beat. The Frenchman had retired a half hour ago to nap until needed, and Virielli didn’t blame him. They’d all had long days, but Reno had done more work than all of them. Virielli himself could feel sleep beckoning. He knew he’d better quit soon, or he’d be no good to anyone. He figured he had enough to warrant a search, anyhow.
Before he could start to his dorm, however, the door to the small conference room opened and Ivan Revokov walked in, looking just as tired as everyone else.
“Hello, Ivan Ily’ch,” Virielli smiled, “Good to see you again.”
“Heh, Giovanni,” he sat down with a sigh, “you look half dead.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Yes…” the Russian leaned back lazily. “The captives have been talking. Our reputation precedes us.”
“Is it true you beat the tar out of one?”
“No, just a few teeth.”
“Hah, the VKR have retained their traits.”
“Yes, they have, and the Mafia is just as sharp with their own brand of espionage.”
Virielli smiled, pushing a map towards Revokov. “Here is what that espionage produced. I heard a lot of reference to ‘The Palace’ but I was never shown a map. And I also heard London associated with ‘The Palace’ a few times.”
“Buckingham Palace? What would they want there?”
“Their headquarters.”
“What? You’ve got to be kidding me. The radioactivity alone makes the place uninhabitable.”
“We’re here, aren’t we?”
“But…we’ve adapted.”
“Well? What’s stopping them from doing the same thing?”
“They’d have to have more protective gear than an army of Soviet Tanks.”
“Maybe they do.”
“…I don’t want to THINK about bathroom situations…”
Virielli chuckled. “A whole lot of evils are in this world, eh?”
“Sounds funny coming from a Mafia man.”
“VKR wasn’t a group of angels.”
“Sure we were.”
“And the Mafia supported Boy Scouts, the Humane Society, and founded Disney World.”
“No!”
“Ha ha ha! Yes, ole’ Walt was one of us.”
“If man could give birth, I’d believe you.”
“If men could give birth, the world would have been in shambles in the past, and now a flourishing, healthy place.”
Revokov smiled forlornly, the possibility of an alternate dimension intrigued him. “Think pigs would fly?”
“Pigs would fly, humans would crud on bird’s heads, and Ross Perot wouldn’t ever exist.”
“Hah! And Russia would be the world power.”
“Mafia would be respected citizens.”
“We wouldn’t be old farts.”
“EXCUSE me, but this ‘old fart’ is still pretty reliable with a gun.”
“Gimme a good old fashioned scimitar any day.”
Virielli laughed again. “We’re not evil.”
“No! Not at all!”
While two old men reminisced, the Zemzelett ordered a search of the area around Buckingham Palace spanning four miles. If anything was there, it would be found. The night passed and Jaques Grivet found himself roused by Ivan Revokov’s lieutenant, Volkov. Grivet had met Volkov long ago, finding him a pleasant chap. Like Jaques, he was one of the Pale Horse’s only friends.
“Your presence is requested in one hour at floor M,” Volkov said matter-of-factly. “I’m not really supposed to say, but I think they found something last night.”
Reno nodded thanks, then got up to face the morning. Shortly, he was ready to show his face in public and went down to floor M. Several figures of importance, including Revokov and Virielli, were already there. Someone else was there, someone Reno had never seen in person. A man who’s name was known by all and dreaded by most. He was a big man, and that added to his imposing appearance. Indeed, his very presence made Reno feel inferior.
Zed Machzer, leader of the Zemzelett, turned to acknowledge one of the more respectable battle commanders, Jaques Grivet, enter the conference room. To Machzer’s knowledge, Grivet had succeeded in over three attacks on the Yamatoi Mavericks, and would be leading this next one.
Grivet took his seat after saluting Machzer, the only thing he could think to do. Revokov smiled inwardly, he remembered feeling so awkward in front of the VKR commanders. A few minutes later they were ready to begin, and to lead them all in prayer was Kheskov, one of the Major Generals in the Zemzelett machine.
“Hallo,” he began, “Last night, our surveillance team returned with some helpful knowledge. They observed many men going into a large shelter that served as a storage hall before Holocaust Tuesday. They caught one of the men and grilled him a bit. Yamatoi is in there, Ardonjes and Zhang themselves.”
“So…” Machzer spoke, “We gonna kill ‘em?”
“Well, ah,” Kheskov was a bit taken aback. “That’s what we plan to do, but such an attack would publicize the whole affair. If word got out that it was possible to build a base so close to the Zemzelett…well…”
“I see,” Machzer replied. He turned to Revokov. “What was learned from the prisoners?”
“Nothing new,” the Pale Horse replied, “ Other than more information about Ardonjes and Mao. Oh, yeah. Their ammo stock is rather large and they live off tea.”
“Tea…?” Machzer frowned.
“Simply what I learned.”
“Okay…Kheskov?”
“We have a small assault team organized. We want Mr. Grivet to lead it.” It was not a choice affair, and so Reno just nodded. “We’re thinking about inserting a few bombs and blowing the joint in more ways than one. A map of the shelter is being dug up.”
“I’ll ask the jailed what they know about the building layout,” Revokov offered.
“Won’t they know something is up?” Machzer questioned.
“I’ll handle it.” Revokov smiled without humor.
“Do it,” the Zemzelett commander ordered, “And then we need the Great Ivan on Floor X. We have a mission to plan.”
“The Great Ivan will be there,” the VKR man responded.