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Ruslan Yozhov-Zykin was scared as hell.
Night bristled with a billion needlepoints of cruel brilliance. Within the nebula enveloping Tzitzeron-Ovidu, one might expect the blazing splendor of the great curve-spoked wheel which was the galaxy to be subdued. Yet adrift in the belly of the Deep, Yozhov-Zykin, captain of the Red October, a Romanovan navigator of nine projectibles, had never seen a sky crawl with such multicolored glittering. The knowledge that not a thousandth, nor even a millionth, of the scintillating razor-chips about him, were suns, but mundane, palpable, dangerous objects ranging from swift particles of frozen gas to tumbling continent-sized asteroids, reflecting the dazzling radiance of their primary, failed to diminish the horrible glory of the vision.
The vessel he departed having been secured for freefall like his own, Yozhov-Zykin seized a lubberline belayed parallel to the flexible watering main attached to the thirsty starship and launched himself back towards the glare-bright surfaces of Lusin, sparing a glance for the belligerent-looking deepfighter floating nearby. The Novaya Zemlya, he remembered, under command of a Captain Plaksin-Bolatki, boasted an impressive fifty-seven projectibles. She was half again as big as the vessel he was leaving or his own, their hulls a mere thirty lines in diameter.
It was not his habit to authorize liberty for crewbeings at a stopover. He feared losing them to the pressgangs of other captains. Nor would he ordinarily visit such a body himself. Yet no alternative had been offered him. Although he was weeks away from those wielding power greater than a captain's tiny authority----those threatening to convert his body into that of a mewling cripple, leaving his mind intact to appreciate the absurdity of it---never did he doubt their ability to reach across the lightyears and grasp him as they wished. What made the affair more ominous, in a manner that he could not put a finger on, was that all they demanded was delivery of a message to one whose name lately promised to become better known than that of any Premier, the notorious Deep-raider, Yvan Dragomilov. Having been a signal officer, Yozhov-Zykin had thought it most discreet to see to it himself, balancing the tube on his shoulder like the ancient weapon it resembled, centering the notorious vessel in its sights.
Compliments of Ruslan Yozhov-Zykin, Master and Owner-in-Command navigator Red October, to Captain Yvan Dragomilov. Request permission to come aboard, the purpose of delivering a message from Romanova. Await reply.
Curiosity was no more habitual with Yozhov-Zykin than granting liberty or taking risks. He was one among many who never wondered why starships of a million planets sometimes took names from a planet only historians remembered. He never wondered why those power-wielders had threatened to destroy him, nor questioned any right they had to do so. He was anxious to know one thing: how soon it would be over. Perched like a bird on the taffrail of his quarterdeck, a leg twisted into the ratlines, the lasercom rendered clumsy upon his shoulder by lack of gravity, he had not been required to wait long. Modulated waves of infrared had flashed back over the intervening versts as soon as he had finished his own:
Yvan Dragomilov, Master of deperado Scopa to Captain Yozhov-Zykin. Advise means of arrival, as will save embarrassment all around.
The purge-field being powered down and the upper decks exposed to the Deep, he had already dressed himself up in one of the few vacuum suits his starship carried, this being but the second time in his career he'd done so. Now he took up a hand-held device resembling a hybrid of beer-stein and dowsing-fork, an annihilator which converted water into superheated steam, aligned its crosshairs with the wheels and valves at the asteroid end of the waterline stretching from his own ship, and closed his fist on the grip, thumbing the button trigger. Had he been more experienced, he might have chanced thrusting himself across the gap between navigator and desperado, but he was a cautious man, aware of his limitations, and thought it best to follow the waterline down to Lusin, thence upward to the Scopa.
He was disappointed to observe, as he remembered being upon two previous occasions, that the jets thrusting backward at outspreading angles could not be seen. He was beyond them before they cooled into clouds of ice crystals. An ironic corner of his mind reflected that once lured slowly surfaceward by the asteroid's minute pull the water would be sold back to him a decade hence. Still, the jets performed the task of taking him in the direction he wanted to go in.
Before he knew it, ulsic squawked a warning predicated on feelers of invisible light. He flipped a lever so that the jets thrust forward, breaking his velocity before he could hurt himself on the surface of the asteroid. As the ice boulder swam before his eyes, he caught himself entering a state of hyperventilation. Panic-stricken reference to ulsic patches on one sleeve of his suit told him his oxygen supply was not to blame for the roaring in his ears of the sweat-trickle crawling along his ribs. He was familiar with this particular malfunction, although he saw it by another name.
What he feared was Yvan Dragomilov's reputation. The man (was he a man or some alien monster with a human alias?) was something of a legend. Yet Yozhov-Zykin's informants had assured him that, long out of touch with events on his home planet---ring-wrapped, mountainous, forest-covered Genrich---he'd be eager to learn about the upheavals taking place there. Yozhov-Zykin's task was just to describe those changes, tell the truth about them. Why should that be so bladed difficult? The only possible answer lay in a direction into which the captain's curiosity didn't extend. Truth always represented unaccustomed difficulty in a culture built on a foundation of euphemism, this being but another euphemism for a shorter, better word.
Some were more straightforward. The warning in Yvan Dragomilov's reply was no exagerration. Yozhov-Zykin was searched where Scopa's waterlines connected at the planetoid---he was not deprived of his quickblade---halfway along the line, and again upon reaching the end, which entered the vessel not at the repulsorlift, as with his own ship, but at a boatdeck airlock. "If not weapons," he asked the officer at the lock, once he'd taken off his helmet and the amenities were observed, "what were your men looking for?"
Scopa presented a disconcerting spectacle. But only a converted one-decker herself (the phrase less descriptive than it might have been, referred to the number of gundecks a vessel boasted), she was no bigger than his nine-weaponed Red October. Yet features of her hull were indicative of the four-decked titans whose potency was the very backbone of the imperia-conglomerate. Taking chasers into account, Yozhov-Zykin's first estimate of her strength was 46 until he noticed that the 9-per-deck "rule" had been broken. Scopa carried 12 per deck (with full-sized projectibles remounted as chasers) and twice the number of expected auxiliaries, also (without precedent) well-armed.
The giant first officer grinned down at him. "Surprises." Without further explanation, they ascended the ladderwell and crossed the airless, unpopulated maindeck to what he assumed were the quarters of Yvan Dragomilov.
At first, Yozhov-Zykin wondered where the captain was. His curiosity extended that far. Within jury-airlocked doors, 2 plump women seated from him and the officer at a heavy kitchen-style table, hurrying back with drinks in freefall sacks with sipping tubes and a covered plate of pastries. They were assisted by a youngster whom the navigator captain took to be a son to one of them or maybe a cabin boy, until, refreshment having been served, he floated into a chair of his own and tugged its strap across his lap.
"Welcome, Captain," the boy nodded. "You have met Mr. Putin, my first officer. These are his goodwives, Anna and Alice---did you see that bladed darkvenger heave to out there, Putin?---my signal officer tells me you have brought a message from Genrich. From whom, may I ask?"
Yozhov-Zykin was grateful to the blue-eyed, sandy-haired child of maybe 13 years, judging by the standard of his own world. This speech had given him time to regain control of his jaw, which had dropped open. The effort was made more difficult by the entrance, from the maindeck, of a species of alien he had never seen before, a limbless slab of scarlet and ivory. It folded itself on the floor at the young captain's feet, to the obvious discontent of the women, making Yozhov-Zykin unsure whether it was a person or a pet. "Captain Dragomilov..."
"Commodore Dragomilov," Putin interrupted. "The darkvenger hanging out there belongs to him and he has a sizeable fleet insystem. Not being one to stand upon ceremony, he doesn't insist on being called 'Admiral,' though he might."
"Er....Com..."
Yvan Dragomilov threw back his head and laughed. "'Captain' will do, sir. Putin will not permit me to call him by that honorific, though if commodore I am, he should accept. You have stumbled into a jocular old controversy between us. By whatever title, I am anxious to receive your message."
Yozhov-Zykin cleared his throat. "I regret to say, sir, that it is not a pleasant one to be entrusted to deliver. It comes from one who describes herself as a friend, a Mistress Petrovka."
"Maria?!"
The captain closed his eyes a moment for the sake of memory and opened them again. "Through Lida Khabalova, Mistress Petrovka's aide, from whom I have firsthand. Mistress Petrovka bids me to first inform you her deduction as to who---whom?----the infamous Yvan Dragomilov truly is."
"An impressive intellectual leap, wouldn't you say, Mr. Putin?"
Putin appeared, he observed, more wary than impressed. With a nervous glance at the alien, he took a breath. "It gives me no pleasure to inform you, as requested, that Eugene Sorokin fils, 'by right Oligarch-Hereditary of Sorokin,' is dead, having been captured in battle and died afterward under questioning." The boy's face was impassive as if he had not heard these terrible words. At his feet, where, in absence of gravity, it had curled itself about a table leg, the alien stiffened as if it understood. "Lacking other reasonable choices, Mistress Petrovka was compelled to entrust this message with the captain of the first passing vessel---me."
What Yozhov-Zykin could not say---must not, upon pain to horrible to conceive---was that having met the rebel girl at Elizavetaburg, he'd been captured lifting to his ship. Being a fellow of fragile sensibility, not able to abide by the idea of torture let alone its actuality, all that was needed to learn what he knew was to describe the implements to be used upon him (he had never even seen them) did he cooperate. Thus, Maria Petrovka's message had fallen into 2 successive sets of wrong hands.
The first were those of Adam Sorokin, the surviving son of the attained elder Eugene and apparent successor, to whom, he observed, this boy bore more than a slight resemblance. Adam had questioned the Red October's captain hard before handing him over to the Premier's deputy on Genrich. Little wonder, he thought now, if in this manner Adam had learned that his younger brother---was the name Zakh?---was not only still alive but had become Yvan Dragomilov.
"From within the confines of the..."
"The Holdings," offered Yvan Dragomilov, "our name for the Sorokin estate."
"Thank you, sir....in her words, the Black Usurper's headquarters, Mistress Petrovka has taken command of the woodsjacks in the name of her late---I was warned to be exact: 'unwedded husband'---to renew the rising against the usurpation. If I may be so bold, intelligently and capably, judging by the esteem in which the lady is held everywhere, not the least by her adjutant, Mistress Khabalova." He wondered whether the boy knew of rumors that she had lost her "unwedded husband" to the girl before his death, whereupon she herself had become mistress to the younger brother. A barbaric lot, these colonials! His message delivered, the captain of the Red October lingered no more in the presence of the boy, his first officer, the two women, or their living throw-rug than he must before excusing himself.259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡucACcW4TxU
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Careful not to injure herself, Tris arose (no shortage of handholds being provided in the cabin for those occasions when the vessel was without gravity, although they had been inconspicuous before now) to wash and dress. If she did as she planned, she might not soon have the luxury again, although the bag into which the shower curtain folded was less pleasant than the tub.
A locker held Yvan Dragomilov's vacuum suit (this ship had more things than she'd ever heard of) with a checklist and means of cinching it to smaller forms than it had been intended for. Beside it hung a maneuvering engine. To her surprise, the suit smelled fresh as she crawled into it as if he made a regular practice of having it cleaned. Why should that shock her? Last night, after he had awakened and they had---well, in any case, he had not seemed at all dirty or unpleasant as she had always imagined even ordinary starsailors must. Afterward, before they began again to---anyway, he had taken the trouble to bathe, apologizing over what he had claimed was the grime of three days' labor, although he must have bathed at intervals, even aboard the darkvenger.
The last thing she took was the weapon he'd given her, feeling guilty as she tucked it into a pocket. Hating herself for resolution, she opened the trap in the cabin floor which led to the boatdeck and made good her escape, even while Putin was leading Yozhov-Zykin to meet Yvan Dragomilov. Taking a risk she did not altogether appreciate, she hung outside the unguarded airlock, aimed at the closest vessel, and thumbed a button. A trail of glittering crystals marked her path towards Red October.259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwYiZFyipcY
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Yozhov-Zykin did not hear the conversation between Putin and Yvan Dragomilov as it continued for a while after he'd taken his leave.
"My sister-out-of-law is tough, Mr. Putin. Even I am shocked. She has not only survived, but she has also kept things going, maybe as a kind of relief from her personal suffering, when everyone else was ready to give up. I must also with surprise, give Adam credit. I did not believe he had it in him. With Maria's collusion, as we planned long ago, he pretends cooperation with the Black Usurper. He even helps plan a trap for Yvan Dragomilov."
"Might an old starsailor ask what you propose to do about all this?"
"Belay the humility, Putin. Obviously such a message couldn't get offplanet without Zaytseva's cooperation. Yozhov-Zykin must have been caught, yet he is clearly healthy. Thus he has been bribed or threatened..."
"Or both."
"And sent upon his way with word meant to lure Yvan Dragomilov home."
"Might an old starsailor ask..."
"No, an old starsailor may not ask! We shall lay over, though I regret the wasted time, for repairs and supplies, as well as desperate thinking. I shall make arrangements, including an unsuspected visit to the darkvenger lying out there, let her master lecture me again about the Desperados' Council, and set sail for home."
Beneath the table, the sleemov stirred and flowed up to the seat of a chair. Anna was out of the room. Alice glared until it made a sad, whiffing noise that altered her expression. Tentatively, she offered it a bit of the sweet dough, which it accepted and absorbed contentedly. She shook her head and went back to work, a faint smile upcurving the corners of her mouth.
"To the dismay," Putin argued, "of a crew who could profit from a rest."
"I shall promise greater profit, Mr. Putin. A chance for different gains than they have had before. I promise you, they will accept. Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall go to see whether Tr---Mistress Trezleniya-Silvertou---has awakened."
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Tris's doubts did not desist, even as she was handed aboard the Red October. Crewbeings at the airlock responded more to her manner and accent than any surety she had to offer---she had brought some jewelry with her---for her passage. Shown the purser's cabin, she awaited the return of the captain. No doubt remained upon one matter: she harbored other feelings----towards what had been done to her, the way she had responded, and the young man who had done it---than propriety expected. It was her relentless regard for truth---for the presence of which within her only she was responsible---that finally saved her from further indecision. It had occurred to her, during the drifting passage between ships, filled with the sound of her own breathing, that she was desired---if so mild an expression served---by Yvan Dragomilov, for herself alone. For her person, her hands, her mouth, her ability to gratify, increasing through the night as his to gratify her had increased. Perhaps even for her mind and heart which had fought him while they surrendered. Not for any leverage, she might bring to some scheme she was hatching.
The navigator was been readied for the next phase of its journey, which she had been told was to Romanova, small coincidence, given Cosmopolitan trade routes and colonial laws. As she waited in her purloined vacuum suit, its helmet resting upon her breasts, in the office serving as an anteroom to the captain's, she had found she had failed, even now, to escape from her dilemma. Knowing she loved Yvan Dragomilov, she was unable to determine what to do about it. A thumping from the next room brought her out of her reverie.259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwNvsU7OacL
"Back at last," came a voice, " a free man. They cast our lines off. We sail within the hour. Help me with this boot, will you, Gregory?"259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOeGK5fT821
"Yessir. We've got a passenger, a wealthy one, though temporarily down on her luck."259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡizBXepNMC9
"The Premier you say! By all means, find her quarters. We shall see to her further comfort once we're underway! By the Premier's dirty underwear, we could use a change of luck ourselves, eh, Gregory?"
"Sir?"
"A trap is being laid, a nasty, clever trap for a man---more like a boy---whom I ought, by all I live, to detest, by enemies including his own family! I tell you, the sooner we're away from this bally nebula, and able to forget Genrich in the process, the better I will like it!"
"As you say, sir."
"I wouldn't burden you, Gregory, but do you guess what that weasel---you know what a weasel is---Adam Sorokin, reserved for a parting blade as we took leave of his accursed planet? He asked me, a starship captain, to kill Yvan Dragomilov if I got a chance. 'Do I look like a mercenary to you?' I told him."259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡau8AQ0v2cb
Astonishment and outrage for Yvan Dragomilov's sake rang through Tris's being as she unstrapped herself, arose from the straight-backed chair she had been sitting on, and pushed herself across the room towards the adjoining quarters. She didn't bother to knock.
"Captain---do forgive me, for I am ignorant of your name---you must take me to the Scopa!" Despite the confusion which earlier had troubled her, she faced no difficulty now, dumbfounded as she was by the manner in which her moral universe had been inverted. Proper behavior consisted of staying silent, leaving her erstwhile captor to whatever fate authority decreed. Yet her one determination was to find some way of warning the man she had begun to love.
Seated, half out of his suit and rubbing bootstore feet, the man looked up at her standing in the doorway. "
"Ruslan Yozhov-Zykin, Mistress, at your service. Ready to convey you to Romanova, per your request. I am afraid many reasons exist why I cannot comply with your immediate request, not all of them concerned with the preservation of my own skin."
"You do not make yourself clear, sir."
"Surely you jest. You see, Mistress----but, I do not know your name, either, do I ? How awkward. In any case, it is too late. I am afraid the infamous and dreaded desperado Scopa has just cast off, just as we will shortly be doing, raised starsail and departed."
