“Just get on board,” he said, trying to ignore her advice. “The ship is the safest place for us.”
“Look at it out there all by itself,” Eva insisted, waving her arm to indicate the sight through the terminal’s windows. You might as well have painted a big bull’s-eye around it.”
“Argosy has enough firepower to handle rioters.”
“This was all planned! Right now they’re bringing in howitzers or who knows what to blow the ship apart.”
“The ship’s shields—”
“They’re useless on the ground. They only work in space.”
Groenwald glared at her. “I don’t have time to argue military tactics with an empty-headed gornichnaya.” He tried to brush her aside.
Zionians don’t brush aside easily. Eva stood her ground. “Nkosi Wettig sent me here specifically to bodyguard the tsaritsa.”
Groenwald paused, but only for a second. “Wettig’s not in charge of ISIS. And if he were here he’d tell you we have well-thought-out protocols for situations like this.” And he turned away from her.
Cursing under her breath, Eva realized she’d never get anywhere arguing with a schmuck like this. She’d have to take matters into her own hands—and quickly, before the rebels decided the ship was fully loaded and ready for demolition.
She bounded toward the passenger tubeway at full Zionian speed, startling the people around her and pushing anyone aside who got in her way. The underground tube had a moving walkway and was just slightly wider than two people standing abreast. Most people just stood in place, letting the walkway do the work. Eva couldn’t spare the time.
“Gangway! Coming through!” she shouted, but most people couldn’t move out of her way fast enough. She brushed people aside like rag dolls in her haste to get aboard ship and find the tsaritsa. She could vaguely hear people muttering insults behind her. She didn’t care.
She reached the ship and made her way quickly up to the imperial cabins. As she’d hoped, Natalia had already arrived there and was starting to settle in. “Come on,” Eva said. “We’ve got to go. Now!”
The tsaritsa was startled. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“The meaning of this is to save your life. This ship is a death trap.” She reached out and grabbed the girl’s hand, pulling her closer.
Natalia tried to pull her hand away, but she couldn’t break Eva’s tight grip. “How dare you lay hands on me?” she said—half-haughtily, half-fearfully.
Eva knew about fourteen-year-old girls. She’d been one herself, and a particularly high-spirited and independent one at that. She knew that if you ordered them to go left, they’d stop and argue with you about their preference for going right, even if the cliff edge on the right was clearly in view.
Eva didn’t have time for that argument, which couldn’t be won no matter how loudly you yelled. So she simply reached out and gave the tsaritsa a Zionian love-tap—quite sufficient to knock a fourteen-year-old girl unconscious. She thought a moment, then detached Natalia’s wristcom and dropped it casually on the floor. Then she picked the tsaritsa up and slung her over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
She couldn’t carry the tsaritsa out the passenger tubeway—there were still too many people boarding, and she couldn’t fight them all off while holding Natalia safely at the same time.
So she headed down into the cargo area instead. There were a couple of people along the way who tried to stop her, but Eva had no time for those arguments, either. Those people also got love-taps knocking them out cold.
Because of their hasty departure, there’d been far less luggage than otherwise. The gear had already been loaded, the hatch shut and the conveyor belt turned off. Eva set the tsaritsa down gently beside the hatch so she could open it, then placed the girl’s body into the tube.
The tube was built to accommodate baggage and small crates of food and supplies; it wasn’t tall enough for a human—not even someone comparatively short like a Zionian—to stand up in. Eva got down on hands and knees and entered the tube behind Natalia’s limp body, then closed and sealed the hatch behind her. With any luck, it would take a little bit of time for anyone to realize exactly where the two women had gone.
The tube was completely dark, and Eva cursed herself for not having the foresight to bring a flashlight. Fortunately the passageway was totally straight; it went only forward and back, with no way to make wrong turns. Pushing the unconscious body in front of her, she made her way slowly down the tube.
The ship had been docked well over a kilometer from the terminal, and progress was agonizingly slow down the tube. There was no way to tell how far they’d gone. Eva only knew she could never assume it was far enough.
The tsaritsa was making indistinct groaning noises now and starting to move. Eva continued pushing her forward until Natalia resisted. “Where are we?” the girl said. “What’s happening? Why can’t I see anything?”
“We’re in the baggage loading tube, getting away from the ship.”
“You!” Natalia said, recognizing her voice. Then, indignantly, “You struck me!”
“Damned right,” Eva said. “I’ll do it again, too, if you don’t start moving forward. We’ve got to—”
An ear-shattering boom cut off her words. The passage around them shook as though in a mighty earthquake, and the walls cracked and dust rained down on their heads. That was followed by a thick wall of silence, as though they were cut off from the entire rest of the universe.
CHAPTER 8
The Old Woman’s Tale
Judah stood by the stone-cats’ cage watching the look of animal lust on Marya’s face. The ferocity of the animals had triggered a ferocity in her, a ferocity that chilled him to the bone. He’d seen looks of sexual tantalization before, such as when Cousin Eva was talking about some of her adventures, or even when his fiancée Vida was feeling particularly kittenish. But he’d never seen anything to match Marya’s intensity right now. It scared him.
Marya was squeezing his arm tightly, with a power almost equal to another Zionian. Suddenly she pulled him around to face her, held her body tightly against his and began a long, passionate kiss. Her tongue thrust its way through his lips as she aggressively forced her passion onto him.
He half expected her to drag him to the ground and rape him on the spot, but instead she pulled back from the kiss—but not from the clinch—and looked straight into his face. “Come with me,” she said huskily.
The last thing Judah wanted personally right now was go anywhere with this suka. But he reminded himself he was on a mission for the Empire, and that took precedence. “Where are we going?” he asked, and his voice sounded a little shaky even to him.
“Where would you like to go?” she asked with a sultry grin. “Or should we do it right here?”
Judah was blushing furiously. “Uh, this is a little public—”
“I know where we won’t be disturbed,” she said. Taking his hand, she began pulling him back along the path toward the palace. Judah reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled.
What would Ilya Uzi do? he asked himself, knowing perfectly well what Ilya Uzi would do, but not yet willing to admit it to himself.
She led him through a side door of the palace and took a gravtube to the third floor. They were in a part of the palace Judah wasn’t familiar with, the personal household rooms where he’d never been allowed before. If his mind hadn’t been so occupied with the immediate situation, he might have seen it as a great opportunity to sneak around the premises, after …
His mind refused to go that far into the future. There were more immediate problems to deal with first.
They finally came to a room that was obviously a woman’s bedroom, Marya’s bedroom. There seemed to be mirrors everywhere: behind the wall-length exquisitely carved wooden bureau, behind the dressing table, and a full-length mirror on the doors leading to the closet and the adjoining bathroom. And, of course, there was the bed.
It was a huge bed, much larger th
an king-size, with tall posts at the corners and a flat wooden canopy on top. A thick brocade comforter was spread over the bed in plush shades of wine colors shifting subtly tone-on-tone as the eye moved across it. As Marya pulled him closer to the bed, Judah could see that the inside of the canopied top was also lined with mirrors.
“Is this private enough for you?” she asked. “No one’s going to bother us here.”
She didn’t give Judah much chance to answer, though, as she pasted her body up against him and began rubbing sensuously. Her left hand grabbed his chin and pulled it close to her face, thrusting her tongue so deep into his mouth he was afraid it might come out his ear. Her hands were stroking his back, and then moved around to the front to undo the buttons of his uniform. They seemed very experienced at unfastening uniform buttons.
The moment of truth was rapidly approaching, and Judah knew he’d have to make a decision. He’d known when he set out on this mission that something like this might occur. Certainly Eva would have no ethical problems in this situation. There were certainly Vida’s feelings to consider; he hadn’t had time to let her know where he was going—he presumed his father would fill her in—but she’d read enough of the Ilya Uzi books to know what kinds of situations spies faced.
What would be the harm if he gave in? He had to lose his virginity sometime, and Marya would certainly be an experienced teacher. How would Vida feel about that? She’d never insisted he be faithful to her during their engagement, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt her feelings nonetheless.
He thought about Marya. She was unquestionably beautiful and enthusiastically eager. But she was also vicious and sadistic, sexually excited by the bloody destruction of innocent life. She was also part of a plot to overthrow the Empire on her route to becoming tsaritsa.
Did he really want to have this woman as his first sexual experience? Did he want that memory indelibly imprinted in his mind, her image forever tainting his consciousness? How could he live with that?
He tried to push her body gently away and turn his face from her kisses. He was only partially successful. “I’m engaged,” he eked out.
Marya was undaunted. “Is she a knyaghinya?” she breathed hotly in his ear.
“No,” Judah admitted.
“Then I outrank her,” Marya said, continuing her assault on his senses.
“I gave her my word.”
“What does that matter? She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“But she does to me! “ Judah exclaimed, pushing Marya away—and this time he used Zionian strength to put some space between them. “You’re a beautiful woman, Marya, but my heart belongs to her.”
Marya’s face held a look of surprise that quickly turned to hatred. “And she can have it!” she spat in fury. “You’re just a pitiful, puny little man with no taste and less ambition. Do you think you can turn down the daughter of a knyaz for some krepostnaya? My freiliny deserve better than you.”
She reached out to either slap him or claw his face, but he reached up quickly to block the blow and it never connected. “They probably do,” Judah said quietly. “But I know they deserve better than serving a blyad like you.”
Marya’s face was bright red. “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of my room, get out of my life! If I ever see you again I’ll have you dismissed from the palace—dismissed from living, if I have anything to say about it!”
She reached out to the top of her dresser, picked up a knickknack of some kind and threw it at him with great violence. Judah dodged it easily, but decided this was a wonderful time to make his exit. He slipped out the door before she found another object to throw, but she was still yelling at full volume. All became quiet, though, once the door closed behind him. She was right about not being interrupted; the room was completely soundproof.
As he caught his breath and settled his nerves, he looked around and decided that, apart from the unpleasantness with Marya, the incident couldn’t have turned out better. Here he was, alone in the private rooms of the palace, with access to places he could never otherwise explore. He put Marya totally out of his mind as he refastened his uniform buttons. There was work to do.
He walked purposefully through the halls, noticing bits and pieces of things mostly through his peripheral vision. His kavalergard uniform let people see him without noticing him. As Ilya Uzi had said, “Spies don’t slink. They have every right to be where they are, doing what they’re doing. And they’re always on an important errand that doesn’t give them time to answer foolish questions or engage in idle chitchat.”
He roamed the palace for well over an hour, but saw nothing that could remotely be labeled “Secret Rebellion Plans.” He even wandered through the offices of Kuznyetz’s social secretaries and eavesdropped on conversations while pretending to look for something else, but nothing seemed suspicious or dangerous.
He was beginning to think he’d squandered this marvelous opportunity when he saw an old woman at the end of a passageway—a Zionian. It wasn’t just her build that told him this; there were a lot of short, stocky unmodified humans, too. But she was carrying a package that looked much too heavy for someone of her advanced age, and her movements were very precise. Zionians on lower gravity worlds moved like that, like astronauts on the moon trying not to bounce too high when they walked. This woman had spent a very long time living on a low-gee world, but another Zionian could still tell.
Judah approached her, bounding just fast enough to let her be aware he was another high-grav native. “May I help you with your package, bubeleh?” he asked reverently.
She looked at him with a bit of suspicion. “You’re Zionian?”
“Is matzo flat?” he replied.
Her eyes narrowed. “So what’s a Jewish boy doing in the uniform of a momzer like Yevgheniy Kuznyetz?”
Judah shrugged. “Jewish boys don’t need to eat too? I tried a lot of things, and this paid the best for the least work. It’s a living.”
“It’s a bad living,” she said emphatically. “Better you should dig ditches, it’s more honorable. I could tell you stories—”
She broke off abruptly, worried she might already have said too much. “You’d better go.”
This was the most promising encounter he’d had yet, and Judah wasn’t about to be shooed away so easily. “Please, it’s been so long since I’ve seen a Zionian face. I’d like to talk with someone who knows what’s going on.”
“Oy, you think it’s been long for you? Nu, come along and we can talk.”
Judah took the package from her, which was bulky but lighter than it looked. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sadye. And you?”
“Ivan. Ivan Borodin.”
“Not a very Jewish name.”
“My father changed the family name. You know how that is.”
She nodded sadly. “Too many people are embarrassed by their heritage. It’s very sad.”
“I’m thinking of changing it back. How do you like the name Judah?”
Sadye nodded again. “It’s strong, noble. Do it. Be a mensh.”
Judah smiled. “I think I will. Thank you.”
Sadye led him to her room, where he put the package down. She offered him a chair and put on a small kettle to make some tea. They talked as they sipped, and Sadye was so starved for someone to confide in that soon her whole story leaked out.
About thirty years ago, when she was almost forty, she came to Kyrby to be a lady’s companion to the young Lady Teodora. Teodora was a lovely and smart young woman, and Sadye soon became very devoted to her.
A year or so after Sadye’s arrival, a woman came to speak to Teodora’s parents, bringing her twenty-two year old son Yevgheniy with her. Sadye couldn’t remember who the lady claimed to be, but Sadye recognized her from old pictures she’d seen as a young woman. The lady was Anastasia Alexeyevna Sokolova.
“I think I’ve heard that name somewhere,” Judah said, suddenly scrambling through the mental trash-heap of his mind. �
��Sokolov’s the imperial family name, but she wasn’t a tsaritsa, was she?”
“She very nearly was,” Sadye said, and proceeded to give him a refresher history lesson.
When the previous tsar, Boris IV, died, he left three grown sons. The oldest was Kyril; he and his wife Roxanna had no children. The other two were Nikolai and Vasiliy, fraternal twins, with Vasiliy the older by twelve minutes. Nikolai and his wife Anastasia already had a young son named Pyotr; Vasiliy, who was gay, had already renounced marriage and children.
Kyril was proclaimed tsar, but five days before his official coronation he was assassinated. Suspicion immediately fell on Nikolai and Anastasia, both of whom were well known to be the plotting sort, but nothing was ever conclusively proved. Even though Vasiliy was the older twin by a few minutes, Nikolai argued that, since he had already produced a son and Vasiliy never would, he was the logical one to be proclaimed the new tsar to guarantee the continuation of the direct Sokolov line. Both brothers had strong supporters in the Duma and the subject was hotly debated for days. Nikolai’s arguments seemed to be winning over the Duma when a stunning and unexpected announcement was made.
Exactly one week after Kyril’s assassination, the palace issued the startling news that Kyril’s widow Roxanna was pregnant with a boy. There would be a direct heir through Kyril after all. The entire question of succession was suddenly a deck of cards thrown up in the air, and no one could even guess how they would land.
Nikolai and Anastasia, who’d been confident of their accession to the throne, were furious and suddenly found themselves scrambling. Organizing their supporters, they tried to disband the Duma and unilaterally declare Nikolai tsar. Many of the dvoryane sided with them, and independent fleets of ships began descending on Earth from all directions.
The Duma, incensed by Nikolai’s high-handed usurpation, responded by immediately proclaiming Vasiliy tsar and staging a hastily-arranged coronation. This satisfied enough of the traditionalists to bring the bulk of the Imperial Navy into the fray on Vasiliy’s side, and the war was on.
Tsar Wars: Agents of ISIS, Book 1 Page 9