[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Volga River[/h2]

The water lapped against the bow of the small boat as it rocked through the water. Gray-brown water trickled slowly down the winding and snaking course of the mighty Volga. In the early morning light it glistened with a subdued orange and red glow as the sun narrowly peaked out over the hilly banks. The silent guardian pines stood a cold vigil in the rising morning light as it began to wake the birds and animals along the shores.

The engine of the boat died with a sputter and Jun turned back from leaning on the flaking, tarnished rails that formed the barrier between a dry deck and the cold waters underneath. The boat wasn't large, nor was it small. As he was affirmed it was a small ferry boat for the river. The wood of its deck was – despite conditions in the Russian state – given great care and a fresh coat of varnish glowed in the morning sun-light. And although patchy fresh patches of white paint decorated the hull of the boat and enclosed gondola.

Walking up from below deck an elderly, overweight Russian man came into the light. Tired bags hung under his blue eyes. His head had long mostly gone bald, and all that remained were long silvery wisps of hair that had long lost any color. He looked up at Jun with a long overdrawn look and remarked, “I had to kill the engine, save some fuel.” he pointed out. He wrapped a rag around and rubbed it between greasy fingers as he fidgeted, “The current will keep us on its course.

He turned from him and went to walk deeper into the cabin, but hesitated for a moment and turned back around, “I'll be preparing tea in the cabin. I'd invite you to join me, but I don't know.” he was clearly nervous. He looked up and down Jun with a smile that was as tense as it was polite. It didn't help that the return Jun offered was as cold as it was distant. The ferryman must have felt the cold Siberian wind in Jun's silent response and he nodded defeated.

“I'll hold you to it.” Jun called back as the ferryman turned, “I'll be in in a minute.”

“Oh, ah, yes...” the ferryman stuttered, “I'll be there.” he said anxiously.

The man's footfalls died with the shuttering clasp of the rickety screen door that was the cabin door. Folding his arms on the railing, Jun leaned out over the water and watched the river-front slowly crawl passed.

In truth, they were moving at a pace slower than a crawl. The trickling licks of the water at the bow had died to a whispering sigh, and then to silence as the craft coasted down to the river's own speed.

As the boat coasted along Jun watched as along the shores the creatures of the wood awoke and came to the water's edge. Where herons with steel-blue feathers stalked the shallows for fish so did red deer come to drink at the water's edge. But there was a tensity as the silently drifting boat drew close to the water's edge, the wild residents gave a tense pause to look up at the slowly drifting interlopers as they were pushed along by the bubbling water.

Jun beat his hands on the railing and stepped back. Then was about a good time for tea. Taking his leave for the cabin, he left the wilderness behind him.

They had been on the water for several days. Though in reality the time spent traveling was more equal to a day. For fuel Jun's ferryman was forced to stop over at Cristopol for fuel supplies. As Jun had left Perm, Shu had flipped another late-moment gift; a bundle of saved ruble and an advice on which ferryman to take, the one that wanted an excuse to leave.

He was Basil Subyan. A man who lost his family, and had only his boat left. The door to the cabin groaned on its old hinges as the Chinese agent stepped into the hazy hall.

Along the wall next to hazy, faded windows rows of small dining booths sat in orderly rows. Basil sat at the bar on the far side, holding to his brow a metal cup. In the yellow morning sun that cut through the dust tongues of whipping steam curled up into the air as the tin cup was clasped to his head.

Basil looked to the side at the sound of the opening door. “I was beginning to wonder.” he said in a low voice, “Tea's nice and hot. I got a little bit of jelly left. Otherwise you will need to make due with honey. I don't know how you Chinamen like it out east.”

Jun sat in the stool alongside Basil, reaching out for a nearby tin cup he humored Basil with no answer or response, and stead lowered the cup to the bubbling pot that stood between them on the bar.

The pot itself was something that had seen better days. Tall like a hookah but metal, its nickle surface tarnished, the gleam of its metal had subsided to a subdued matte finish. From its top puffs of condensed steam jumped out from ill-sealed cracks as inside water boiled. There was a faint smell of smoldering leaves or bark from it.

Pulling the pot that crowned the top Jun poured out the yellow-green liquid inside out into his tin cup. The water rushed out with a relieved sigh and splashed against the bottom of the tin. As it came close to the brim, Jun raised the pot and put it back on its burner.

He rose it to his lips and took a sip of the fresh hot tea, cringing at the bitterness. Basil laughed at Jun's shocked expression. “It's different, isn't it?” he smirked, “Tea's harder to come by in Russia now the czar's gone and the business types left the nation. But the tea fields in Sochi are back to production again I hear, and I can finally have a warm drink to have jam with.”

“Tea in Russia?” Jun croaked between sips of the hot, bitter drink.

Basil nodded, “It was a thing that was happening when my father was a boy!” he exclaimed nostalgically, “Some grower type bringing it to Sochi. We had been getting our tea from Britain through Ukraine before, and China over rail. But that way I've heard it put, it was a big deal when the tea was growing in Sochi. Georgian tea was always shit to begin with.”

“I wouldn't have thought.”

“Aye. And pray you don't ever drink tea from Georgia, they always fuck it up somehow. Russian tea isn't perfect, but it does it fine.”

“How do you get it?” Jun asked.

“Another ferryman comes up north along the river with crates full of it!” Basil beamed, “What was his name, I knew him for a time. Ah- Gregor I think.

“You see, some Cossacks out of Ukraine came in and took over Sochi from the Turks and Muslims that ran the city after the fucking Ottomans pulled out. I don't know how they're working the fields or what's going on, but they got the tea flowing again and that's what that counts. But prices can vary, depending on where you are on the river.

“Where we're going I hear the tea is cheaper.”

Jun nodded. He didn't hardly understand the economic concepts being proposed. But played along. “When was the last time you were in Volgograd?” he asked.

“Volgograd?” Basil chuckled, “Volgograd for me was... forever ago. I only ever used to take people as far as Chaykovsky along the Kama. I can't remember when I was ever in Volgograd, maybe when I was a kid.

“That was an eon ago...” he trailed wistfully, “Forever. I can't believe it.” his tone dropped and turned sadder, “And I outlasted a wife and family. What the hell happened, Chinaman? What happened?

“I can't keep going in Perm, that much is true. So thanks for the opportunity to get me to leave.”

Jun sipped his cup of tea. “It's nothing.” he remarked plainly.

The Russian groaned and put his drink on the counter. Holding his face in his hands he starred down at the lethargically bobbing liquid at the bottom of his cup as his boat meandered slowly with the current of the river. “Why are you even here?” he asked in a low tone of voice.

Jun didn't beguile him with an answer. Instead he looked at the man through narrowed eyes as he took a sip. The Russian rose his heavy stare to him, “I used to hear of many who came from your land, but the czar was alive then. Now he's dead and no one comes trying to break out of your country. What brings a man such as you here?” he looked down at his black coat. Jun's instinct told him he was eyeing the patches that choked the muffed, old leather, “You're not a normal man on the run.”

Jun held his silence, sliding the cup onto the counter and wrapping his arms on the scratched unpolished wood.

“I'll respect your silence.” sighed the ferryman in defeat, “And your buisiness.”

Jun maintained his secrets. But to that the man figured he was grateful for such and the two continued to drink their tea in silence.

[h2]Sankt Petersburg, Communes of Novogord-Sankt Petersburg[/h2]

The halls of the former imperial palace hung in a dim light filtering through the tall windows that marched solemnly along the walls of the former residence of the czar. In the gray light filtered by the ominous, ever-hanging clouds of Sankt Petersburg the light fell in long casting bars against the bare walls of former imperial decadence. Many of the artifacts and trinkets the imperial family had kept once upon a time had been chucked, decried as material vulgarity. In their places red banners hung in the interior. And in the place of former royal guards, olive-drab militia patrolled a silent vigil through the palatial halls, now the seat of communist reign.

It did not strike the Chinese admiral, as he stood waiting outside a pair of tall mahogany doors as ironic. It was repurposement. And he had seen a lot of need for that in the communes. Standing of shaky grounds the regime was not ready or willing to allocate resources to constructing great monuments to power and pride as China back home. And so what stood in the Russia and Estonia of Radek was without doubt the same structures that stood always, and will always stand.

He gazed out the windows to Sankt Petersburg proper. He stood overlooking the grand square outside the palace. There, men drilled with rifles in the gray afternoon sun. And men on horses conducted training maneuvers in view of the public life. Shao had come to recognize such activity here on his visits so much that he forgot if this was to help show a force of order in the communes for not being able to push Radek's unity, or was for the bemusement of young women who saw lovers among the ranks or young husbands. Or to the joys of children who lusted for a warrior's life.

He smiled at the thought, and pulled out from under his arm his blue-gray cap, fitting it atop his head by his reflection in the window. From his shoulders dropped the steel-blue and heavy coat of his rank, wrapped with the golden rope of a higher officer and all the metals and insignias. Shen Shao, commander of the NPS Bohai and the spear that plunged deep into the heart of the Spanish armada. He had been praised after the fact as the man to end the Spanish intervention in Finland, and for that he found himself trapped into the cold north.

Shao was an officer with a notable, pronounced chin and toned jaw-line. Though under neath the stubble that had grown on his chin over his time of deployment it was hardly noticeable, if even something that could be noted by any other man. He scowled annoyed as he brushed white-gloved fingers through the scrub-brush hairs growing curled from his face. He was owed a trim with scissors, but hardly had much of the time nor the appropriate pair. Someone was always using them to cut a man bald among the detachment or the village of their station in the north to fight headlice.

And it was perhaps most needed now before he met with the godly priest who had defected from so much and now had come to rule a quasi-nation on the far-side of Russia.

He put the thought of cleanliness aside and instead dashed his hand across his scalp to push in the oily black hair atop his head deeper under his hat before pulling the cap down tight to his ears. Clicking his heels together as he assumed an attentive pose he gave himself a dignified salute and turned from the cloudy day outside.

The sounds of the palace were muted and distant. Without the sound of proper automotive traffic or the hum of naval engines to fill his ears he was almost surprised and horrified with how silent Sankt Petersburg was. Replacing the low song of engines came the distant and muffled whispers of conversation down the hall, behind the door, and even someone walking across the floor overhead. Even the slow ticking of an antique clock ticked away somewhere in a nearby room. There was ghostly silence to it all, none like that of a library.

Listening to it and trying to fixate on one sounded like listening for ghosts. The sounds and suggestions of movements fleeting and hard to pinpoint. Shao felt the shivers hold his spine as he thought about this palace, and what had happened. According to his sources Radek's men had taken the building without firing a shot or spilling blood, many of the staff and inhabitants having fled before hand. But there was other things that happened here. The old palace was much too big for just a politburo and the office of their executive leader. There was the military headquarters too for the Sankt Petersburg defense force, and their operations and interrogations. He had heard rumors of suspected dissidents being hauled out in bags, but nothing his own intelligence could verify for sure. But for the tales that reached him it wasn't plain deaths, as expected in war; but other means.

He wondered if Radek knew about it, as he stood waiting for his audience.

“Comrade.” a deep Russian voice said from down the hall. Shao turned, standing in the half-opened doorway a simply dressed officer held open the door to the audience he was summoned to, “Comrade Radek is ready to speak with you now.”

“Thank you,” Shao bowed, “lead the way.” he politely requested as he followed the officer through the door.

Stepping through he entered into a large room. The curtains drawn across the windows filtered much of the gray afternoon light. But the lazk of its hazy glow was supplemented by the warm orange light of candles that burned across every surface. Including the long table at its center, several small plates were laid out on it, with breads, meats, and vegetables. At its head sat Radek, reclined to the side in the furthest seat.

“Good afternoon, brother.” greeted Radek, his low voice boomed in the open chamber. He rose from his seat to hail the officer, “I hope you haven't ate much before arriving.” he shouted playfully.

“I haven't, and I was beginning to think I might have to find food before heading back to base.” Shao grinned as he made his way to the table.

Radek was by no means a small man. He in fact held an imposing posture that came ever the more clear as Shao drew close. “Please, right here comrade.” the old priest invited as he gestured to a seat at the corner, next to him. Shao took it.

As the men both sat down the light of the candles shone in the faded blue eyes of the communist ruler in the west. A heavy beard and thick mustache grew from his face and shrouded his mouth behind a thick layer of ghastly white hair, but Shao had no doubt the man was smiling wide and polite under all that hair. And with his broad face the Russian leader commanded a rather Rasputin aura to him.

“I heard the news.” Radek began in his low gravely voice. He delicately reached out in front of him for a roll of bread for the pile on a pewter plate in front of either man, “And I was wondering if you knew?”

“Was I invited to lunch to discuss the news from Shanghai?” Shao joked. The strange juxtipositions on display in the man's dress caught his attention as he received his almost courtly attention. Although simple and stripped barren of the rich decorations of the proper Orthodox persuasion, Radek still wore his priestly robes. Although in place of the overt and opulently loud displays of faith he had replaced much of it with communist iconography and images hearkening back to Lenin's own failed revolution. Even on his head in absence of a priestly cap he wore a mottled green ushanka emblazoned with a red star that glowed in fiery colors from the candle light.

“If it were only so simple,” Radek laughed, “but I don't believe in breaking bread with starving allies. So have something, and we shall discuss commitments.”

“Commitments?” asked Shao as he obligated the old man's wish, and served himself a roll of bread, “Don't you have agent Tang to discuss those with?”

“Agent Tang is currently occupied coordinating training with the defense forces for the communes.” Radek rebuked, “He can't strongly receive what I have to say. Nor does he have the assets himself.”

“Assets, what assets are we talking about?” a curiously bitten Shao asked, as he pushed his thumb into the warm role, breaking it apart.

“You command a fleet, comrade.” Radek reminded.

“I command a couple ships and a half dozen submarines.” Shao corrected him, “They're more than enough to control any unwarranted fishing and lock the northern sea down in summer. But it's hardly a fleet.”

“My point still stands.” Radek grunted, his tone of voice cold as he bit into the bread. Drinking from a glass of water he continued: “You command these things, and I can likely double it.

“I can't immediately make my obligations to the war effort on Spain as Shanghai has now decided. I simply don't have the resources. And for what we do have I must give it unto the people and feed and warm them. You, the Chinese, have been gracious in keeping the support of much of want my people want and need so I can concentrate on other domestic problems to keep the flock full and happy. But none of that has gone into fueling any whimsical dreams of military expansion, as much as the commanders demand we ration so we can embark on our war for reunification, much like Nikolov.

“But it is not fighting the Republic directly that frees my people; as much as they would like it to be. Do you understand.”

“I do,” Shao said, biting into his half a roll, “But I have to admit I don't see where it's going.”

“You're the most westerly Chinese station.” Radek told him, “And now the International expects China to act. Whether or not their deceleration has reached Spain. But it has come to us first, we both know.

“Your strategic position clearly in mind, it's only reasonable to guess that you will get the orders to move on Spain. I don't know to what capacity, but I got a request for you when you do.”

“We're going right to the point and I hardly started on the main course.”

“Please start that when you can by the way, it's stroganoff. Our cook here would be happy for a foreign tongue to try his food and say nice things, although it's up to you what you think.”

“I'll have to.” Shao mumbled, looking at the plate of cubed, golden brown saucy pieces of beef. “But, you were saying.”

“Well yes, when you inevitably get sent to Spain.” continued Radek between bites at the remaining roll in his hand, “We could use you to bring back extra resources.”

“You want us to commit piracy?” Shao catechized, shocked.

“It is war.” Radek reminded, “But the Spanish possess a great deal of fuel resources. If any of that goes by sea then I – and the commanders – want it. We can use it to reignite the navy here.

“Comrade, I sit on the bulk of the former Imperial Navy, it's been stationed in the docks of Sankt Petersburg here for nearly a decade, unable to move because the engines have never been fired. Not since the czar died and the Navy found itself lost and disbanded among the chaos.

“Now, some ships have gone missing during that initial event. But as a whole we still hold the regional navy of the Imperialist regime. Without the oil to reactivate them they sit idle in the water, taking on rust and growing dusty without use. My men may toil across the decks, clean the guns, and pretend their a Navy. But their little more than bored boys without those ships moving.

“Shao, build the communes a navy and I may give my obligations to the International and give you my support in Europe.”

“That's fine, comrade. But without orders I don't know if I'll even be operating in European waters. So I can hardly confirm I'll be of use to you.”

“Never the less, I'm putting it on the table. And when you do I will be willing to work with you in seeing out this goal.”

“I must admit it's a goal, but it's one I'm not unwilling to consider.” Shao agreed, “So let's finish lunch, and I shall bring it to my command in the north to prepare. Then we'll see what Beijing commands when the time comes.”

“Agreed, brother!”

[h2]Tyumen[/h2]

The treads rattled across the cracked asphalt as through the murky windows  the battle-scarred landscape of Tyumen cut by. To his left the brick and stone walls of apartments stood pocked with bullet holes and burn scars around shattered gouges where glass windows had been. In front the road marched along in a lethargic curve as along the right shoulder wispy trees clung to the edge of a steep embankment.

The sounds of this engagement thundered within the shell of the tank. But in time, that had become mute. Tsung sat in his driver's seat, watching the course of a battle rage just beyond the limited scope of damnable protective glass that could never be clean. His numbness held him in a cold grasp, and within the fear of his own numbness only chilled him deeper. An innocence loosing ground watched at a further distance as he felt himself move almost as an automation.

Above and behind him Sun Song sat above his men, shouting firing commands between bursts from the gun and commands to the tanks alongside them. Tsung represented the furthest left-hand corner of a half echelon of three tanks cutting down the narrow river-side street. Cramped against their left: the apartments and former businesses of Tyumen. Opposite: the Tura River at the bottom of this steep muddy embankment.

Behind them the regular infantry kept a brisk pace after the armor, shielding themselves from fire as from in front the Russians returned the tank fire with a response drawn from small-arms fire. Rifle and machine gun bullets struck the metal hide of the Tei Gui, only to flake and flatten, bouncing off or molding into the very steel itself. Never penetrating, never much. And when it hit the glass of Tsung's portholes it cracked and chipped at the heavy, thick plastic guards. What had once been something coated in unwashable grime and unbrushable dust was now being cratered by rifle-rounds that gouged into it, and splintering to form short twisted nests of valleys and crevices. But none that dug deep.

It was this that formed the sanctuary of the tank. The egg of safety that was the Tei Qui, dividing him from the insane reality of the outside. It had become a movie, a play. Separated from the tangible reality, he was just watching another news reels. The bodies were real: that much was always certain. But they were removed from the implication of Tsung's involvement.

And he felt the numbing blankness of it all. Was he becoming a soldier?

From in the turret, just under Sun Song Wi Hui sang a chorus of numbers, counting shells as he loaded for Tse Lin to fire. And she herself returned her own verses, calling hits. Counting them. It became a low rhythmic song with the main cannon as the drum. The ricochet gun-song was only an accessory.

There was a smashing crunch as the tank drove over something. In the relative stability of Tsung's new-found numbness he had not seen feeble stack of brick, metal, and sandbags as they crunched over top and moved along. The bank of apartments gave way to a corner in the road and in his side-window the new landscape opened up down the long Russian streets, flanked on one side by robust and eloquent apartments, build in Imperial pride. And on the other a line of summery trees which bloomed green in defiance of the combat at their feet.

“TURN LEFT!” Sun Song roared from the turret's chamber, “POSITION ON THE CORNER HERE, MAKE ROOM FOR THE MEN!” he continued with rapt, battle-excited urgency. He called it out over the radios, and to him. Tsung carried out the order with the fine brutality of a robot.

The tank came to sweep into its turn and crawl forward before stopping. Tsung called out target orders Hui and Lin carried out. Choking smoke rose from craters formed in the ruddy dirt where shells blew the tree-lined avenue into craters, driving from behind stone walls panicked Russian men who ran shouting like scurrying mice to the river side, dodging the biting wasps of bullets and the hawks of the tank shells.

Guns roared from all angles. Tsung could not tell from where or by whom each ringing shot came from. He could only sit and watch from his seat, as his old self lay curled in the far back, screaming as his own battle-ego – who had grown fat and strong over the battle of Tyumen – took command of the front, laying confidence like mines in dangerous corners.

And through the mirth of battle and fog of the glass, beyond the trees chewed in the crossfire and above their boughs Tsung looked into the battle towards a white-church. Standing defiant, despite the chaos. Its plaster snow-white walls singed. But rising ever higher its towers pierced the sky, so that they came to green fists against the sooty-gray and blue haze of a mid-summer's battle.

Of the details to be enamored with, Tsung looked at that the most intense, blocking out the fighting. Its tiny windows stared dark and black from all faces like dark eyes. Atop its steeples golden crosses glowed in the sunlight, as if denying the darkness and the grayness below. Much like the trees that became felled in the fire-fighting. Though its alcove of baroque Russia was torn asunder it treated itself to stand a bit taller.

There was a high-pitched pang and the explosive twisting of thick metal punched through, and the hiss of gas and the seizing rattle of shuttering gears. In an instant the smell of sweat that permeated the cabin was overcome by something more caustic.

“WE'RE HIT!” Tsung heard Tse Lin scream as he turned back behind him, to see why his controls were now unresponsive.

Rattling and spinning in the back the massive motor block seized and thumped as gas and black tar-smoke sprayed out of a hole smashed clear through its shell and gears. An ominous orange glow bellowed from inside as the smell of harsh diesel fumes and gasoline washed inside the cabin.

“HULL COMRPOMISED, OUT! OUT!” Sun Song wailed, to the cabin and the radios. He exploded up through the turret, dashing for safety as he vaulted from his seat with Lin and Hui hot on his heels.

As explosively as it had dawned Tsung realized that his ego was smashed and his sanctuary pierced as the first tongues of flame began to lick from the bust engine. In his eyes he watched in horror that one Russian tank that had burst in front of him like a morbid fireworks display, spewing a fountain of fire with the crackling pops of exploding machine gun magazines.

He threw open the driver's hatch and jumped outside.

The heat of battle hit him in the face as he bound like a leopard from the hull of the tank as it smoked and fumed from the inside. Crackling echoed from within as he made his escape, jumping from the edge to the side-walk as a hail of small weapon's fire chased him. He could feel the cut of ricochet brushing his fore-arms, the sparks of wayward rounds slapping the metal just behind his legs. He felt terrified again, and re-realized the terrors of war.

With a smack he hit the ground without grace, scrambling across pebbles wet with bloom and across rocks smeared with gore. His heart raced and his head went light. His breaths clenched tight in his chest as all the sensations came to him at once. He felt as if he could not stand to run as he pushed himself along the ground. And with a sudden jolt, he was pulled up.

Lin wrapped her arms under his shoulders and pulled him up, throwing him to his feet as she forced him to run ahead through an open door. Their feet crunched on broken glass as they stepped onto the front stoop of the apartments. As they stepped inside, that terrifying sound from when they entered Tyumen rang in his ears.

With a mental rending scream the Tei Gui behind them unfolded, blowing open the turret and the vents. The concussive blast from the exploding machine threw the two forward through the door. The entire building shook with a giant force and they fell smacking their faces against the dirty blue carpet of the inside.

Tsung had to see, witness with horror. He quickly turned as his stomach threw knots and saw within his eyes the fountain of fluorescent white and yellow spray clear into the sky. Escaping fumes fountained in a cosmically terrible display. Ringing with every second the unloaded shells within went off as the heat caught them, sounding like bells echoing through a mountain hall. The machine gun magazines went off, spraying the insides of the walls as pattering against them as the explosive fumes died only to bellow volcanic diesel smoke.

“Get out of the open!” a man shouted. Tsung was too eager to stay, crawling over top the still crumpled Lin to the safety of cover. Lin crawled after.

The sound of gunfire was hotter, harder, louder out here. The echo of tanks firing was nauseatingly loud. All the sensations raced over Tsung as he pressed himself against the wall as a rifleman fired out the window next to him. Tsung looked up at awe into the man's face, beleaguered with the intense concentration he wore despite the heavy stress.

“What the situation?” he heard Sun Song call out. Outside the window tanks rumbled by as the rest of Song's unit crawled elsewhere to find the source of the shot, or to occupy new cover.

“We got them pinned, we think.” a sergeant answered. Tsung looked over to see his CO kneeling beside a collected man in a nearby doorway, “I hear Khan's leading his motorized infantry around the west more to cut off Russian reinforcements. They're still trying to stream to the river and Anlei is putting the armor up opposite. We're not letting those boats of theirs leave. That's the order still.”

“Well it's all just as clear as when we left.” commented Song, annoyed as he peered outside, “What else?”

And that was when Tsung heard [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWlATfXMmtI]the music[/url]. It started low, a mere suggestion of something in the wind just below the sound of gunfire. But it picked up volume as it sped along. It was not simply a trick of battle, or his own mind playing tricks. He dared to peak above the window when the grand chorus came into full pitch for all.

“Fucking Chun Kyeung!” Song exclaimed in absolute shock as he too heard the accordion and the chorus over the battle. Across the square, beyond the trees Tsung watched glimmers of bright red pierce the tree. A red as bright as sun-set. As audacious and loud as the music.

“He actually beat Khan?” the sergeant asked, in due surprise. He rose to his feet, like Tsung to get a view.

It came drifting, mounted with speakers where it should have had guns. And between the batteries of speakers flowed banners of orange. It's only gun was a machine gun that fired wide and wild in the general direction of the Republican forces as they fled to the river. But the music seemed to freeze them; whether in horror or astonishment of the surreal it left to be told.

But the vehicle red as blood tore through the unclaimed street, screaming its song as it made a naked streak around the Russians. Its treads tore at the street, tearing up streamers of gravel and rubble as it went. Its machine gun tearing at the speed of the bombastic Russian choir. Tsung did not know what it was they sung about, or if it was even good for them. But the surrealism marked the end of it. He felt light-headed and he collapsed. Exhausted before high-noon.