Insider ви-6

by Julia Latynina

  Insider

  ( Вейская империя - 6 )

  Julia Latynina

  Julia Latynina

  Insider

  THE FIRST CHAPTER,

  where Kissur the White Falcon gets in an accident while the first vice-minister of finance discusses the reasons for the dearth in the state treasury

  The walls of the living room were covered with blue silk and the corners were overlayed with hexagonal tiles making the room an octagon, the shape guided its owner's success in life and smoothed all turns in his fate. Embroiderings grew over silk — blossoming lotuses with leaves lowered from heat, plum flowers opening up, a snow white duck in a pond and a sping sun. A light hung almost all the way down to the floor, looking like a transparent upside down mushroom and golden figures of animals ran over its rim.

  A small table with a frosted jar and an armchair were next to the light. A 30 year old man sitting in the armchair was dressed in the silk pants and a jacket, girdled with a belt made from large silver links. His face was very handsome but cruel, with blue eyes and eyebrows rising at the tips. Old rings of delicate worksmanship looked strange on his predator's hands with untrimmed nails. His hair was twisted in a bun and held with a tortoise comb. A 3D transvisor on a fat golden leg stood in the left corner.

  Periodically, the man would fill a small five walled cup from the jar, close the cup with a lacquered cap enclosing a straw, and stick the straw in his mouth. He was watching the transvisor.

  On his left hand, a small drawing hung in a sable fur frame — a beautiful drawing of a sick chickadee in snow. The picture bore the Emperor's signature. It was a personal gift from the Emperor. Two golden rings of orchids and clematis hang next to it. A sonar rabbit ear antenna stuck up above the transvisor and a silvered pot with a blooming flower was behind the antenna. The flower had a artful name "furled belle's eyebrows."

  The picture in the transvisor greatly differed from that on the silk paintings decorating the room. The transvisor was not showing either a sick chickadee or blossoming plums. The transvisor was showing a press-conference. A self-important patrician Earthman was talking and his piggish eyes were routinely squinting from camera flashes. A whole flock of microphones was gosseling out in front of the Earthman. He was earnestly attempting to look inside the room through the screen and he probably felt alien surrounded by blooming plums and golden flower rings.

  Somebody asked the man on the screen in a thin voice, and he answered benevolently,

  "While we are not interfering in any way with the independent nation and are not pressuring its government, the Federation of Nineteen would encourage the Emperor to conduct the first Parliament elections in the history of your country as a one more step in of your nation's integration into the galactic society."

  The man sitting in the chair poured the last remnants from the silver jar into the cup. He slightly raised his hand and threw the jar at the forehead of the smiling Earthman on the screen. The Earthman stopped smiling and disappeared. The screen squeaked and exploded in tiny pieces. The "furled belle's eyebrows" loudly crashed, and the nauseating smell of burning plastic intestines filled the room. The painted doors moved apart and a middle-aged majordomo in a blue caftan rolled into the room.

  "Take it away," the man in the armchair said without raising his voice.

  The majordomo threw his hands up and exclaimed,

  "Oh, Mr. Kissur, that's the third one this week."

  Kissur jumped out of the chair, slammed the door and was gone.

  The majordomo in the room stuck his hand in the empty jar, scratched it and licked… The lord was not even drunk, or almost not drunk — there was a light palm wine in a jar, generously diluted by the apricot juice. Kissur could get drunk and get drunk to his eyebrows, drunk enough to fight, drunk enough to cut dogs or people cut in half. But, he could do it only at merry party with a dozen friends. Kissur never drank by himself.

  Kissur ran gasping down the staircase and leaped out into the inner yard. The night was already in. It smelled of mint from countryside gardens, gasoline and horses. A city mansion with a flat roof surrounded the yard on three sides. A left wing tower decorated with grape carvings rose gracefully like a reed leaf. In the past, high-ranking officials built towers like this, for them to touch the sky like little fingers. The towers would be like a staircase that Fortune walk down from the sky to the officials. In the past, people had said that only the Emperor's castle spires were higher. Now, one would not be able to say that, since a construction crane made from steel matches was showing up on the black sky background; the crane was touching the sky with its little finger. Enraged Kissur threw his fist to the sky and stomped flying down the moonlighted path.

  A servant in a short blue jacket stood in the backyard, in front of the gates wrapped by brass vines. The servant lovingly washed a long glossy car like he would be braiding a horse's tail. The black sides of the car gleamed in the moonlight and the silver gills of the hydrogen engine air intakes shined.

  Kissur ripped the hose out of the slave's hand and threw himself in a car. The tires screeched — the slave was barely able to jump away. The terrified booth guard hit the button on the keyboard, the gates bobbed up, and the car flew out on the deserted and wet night highway. "Once he won't be able to get the gates up in time", Kissur thought, "and I'll break my neck at my own wall."

  The car was purring and eating hydrogen — isn't it strange that a horse eats when it's resting while this black ironmonger eats only when it's moving, and when it's not moving it doesn't eat anything. Yes! Seven years ago when gloom was sometimes eating at his soul, Kissur would take a black stallion with a wide back and tall legs and race him in the Emperor's garden, in the gullies overgrown with bushes and grass, till the sunrise. Where is this garden now? They peddled it, sold it like a wench in the market, for some glass contraption. It was shameful, since Kissur himself sold it to some corporation.

  The highway ended abruptly at a flooded river; Kissur almost flipped over in the water on the sliver of the pontoon bridge. At least, this thing does race faster than a horse even if it stinks of iron. Only weapons smelled like iron in the past, while now in an every beaurocrat's house a barrel like this hangs out and stinks like iron. It's terrifying to think of the size of the motherland piece this beaurocrat sold for this barrel… Kissur turned around and slowly drove back. In a hundred yards, a cement road forked off the highway. Moon tatters floated in a little puddle at the road turn. "What road is that?", Kissur was curious and turned the car.

  The road ended in ten minutes. The car beams tore at the darkness and illuminated a tall concrete fence with barbed wire on top and a lonely guard getting bored at the watchtower. A dark open field could be seen on the left and a yellow light beam from the beacon was hitting the field. Kissur got out of the car and walked down the field to the excavator that was ascending like a clockwork mole over a not-yet-fully-eaten hill. Tracks and wheels bulldozed the field and water gleamed in the clay ruts. The excavator was huge, taller than a poplar. It was one of these huge machines that swallow clay with some additives delivered from afar and spit out finished construction blocks.

  Kissur climbed up a steep staircase to the top of the excavator. It was a long climb; the staircases twisted, went horizontal, changed in narrow paths between steel casings covering various mechanisms and finally finished at a tiny booth. The booth was locked; constellations of blue lights at the napping console looked at Kissur through the glass.

  At this moment, the moon peered out of clouds again; Drunken River gleamed far away with the multi-coloured tower of Seven Clouds Bridge above it. Kissur suddenly recognized this field; it happened here, next to Seven Clouds, eight years ago. Kissur caught
up with the rebel Khanalai right when he was going to enter the capital; Kissur and his five hundred horsemen drowned four thousand rebels in the river. The commander wore a ruby necklace; Kissur remembered very well how he cut off his head with one hand and stuffed the necklace in his coat with the other.

  Kissur turned around and started to climb down the narrow staircase, smelling of oil and chemistry. His car purred quietly and complained about the open door. The guard hesitantly shifted from foot to foot in his nest. What's happening? Did some boss come in a luxurious barrel to look at the construction at night? It doesn't look like a robber… Take this excavator, such an insanely expensive machine that's tall like a cypress, walks by itself, digs earth by itself, piles the blocks behind by itself. They say that this machine costs three times more than the village that the guard was born and grew up in. They say even that it's more expensive than the Emperor's scepter covered with jewels and gold. That's probably bullshit; the Emperor's sceptor is the focus of the world and the buttress of power. When the Emperor knocks his scepter, flowers bloom and birds build nests; how can you compare it some ironmongery? You can't compare it to ironmongery and that's why people from the sky get angry and laugh at the scepter. Like it's all crap and the Spring comes not because the Emperor knocks the sceptor on the floor in the Hall of Hundred Fields but because Weia planet turns its side to the sun differently. But what if the people from the sky don't bullshit? What if their excavator is more powerful than the Emperor's scepter?

  "Hey," Kissur asked, "what are they building here?"

  " I don't know, sir", the frightened guard answered. "They say it will be a garbage plant."

  "Who is building it?"

  The puzzled guard was silent for a moment.

  "I knew, sir, but the name is such difficult…"

  "Earthmen?"

  "Earthmen."

  The beacon from the tower was blinding Kissur's eyes, shamelessly eclipsing the moon. Kissur rolled on the heels, threw a coin to the guard, got in the car and left.

  He didn't care where he went, but the wheels drove him of their own accord to Jasper Hills, the most expensive suburb of the capital. Painted walls extended behind the sidewalk covered with blue cloth; trees and turnip shaped turrets flashed behind the walls, and traffic lights blinked in the intersections illuminating statues of gods and road signs with transparent lights.

  Kissur drove the wrong way down a one way street, turned the wrong way again and raced down night intersections not bothering to decrease his speed. He passed red lights twice without problems, but third time he was less lucky. Out of a white fence came a grey Daiquiri, looking like a gopher with a sharp snout, the last year model made by the Republic of Gera.

  Kissur wrenched the steering wheel left even before the slow biolectronic guts of the car smelled danger. The brakes of both cars sang an ugly song in the night. Grey Daiquiri swerved left. Everything would have been fine, if not for the wet road cover. The grey car spun like a top and hit Kissur's car right side head-on.

  Metal screeched desperately, like a chainlink mail parting under an old sword strike.

  Everything became quiet.

  The owner of Daiquiri jumped out of the car and rushed to the other auto; he jerked the driver's door open and looked inside. He was probably expecting to find a corpse or somebody severely wounded; he looked astonished when he discovered that the culprit was sitting in the car and getting his wallet out. Then, Kissur looked in rearview mirror, shifted from the collision, and noticed that his hair twisted in a bun was in disarray and the comb popped out of the bun like a button out of a safety switch. Kissur pulled the comb out and started to arrange his hair.

  The other driver's face contorted like an image in a transvisor with a bad tracking; he started pulling Kissur out and hissed awfully in the language of the people from the stars.

  "You, Weian monkey! Climb down a tree first, before you start driving."

  The smile slowly left Kissur's face. He left the comb alone, grabbed the Earthman's wrists with his hands, got out of the car, and with a slight swing punched the Earthman in the solar plexis with his knee. He went limp and said "Ouch." Red unglazed tiles that were covering the ditch caved in with a crunch and the Earthman tumbled down through the tiles with his legs sticking up.

  Kissur grinned, straightened up his shirt and started opening the car door.

  In the next second, something gleamed above his head and refracted in the long titanium oxide rib of the car. Kissur turned with lightning speed. Great Wei! The Earthman dragged himself out of the tiled ditch and was flying at Kissur prancing like a goose. Astounded Kissur avoided the first punch, but the second almost shattered his jaw. Kissur was hurled in the corner between the door and rearview mirror. The mirror crunched and Kissur noticed the Earthman's right foot an inch away from his ear. Kissur grabbed and twisted this leg, but the masterly Earthman instead of smashing his face in the road, let out a war cry, threw his body strangely in the air and punched Kissur's belly with another leg. Kissur even fainted for a second. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the road like a pod from an eaten bean and the Earthman was going to punch him again. Kissur threw himself to the side; Earthman missed, and Kissur adroitly punched Earthman right in the place where the Earthman's corn grew from. This time Earthman's cry was less warlike. Kissur jumped with his back, bounced on his feet and hit the foe in the face, once and again; he went limp. Kissur prodded him in the groin to check, lifted him and flang the Earthman at the grey Daiquiri's windshield. The layered glass cracked and started to break, the Earthman dropped his head and lost consciousness.

  Kissur stood breathing deeply and blinking with half mad eyes. He was trained to loose any self control during a fight; at times like this, Kissur's ancestors turned into wolves and bears. If Kissur had a sword, he would cut the scoundrel down. However, it would be stupid to wear a sword now and Kissur didn't have a liking for all these things with nulls, lights, gases — all having a hole in the middle like a wench. Though he had an automatic six pound laser and another very fashionable gadget in the car's trunk, Kissur didn't know even why he carried them. His friends did, so did he.

  Kissur stood and shook his head purposelessly, slowly coming back in this world. The Earthman was lying on the car hood like a squashed frog. His white shirt and tie were hopelessly soiled with cranberry juice. The traffic light at the intersection blinked and changed color — the fugurine of a god-protector of intersections sparkled with green light. Kissur finally came to his senses. He chewed his lips and retrieved his round wallet out of a pocket. Kissur didn't respect plastic. He got out everything that he had in the wallet — he vaguely remembered that it was twenty or maybe fifty thousand — rolled the money in a wad and stuck it in the Earthmans's split lips. He didn't want them to say that he beat people free of charge.

  Then he got in his car and left.

  X X X

  The car slowly rolled forward. Kissur felt slightly sick; blood dripped out of his nose. It wouldn't be proper to come back home looking like this.

  Kissur passed several more mansions and stopped in front of beautiful brass gates. Horses and peacocks intertwined in a dance on the gates; the blue enamel on the horsetails glistened in the beam lights. The beauty of gates was such they seemed to lead from earth to heaven. Night garden's sweet smells wafted out from behind the gates. The turnip shaped turrets of the side houses stuck out from the dark mass of trees. Melancholic gods sat on the flat roofing of the covered road. At the side of the gates, a small ivory plaque glimmered, "Shavash Ahdi. The first vice-minister of finance. Vice prefect of the Sky City." A small figurine of the god-protector of the gates was next to the plaque. The god had a small basket with fish in his hand. A marble cup stood under the figurine. A piece of dried oil saturated cow dung burned in the cup; it demontrated the owner's modesty and honored the cane-built huts of ancient officials.

  Surprisingly, the gates were closed — the vice prefect of the capital was not feedi
ng either officials or paupers today.

  Kissur smirked.

  The mansion's owner could've had numerous titles written on the plaque — the Keeper of Piety, the Brocade of Truth, the Flower Garden of the Wisdom Beyond the Sky, the Meadow of the State Virtue, etc… etc… He regularly received these titles from the Emperor and was supposed to engrave them on gate plaques. However, the owner of the mansion has often had visitors from the skies and he probably realized that the Brocade of Truth and the Flower Garden of Wisdom were not titles that would impress the foreigners.

  Kissur blinked the lights; the gates suddenly moved to the sides without a call and Kissur drove in.

  The yard was brightly lit. Streams of water and light erupted from the fountains and multi coloured balls bounced on the streams. Rows of columns and rose bushes led to the open front entrance. The columns tops made from carved jade and inlaid silver pointed to the moon. The host was already running down the staircase rushing to the wide path. A bowing servant opened the car door and Kissur stepped out of the car. Mr. Shavash froze as if he had ran into a wall but he recovered at once, opened his arms and embraced Kissur.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Well," said Kissur, "I was driving and decided to drop by. Sorry that I didn't warn you… I don't like these — beep, beep," Kissur traced a sickly body of a T-phone with his hand. "Are you busy?"

  Mr. Shavash regarded the caved in car door and looked Kissur over from his head to his toes.

  "Give me your driver's license," said the vice-minister of finance and the vice prefect of the capital.

  Kissur bent his eyebrows, got the wallet out and handed his license over. The vice prefect waved the license, thought a bit, tore it apart and threw it in the lighted fountain.

  "Whom have you run over?"

  "I haven't run anybody over," answered Kissur, "I hit a pole."

  This lie would have a short life span. If the Earthman is dead, Shavash will learn everything tomorrow morning. If he is alive, Shavash may learn about it tonight. Kissur, however, didn't come to Shavash to avoid a scandal. Thank God, the time hasn't come yet for a foreigner wearing a tie to turn in a complaint about a personal friend of the Emperor.