Yvan Dragomilov - A Diminutive Token of a Promise

Zaysteva broke contact with the alien "communicale" in a burst of effort which hurled him, and his chair, against the paneled wall.

For an unmeasured time he sat, ears ringing, chest heaving, clothing soaked with acrid perspiration stimulated by an intolerable heat he had imaged suffering. Having experienced, however briefly, existence---he could not think of it as "life"---within the seething heart of a sun, this quiet study about him now seemed swathed in arctic silence, thick as a blanket of midwinter snow. He found the sensation agreeable and it was a long while before he attempted more than sitting with his dazzle-blinded eyes shut, soaking in the stillness, letting white-hot memories of the Sconese radiate, as it seemed to him, out of his complaining tissues.

He took a final deep breath and opened his eyes. A timepiece built into his signet ring informed him six hours had passed. In a manner of speaking, he found himself alone. Veronica lay in the tumble of her skirts upon the floor beside the desk, insensible---"relaxed" was far too sentient a word---her face blanched, her eyes open, blank-white, the pupils rolled back into the sockets. She trembled, emitting an occasional whimper. A thin line of saliva trailed from one corner of her mouth across her pulsing throat. Her breathing was shallow. At some point over the last six hours, judging from the stain spreading through the fabric of her gown, she had soiled herself. To his dismay and consternation, Zaytseva discovered the same of himself, as well.

He had never been tolerant of frailty in others, yet in this moment, he came closer than he ever had---or ever would---to sympathetic understanding for another being. It was not a sensation he found comfortable. As with the horrifying after-images of the world of Larahram of Ohenedaat, he pressed it away from himself as soon as he found strength. Nonetheless, for these betrayals of weakness he could neither blame his daughter nor himself. He was shocked to have been left living and would not have been surprised if she remained in this shattered idiot state the rest of her life. He wondered---and was grateful---that he did not present the same humiliating spectacle.

In due course, Veronica shut her eyes. Her trembling stopped. As he watched, her natural color returned. The rise and fall of her breasts became even and vigorous. She seemed to drop, where she lay, into a normal, restful sleep which her father---demonstrating the fleeting remnants of an uncharacteristic kindness....refrained from disturbing.

Keeping his respiration deep and deliberate, Zaytseva examined the Sconese communicale with circumspection appropriate to a poisonous reptile. It sat upon the polished surface of the desk as if nothing bizarre had happened. He doubted whether sufficient incentive existed to induce him to touch it again in his lifetime. He felt fortunate that it would not be necessary.

Before the message had played to conclusion, the authorized Genius-Questioneer to the Ordinators of the nation-state Ohenedaat--rather the machine or program (Zaytseva was unsure which) speaking for Larahram---had added detail to its proposition, outlined the specific procedures. It seemed (he discovered that he could not abandon a reflexive caution in this matter) that nothing they desired of him was beyond the bounds of accomplishment for an individual of his influence and resources. He wanted---needed, what they had to offer him in exchange for what amounted to his services. Genrich was becoming an embarrassment to his wider ambitions offplanet. Furthermore, the creatures had somehow anticipated everything that he had ever dreamed----even in his wildest flights of megalomaniacal fancy---of possessing or achieving.

A noise interrupted his thoughts. Beside him, Veronica moaned and began to stir. Turning in his chair---how delighted he had been at the first sign of this renewed capacity, a token of his returning physical powers---Zaytseva reached down to his daughter, smoothed her hair, and, when she was ready, helped her to her feet. It constituted, he thought with satisfaction, an odd turnabout in the normal course of their relationship. She found a chair beside the desk and sat, not speaking, not even looking around, lost in the daze which he himself had been such a long time coming out of. At last, she spoke her first words. "I----I do not trust those monsters, Father!"

Zaytseva raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I find...." She hesitated. "I am at a lost to explain, Father. For some reason I do not understand, I find them vile and....loathsome." Again, she halted. Zaysteva remained quiet as she composed her thoughts. "Please, Father, you must listen! Promise me that you won't undertake a bargain with these entities! Whatever we gain from them over the short term, in my heart, I believe they will destroy us in the end!"

Astonished, he shook his head. It was the first he could recall her attempting to move him to do, or refrain from doing, anything. She had beheld---and accomplished---far worse in her short, eventful life, yet she was at a visceral level beyond reach of conscious alteration, disgusted by the Scon, as he became convinced after further discussion, experimental upon his part, emotional upon hers. It was a case of prejudice at first sight, akin to, though of greater magnitude, interspecies culture-shock, not unheard of in a galaxy populated by thousands of sentient species. He himself experienced no such trepidation. Whatever else he might have been, the Black Usurper never suffered the sickness of bigotry. Since earliest childhood, it had been his way to assess everyone upon a basis of strict equality, in cold, pragmatic terms, of the potential benefit they brought (or could bring) to his ambitions. He had never looked for such a sickness to infect Veronica, upon whose keen, and, in the main, self-interested judgment he relied. She would be a poor advisor in this affair, as she would no doubt prove in a related undertaking which, in the unceasing nether reaches of his mind, he presently contemplated.

Zaysteva sighed. "Go tidy yourself up, beloved. You are an unpleasant sight."

Her eyes glazed a moment under the onslaught of conditioning to which she had been subjected since infanthood, a vocal stimulus that compelled obedience.

"Yes, Father." She arose, steady on her feet---a degree of bodily certainty being a benefit of working someone else's will---and started for the door to the outer office.

"No," Zaytseva commanded. Halfway to the door, Veronica stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall. "Do not bother going all the way up to your suite, my dear," her father told her.

He was accustomed, from a certain measure of prudence, to employ command-cues with a sparing economy. They were, in fact, no longer needed. The girl had been imbued not only with compliance, but with as wholehearted an enthusiasm to see her father's least desires (or his greatest, for that matter) translated into accomplished fact, as if they were her own. Which, by now, of course, was what they had become. She turned---calmly herself once again, fears and prejudices washed away, at least for the time being, by her father's indomitable will---and raised a single inquiring eyebrow, a genetically transmitted knack they shared.

"Use the small facility behind that panel," Zaytseva continued "for we have an urgent need of haste. I shall ring for staff to fetch a clean dress for you. Meantime, it will please me greatly if you make of yourself the irresistibly attractive creature you always are." Veronica dimpled and curtsied. He was relieved at the transformation he had wrought in her. "When you have done, and I making my own use of the facilities, I want you to find Adam, personally, and bring him her to me. And that servant, what was her name, the tutor, Maria Petrovka?"

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Order being restored to the persons of Zaytseva and Veronica, tea was laid out by a house-servant, although none among the four people present had touched it as yet, upon a small, wheeled table beside the desk. All was as it should be within the paneled walls of the study which had once belonged to Eugene Sorokin.

Conversation began casually---news from Romanova, the weather, increasing trouble with Deep-bandits, the crops, details of operating a great household---in which both Adam, a probationary member, and Maria, through some default, were encouraged to take part as if the Oligarchy had not changed hands. At Zaytseva's request, Maria rose and having poured, passed the fragile cups and saucers around, afterward sharing with the others a tray of crustless sandwiches and crumbly tidbits from the ovens. As Maria stood, tray in hand, the conversation took a foreboding turn.

"Adam, my daughter this morning expressed her regret that your brother Eugene, whom she regards as rather silly, continues his compulsion to obstruct her father's reforms upon this planet." Zaytseva turned to Veronica. "Did I properly state your point of view, beloved?"

Had anyone thought to look up, he might have observed the rigid posture in which Maria held herself, the way her freckles stood against a paler countenance than was about to be the case a moment earlier. Something of significance was about to take place in the little room. She was scared to predict, even to herself, what it might be.

In the esteem of father and daughter, she knew, Eugene represented no more than an inferior imitation of his sire. They were infuriated more at the presumption represented by his continuing resistance, than at any of his manifold transgressions. The Black Usurper stayed confident that Eugene might be overcome, if not by more numerous and superior arms, then in good time, at the right chance, by simple cunning, just like his father.

Veronica seemed to blush and not quite stammer embarrassed affirmation. The intonation of command has not been employed. As a consequence, her response was spontaneous. These were her feelings, however childish the terms in which they had been rendered. They included, as he calculated they would, a degree of awkwardness at having been asked this question in the presence of the son and daughter-in-law-by-betrothal of her own dead husband, whom she had helped betray. Enjoying the returning muscle and sensation which allowed a broad, expressive gesture, Zaytseva spread his arms and gave forth with a hearty laugh, inviting all within hearing to share his viewpoint.

"You see, Adam my boy, how it is with us. We have grave problems on Genrich and enormous responsibilities to the Premier Murad. Powerful individuals, factionalists without our interest foremost in their hearts, are watching, judging how we prosper, waiting for us to make mistakes by which they might derive some benefit." Zaytseva astonished the middle Sorokin brother---and horrified Maria---by winking at him. "Always it is politics," the man complained jovially, as one sophisticate to another. "As a consequence, Adam, in an effort to lighten our burden, transfer our energies and attentions where they are surely needed, I have decided to promise you not just the amnesty you have earned, and which is due you, but a full official pardon, in exchange for a demonstrated willingness on your part to share some of those responsibilities and help us solve our problems."

Adam shut his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out slowly. Maria felt her body tense up again. She would never have expected to find herself hanging upon the reply of this particular individual. Silence filled the room. "You ask," his next words were as deliberate as he could make them, "my cooperation in quelling the rebellion my brother leads."

Zaytseva nodded. "We shan't mince words. Believe me, your reward will be commensurate. To name one example, my lovely daughter already has her eye upon you. Didn't you know that, boy? It would not be a bad thing, politically or otherwise, if, at some future time, our families reunited in some manner other than a protracted struggle to the death." If Zaytseva awaited some word or gesture from Adam, he didn't get it. "You wish firmer assurances from me, before committing yourself? I can barely blame you. I should want them myself, in your place. Or maybe you wish a more timely and tangible gesture of good faith between us, a down payment, if you like. A diminutive token of a promise. Very well, then. I would be as open with you as I can be.

Straightening in his chair, he cleared his throat and proceeded to tell Adam the substance of his message from Larahram of Ohenedaat.

"In due time," Zaytseva concluded, "with suitable precautions against freezing to death (or whatever happens), toasting us, or being taken by Yvan Dragomilov and his peg-tentacled crew, our friend Larahram proposes to visit us in person---we cannot say 'in the flesh'---here on Genrich."

Adam sat back in dumb astonishment, not so much at the message---it was a wide, wondrous universe in which many bizarre things had proven possible---as the fact that Zaytseva had seen fit to tell him of it. Had he wormed his way this far into the man's confidence, or, as seemed more probable, was this some elaborate test? Adam realized that for his own reasons, he was desperate to discover what the---how were they called, Scon?---had to offer.

Zaytseva favored him with a self-satisfied smile. "I spoke of two families reunited, two great families, each after its fashion, yours newly-elevated by your late father's valor in the Premier's service. Whatever his later failings, he was a warrior of prowess and daring, which run in your line as inheritable trait, judging from the surprising resistance you and your brothers mounted against us---" He raised a hand to stay interruption. "Pray do not demur my praise! Let understanding exist, even here. I never believed it was cowardice which brought you back to the Holdings. Rather, your loving concern for the welfare of the Genrichian people conceived some scheme among the three of you---do not bother to deny it, for you have won my admiration thereby---for subverting our rule, of which your part, dissimulation of surrender, required the greatest steadfastness of heart."

Zaytseva reached for Veronica's hand. "Ours, in contrast, is a family steeped in ancient and sophisticated tradition. My daughter, I'll have you know, is a sensitive, intelligent girl of fine breeding, augmented by an education obtained at the center of the greatest civilization humanity has ever produced." He smiled up at the girl. "Whereas you, Adam, well, I intend no insult. Let's say that opportunities you might otherwise have enjoyed were denied you by circumstances of birth and upbringing. Let me hasten to add that it's nothing that can't be overcome, with the right assistance, through personal application and the passage of enough time."

Listening horrified, Maria just now became aware that she had remained standing all this time with the sandwich tray in her hand. Nor did she move as Zaytseva's calm, reptilian gaze flickered across her. He grinned at Adam. "I even suspect, with no offense intended, that certain of your aptitudes---except maybe with the occasional help of some clumsy, overwilling peasant wench---have been neglected. I refer to those relating to----how should I say it?" Again, his eyes fell upon Maria. "Yes! Yes: here is a young woman without respectable or undeniable connection to either of our four families, too well educated to be wasted as a servant, yet for whom we can find no other use."

Adam turned to look at Maria with an odd, tentative expression. Never realizing it, she paled another shade and took a step backward."

"Her status among us," Zaytseva continued, is awkward. Even more so if by marriage she could be considered Genrichian. Those who preceded Romanova to this planet, having for centuries resisted our dominance, never having sworn allegiance to the Cosmopolity, cannot lay claim to any recognition of their existence, let along legal rights." Maria took another step backwards. If Zaytseva noticed, he showed no sign. "On the contrary, if she is subject to the Cosmopolity, given her obvious sympathies, she has betrayed loyalties which, by virtue of the circumstances of her birth, it was her solemn obligation to observe. She is, after all, betrothed to a traitor, himself the son of a traitor. Though we remain unsure, at present, whether she is legally married to him under any jurisprudence. The people call her his 'unwedded wife.'"

This time, when the Usurper cast his gaze upon her, she was left no room to doubt it. "There is less confusion here than meets the eye. I might have used the expression 'proven sympathies.' She was observed this morning receiving unauthorized communication from the outlaw leader himself. This, and the fact I have read the missive in question, settles her status and seals her fate." Another step backward. Maria felt her heel hit the baseboard of a wall. Zaytseva was relentless. "Her life is forfeit. No longer does she belong to herself----if anyone can ever claim to belong to themselves---but to the Cosmopolity of Romanova, a kind of ultimate fine levied, if you will, by Premier Murad IIXI through his lawful representative. She is the property of the imperium-conglomerate, to us, under our authority, or cast aside, as we find helpful in performing out appointed tasks on this unruly globe."

He reached for a control beneath the desk edge. The crackle of a fiber-guided lasercom which of late linked this room with the administrative office which had been the library preceded an interrogative noise. Zaysteva raised his voice, assuring that all, within and without, might hear and obey. "Mistress Maria Petrovka is to be confined to the tower room whose isolation she seems to find amenable. A new lock is to be fitted upon its door immediately. When this is accomplished, send someone for her. Meanwhile, keep the doors to this room under watch." He released the switch and lowered his voice. "In her way, Adam, having been educated in the capital, I gather Mistress Maria shares traits in common with my daughter. You shall be given the only keyfile to that lock. Consider her body a gift from me. Overcome her reluctance by any means you find efficacious and diverting. Keep her as long as you want. Make what use of her amuses you. Dispose of her afterward, as you will."

Adam gulped, looking from Zaytseva, to Maria, to a grinning Veronica. Maria dropped the tray, shut her eyes, yet remained upon her feet.

"And mark my words," Zaytseva admonished him, "much that you might observe in the handling of this young lady, my own daughter may thank you for having learned." A knock came upon the door. "Is my meaning clear? See that you enjoy yourself. We shall speak more about your future before long."

Having said that, he turned his chair, servos whining, wheeled it round the desk and out of the room, to speak with the guards he'd sent for, leaving Adam with the two young women, one of whom was now his personal property. A long moment of silence ensued.

"A handsome gift." Veronica's smile was sweet. Rising, taking the chair next to him, she laid a soft hand upon his arm. Her voice was level but loud enough for Maria to hear. "My father was always a generous man. If you are generous as well, Adam, you will consider loaning your new toy to me from time to time. I need my pleasure, after all. Later, we can play with her together."

Veronica laughed.

Adam gulped.

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A Diminutive Token of a Promise

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