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minute detail. But I am glad you raised the subject.” Killov clasped his withered hands together on the round mahogany table and surveyed the KGB officer corps. “Would you do me a favor, Mishkin?” he asked, his voice as low and hollow as the sound of a crypt door closing.
    “Of course, Excellency, your merest request is my—”
    “Please go over and get that treaty for me, would you? It’s sitting at the edge of my desk in a round jar. I want to show you what I think of that sacred document.”
    Mishkin’s eyes nearly rolled up in terror. He knew something was up, but he dared not refuse a direct request from his leader.
    “Of—of c-c-c-ourse, sir,” the portly KGB officer whispered through suddenly dry lips. He rose slowly from his chair as the others stared at him through shuttered eyes, uncaring, as if they were watching a fly crawl across the wall. Mishkin reached the table, picked up the treaty in its museum-like glass container and turned, slightly relieved that the thing hadn’t exploded in his hands. The colonel had a reputation for eliminating those around him who displeased him—in a hurry. Mishkin’s face slowly relaxed as he saw Killov smiling at him, holding his hands up to receive the document. The sweating officer took one step back toward the conference table and screamed—a scream so sharp and terrifying that the gathered KGB brass jerked back in their chairs. Smoke poured out through Mishkin’s eyes and ears as his hands and legs jerked wildly like a marionette in the hands of an epileptic puppeteer. Bolts of the purest white electricity coursed through him, describing an arc from floor to ceiling, traveling through every cell in his flesh and cooking them. Killov had had hidden metal plates beneath the rug and above the plasterboard ceiling installed to protect himself against assassins. Plates with cables attached to them, capable of sending out surges of over 500,000 watts of power for up to a minute—siphoning it off from the KGB city’s power supply.
    The white rainbow of death crackled and spat out electric fuzz as it burned Mishkin’s brain and blood, dancing wildly from side to side as if it enjoyed the chance to kill. The smoke in his ears and eyes emerging from his mouth like a dragon’s breath changed within seconds to fire so that the whole head was spouting tongues of yellow flame like some horrible nightmare vision. Then the fingers, too, sprouted flames and began to spin around in front of the burning man like propellers of melting flesh. But the thing that had been Mishkin was already dead. The electric streams held the blackened husk for a few more seconds and then suddenly cut off. The charcoal mess, no longer shaped like a person, fell to the floor where it lay in a smoldering pile, glowing and dimming like burning embers in an oven.
    Killov snapped his fingers at one of the servants standing near the table. “Clean it up.” Then the colonel turned back to the table where the assembled officers sat, stiff as ramrods, looking straight ahead at rigid attention.
    “One less spy and one less fool,” the colonel said with a satisfied look. “And let that be a lesson to all of you. I have my eye on you, always. I know what you think, where you eat, who you fuck. I know all your perversions and your weaknesses. If you carry out my orders and give me your unswerving loyalty, the world shall be yours. I shall rule the whole planet, and each of you shall rule continents, billions of people. You will be like no kings or emperors who have ever lived. Your power shall be like a fist, able to crush even the smallest pockets of resistance. And my power shall be absolute. Absolute.” His eyes lost focus on the scene before him as he saw the course decreed by his vision. Absolute control of every bit of life on the plant—human, animal, plant. He would be like a god. He would be God. Many had tried—Nero, Hitler, Stalin, Mao. But none had succeeded. He would be the first human