Yvan Dragomilov - The Wasted Starwolf

"Novy Gorod."

New Town.

Lacking a better name or sufficient imagination, everyone called it that. "Thrown up" was an expression his informant had used, referring to its hasty construction, a phrase more descriptive than he realized. How a place fresh-built could have such an aura of decay about it, Eugene wasn't sure. For all that it had been provided with the most sophisticated of waste disposal systems, it stank to the high heaven.

Clumping along a cheap meshwalk fronting flimsy buildings, he attempted to stamp away the mud his boots had acquired when he had crossed the unpaved street. All he got for his trouble were stares from passerby crowding him shoulder to shoulder. His impression was that they marked him for a dandy who would be easy prey once darkness fell. Well, he thought, comforted by the quickblade beneath the sleeve of his jacket, let them discover differently. Where, in Premier's dirty name, was the place he was supposed to find?

It was the noise, rather than the wordless placard over the door, which directed his steps. In garish daubs the latter depicted the drifting wreckage of a starvessel, putting a name to the establishment, The Wasted Starwolf, while indicating the social stratum occupied by its habitues. The former was a nerve-despoiling mixture of coarse laughter, masculine and feminine, rattling serviceware, and unmelodic file-blaring which, after his many days and nights in the deep silence of the forest, managed to sound obscene.

Taking a deep breath, and regretting it, he steeled himself to push the swinging doors aside. The scene within The Wasted Starwolf was like a glimpse into some mythical repository of wicked souls---or a parody of Romanovan society. In the first place, it was dark. He could not, at first, make out a single human face, although, as his eyes adjusted, he observed that more light was available than he thought. Or desired. What made it seem so dark was a layer of smoke hanging at eye level. Voyaging through the galaxy, mankind had so far discovered a hundred thousand things to set alight and inhale. Eugene was conscious, as never before, that he was breathing air which, only moments earlier, filled the lungs of the revolting creatures all around him. Through the haze, backlighting it, fuzzy globes of lanterns hanging from the rafters shed what illumination had been provided. The place would have been better off---and brighter---had they never been strung. Wherever he turned, he stared into the corona of one or another of them, other details in the room washed out by what could only be called their dim glare.

The Wasted Starwolf was as crowded as the meshwalk outside. If possible, it smelled worse. In addition to the now almost friendly stenches of stagnant mud, animal poop, and decaying garbage he had endured, to his revolted nostrils came effluvia of two hundred unbathed bodies their physiologies---and resultant byproducts---altered by many kinds of smoke and drink, other drugs, an exotic mixture of foods. These last, with the vapor of many an upended beverage, added weight to the already overburdened atmosphere.

As his eyes adjusted, he looked around for the man with whom he had this meeting, despairing of success in a jungle of human forms. Although tricked out as a sailor's canteen, this far from the port the tavern's male clientele affected farmers' and herdsmen's attire, along with the uniforms of soldiers from the Holdings. (How he longed for the day, forever lost, when this had been no more than a sweet, rain-washed meadow!) The women he divided into 2 categories, those who worked here and those with the men, distinguishable by the amount of clothing they wore---those belonging to the place wore cheap imitations of Romanovan masks. At last he spied the one he was looking for, hunched at a small table close to the file-player, dressed in well-worn thiss huntsjack's leathers with a billed cap pulled over his eyes.

Eugene pushed his way through the crowd. "Well, by the Premier's septic sores, may they be fruitful and multiply, here I am."

"What is the password?" Adam grinned up from beneath the capbill, lowered his eyes again, and spoke to the dirty, drink-ringed tabletop. Eugene sat on the other chair, which threatened to dump him onto the floor before he reached down, straightened, and reseated a loose leg.

"How about 'I will break your pimply neck for you until you leave off playing children's games'?"

Across the table, Adam chuckled without looking up. He laid a hand upon his brother's forearm, felt the quickblade, and pulled his hands away. "I believe you mean it. You look the part of a woodsjack, trim, hard as graniplastic. But a rude life has coarsened your sensibilities, old fellow."

This time Eugene chuckled and began to relax. "It's coarsened a deal more, old fellow. Granting I ever had any. I have not slept in a bed in three months, nor had a hot bath in a week---though you could never tell it here---nor eaten since yesterday. I hate to be unsentimental about seeing my last remaining family member, but as soon as you have said what you have to say, I am for a bath, a meal, and a fortnight's sleep."

Adam shook his head. "The exigencies of history in the making. Let us have our council of war, after which you will be free to enjoy the fleshpots however you wish. I have grown rather to enjoy them, myself. It is not just your sensibilities which have been coarsened by current events. But would you care for something to drink? Vodka, Cloudnectar? Perhaps a beer?"

"That slop? I shall have a steaming glass of real coff, if they sell it."

Adam laughed. "I am informed that, on certain planets, consumed by certain species, it is a narcotic. Extremely illegal, therefore guaranteed available in The Wasted Starwolf. One moment, please---bartend!"

As a serving-wench in a dirty apron brought their drinks, they heard a tinny crash. The smoke-filtered light within The Wasted Starwolf did not flicker. Nor, save for the gong, did the noise rise or fall. Yet, within the tavern, the ambience changed as a flimsy curtain at the back was thrust aside and seven young girls in white, loose-fitting, high-necked garments, gathered at the wrists and ankles, issued past onto the stage, a mere hand's width above the filthy floor, and, unlike the building itself, constructed from metalloid mesh such as was to be found aboard starships.

The first girl turned to her right as she emerged, the second to her left. The 3rd joined the first, and the fourth the second, until all six stood, maybe two arms' lengths apart, in a well-formed row across the back. The seventh, and last, girl brushed past the curtain and appeared upon the stage without dramatic pause, without breaking the rhythm the previous six had established, a rhythm which existed, thus far, only in the minds of the men who watched, for, in the beginning, the girls had no accompanying music.

The seventh, too, dressed in white, one simple piece with voluminous sleeves and legs, cut from a fabric light in weight, yet not revealing. Nevertheless, Eugene observed---nor could he have avoided feeling---an increasing tension among the men as she took her place at the center of the stage, forward of the others. They had rolled their hair or wore it short. She had wrenched her own dark tresses into a thick hank, held by a ring and cascading from it to the small of her back, leaving her long, graceful neck exposed. In her left hand she carried a small, cylindrical bundle, black, some twelve or thirteen lines in length, half in that diameter.

In what now seemed like the darkness offstage, a drum began to thump at a pace just slower than the beating of a sleeping heart. Moving to the beat, the girl at center stage bowed upon a straightened leg, arms spread, hair sweeping in a circle until it touched the floor. She rose and lifted her empty hand, gracefully indicating the others to her right, by way of silent introduction. They bent at the waist before she pivoted upon her toe and indicated those upon her left, who also bowed, although whether to acknowledge their audience or their fellow performer, Eugene could not have attested.

The drum beat a trifle faster. Turning to her audience again, the girl held out the object she had with her for inspection. Before Eugene could tell what it was, she lifted her hand and poured its contents into her other hand. The cylinder had been a loose collection of thin nails or hair-needles, which gleamed and tinkled as they fell from one hand into the other. A low whisper, not quite a moan, swept through the audience. The drum beat faster. As before, the girl at center stage indicated the others who accompanied her. They, too, held bundles, smaller than hers, composed of fewer needlelike objects, which they transferred from hand to hand in glittering arcs.

Now the beat of the drum became like a waking heart, alert, not quite yet frightened. Imitated by those behind her, the girl separated a needle from the bundle and held it in one hand, high above her head. Looking upward at its gleaming point, she danced in place beneath it, turning about as if helpless to look away from it as Eugene was to look away from her. The needle plunged, driven by her hand. She ducked at the last instant. The point entered her flesh at the hinge of her jaw, below the ear. When she took her hand away, only the shining head stood out from her skin like a bauble fastened to her lobe. The audience erupted with sympathetic groaning and wild applause which rose, stage by stage, to an unbearable volume of whistling, cheering, and stomping as she turned, bowing to display the bloodless self-inflicted wound.

"A terpsipuncturist," Adam whispered, his breath moist upon the sharper consonants of the word, "from some backwater called Vladikhladny, and reputed to be a good one. Her apprentices are natives, I should think." Eugene made a swatting motion at his younger brother, as at a buzzing insect, his eyes riveted to the figure upon the stage, fascinated yet revolted by the spectacle before him.

With a graceful slide, the terpsipuncturist removed herself to one side as her apprentices danced beneath their own gleaming needles. One by one, perhaps as each found the courage, they plunged the cruel implements home, standing for a moment as if surprised they had survived, afterward bowing to the delighted audience and their mistress, who pointed an accusing finger and shouted. Eugene was aware of blood trickling down one girl's neck, a spreading stain in the white absorbent fabric at her shoulder. Sobbing, the bleeding girl covered her face with her hands as the other stepped away from her. She pulled the needle from her flesh and scurried through the curtain.

"We'll not see her again," Adam asserted before he could be prevented.

The drum beat faster as a reed flute began twining itself like a sinuous reptile into the rhythm. The ritual was repeated, the dance beneath the deadly-looking needle, the sudden plunge, the applause, the cheering. The girl had stabbed herself in the nape of the neck, the needle sinking full length into her satiny flesh without shedding one drop of blood. Each of her remaining apprentices imitated her until the last fell, thrashing in convulsions, victim to a misplaced needle in her spine, hauled off---amidst hooting and jeering from the heartless crowd---with the rough, unhappy stage assistance of the establishment's peacekeepers. The beat of the drums increased, backed by the eerie flute.

This time, the crowd burst into applause at the veteran dancer's daring even before she placed the needle. She did and stood back to give her four apprentices a chance. Imitating her mistress, the first placed a needle beside her eye, thrust, and, without a sound, pitched forward, dead. As she was being taken off, the terpsipuncturist waved the last three girls away, maybe for further instruction, and faced the audience alone.

The drumbeat tripled its pace, leaving the flute confused and far behind. Leaping upon tiptoes, the dancer spun, whirling from one side of the stage to another, plunging needle after glistening needle into herself. LIne by square line, the garment hiding her body yielded its secrets to her weird stitchery. As each bit was pinned to the girl's flesh, her voluptuous form emerged, to the enthusiasm of her audience, as the folds were tucked against her. No trace of blood could be seen; to be sure, the fabric would have shown it. As the music reached an ear-shattering peak, it was as if she danced unclothed before them. Eugene found himself unable to breathe. A glance at Adam caught him staring, gawking, although Eugene guessed he had seen this all before. The drum continuous and the flute running ahead, the terpsipuncturist slapped furiously at herself. Eugene cringed with each blow. She threw herself down and rolled around. Someone at a nearby table fainted. With the flute shrieking its last notes, she leaped up, snatched the needles out in handfuls, and flung them aloft. The drum stopped. The needles pinged and clattered upon the planks. She was gone.

Eugene thought the tavern might collapse around him as the men reacted, roaring, screaming, throwing food, beverage, articles of clothing, pounding tables, stomping their feet. Coins of a thousand planets clattered on the stage like hailstones on a corrugated roof. Noise dwindled and he turned to his brother, almost failing to recognize the flushed, hungry face panting back at him. "Goodness, we have grown a bit primitive recently, have we not?"

Adam's feral expression dissolved as he regained control and transformed it into a cynical sneer. "Are you referring to me, brother?"

Eugene sighed and looked around the room which had returned to whatever passed for normal. "I was making a more general observation, Adam. No personal slight intended. I must say, that was rather---impressive."

Adam's was not a pleasing expression. "Was it not, just? Well, I guess one must eventually get down to business, yes?204Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKvJ4NfPLsl
204Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeHe6qCZJWq
204Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCC3ZdmNcE1

204Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcY4MdI15uE
204Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡscF3lF0eYG
"My pan is simple, brother," Adam spoke in low tones, more beneath the noise of the tavern than above it, "to reduce the esteem in which Romanova holds Zaytseva, providing us a chance to replace the Usurper ourselves."

Eugene nodded. "It's a good plan---it always has been. And, whatever our failures might be, much has already been accomplished."

"Do you believe?" his brother asked, "that Romanova will accept a fait accompli?"

"I did not risk all to come and speak of generalities, Adam. We must, in what time we've got, exchange information and start covering contingencies."

"Sir, more respect." Adam made the protest with a crooked half smile. "You speak to the man about to marry the daughter of the Black Usurper!"

Eugene gave him a sour look. "Anxious to legitimize himself in the eyes of the populace. He thinks marrying her into the original ruling line will accomplish that." He paused, weighing his next words. "I fear this proposed marriage has produced mixed results. By some reckonings, Gernichian among them, betrothal to one's father's widow is incestuous. It has angered people."

"What can I do?" Adam spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "At the Holdings, I am barely more than the prisoner I was to start. Forget the adolescent cynicism I displayed before hard circumstances taught me better. Any damage my reputation suffers as a consequence of our connivance is a welcome sacrifice to the cause of ridding Genrich of the Black Usurper."

Eugene gave his brother a look of inspection. His brother looked back and grinned. "Then we are agreed. I shall continue sending what material aid I can, and meet with you whenever needful, having established a pattern of habituating disreputable places such as this. Meantime, let me tell you what I have managed to learn of the Usurper's plans."

They ordered another round, coff for Eugene, and settled to an account of Zaysteva's contact with the Scon, their desire for new stars. The silence existed only between the brothers, The Wasted Starwolf remained as noisy as before. As Eugene attempted to absorb what Adam told him, of a sudden the younger of the two seemed to change the subject. "Father may have had his reasons. Maybe he had wearied of a lifetime of politics and war..."

Eugene sighed and rubbed his palms over his eyes, which were surrounded by black pits. "A weariness I well understand."

An impatient expression crossed his younger brother's face. "Still in all, we Sorokins have made a great mistake, isolating ourselves from the rest of the galaxy, one we must remedy in the future if the family is to survive."

Eugene let his hands drop to the table. "For conversation's sake, how, at this late date, do you suggest we begin?"

"I have done. While you were among the mountains and forests, I studied our enemy and the landscape he moves in----that is a good deal more, brother, than our father knew of his friend Zaytseva." Eugene nodded, growing interested. "The first thing," Eugene offered, "is that, interminable and frequent as we know them to be, the Premier's wars consume soldiers in quantities unimaginable to us. And Cossacks, who do the bulk of the Premier's fighting, do not last long."

"So I have heard. And?"

"He whom we call 'Black Usurper' is called by another name within plush-paneled council chambers of the capital. 'The Premier's pimp.' This is how he rose to prominence, finding soldiers for the Premier. If he would maintain his position, he needs a supply of bodies. Genrich, which otherwise possesses nothing of unique value to Zaytseva, aside from the opportunity to revenge himself upon our father, is in an unparalleled legal position to preserve bodies.:"

Eugene shook his head in tired confusion. For him the freedom of Genrich, the preeminence of his family, and their reputation were primaries. This was new to him, that events here had broader meaning beyond the battle for this planet. He said nothing. Adam continued: "Now---and, I believe, unlooked-for by anyone on Romanova---Zaytseva has been promised these Sconese some device, drug, or process capable of enslaving an entire planet."

Eugene sat up straight. "What?!"

The younger brother nodded. "No more than I have said. It is his most beloved secret. Even exaggerated, it can only add to our misery. It not only offers to solve the imperium-conglomerate's manpower woes but to resolve the Thousand Years' War or any future conflict in the Cosmopolity's favor. Or, as I believe, in favor of a more powerful Zaytseva."

"Fantasy land, Adam! Such technology has no antecedent in Cos...."

"In a manner of speaking"----Adam chuckled--"you are right. Zaytseva's secret is no outgrowth of human scientific endeavor, which falls, these days, into greater and greater neglect. I suspect not one original invention has been made in any of the imperia-conglomerate for centuries." This was something Maria had made much of in the years she had been their teacher.

"So?"

"So I have come to believe in this promised power he looks forward to, for the very reason that it is non-human in origin."

Although he remained skeptical----his brother's logic was not the best----Eugene nodded. Human endeavor, in all respects, save those of brutalizing, robbing, or enslaving other beings, was upon the wane. Moreover, heretofore unheard-of sapients were hardly novel within the boundaries of the Cosmopolity. Some, brought home as living souvenirs from voyages of exploration, traded through hundreds of hands in dozens of systems until nobody might guess their origins, were known to appear in the capital and elsewhere, as carnival freaks, to enjoy dubious welcome as objects of curiosity and derision in the Droom, and later to become ordinary slaves, in the capital, upon subject planets, or on their own planets under Cosmopolitan "guardianship."

Some, the eerie "palkamen," the enigmatic onion-shaped qhokins, appeared from time to time on their own exploratory voyages. These visitors hailed from the powerful but unknown domains, bringing gifts to the Droom. A copious (if somewhat disorganized and mysterious) trade throve in odd artifacts and substances---even odder ideas had a way of showing up at unpredictable intervals---with more unknowns outside the poorly defined frontiers of the Cosmopolity. Sometimes outbound Romanovan starships vanished in stranger circumstances than was to be expected when swashbucklers roamed the Deep, a Thousand Years' War raged, and unknown reaches were being explored. For the most part, however, human culture seemed to be the most advanced in portions of the galaxy thus far explored. Those looking to others for secret powers or new technologies were more often disappointed than otherwise.

Eugene ignored the surroundings and his brother to think, hard when one was as weary as he felt. Adam was not sure what the Usurper had promised to pay for the alien technology. They guessed, knowing the man, that in the end someone else would be left to foot the bill. He was sure Zaytseva did not really possess it yet and would be anxious to test it. Both thought the test would be carried out upon Genrich, with the intention of impressing the precolonial population, since their rights as subjects of the Cosmopolity were---this was new to Eugene as anything Adam had to tell him---a matter of legal debate. The brothers and their allies would be fools not to seize their opportunity. If the technology were real, they had no choice.

Returning to the world outside his thoughts, Eugene settled down with his brother to forge a plan.

204Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxWuBPGDFfR

204Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXt5TOiesMH

204Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHXCyVUN0SV

ns 15.158.61.46da2

The Wasted Starwolf

REGISTER

LOGIN

Interface Language:

Story Language: