Yvan Dragomilov - At Lunch with Veronica

Amnesty.

Clutching the ultra-vital document behind his back---rolled into scroll form and bedecked with elaborate seals and ribbons----Adam was content. For the moment. A degree of loneliness accompanied his satisfaction, no one being present to whom he might have declared the latter. No more nor less unused to speaking his feelings than any in this age of dissimulation, still, upon his part, it would have been a remarkable declaration, coming from one who normally felt he had so much justification for discontent.

He gazed through the many-paned windows of what had been the library, now the anteroom of Oligarch-Pro Tempe Zaytseva's office suite. What he saw beyond----in recent memory a grassy meadow surrounding the Holdings where peasants had stooped to gather lawn-herbs---had undergone a striking change over the past few months. At this edge now lay a sinuous, low fortification, festooned with ripmesh, manned by Cossacks standing at tireless attention, quickblades ever at the ready.

As usual, when he looked on the grotesque warriors, he wondered what had befallen his brother Zakh, whether his death had been merciful. It would be possible, he realized, given the jokes an ironic universe delighted in playing upon mortals, that his brother had met his fate at the hands of a brigand who bore the same name as the boy's beloved mentor. One heard more about the notorious Yvan Dragomilov as time passed, and desired to hear less.

Beyond the fortification, clusters of ugly, boxy fabrications, not unlike those at the starport, gridded by raw streets, comprised a town still under construction for offworld conscriptees and retainers, pressganged Genrichian workers, along with a big number of volunteers and their families eager to earn Genrichian currency and eagerer to spend it---too great a host to be quartered within the Holdings, even had this not represented the worst sort of security risk.

What the locals must think of the foreigners, he had no way of imagining. Both were, in their own way, victims of the imperium-conglomerate and its minions upon Genrich and elsewhere. Yet, if Adam had been taught to extrapolate from history, they were unlikely to sympathize with each other upon that account. Pressed by lifelong unavoidable adversity----inflicted upon fifty generations trained like domestic animals to identify the source as beneficial---they would, with minimal excuse, visit the consequences of that millennium of pain and frustration upon each other.

Wood and charcoal smoke wafted upward, mingling with the dust and noise of the as-yet unpaved thoroughfares, most of it from cookfires, as other energy necessities were provided for from the estate's collectors. It was, Adam thought, a peculiarly volatile situation, which Zaytseva--as he, himself, would not have done----had made, arguing that the populations regulated each other. It was claimed that, after sundown, even Cossacks could not travel without fear of molestation through the rutted, ring-lit, often muddy streets. Maybe Zaysteva knew what he was doing. Adam strove to learn from him, supplementing his studies elsewhere. Much waited to be found within the vague borders of the new town, towards which end he mustered courage with what rapidity he might. The offworlders had imported exotic tastes in food, liquor, a myriad of vices. Above all, it was rumored, they had brought women who knew secrets in the arts of twining flesh which a country bumpkin, in essence if not by design, might never dream of. All in all, the changes of the past few months, manifold and drastic though they be, suited him.

Adam turned---phantom caresses of a warmth unwelcome at the moment brushed across hs cheeks and down his neck, trickling through his body to his loins, weakening his knees---and faced into the room. Some things never changed, not in ten thousand years. At a field secretary nearby, all hinges and mottled gray-green fabric as foreign to the splendid room it invaded as an insect upon a birthday cake, a smartbrush-wielding clerk produced file after docufile. A small fire burned in the grate, as it had at all times of the year since he had been a boy. Bodily sensations again under control, Adam turned back to the window.

That he lived at all, he knew, was entirely to Zaytseva's credit. Yet he had applications in mind for what he had thus far learned---of which Zaytseva likeliest would not have approved---and the time, Adam thought, was coming when he might start. It was, he reflected, a matter of hands. Into his hands he had this morning received from the hands of one he must never think of as the Black Usurper, his long-promised pardon, barcoded in the exquisite hand of Premier Murad IIXI himself and delivered by the hands of the master of the latest vessel to arrive, somewhat worse for the wear, at the starport on the equator. The document ended his probation, permitting him to set his own hands to the fulfillment of his plans.

Having been assured, some months ago, of achieving the amnesty he'd sought with his surrender and paid for with his freedom, he had undertaken frequent expeditions into the growing townlet to minimize what it had cost of his reputation, encouraging an impression (true, to an extent) that, rather than siding with the enemy, he was a hostage in his family's name against the good behavior of a world. He had let slip hints that deeper works of retribution were under way. Upon either account, he was therefore not to be held responsible (and, indeed, was not in the Genrichian quarter) for atrocities the Usurper's legions committed against the local population.

Officially, he denied---as might be expected of anyone in his position, even by the most sanguine intransigents---any part in his brother's rebellion. This device was winked at as a needed deception---pretending to sophistication they did not, in his estimate, possess, Genrichians told themselves, as Adam had believed they might, that, here in the Holdings, he seemed to be accomplishing more in pursuit of their cause than Eugene in the field---while at the same time, it integrated him with Zaytseva. A delicate, dangerous task, remaining in the middle thus, but one to which Adam, agreeing with his brothers, felt himself suited.

Of late he had assumed additional risk by offering the Black--Oligarch-Pro Tempe, he reminded himself, Aidos Zaytseva---advice which, given his knowledge of Genrich and its people, would produce short-term gains for Genrich, strengthening his own position, while in the long run weakening Zaytseva's hold on the planet. Adam and Eugene had been educated in the same school, by the same teacher. (Again, the ghostly fingers, the tightened breathing, the tingling in his loins.) Each of the brothers knew well, in schoolroom theory and, of late, in more established practice, the objective of any guerilla---

"Good morning, Adam Sorokin!" His ruminations were interrupted by a feminine voice and the rustling of velvet, coming from the doorway. He turned, noticing that the clerk had disappeared, in all likelihood for the midday meal, and watched as Zaytseva's daughter entered the room.

"Good morning, Veronica."

The girl smiled, acknowledging without words that they were alone. "Rather good afternoon, or very nearly. Have you taken lunch yet?"

"Why, no, Veronica." The words were delivered in a squeak. Adam was obliged to clear his throat. "I was conferring with your father until a few minutes ago and had not given thought to eating." He believed he hid a different hunger which this utterance, and the images it engendered, might otherwise have cast upon his face. With his eyes, he indicated the inner officer where he had left the planet's new Oligarch. "What makes you ask?"

Half-promised to him as she was, Adam experienced even more difficulty than usual keeping his thoughts ordered in her presence. He had always found her breathtaking good looks---she had been described as "inhumanly beautiful"---intimidating. She approached him now, standing so near that he became aware of the scent of her hair, which was so fine that each strand, even this close, seemed invisible. It floated about her head in frothy curls, framing her features in a golden cloud. Adam was unsure what "inhumanly beautiful" meant. Maybe it meant her eyes, set against the surprising tawny color of her skin, large, luminous, of as pale and perfect a blue as the pale, perfect gold of her hair. Maybe it meant smooth shoulders, sculpted collarbones, a seamless blended curve into full, rounded breasts, or the taut young belly beneath her bodice as the garment flared about her slender hips. Maybe it meant no more than a glimpse of a cunning foot at her skirt hem or the expressive grace of her hands. Veronica new of her effect on men and enjoyed it. Adam only knew he felt embarrassed to look her fully in the face, or be found gazing upon her body, as if he were again a stammering adolescent confronting his first sly and knowing servant girl.

"I was given to understand," she replied, "that today is a special occasion for you. I thought it would be pleasant if we took lunch together to mark it. You have become a powerful figure in my father's esteem---" He held up both hands, protesting. Yet what she claimed was true enough. For her part, she went on, unrelenting. "Second son of an attained Director, at ruination's door just months ago. Who might have guessed how soon you would be at liberty to seek your own happiness, awarded new responsibility, with the prospect..." Maidenly modest, she dropped her eyes to the carpet. Adam noticed the length of her lashes and was shocked that he had noticed such a thing. "....of marriage into a rich connection, an Oligarchy in your own right, reestablishment of your dynasty? The tragic conflict of two great families is gratifyingly resolved to the satisfaction of all, and, heaping fortune upon fortune, to untold political advantage."

Adam stifled denials he had been about to deliver, smiling lopsidedly at the exquisite creature standing nearer than was comfortable. "I....would find that pleasant....I refer to lunch. Er, where do you care to eat?"

Her mysterious smile communicated taht she knew her father worked just the other side of the door, and that this made what she was about to say all the more enjoyable. If possible, she drew closer. "I suppose," she answered, arching her eyebrows, "we could have our lunch brought here." She inspected Adam's face, as if for a sign of relief or disappointment. "But that would be rather dreary, snapping up an office meal like some retainer."

She stood upon tiptoe, her breath upon his cheek, her delicate features radiating warmth not a line from his own. Radiating a certain warmth of his own, Adam restrained a nervous finger from loosening his collar, somehow grown tight and irritating. Veronic put a soft hand upon his arm. "Or we have the courtyard, although it now fronts upon a depressing view of the shabby town my father has erected. I suppose we could eat there."

Adam smiled back, weakly.

Placing her other hand upon the same arm, she wrapped her fingers about his bicep, as if she were unaware of what she did, pressing his arm against her breasts, the heated firmness of which he could feel through his tunic. Gathering his eye with hers, she glanced up. "You are tense," she whispered, "in a way you would not be, were you availing yourself correctly of Father's generosity. Pets are a responsibility, Adam. They grow lazy and rude when their owners neglect discipline and training. Have you not put yours over the jumps this morning? Maybe it would serve two purposes to have lunch served in the tower."

A log inside the grate crackled, releasing sparks up the chimney where the four thrai and the luxurious ribbon----arms now in disgrace---had been replaced with the pickaxe and miner's lamp. There were no weapons of any kind in evidence. Since Zaytseva had taken power, since Zakh's pistol had deprived him on an expensive Cossack, weapons of any kind were disallowed in unauthorized hands. Peasants had been arrested, tried, and fed to the warriors for possessing harvesters' knives a line overlength.

"Then again," Veronica suggested, "my suite overlooks the forest. With chaperonage to preserve our reputations, we might enjoy a repast there."

The rooms had been his mother's. "Really, Mistress...."

"Fiancée, Adam. The difference is significant, especially when I am speaking of my bedchamber and sitting room. But you know what I would prefer, don't you?" She released his arm, reached down, ran a manicured nail from his knee to his thigh. I due course, it arrived at another place where he radiated heat, which she massaged in tantalizing circles with her fingertip until it swelled beneath her touch. "I think I should like to eat there."

Before Adam could speak---or even to draw a breath---Zaysteva's door flew open. The older man emerged, rolling in his chair towards the outer, double doors. As he spied Adam and Veronica, he slowed down without stopping. She, meanwhile, had stepped away from her victim. "Pray do not let me interrupt you children. Today is a signal day for our friend, beloved. See that you find some way to help him celebrate it, please?"

"I will make every effort," she informed her father, "to think of something."

He nodded, dismissed them from consciousness, and rolled out of the room. In the grate, the log settled in its irons, throwing sparks and ashes.201Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNHs5Tzax6w
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Before yet another minute passed, the two were in Veronica's chambers, in former times belonging to Gabdrakhimovishin Bogandov Sorokin, consort to a conqueror from the stars, highborn hostage in an unwritten Bargain. They had lain closed for 1 decade.

Lunch was brought to them where they were seated, thigh to thigh, upon a little divan. The chaperonage Veronica had alluded to, in the person of an ugly Poobah girl, her body servant, appeared with the tray moments after it was ordered, setting it upon a low table before them with a careless splash, and abruptly vanished. Vernonica pulled at her skirts, inspected them for spots---stunning Adam with a flash of calf and thigh---and rearranged them to suit a modesty she did not possess. She took his arm, ducked under it, and placed it upon the narrow back of the divan where he had no choice but to rest it about her shoulders.

"Pray do not think me forward, Adam. These are times of crisis, for action. We do not enjoy sufficient leisure to observe the formalities."

Adam gulped. "Formalities?"

"You must know that my father is pleased with this amnesty you have earned, with how visibly you repent your days of rebellion. If it would not distress you to hear it, it pleases me, as well."

He took a deep breath, intending to say something intelligent. "Oh?"

"You failed to comment on my observation that, because a title is attained, this does not mean it always must be."

A thrill went through his body, for more reason than her tempting proximity. He warned himself that he must stay cautious. "I suppose," he answered, "in the abstract, this is true enough."

Veronica moved closer beneath the shelter of his arm. Lifting his free hand from the divan's arm, she placed it upon her breast, half exposed by a low-cut bodice. With each breath she took, it swelled into the hollow of his palm. He could feel her heart beating against the surging counterpoint of his own, beneath the full, firm flesh. She turned to look into his eyes.

"Stay in the abstract, if it makes you happy. You appreciate the, um, efficiencies of leaving an Oligarchy within the same family."

"I, uh..." Ignoring his stammer, she pressed his hand against her, encouraging his fingertips, and gazed away, as if thinking. An awkward moment passed, during which Adam was scared to move his hand. At last, she made a gentle noise which, in one of her gender and breeding, denoted scorn.

"I should think it embarrassing when a Premier grants a man title, praising his valor to the galaxy, then must revoke it upon charge of treason." At mention of his father, Adam's temper surged. As ever, caution restrained him. He played a risky game and did not know what the rules required of him. Veronica placed both hands over his before he could speak. "Forgive me, dearest. I only meant that some embarrassment might be saved, some confidence in the Premier's judgment retained---if only his own---should the honor be restorable in the succeeding generation."

Adam dared offer nothing in reply. Upon occasion, regardless of the bargain with his brothers, this had been his very thought.

"Especially..." She took his hand as if to press it the more chastely to her bosom and at the final instant turned it, so that his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, clasping the warm roundedness they found. His palm brushed a hardening nipple. Adam swallowed and was aware again of an uncomfortable heat rising within him. Veronica sighed and continued as if there had been no intervening period of silence---which there had been---as if their thoughts had not wandered---as they had done---but lingered upon the same subject. Which they did. "Especially when that confidence is reinforced by the opinion of the selfsame individual whom the Premier was compelled to place in temporary charge of the Oligarchy."

Taking a rare risk, he firmed his hand upon her, looking into her eyes as he fumbled beneath her clothing. She shuddered, as if with passion. "Your father's good opinion?" As an afterthought: "I have not frightened you?"

Veronica smiled. Even Adam couldn't guess what feeling the expression was intended to convey. The corners of her eyes crinkled with delight, as if a dull-witted student had at last learned to recite his lessons. "It was your vehemence which moved me, darling. Yes, I mean my father's good opinion."

She pressed his hand the firmer to her body, released it, and let her own wander where it had earlier strayed in the office. "And what could constitute a more conspicuous testimonial..." her long-nailed fingers played over the fastening of his trousers, "---than that he offers the hand of his daughter to that individual possessed of sufficient virtue to step back into leadership?"

She plunged her hand into his clothing, and it was his turn to shudder. As she leaned against his hand, he was compelled to bend his elbow, turning his forearm, which, intended or not, levered her gown from her shoulder. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of partial nakedness and knew a moment in which he turned to tear the rest of her clothing from her. She was almost lying in his lap. Her breath, hot and moist where he pulsed and hardened, was unbearably pleasurable. What it promised in the next few seconds....

A knock came at the door. Veronica was erect, clothing back in order, and standing beside the divan---while Adam fumbled with his trousers---when the door flew open. The servant girl had come to collect their untouched tray. Before she did, she turned and curtsied, casting her eyes to the floor as no Sorokin retainer had ever been required to do. "Beg your pardon, Mistress. Your father wishes to see you quick as quick can, in his offices."

"Oh dear, I must fly." Veronica dismissed the girl and turned to Adam, an expression of dismay wrinkling her otherwise flawless countenance. "It was a pleasant lunch, Adam." Aching in each joint, he rose. She took his hand. "And we must do it again, soon."

Gritting his teeth, Adam bowed against the pressure of a dull throbbing he had started to feel. "If you, uh, wish it, dear lady..."

Veronica, out of sight of the departing bodyservant, winked at him. "Indeed, I do, I assure you most heartily. I shall be counting the hours."

"So shall I," his answer was grim. "Also." He followed as she left the room, both headed for the stairs. They turned from one another only at the last, she to descend to the office, he to ascend, the ache between his legs growing worse by the minute. Climbing stairs was tough.

It was possible, he thought, that the price of all of these benefits Veronica and her father promised him might prove too dear. It would be worse when those formalities she had mentioned began to be observed. He was sure her father would insist. The Romanovan custom---he had been so amused when Adam found it burdensome----held that what lovers had pursued with joy and vigor before their betrothal should, upon announcement of their engagement, have denied them until their wedding night. Thank the ironies of fate (he trembled with renewed anticipation) that he had a palliative close at hand, to which he had not earlier found recourse, but which he would now most likely seek---and use----with increasing frequency.

He hastened to claim his prisoner---his property----in the tower.

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At Lunch with Veronica

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