Dancing with Bears

by Michael Swanwick

  Pepsicolova and her dog wandered off into the wondrous if somewhat reduced city of Moscow.

  Because the Terem Palace was in ruins and elements of the Kremlin remained on fire, the Ad Hoc Committee for the Defense of Muscovy was reduced to meeting in the brothel in Zamoskvorechye from which Baron Lukoil-Gazprom was already directing rescue and firefighting operations. The ranking members of both the old and new regimes who were neither dead nor incapacitated by sexual exhaustion, crowded into the parlor. So diminished were the numbers of the ruling class and so great was the need to reestablish a functioning government that nobody wasted time in political infighting. That could wait for next week.

  “Firstly, thank you all for coming,” Zoesophia said. “Baron Lukoil-Gazprom has asked me to serve as the recording secretary for this meeting.” No one could have suspected the degree to which the Committee had been chosen by this striking but deferential young woman. Nor how deftly she had countered its most ambitious members by appointing their political rivals to positions of equal authority. “He himself will serve as chair until a new leader is chosen. Baron?”

  The baron glanced down at the agenda laid before him as though he had had no hand in drafting it. Which he most definitely had. “There is much we must do. However, the first and most pressing order of business is to name an acting chief of government to replace our own beloved and tragically deceased Duke of Muscovy.”

  A rustle of wordless surprise passed around the table. This was the first that most of them had heard of the duke’s demise. But before anyone could demand details of this startling news, the baron said, “Nominations?”

  Several of those present straightened with sudden resolve. State Inspector of Infrastructure Zdrajca bulled his way to the front and said, “I would like to-”

  “Jaragniew Bogdanovich Zdrajca.” Baron Lukoil-Gazprom referred to a list of names that Zoesophia slid before him. “You are known to belong to an organization including elements of the government created by the False Tsar Lenin.” There was just enough of a pause for everyone to realize that most of the members of that organization referred to were present in this very room. Then he continued, “And to having ambitions of establishing yourself as absolute ruler of Muscovy. This makes you a clear and present danger to the welfare of the state.” Lifting his head, the baron said, “Take him out and shoot him.”

  Two soldiers whom nobody had previously paid any serious attention to seized the unfortunate state inspector by the arms and dragged him from the building. There was a long silence and then a volley of klashny fire.

  A flurry of motions and points of order later, Muscovy had a new duke-to-be.

  There was a tense moment when the question was raised of punishments for those involved in the abortive coup. However, since Chortenko was dead and his puppet government had been assembled under duress, it was quickly established that the only rebel of any note was the Baronessa Lukoil-Gazproma. Who, out of deference to her husband, could not possibly be either executed or imprisoned.

  But neither could she be allowed to stay in Moscow.

  The baronessa was given a generous pension and the Novodevichy Convent to do with as she liked. Those present had some shrewd guesses as to what sorts of activities she would engage in there, in the fields and woods outside of town. But they also knew that the secret police would immediately clamp down on anyone commenting too loudly on them. So that was all right.

  It was an open secret that for years hers had been a marriage in name only anyway.

  “The next item on the agenda,” the baron said when the business of his wife had been taken care of, “is the beginning of preparations to expand the borders of Muscovy and restore the Russian Empire to its lost glory.”

  In short order, forces were mobilized and expanded, conscriptions declared, a host of new commissions created and put up for sale, and authority granted the baron to raise taxes as needed to pay for whatever he required.

  It was, everybody agreed afterward, an auspicious beginning to what would surely be a golden new era in Russian history.

  Yevgeny had become the hero of the day when, seeing the inexplicable naked giant come crashing toward him, he had redirected his cannon to counter this uncanny new threat. Where others had fled, he had without hesitation rallied his fearless gun crew. Under his direction, the team had with one single shot taken down the monster.

  After which, his sergeant had said, “Sir? Hadn’t you better be going now?”

  “Eh?” Yevgeny said, startled by the deference in the man’s voice.

  “If you want to get the regiment’s name in the history books, sir, you should report this action immediately.” The sergeant gave his superior a meaningful look.

  So, not being a total dunce, Yevgeny had wheeled his steed and raced like the wind to army headquarters to report the feat before others could take credit for it.

  On delivering his report, Yevgeny was immediately arrested for being drunk on duty, of course. It would take some time for headquarters to accept the giant’s reality. But his claim had been documented, and was thus official. The story would quickly get around, and he could expect to be released before too long. Being of the proper class and breeding for such a deed, he could be confident that a promotion would soon follow. Meanwhile, he was given prison quarters suitable for a gentleman.

  It was in his prison cell that Yevgeny met an inmate not much younger than himself who had been arrested for looting. “My own fault,” Anatoli admitted cheerily. “I should have stopped before the city forces pulled themselves together. But I got greedy, so I’ll be living off the duke’s largesse for the next few months.” Word had not yet gotten out that the Duke of Muscovy had been killed by the treachery of his own guards. Though, already, Baron Lukoil-Gazprom was making plans for a solemn funeral procession (with an empty but human-sized coffin, the true nature of the late duke being a state secret) which would pass between the rows of gibbets on which the bodies of the bear-men of the Royal Guard were still fresh. “The only embarrassing thing is that it was my uncle’s mansion I was caught ransacking, so I’m going to catch hell from my mother when I get out.”

  “And what do you normally do?” Yevgeny asked. “When you’re not looting and ransacking?”

  “Oh, I’m a wastrel, and a scapegrace and a scoundrel and a horrible libertine,” Anatoli said, staring straight into Yevgeny’s eyes. His own were green and filled with mischief, but there was an undercurrent of sorrow there as well, a leavening of pain that made the laughter all that much sweeter. “Depending on my mood, of course.”

  Yevgeny felt his heart melt within him.

  Meanwhile, the mysterious giant’s corpse had, even in the midst of a citywide holocaust, become something of an attraction. A string quartet was playing at its feet, with a bucket set out for donations. Enterprising artists from the Arbat sold sketches of citizens posing before the body part of his or her choice. Because the flesh was rapidly becoming high, a vendor sold oranges for the clients to hold to their noses while they posed. Several women in modest clothing stood before the noble head, crossing themselves and bowing in prayer-though whether they were praying to the giant or thanking God for its demise, nobody cared to ask. Children raced from the shoulder to the knee and back again, shrieking with joy.

  “How do you like it so far?” an artist asked his patron.

  The pudgy man examined the picture-in which he stood, casually heroic, with one foot on the giant’s hand, as if he had slain the behemoth himself-and blew out his cheeks. “It’s good, but I look a little… a little too…Well, is it possible to make me look a bit more…muscular?”

  “I can do that, sir. All included in the price of purchase.”

  It was, after all, Moscow. And in Moscow you could get anything you wanted, so long as you could afford the price.

  Kyril had set up business helping people find their homes. He stood in Mayakovsky Square, looking sharply about until he saw a gentleman dressed posh, if somewhat rumpled, and loo
king confused and distracted. Then he darted up and began his patter: “Good morning, citizen! You look like you’ve had an evening of it, that’s for sure. Well, so have we all, sir, so have we all. Are you having trouble finding your way home? Do you know where your home is? I’d be glad to help.”

  “I, uh…” The man looked dazedly down at Kyril. “I, um, I think I know where my home is,” he said tentatively. His glasses were askew.

  “Well, let me just check for you, eh? Where do you keep your billfold? Oh, it’s right here in your inside jacket pocket. Very wise, sir. Makes it much harder for a pickpocket to get at it, dunnit? Oh, you know it does! Place it in your hip pocket, it’s as good as gone. I’ve seen it happen, sir, and much worse!”

  Kyril opened the wallet. “Well, look here. This says that you’re V. I. Dyrakovsky-is that you, sir? Yes of course it is-and you live close by Patriarch’s Ponds. Very nice neighborhood, if you don’t mind my saying so, and the fires are nowhere near it yet. You can go home, catch a little nap, bury your valuables, and still make it out of town in perfect safety before your house burns down. Just keep on going along the Garden Ring until you come to Spiridonovka ulitsa, go down it two blocks and then turn left. Can’t miss it! I’m sure you’ll recognize your own house.” He tucked the billfold back in the man’s jacket, spun him around, and gave him a little push. “No need to thank me, sir. I’m just doing what any citizen would.”

  Kyril stood waving goodbye until the man was lost in the crowd. Then he turned away to surreptitiously examine the banknotes he had slid out of the man’s wallet in the course of examining his ID. Three hundred rubles. Not bad. And the morning was yet young!

  A carriage rattled over the cobblestones and came to a stop not far away. A veiled woman leaned out the window. “You there!” she called to Kyril. “You in the green suit! Come over here.”

  Kyril stepped closer, smiling. Opportunity, it seemed, was everywhere. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “Yes, you can.” The woman opened the carriage door. “Get in.”

  Kyril climbed into the coach and the woman slid over to make room for him. On the other side of her sat two dwarf savants looking alert and placid.

  At a word from the woman, the carriage started forward again. But instead of saying what she wanted, she instead studied him shrewdly for a very long time. At last Kyril could not keep silent any longer. “You said I could help you, Gospozha?”

  “Yes, you can. If, that is, you’re the young lady I think you are.”

  “Waddaya talkin’ about? I ain’t no girl.” Kyril reached for the latch, intending to kick the door open and leap out. But the veiled woman had already seized his collar. Her grip was implacable.

  “Nice try, Missie. You may be able to fool everyone else, but you’re not fooling me. I’ve read your file and I know more about you than you do yourself. How long have you been passing yourself off as a boy?”

  Long years of scrabbling to stay alive had taught Kyril how to read people. This woman’s face and stance conveyed amusement, scorn, perception-and no doubt whatsoever. She wasn’t bluffing. She knew. Looking down at her feet, Kyril said, “Since my parents died and I ran away from the workhouse three years ago.”

  The carriage rumbled down the smoky streets. After a while, the woman said, “What’s your name?”

  “Kir-I mean, Klara.” She stared wistfully out of the carriage window, at all the dazed and well-heeled marks stumbling about in a mental fog, and abruptly blurted, “I was making awful good money out there.”

  “I have better and ultimately more profitable work for you. I’m the new head of Muscovy Intelligence, and I need some bright eyes in low places.”

  “What? You want me to be a spy? An informer? A fink?” “Do you have a problem with that?” Klara thought. “Naw,” she said at last. “It just caught me by surprise.” “Must this happen to every city we visit?” Surplus said with just a touch of pique.

  “At least we can take comfort in the fact that none of this was our doing,” Darger reassured him. Then, because he was an honest man, he added, “So far as we know.”

  They stood atop Sparrow Hills, which, long months ago, they had agreed upon as their meeting-place, watching Moscow burn. Black smoke bent low over the city. At least three of the Kremlin’s buildings were burning and the Secret Tower, beneath which lay the former library of Tsar Ivan, was a pillar of flame. Surplus had, in an effort to raise his friend’s spirits, shown him the pocketful of gems he had rescued from the Diamond Fund. To no avail. “All those books,” Darger mourned. “Gone.”

  “Surely not all,” Surplus said. “Some must have survived.”

  “Only one. The young man who showed me where the library was snatched it up and stuffed it into my jacket when he hauled me away.”

  “Which book was it?”

  Darger drew out the book and opened it. Then he began to laugh. “It is an economic treatise on the nature of capital. The very book, in fact, which we chose to use as the bait in our plan to defraud the duke.”

  He handed it to Surplus who gave it a cursory glance. The book was a German first edition. The text looked to be as dry as dust.

  “Well,” Surplus said, “this is of no possible interest to anyone.” He cocked his arm to throw it away.

  But Darger stopped him. “Wait! Let us not waste a useful prop. Perhaps we can use it in our next operation, when we reach Japan.”

  “Japan? Are we going to Japan?”

  “Why not? It’s said to be a beautiful place. And full of fabulous riches as well. Indeed, its rulers are reckoned as being wealthy beyond avarice. If such a thing is even imaginable.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Surplus, crouching to place the book down upon the grass and then straightening and turning his back on it, “we shall come up with something new for our Japanese friends. There are far too many old ideas in the world as it is.”

  He turned his back on the conflagration.

  They mounted two horses they had rented at exorbitant cost. Which cost, however, came to less than outright purchase would have and thus, given that they had no intention of ever returning the horses to their former owner, was, looked at properly, something of a bargain. The saddlebags, moreover, were packed with a judicious assortment of items taken from the Diamond Fund.

  As they put Moscow behind them, Surplus narrated his recent adventures. When the tale reached its climax, Darger, astonished, remarked, “I did not know that your walking stick was actually a sword cane.”

  “There is a great deal that you do not know about me,” Surplus said complacently.

  SOMETIME LATER…

  I t was a remarkable sight: A band of hard men numbering in the hundreds-far too many to be called a raiding party, though perhaps not quite enough to be considered a true army-were readying their weapons on a hillside above Baikonur. Most were mounted on short, sturdy horses, but a sizeable fraction rode camels, which lived wild in the region and could be captured and broken to the saddle by those who knew how. Small bright flags here and there identified the leaders from each of the hidden towns of the steppes that had contributed warriors to the cause. Below them sprawled a dark, Satanic city of smokes and machines. Enigmatic engines reached for the sky. Cracking towers and gantries loomed from the yellowish smog. There were silvery glints of movement here and there, but for as far as the eye could see not one sign of life-not an animal, not a tree, not so much as a blade of grass.

  A bold young man on a roan mare cantered up to the band’s leader. “Are you ready, Father?”

  “Arkady Ivanovich, I was ready when your mother was still a virgin. As well she learned.” Gulagsky reared up his horse, roaring with sudden laughter. He gestured the young man to his side. “Come ride with me. We will each protect and defend the other.” Then, raising his klashny overhead, he shouted, “Are you ready to ride? Are you willing to fight? Are you prepared to die? Are you men enough to crush and destroy every living machine in the city below?”

  Up and dow
n the line of mounts, the men grinned savage and merciless grins. They had grown up in an unforgiving land and stayed when lesser folk had fled. Among them they felt not the slightest flicker of fear. Their eyes, to a man, glittered with the indwelling God.

  “Baikonur is ours!” Gulagsky bellowed. He swept forward an arm. “The demon machines stole it from us-now we take it back!”

  The men roared.

  They galloped down on the city like wolves upon the fold.

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