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"A drugged girl is damaged cargo," Bogdan-Kryukov had insisted. "This, so I've been informed, is the attitude of the more refined elements among which I number, if not my sovereign, Vladimisayanskfei XXIII, then his advisors in the Droom of the Dzendayn Empery-Cirot."
They sat in the ambassador's spacious, comfortable office. Relieved of his quickblades at the entrance (he'd been reminded to cancel the appointment; still enduring it again was likely to win him a handsome profit), Krupin had accepted the hot beverage offered him. Outside, the sky voided itself of the half-frozen slush-glopniks which seemed unique to the capital planet. The drink, as well as the intoxicant of which it largely consisted, was welcome. The ambassador, pleading that he had just broken fast, partook of occasional draughts from an engraved inhaler. Over Bogdan-Kryukov's shoulder, behind the enormous desk, Krupin could see, through curtains slightly parted as if by an oversight, what appeared to be a big aquarium built into the wall. Idly curious, he wondered what kind of animals the ambassador kept.
The man had already apprised him of Tris's steadfast refusal to submit to the marriage her uncle had planned for her. Omarov , possessing many fewer scruples than "the more refined elements" regarding "damaged cargos" or anything else, snorted. "Surely Your Excellency is aware that there is a wealth of 'persuasive' substances to choose from, and all the time in the galaxy to experiment aboard a vessel in transit." The battered veteran of many a Deep-voyage often lost track of time when planetside, never seeming to recall the lack of it he had aboard ship. "Once conditioned, who'll know?"
To be fair, the ambassador gave the suggestion full consideration. "I, for one, my dear Captain. And what I know, for a plethora of reasons, political, financial, even artistic, can indeed hurt me."
Wrinkling the disfigurement, he called a face. Omarov looked a question.
"Take the matter of pleasure," came the answer. "It is commonly assumed that the prohibition against compulsion represents a hallmark of civilization or a simple courtesy which might be reciprocated in some agreeable manner."
Greasy braids bobbing, Omarov nodded, hoping the man would spit it out.
"Centuries ago, and I promise you that I am not digressing, another such hallmark was an agreement among nation-states to exclusive use of weapons designed to wound their victims, not kill them. This, too, was hailed as a human advance." The diplomat paused, arising from his desk, thrust hands into his pockets, and began to pace. Pinzari, sitting silent, drink upon one loose-trousered knee, was unconvinced that this was not a digression. Bogdan-Kryukov stopped, turned to face him, and extracted a hand, turning it palm upward. "Nothing could have been further from the truth. A wounded soldier consumes more of an enemy's resources than a dead one. The agreement, which many thought to represent disdain for cruelty, was made without regard to kindness, and may even have increased human suffering."
This was something Omarov understood very well. The eyelid sewn shut over its vacant socket gave the impression of a knowing wink. Otherwise, he kept his grace.
"It is often the case," the ambassador continued, "that the facts of a culture point in deceptive directions. The interactions of quintillions of beings are barely ever what they seem. We live in an age of power when a majority (women are not alone in this, nor is the motivation principally sexual) find themselves unable to refuse whatever is demanded of them. Recognition of their helplessness, the expressions on their faces as they submit---without recourse to drugs or physical compulsion---furnishes a better part of the pleasure of wielding power. Under the discerning scrutiny of a true connoisseur, it cannot be faked."
At this, Omarov laughed, rendering his fingers even more grotesque. "Excellency, you've got me at a disadvantage. I am but a simple man. I fear that these cerebral pleasures you speak of with such eloquence are out of my depth."
Bogdan-Kryukov gave Omarov a shrewd, disbelieving look. "My dear sir," he replied, "I greatly doubt whether anything I've spoken of is out of your depth. My point with regard to the recalcitrant Mistress Tris is just this: why incur unnecessary risk, when her refusal seems to be immutable. She is, after all, being sent away in disgrace."
"Disgrace?! I wasn't informed." And Omarov had not been. He was inclined to regard it, to whatever degree it was reliable, as an argument in his own favor.
"Consider yourself informed. And, just as cold pragmatics may be mistaken for humanity, she does not appear to recognize an impressive generosity on her uncle's part, and is reported, instead, to resent it."
"Ah, now we digress, Excellency. Whether she chooses to go to Homeworld or exile, it'll be on Omarov 's adventurer she'll be traveling, yes?"
The ambassador smiled. "It will not be hard to arrange. By coincidence, you will be bound for wherever she ultimately decides to go."
The captain nodded. "You do realize, Excellency, that it means I can't plan my shipment. What I would be taking to Homeworld varies from haulage to some colony."
"Let me reassure you, Captain," irritation crept into the ambassador's voice---as he strode to his desk, he gave the curtain an impatient tug---" you shall be handsomely compensated, regardless of the outcome. Plan your schemes accordingly. Take any cargo you wish or take none. It is all the same to me, as long as you succeed with our plan to..." Here the diplomat hesitated, searching for a euphemism which might convey his meaning.
"To kidnap," he supplied, "the niece of Arkvitius's right-hand man."
Bogdan-Kryukov drew himself up. "As a representative of the Dzendayn Empery-Cirot, Captain, I am given to a more delicate phraseology."
"As a politician, you're given to circumlocution as recreation. Let me tell you, a Deep-captain finds direct expression much the safer habit."
The man chuckled. "My dear Captain, your point is well taken. In any case, by another coincidence, a darkvenger will be following just behind your own vessel, out of detector range."
"A Dzendayn naval darkvenger?"
"A mercenary darkvenger. You will put up a token defense, heave to, and hand our little Romanovan beauty over."
Omarov nodded. The bands upon his braids made tinkling music.
"From there," suggested the ambassador, "several options arise. If her uncle and his master accept a fait accompli--they intended her for Vladimisayanskfei, after all, not realizing he has no use for her----that is well and good. If not, we shall claim she was killed in the confusion of battle or suicided in the purge-field. You run no risk, being able to testify that you had no choice under the projectibles of a plunderer."254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ55eb9MSmoX
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And so, the voyage had commenced.
Omarov thought the plan through, realizing that any fairy story fit to tell the Premier and his Executor-General was fit to tell the ambassador, as well. He had looked his cargo over at close hand, realized the file he had once carried had failed to do her justice, and no longer planned to return her intact to his sometime employer. Let the whorespawn get his own girl, damn him!
Belowdecks, a noon meal being readied could be smelled even here on the quarterdeck. In this he betrayed humble beginnings, for it was a good, familiar odor to him, evocative of his youth, and it made his mouth water, although a worthier repast awaited him and his guest in the more luxurious circumstances of the commanddeck. Thought of satisfying one appetite led to thoughts of satisfying another. He raised his saw-edged voice. "Mr. Popov!"
"Sir?"
Rings and quickblades glittering, Krupin signaled the officer-of-the-watch of his intention to go below, strode to the break of the quarterdeck, and, taking the ladder rails in each hand, swooped down, cloak billowing behind him, without benefit of treads and risers. He had been wrong about not having fresh meat aboard. Nothing like such a prospect to put a spring into one's step! Stooping to enter his cabin--no matter how luxurious the quarters, they never afforded sufficient overhead---he saw, the table laid with facluynese and ruthuotium, heard preparations for his meal in the small galley off the anticlockwise quarter of the room. His feet took him to the right, towards a door to an adjoining compartment which, had they not a special passenger, would have been occupied by his 3rd officer.
He knocked. "Mistress Trezleniya-Silvertou, luncheon wants only minutes of being ready." No answer being audible, he knocked again. "Mistress..."
"Thank you," her voice came muffled through the door. "I am not feeling well. If it is all the same, I shall lie down a while and take some later."
Omarov just missed cracking his head on a rafter. He placed his hands on his hips. He would not have his campaign stymied in this manner. Taking several deep breaths, he came to a decision. "Mistress Trezleniya-Silvertou, this'll be the last call. You will either come with me of your own free will, or I shall have two strong crewbeings haul you to luncheon against your will."
He had awaited silence this time. In what manner had her gentle upbringing readied her to reply to so uncivil an utterance? Without pausing to find out, Omarov raised a booted foot and thrust, the full weight of his burly body behind it. The door crashed against the wall and swung again. Before it could close, Omarov crossed the threshold, shut it behind him, and took three steps to the middle of the cabin. Tris sat upon the bed, startled upright, hands raised in gesture of defense. Omarov 's scarred visage cracked with an awful grin. He strode to the bedside and peered down with one good eye, his jeweled braids swinging above her face.
"We run, sweet cuntling, traceless upon the black bosom of the Deep. Your fare, I regret to inform you, is overdue."
Horrified and trying not to show it, Tris fastened her gaze on his seamed countenance, his breath rank in her nostrils. "I trust you understand what a fatal error in judgment you have committed, sir."
Putin gave a mighty laugh, took her by one arm, and, enjoying the gasp which escaped her lips, caught the fabric at her breast and ripped it. Another brief effort she was helpless to resist, and he had stripped it from her shoulders so that she lay bared to the waist. He tossed her onto the bed and stood back, elbow in one hand, chin in the other.
"Small," he informed her with a judicious tone and appraising expression, "but serviceable. More than a mouthful's wasted, but there are those who will tell you I have a wide mouth. By the Premier's testicles, you upperclass bitches are late bloomers. By the time my mother was fourteen, she had a pair of..."
"Then go molest her, you bastard, as you no doubt already..."
Omarov raised a broad, ring-heavy hand and swung it, catching her a blow upon the cheek with its hairy back. Wide-eyed with pain and fear, Tris opened her mouth to scream, but found the same rough hand there first, shutting off her breathing. He pushed her backwards, lowered his bulk onto the bed, half kneeling. Holding her down, he mauled her with exploring fingers. At once he heard a pounding on the doorframe, along with a harsh, excited voice. Keeping Tris's mouth shut, Omarov whirled. "What in the name of perfidy do you want? This had better be good!"
"Sir!" Whoever stood outside neither showed his face nor made effort to open the door wider. The instant Omarov had disappeared below, yet had not sat at the table, whispered word had gone to every quarter of the Ayvengo that the captain was taking his long-awaited pleasure of the Romanovan passenger. Maybe when he was done with her...
"Speak!"
"Compliments of the first officer, sir! Sign in the field of an approaching vessel. Intersection will be in fifteen minutes, and they do not identify themselves, sir! Old hands say she's of the correct size to be a plunderer, sir!"
Omarov exhaled, arising with a look in his eye combining aspects of annoyance, frustration, and dire warning for Tris. "Compliments to Mr. Popov. Tell him General Quarters. Summon Mr. Bibilov to his projectibles. I'll be on the quarterdeck directly. Pass the word to Borodin the carpenter to bring his toolbox here on the double."
"Yes, sir!"
"You, fresh meat, stay put! I'll soon take up where I left off!"
Omarov passed the tool-laden carpenter, gave instructions for securing Tris's door, ordered him to wipe that expression off his face, and went up on deck. Not many minutes later he had determined---by instrument, conferral with his officers, and long experience with the subtle, shifting colors of the purge-field---that the vessel reaching upon them was the darkvenger ordered to travel in the Ayvengo's wake and overtake her. The darkvenger's appearance, unexpected by all hands except Omarov, was days early. He was sure she was sent to fetch Tris earlier by order of a cynical and, in this case, well-advised Bogdan-Kryukov. Omarov was ready for the eventuality. Judging by the thrum arising from the gundeck, the adventurer's twenty-one projectibles were being charged and manned as ordered. His crew were taking battle stations, clearing obstructions upon the maindeck as they would be doing below, manning the rigging to make sail according to the standing order of battle and the ship's moment-to-moment necessities.
Omarov allowed himself a satisfied chuckle. His pursuer was due for a walloping surprise. All of the ominous Deepmanlike bustle below and aloft was the merest window-dressing compared to the disaster he was about to wreak upon her. He reached into his pocket for a small, rounded oblong box he had carried every moment, waking and sleeping, since they had broken from orbit around Romanova. Having thus assured himself, he removed the hand, lifted it, and called a ship's boy, standing by to act as a runner.
"My compliments to the officer-of-the-watch." The boy, judging from his look, could be no more than months younger than the woman-child below. For a moment he was reminded...but the thought was lost in anticipation, as well as the notion that, once the girl was broken, it might be interesting to combine what pleasures he could have of her with whatever might be had of this boy. "He's to allow that ship to overtake us and the purge-fields to merge. When that's done, Mr. Stecklo will send across to her cabin that there's a change of plans. That's all, say, 'A last-minute change of plans.' Should he or Mr. Popov desire classification, I'll be here."
"Yes, sir!"
Omarov could not resist slipping a hand into his pocket again. Here lay proof, had he required it, that an old dog can be taught new tricks. He had learned much, losing Zilvagabond, and had found time to think during the dreadful voyage afterward. He had changed his ways regarding discipline among his crew---no longer allowed to fight over food or anything else---and his visibility among them. Presented opportunity to start with a fresh ship, crewbeings who knew him only by his recent---and expansive---reputation, he had studied practices of the Romanovan Navy. It was obvious, from the order of the vessel and the celerity with which she came to General Quarters, that they worked. Whatever worked was the ticket. To the Premier with whatever was customary or expected. This new philosophy had led him to the object he fondled. Since the tactic had worked before (that he had ended set adrift was irrelevant), he had caused an atomic to be implanted within the hull of the darkvenger as she lay in orbit near the Ayvengo. As he had improved the method of delivery, so had he improved the method of ignition. It was a remote detonator which he held in his hand, useless until envelopes of the starships merged.
"Signal officer's compliments, sir..."
Omarov started. "Er, go ahead, boy."
"A message, Mr. Stecklo says, from the darkvenger. Many a threat, sir, amounting to a demand we heave to for boarding."
Omarov smiled. "Thank Mr. Stecklo for me. Ask him to return: 'Sheer off, excretory orifice, or I'll blow you into your constituent quarks."
The boy gulped--- Omarov savored his discomfiture---not daring to mention that the vessel closing upon them mounted half again the Ayvengo's projectibles. A captain was supposed to know these things. "Yes, sir."
"Inform Mr. Kust he should be prepared to make his best speed on my command." Kust was sailing master, in theory under Mr. Popov, in fact the technical authority regarding the finer points of working the vessel. This command suited the boy better. Omarov made a mental note to keep an eye on a youngster to whom showing heels seemed better tactics than baring teeth.
"Yes, sir!"
Omarov extended some age-old captain's clairvoyance for a feel of the vessel. Deckmesh and rigging creaked as Ayvengo gave a show of making a run for it, at no more than half the speed of which she was capable. He needn't see belowdecks to know the tension with which projectors sat at their weapons, the nervousness of their helpers. Nor must he loo aloft to see the same attitudes displayed by riggers, topmen, even officers distributed about the maindeck. With them, traditional black bag in hand, stood Dr. Rybak, the ship's chirurgeon and his assistant, Mr. Pole. More ominously they had with them Borodin the carpenter. All strained forward to get the first faint wavefronts of his spoken command.
The captain alone was relaxed. He sauntered to the taffrail; all senses open to a sign the purge-fields were about to merge. He climbed the rigging a measure or two and leaned out, feeling the tingle of the field upon his face, informing himself of many things and with greater subtlety of detail than instruments could offer: an unmistakable edgy feeling, metallic tartness under his tongue, a slight discoloration, just like being inside one soap bubble, surfaced with a swimming rainbow, as it fused with another. He lifted the remote, opened his mouth to command destruction of the darkvenger while he accomplished it himself, when he was jerked from his feet, almost overside by the rail, but recovered and only dashed to the deck.
Blading! It had come not from the Ayvengo or the darkvenger. Some third party, some interloping desperado, was attacking his vessel!
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