Back in the USSA

by Kim Newman

  "Til see to it you are disgraced and sent to Siberia, your estates sequestered, your farms burned, your first-born slain..."

  One cosmonaut picked up a spade. The other picked up an Imperial flag that had been planted in grey lunar soil.

  "Stop this at once!" - bleep!

  " You don't understand. You re a commoner, a Jew. Honour means nothing to you. In the capsule, Count Michael insulted my family. Honour must be satisfied. "

  They faced one another like medieval warriors about to do single combat.

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  " You're going to fight a duel? The first men on the moon spend ten minutes walking around, then kill one another! Has the journey driven you both madr

  - bleep! -

  The two faced off, neither moving.

  " Couldn't you kill each other when you get back? I want to push back the frontiers of knowledge, to build a future in space, and you behave like Neanderthals. Bondarenko, get us a link to Tsarskoye Selo, maybe Batiushka can talk sense to these fuckwits."

  - bleep! -

  The one with the flagstaff had a longer reach. He lunged at the one with the spade, who parried the blow easily. Using weapons in the moon's atmosphere was like fighting underwater.

  The Tsar, with his newly-acquired interest in outer space, insisted cosmonauts on prestige missions be aristocrats. Any glory they earned— even death—would reflect well on the monarchy, on the old, pre-democracy system.

  The one with the spade landed a blow on the helmet of his opponent, to no effect. The latter dropped his flagstaff and tried to close with the spade-man.

  They wrestled for brief seconds and pulled hoses from their bulky back-packs. They parted and struggled to re-connect the hoses, but neither could reach far enough behind his back. That they could help one another seemed not to occur to them. After half a minute, they came together again, and lay down, holding hands. Both bodies convulsed a little.

  Velikovsky was emotional. "Twelve billion roubles. Twelve billion roubles we've spent on this. The Duma will impale us when they see this! Imperial Majesty, I respectfully resign!"

  - Bleep! -

  "Can someone get the lights?" said Georgi.

  The lights came on again. Something over two hundred men and women sat or stood in stunned silence. Sir Anthony was blinking, bewildered. Asimov's face was in his hands. Harlan, glasses off, was goggling: if he was a spy, he had stumbled onto a genuine secret.

  "The space program is on ice until air force officers with no breeding whatsoever can be trained," said Georgi, picking up his clock. "Illya, care for another round? I have a bauble I can wager. Chuck me that revolver, there's a good little game-show host."

  Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman

  "Now the De Havilland Comet of the Kings Flight of the Royal Air Force touches down at Catherine the Great Airport, here in Petrograd on this glorious spring afternoon and as the great crowd assemble here to get their first glimpse of the Duke of Cornwall. Some people suggested that since the Duke is an officer in the Royal Navy he should have arrived by sea, but he didn't. And here is the aircraft now taxiing towards the apron. And theres the little man with the orange table-tennis bats signalling to the plane. Left a bit, right a bit, forwards a bit. I understand from Airport Director Gromyko that they bought him a brand new pair of orange table-tennis bats for the occasion. This must be a proud moment for him. He would normally spend his time making signals to tourists and businessmen, the occasional diplomat, no doubt, perhaps the odd ballet personality. This is surely the only time he has made signals to a plane carrying the future husband of a Princess of the Imperial family, and probably the next King of England. A very proud moment for him indeed."

  Cinzia sat cross-legged on the sofa next to her mother watching television. They drank tea in the English style, with milk and the sugar stirred in. Cinzia was taking it easy. Today would probably be the last day off she would have for several weeks. Thanks to the Duke of Cornwall.

  Her mother kept pushing her spectacles back onto the bridge of her nose, so she wouldn't miss a moment. She affected not to be impressed by the imperial carnival but was at heart an obsessive monarchist. Cinzia's late father joked that once she lost her religion, royalty was the only magic left to her.

  "Now, as the aircrafts mighty engines die down, the steps are wheeled up to the door. And there are the men getting ready to roll out the red carpet, a detachment of the Preobrazhensky Guards, lining up on either side. Magnificent green uniforms, red facings. Boots as well. Bayonets glistening in the sun. For state occasions like this, each soldier has to polish his boots for a total of fifteen hours."

  Mother was tense with excitement. It was unfair to sneer. She didn't have much pleasure in her life. She had met David Leonovich Bronstein while he was stationed in England during the War, and had come to Petrograd as a "cossack bride" in 1946. His health was affected by a wound sustained in Normandy, and he never progressed beyond junior civil servant. Being the son of a once-notorious seditionist circus clown had probably not helped him either.

  Mother had to get by on a meagre pension and her job as an office-cleaner. Now Cinzia was earning, things were better, but Cinzia's

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  Back in the USSA

  brother was still a dependent. All lived in a three-room apartment in Gorokhovaya Street.

  "And now, the door on the aircraft opens, and. .."

  The floor shook, noise erupted through the whole building, the shattering blare of an electric guitar. Cinzia put down her tea and leapt from the sofa.

  She rushed straight into Vladimir's room. He sat on the edge of his bed, eyes closed in artistic ecstasy, hacking chords out of his guitar. She fell to her knees and furiously yanked the amplifier-plug from the socket.

  "Hey!" he said.

  "Mother is trying to watch tele," she said evenly. "Later she will walk three miles to work. She will not take the tram because she wants to save the fare. And all so she can keep you in cigarettes and clothes. I think a tiny consideration would be in order."

  Vladimir shrugged. "What's she watching? The parasites flying in from London to gorge themselves on the sweat of the Russian people?"

  "Why don't you save mixed metaphors for your songs, Vladi? You parrot them all from grandfather's old routines. If we're talking about parasites I suggest you take a good look in the mirror. You contribute nothing to the household budget. You don't even have the decency to go off and live in a commune."

  Vladimir snorted. "Girlchik, you've bought the System in a big way. Times are changing. The people are waking: the 'Chine, corrupt politicians, subject races wanting freedom. There's a revolution coming, baby."

  "Just postpone the revolution until Mother's had a couple of hours rest and cheap pleasure."

  "Mother needs educating, girlchik. She's buying this whole ridiculous reactionary peepshow. She must know this is the last desperate play of a System with no future."

  "Some other time, Vladi. Otherwise the Petrograd Military District gets an anonymous letter alleging that the medical certificate which rendered Vladimir Davidovich Bronstein unfit for military service is a forgery."

  "I object to participating in the imperialist war in Indo-China on grounds of conscience."

  "Conscience? Hah! Here's the deal, Vladi. First, you stop smoking bhang here. Secondly, you stop abusing your guitar when Mother is in the house. They can hear you from the Fontanka Canal. If you don't, someone tells the Army they ought to get you re-examined."

  Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman

  She hadn't seen Vladimir look so rattled since she first beat him at chess. For all that, he tucked the plectrum into the strings of his guitar and lay back on his bed. On the poster behind him, Ernesto "Che" Guevara—the pro-American guerilla killed fighting a Revolution in Angola—stared resolutely ahead into a bright new dawn of international socialism, managing perfectly well without Vladimir's help.

  Cinzia returned to the living-room.

  "As yo
u know, protocol forbids senior members of the Imperial family from being present here to meet the Duke. The formal meeting will take place tomorrow. And as the Duke comes down the steps, two girls in traditional costume come to greet him with the traditional bread and salt. "

  "Look, there he is," said Mother, pointing to the tele. At the top of the steps to the aircraft, a young man of medium build stood wearing a dark blue overcoat belted with gold braid. His white-topped peaked cap didn't disguise ears that stuck out like the doors of a taxi-cab.

  "Not exactly handsome."

  "I suppose not," said Mother. "But he's brave. He flew helicopters in Indo-China. And he's clever as well. Until the war, he was studying to be an architect. He'll probably have to give up his studies to concentrate on duties of state."

  Cinzia knew the feeling. She could have carried on at medical school, but after Father died, the scholarship wouldn't stretch far enough. She'd had to get a job.

  "And coming to greet the Duke is Felix Dimitrovich Yussupov. Viewers will have noticed Prince Felix, the new newsreader on ITV, is dressed strangely, all in white. This is the uniform of a cricket-player. Prince Yussupov is a great lover of English culture. He in fact owns an estate in Scotlandshire. He told me this morning that he would wear the traditional cricketing costume to make the Duke feel at home. And there's the Duke now shaking his hand. And that's the Duke's uncle, the Earl of Balham, standing by them. He finds something immensely amusing. Perhaps Prince Yussupov has said something witty."

  "That man," said Mother pointing to Prince Yussupov, "is a clown."

  "I know, Mother."

  "You've met him?"

  "Yes."

  She shook her head and smiled. "It's funny. I think of television as full of intelligent, witty, good-looking people. And my own little girl sees them every day. Will you meet the Duke and Grand Duchess Ekaterina?"

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  "Possibly. More likely, I'll be making up courtiers and military officers. Everyone else in the department will fight one another to do the high hats."

  "Now they're inspecting the Guard of Honour, and... Oh, the Earl of Balham is looking at their rifles, and looking under their caps, shouting at some of them, and the Duke is giving him a stern look. The Earl was a famous entertainer in his country before he married the Dukes Aunt Margaret. "

  "Isaac Asimov read my future for me last night. I'm going to marry a prince."

  "Asimov read your future? In person? Gosh!"

  "I have to go, Mother. I promised I'd do an extra shift at the Free Hospital."

  She got up to get ready. Mother might struggle to support her deadbeat brother, but the Bronsteins didn't go without light and heat in winter, they had enough to eat and a colour tele. Many in Petrograd were worse off; sooner or later, they all ended up in the Free Hospital.

  "The piece of wood the Prince is holding is made of seasoned English willow, by the way. Its called a Marylebone Cricket Club."

  The staff assembled in the canteen at Broadcasting House at eight a.m. for a final briefing with Sergo Paradjanov, Producer-in-Chief of the wedding coverage. Cinzia sat with the drivers, secretaries and electricians. ITV was assigning 130 personnel to the project and would broadcast an average three hours a day of coverage for the next month until the grand climax, the wedding itself.

  Paradjanov, a bearded wrestler with green eye make-up and rouge-spotted cheeks, wore an eye-abusing orange-red Georgian robe. His huge lapels glinted, fragments of coloured glass and mirror woven into the fabric. He looked like Misha the Prime Time Bear ready for an evening in the nearest exquisite bar.

  "Today," Paradjanov began, "three crews will go to the Winter Palace, which is opening for the Grand Imperial Ball this evening. This is where the Duke and the Grand Duchess supposedly meet for the first time. As you know, the pair have met on at least one previous occasion but the purpose of this event is to give the pond-scum a fairy tale. Every fool knows this is an old-fashioned dynastic marriage, but I want you to sell the fantasy. Eyes meet across the sumptuous room...They are introduced...They dance, they fall in love! Flop gauze over the lenses!

  Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman

  Smear petroleum jelly over everything! Fluttering silk scarves the length of a football pitch! My partners in dissolution, I want this to be the most romantic evening Russia has choked on since the Tsarevich Alexei Nicolaevich died on his wedding night at the Livadia Palace in 1925, spluttering blood among the vines and the heavy scent of summer flowers overlooking the sea.

  "One more crew will cover the route from the Antchikov Palace to the Winter Palace. Another will be stationed at the Antchikov, where the British and Russian parties are preparing themselves for this evening.

  "One last thing, rose-petals. It is my impression that after weeks of briefings, many of you sluggards still don't know who the Duke of Cornwall is. This is unacceptable. For the last time, he is a nephew of King Edward VIII. You may recall that Edward nearly lost his throne in 1936 because of his marriage to a White Yank divorcee. Remember the mini-series and Grand Duchess Anastasia's book? The upshot of that was that any children the couple had would not succeed to the throne. As it happens, they didn't have children. The King has a tiny penis, I'm told. Even monkey glands didn't help. Very romantic, heiri! Succession therefore passes through the line of Edward's younger brother, the Duke of Pork. He died in 1952, though his wife, the Dowager Duchess of Pork, is still horribly alive and busily hating Princess Consort Wallis. Succession then passed to the daughters of the Duke of Earl. Elizabeth, Duchess of Edinburger, died in 1968, of that London fog respiratory disease. Her sister Margaret converted to Catholicism and married a lunatic, disqualifying herself. Elizabeth's oldest son Charles, until recently a naval officer nobody had heard of, has been created Duke of Cornwall, and is due to come into the crown on the death of King Edward VIII. That's our Prince Charming. Got it? Now, let's get royal out there."

  The footman held open gilt-encrusted doors, and Cinzia stepped through. Grand Duchess Ekaterina Nicolaievna was sprawled across an empress-sized bed, howling like a hyena with toothache. Her governess, Mrs. Orchard, had apparently been dismissed.

  Cinzia put her make-up case on the floor and coughed politely.

  The Tsar's eldest daughter looked up. "Who are you?"

  "I'm from ITV. I've come to make up Your Imperial Highness for the ball. I can return later if you want."

  The Grand Duchess sat and stared at her. No, through her. At nineteen, she looked younger. Still losing her puppy fat, she was becoming

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  a beauty. Perfect skin, fall of dark hair, flashing green eyes. Cinzia's grandfather would cheerfully have bashed in her skull with a rifle-butt, and no wonder.

  "I'm ill," said the Grand Duchess. "I'm delicate. I might die at any minute."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Shall I fetch a doctor?"

  "Yes. Tell them to fetch Dr. Lysenko. Now."

  Cinzia went back to the door and told the footman to summon Dr. Lysenko.

  She returned. The Grand Duchess was pulling off her jeans and purple silk blouse. She fell into the bed and pulled covers over her head.

  The kid was no more ill than Vladi. She was feeling the withdrawal symptoms of ten minutes' lack of attention. Cinzia almost felt sorry for the Duke of Cornwall.

  A hand emerged from the covers and fumbled around the bedside table. Cinzia went over. Just out of the hand's reach was a box of Swiss truffles. According to the label, they had been flown in the previous day. She pushed the box towards the fingers, which took three chocolates and disappeared. Chewing motions shook the eiderdown.

  No wonder the Grand Duchess was sick.

  Cinzia settled in an armchair. The Antchikov Palace was turned upside down to accommodate the British and Russian royal parties, but the Grand Duchess had been allowed to keep her apartments.

  The room, a mixture of bedroom and boudoir, was what every Russian teenager dreamed of. B
etween court paintings, the walls bore posters of cartoon characters and music stars, all centred on a framed poster of Nureyev as Agent 007 of SMERSH in From America With Love. In one corner was a huge stereo system with Quarrymen longplays scattered around it. In another, a vast dressing-table with a vaster triptych mirror. Huge windows, dotted over with see-through purple and turquoise plastic flower decals, added to the feeling of space. Beside the bed was the entrance to a wardrobe the size of the Bronstein apartment.

  There was a commotion at the door. A group of people burst in. Some were obviously pridvorny, court people, dressed in the powdered wigs, tailcoats and knee-breeches of palace grooms. The leader was a small, chubby, elderly man in an old-fashioned pinstriped suit.

  "What is the matter, Imperial Highness?" he said, bowing as he approached the bed, even though Ekaterina was hidden under the covers.

  Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman

  "Thank goodness you've come, Dr. Lysenko," said the Grand Duchess in a feeble voice. "I'm having another attack."

  Half a dozen courtiers and servants stood around looking nervous, Dr. Lysenko and his assistant coaxed the Grand Duchess from under the covers and examined her at length, prodding, poking and asking her to cough. She showed no self-consciousness when the Doctor enquired about the condition of her bodily wastes.

  "There's no doubt," said Dr. Lysenko, partly to the Grand Duchess, partly to his audience. "You suffer from chronic Smedley's Chorea."

  Admittedly Cinzia hadn't finished medical school, but she'd never heard of Smedley's Chorea.

  "There! You see? All of you! I'm going to die soon! I just hope I'll make it to the wedding. I'm sure the strain of that will finish me off. Like Great Uncle Alexei!"

  "Your Imperial Highness, please don't say such terrible things," said Lysenko. "With enough rest and the right medication, there is no reason why you should not make a complete recovery in as little as three years."