She offered a surprisingly broad range of services.
He brooded for a long while before finally falling asleep.
That night he had an eidetic dream. Possibly his memorandum recorder had been jostled a month earlier and some glitch caused it to replay now. At any rate, he was back in Moscow and he was leaving forever.
He hit the road at dawn, rush hour traffic heavy around him and the sun a golden dazzle in the smog. American jazz saxophone played in his head, smooth and cool. Charlie Parker. He hunched low over his motorcycle and when a traffic cop gestured him to the shoulder with a languid wave of his white baton for a random ID check, Victor popped a wheelie and flipped him the finger. Then he opened up the throttle and slalomed away, back and forth across four lanes of madly honking traffic.
In the rearview mirror, he saw the cop glaring after him, taking a mental snapshot of his license plate. If he ever returned to Moscow, he’d be in a world of trouble. Every cop in the city—and Moscow had more flavors of cops than anywhere—would have his number and a good idea of what he looked like.
Fuck that noise. Fuck it right up the ass. Victor had spent years grubbing for money, living cheap, saving every kopek he could to buy the gear he needed to get the hell out of Moscow. Why would he ever come back?
Then he was outside the city, the roads getting briefly better as they passed between the gated communities where the rich huddled fearfully inside well-guarded architectural fantasies and then dwindling to neglect and disrepair before finally turning to dirt. That was when, laughing wildly, he tore off his helmet and flung it away, into the air, into the weeds, into the past. . . .
He was home now. He was free.
He was in Libertarian Russia.
Victor liked the idea of biking across Asia in the company of a whore a great deal in theory. But the reality was more problematic. With her thighs to either side of his and her arms about him as they rode, he could not keep from thinking constantly about her body. Yet he lacked the money for what he’d have liked to do with her. And her daily payment provided only temporary relief. After three days, he was looking for someplace he could ditch Svetlana with a clean conscience.
Sometime around noon, they passed through a small town which had clearly been a medium-sized city before the Depopulation. Just beyond it, two trucks and three cars were parked in front of a cinder-block restaurant. One of the cars was a Mercedes. Opportunities to eat in a restaurant being rare along the disintegrating remains of what was grandiosely called the Trans-Siberian Highway, Victor pulled over his bike and they went inside.
There were only six tables and they were all empty. The walls were painted black and decorated with loops of antique light-pipes dug out of trunks found in the attics of houses that nobody lived in anymore. At the back of the room was a bar. Above it, painted in white block letters, were the words: We Know No Mercy And Do Not Ask For Any.
“Shit,” Victor said.
“What is it?” Svetlana asked.
“That’s the slogan for OMON—the Special Forces Police Squad. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
A large man emerged from a back room, drying his hands with a towel. “What can I do for. . . ?” He stopped and looked thoughtful, the way one did when accessing an external database. Then a nasty grin split his face. “Osip! Kolzak! Come see what the wind blew in!”
Two more men came out from the back, one bigger than the first, the other smaller. All three looked like they were spoiling for a fight. “She’s a whore. He’s just a little shit with subversive political connections. Nobody important. What do you want to do with them?”
“Fuck them both,” the big man said.
“One is all you’ll need,” Svetlana said in a sultry voice. “Provided that one is me.” She got out her card case and squirted them her rate sheet.
There was a brief astonished silence. Then one of the men said, “You are one fucking filthy cunt.”
“You can talk as dirty as you like—I won’t charge you extra.”
“Coming in here was the stupidest thing you ever did,” the small man said. “Grab her, Pavel.”
The middle-sized man moved toward Svetlana.
Chest tight with fear, Victor pulled out his gun and stepped into Pavel’s path. This was his moment of truth. His Alamo. “We’re leaving now,” he said, fighting to keep his voice firm. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t try to stop us.”
Disconcertingly, all three thugs looked amused. Pavel stepped forward, so that the gun poked him in the chest. “You think that protects you? Try shooting it. Shoot me now.”
“Don’t think I won’t.”
“You can’t stop somebody if you’re not willing to kill him.” The man closed both his hands around the gun. Then he viciously mashed Victor’s finger back against the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Pavel took the gun away from Victor. “You don’t think the government has better technology than you? Every non-military gun in the country is bluetoothed at the factory.” Over his shoulder he said, “What do you want me to do with the whore, Osip?”
Svetlana shuddered, as if in the throes of great terror. But she smiled seductively. “I don’t normally do it for free,” she said. “But I could make an exception for you boys.”
“Take her out to the gravel pit,” the small man said, “and shoot her.”
Pavel grabbed Svetlana by the wrist. “What about the punk?”
“Let me think about that.”
Svetlana didn’t make a sound as she was dragged out the front.
The big man pushed Victor down onto a chair. “Sit quietly,” he said. “If you try anything . . . Well, I don’t think you’ll try anything.” Then he got out a combat knife and amused himself by plucking Victor’s pins from his jacket with it and reading them, one by one, before flicking them away, over his shoulder. “A Citizen Without a Gun Is a Slave,” he read. “Legalize Freedom: Vote Libertarian. Anarchists Unite—that doesn’t even make sense!”
“It’s a joke.”
“Then why isn’t it funny?”
“I don’t know.”
“So it’s not much of a joke, is it?”
“I guess not.”
“The weakness in your political philosophy,” Osip said out of nowhere, “is that you assume that when absolute freedom is extended to everybody, they’ll all think only of their own selfish interests. You forget that patriots exist, men who are willing to sacrifice themselves for the good of the Motherland.”
Figuring he had nothing to lose at this point, Victor said, “Taking money to do the government’s dirty work doesn’t make you a patriot.”
“You think we’re getting paid for what we do? Listen. After I left OMON, I was sick of cities, crime, pollution. So I went looking for a place where I could go fishing or hunting whenever I wanted. I found this building abandoned, and started fixing it up. Pavel stopped to ask what I was doing and since he’d been in the Special Police too, I invited him to come in as a partner. When the restaurant was up and running, Kolzak dropped in and when we found out he was one of us, we offered him a job. Because we are all brothers, you see, answerable to nobody but God and each other. Pavel brought a satellite uplink with him, so we know the police record of everyone who comes by. We cleanse the land of antisocial elements like your whore because it’s the right thing to do. That’s all.”
“And you,” Kolzak said. “Don’t think her body’s going into the gravel pit alone.”
“Please. There has to be some way of convincing you that this isn’t necessary.”
“Sure there is. Just tell me one thing that you can give me in exchange for your life that I can’t take off of your corpse.”
Victor was silent.
“You see?” Osip said. “Kolzak has taught you something. If you don’t even have enough to bribe a man into letting you live, you’re pretty much worthless, aren’t you?”
Kolzak took out his combat knife and stuck it into the bar. Then h
e walked away from it. “You’re closer, now,” he said. “If you want to make a try for it, go right ahead.”
“You wouldn’t do that if you thought I had a chance.”
“Who are you to say I wouldn’t? Fuck you in the mouth! You’re just a turd of a faggot who’s afraid to fight.”
It would be suicide to respond to that. It would be cowardly to look away. So Victor just stared back, not blinking. After a time, the big man’s jaw tightened. Victor tensed. He was going to have to fight after all! He didn’t think it was going to end well.
“Listen to that,” Osip said suddenly.
“I don’t hear anything,” Kolzak said
“That’s right. You don’t. What’s keeping Pavel?”
“I’ll go check.”
Kolzak turned his back on the knife and went outside. Victor almost started after him. But Osip held up a warning hand. “There’s nothing you can do about it.” He smiled humorlessly. “There’s your libertarianism for you. You are absolutely free of the government. Only you forgot that the government also protects you from men like us. Am I wrong?”
Victor cleared his throat. It felt like swallowing gravel. “No. No, you’re not.”
The little man stared at him impassively for a moment. Then he jerked his head toward the door. “You’re nothing. If you get on your bike and leave now, I promise you that nobody will come after you.”
Victor’s heart was racing. “This is another game, isn’t it? Like the knife.”
“No, I mean it. Quite frankly, you’re not worth the effort.”
“But Svetlana—”
“She’s a whore. She gets what whores get. Now make up your mind. Are you leaving or not?”
To his horror, Victor realized that he was already standing. His body trembled with the desire to be gone. “I—”
A gargled cry came from outside, too deep and loud to have come from a woman’s throat. Instantly Osip was on his feet. He yanked the combat knife from the bar.
Svetlana walked into the room, her clothes glistening with blood. She was grinning like a madwoman. “That’s two. You’re next.”
The little man lunged. “You dog-sucking—”
In a blur, Svetlana stepped around Osip’s outstretched arm, plucking the knife from his hand. Blood sprayed from his neck. The knife was suddenly sticking out of his ribs. She seized his head and twisted.
There was a snapping noise and Svetlana let the body fall.
Then she began to cry.
Awkwardly, Victor put his arms around Svetlana. She grabbed his shirt with both her hands and buried her face in it.
He made soothing noises and patted her back.
It took a while, but at last her tears wound down. Victor offered her his handkerchief and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose with it. He knew he shouldn’t ask yet, but he couldn’t help it. “How the hell did you do that?”
In a voice as calm and steady as if she hadn’t cried since she was a child, Svetlana said, “I told you my body was all I needed. I went to a chop shop and had it weaponized to combat standards before leaving Yekaterinburg. It takes a few minutes to power up, though, so I had to let that bastard drag me away. But that also meant that these three couldn’t boot up their own enhancements in time to stop me. Where’s that flask of yours? I need a drink.”
Victor recalled that she had shuddered just before being taken into the back. That would be—or so he presumed—when she had powered up. Svetlana upended the flask and gulped down half of it in three swallows.
“Hey!” Victor made a grab for the flask, but she straight-armed him and drank it dry. Then she handed it back.
“Ahhhhh.” Svetlana belched. “Sorry. You have no idea how much that depletes your physical resources. Alcohol’s a fast way to replenish them.”
“That stuff’s one hundred-proof. You could injure yourself drinking like that.”
“Not when I’m in refueling mode. Be a dear, would you, and see if there’s any water around here? I need to clean up.”
Victor went outside and walked around the restaurant. In the back he found a hand-pump and a bucket. He filled the bucket and lugged it around front.
Svetlana was just emerging from the building. She had three wallets in her hand, which she put down on the hood of a battered old Volga Siber. Then she stripped away the blood-slick clothes and sluiced herself off with the water. “Bring me a change of clothing and a bar of soap, okay?” Victor tore his eyes away from her naked body and did as she asked. He also brought her a towel from his own kit.
When Svetlana was dried and dressed again, she emptied the wallets of their money and ignition cards. She counted out the rubles in two equal piles, stuffed one in her backpack, and said, “The other half is yours if you want it.” She held up an ignition card. “We part ways here. I’m taking the Mercedes. That, and the money, just about balance the books.”
“Balance the books?”
“I told you. Everybody pays for everything. Which reminds me.” She counted out several bills and stuck them in Victor’s shirt pocket. “I owe you for half a day’s ride. So here’s half of what I would charge for oral sex, and a little bit more for the alcohol.”
“Svetlana, I . . . The one guy said he’d let me go. I was going to take him up on it. I was going to leave you here.”
“And you feel guilty about this? It’s what I would have done in your place.”
Victor laughed in astonishment. “I was wrong all along—I’m not the libertarian here, you are!”
Unexpectedly, Svetlana gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re very sweet,” she said. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.” Then she got into the Mercedes and drove away.
For a long time Victor stared after her. Then he considered the money, still sitting in a stack on the Siber’s hood.
Svetlana was right. Libertarianism was nothing more than a fantasy and Libertarian Russia was the biggest fantasy of all. It was laughable, impossible, and in all this great, sprawling, contradictory nation, only he had ever really believed in it.
He turned his back on the money. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, and one he knew he would regret a thousand times in the days to come. But he couldn’t resist. Maybe he was a lousy libertarian. But he was still a Russian. He understood the value of a good gesture.
A light breeze came up and blew the rubles off the car and into the empty road. Victor climbed into the saddle. He kick-started his bike, and mentally thumbed through his collection of country-western music. But none of it seemed right for the occasion. So he put on Vladimir Visotsky’s “Skittish Horses.” It was a song that understood him. It was a song to disappear into Siberia to.
Then Victor rode off. He could feel the money blowing down the street behind him, like autumn leaves.
He was very careful not to look back.
TAWNY PETTICOATS
The independent port city and (some said) pirate haven of New Orleans was home to many a strange sight. It was a place where sea serpents hauled ships past fields worked by zombie laborers to docks where cargo was loaded onto wooden wagons to be pulled through streets of crushed oyster shells by teams of pygmy mastodons as small as Percheron horses. So none thought it particularly noteworthy when for three days an endless line of young women waited in the hallway outside a luxury suite in the Maison Fema for the opportunity to raise their skirts or open their blouses to display a tattooed thigh, breast, or buttock to two judges who sat on twin chairs watching solemnly, asked a few questions, thanked them for their time, and then showed them out.
The women had come in response to a handbill, posted throughout several parishes, that read:
SEEKING AN HEIRESS
ARE YOU . . .
A YOUNG WOMAN BETWEEN THE AGES OF 18 AND 21?
FATHERLESS?
TATTOED FROM BIRTH ON AN INTIMATE PART OF YOUR BODY?
IF SO, YOU MAY BE ENTITLED TO GREAT RICHES
INQUIRE DAYTIMES, SUITE 1, MAISON FEMA
&nbs
p; “You’d think I’d be tired of this by now,” Darger commented during a brief break in the ritual. “And yet I am not.”
“The infinite variety of ways in which women can be beautiful is indeed amazing,” Surplus agreed. “As is the eagerness of so many to display that beauty.” He opened the door. “Next.”
A woman strode into the room, trailing smoke from a cheroot. She was dauntingly tall—six feet and a hand, if an inch—and her dress, trimmed with silver lace, was the same shade of golden brown as her skin. Surplus indicated a crystal ashtray on the sideboard and, with a gracious nod of thanks, she stubbed out her cigar.
“Your name?” Darger said after Surplus had regained his chair.
“My real name, you mean, or my stage name?”
“Why, whichever you please.”
“I’ll give you the real one then.” The young woman doffed her hat and tugged off her gloves. She laid them neatly together on the sideboard. “It’s Tawnymoor Petticoats. You can call me Tawny.”
“Tell us something about yourself, Tawny,” Surplus said.
“I was born a carny and worked forty-milers all my life,” Tawny said, unbuttoning her blouse. “Most recently, I was in the sideshow as the Sleeping Beauty Made Immortal By Utopian Technology But Doomed Never To Awaken. I lay in a glass coffin covered by nothing but my own hair and a strategically placed hand, while the audience tried to figure out if I was alive or not. I’ve got good breath control.” She folded the blouse and set it down by her gloves and hat. “Jake—my husband—was the barker. He’d size up the audience and when he saw a ripe mark, catch ’im on the way out and whisper that for a couple of banknotes it could be arranged to spend some private time with me. Then he’d go out back and peer in through a slit in the canvas.”
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