Lubikov’s eyes wandered to Captain Chin’s package, still sitting untouched on the corner of the desk. “Should I dispose of that for you, sir?” he asked.
“Certainly not. I promised to deliver it to the late captain’s mother, and I shall keep my word. After all, she no longer has a son. The least she should have is a music box.
“And see that she gets a nice letter of condolence that her son died in the course of his duties,” he added as an afterthought. “Mothers are very important, Pavel. They must be treated with the utmost respect.”
* * *
It was unofficially called the Blue Room, logically enough, because it was a room and it was blue. Not just any blue; it was, in fact, a tribute to all blues. Starting from the baseboards of the eastern wall, which were the palest pastel, the shades progressed like a canopy arch, darkening imperceptibly as the colors gradually merged until they reached the darkest navy blue, almost indistinguishable from black, along the bottom of the western wall. Many of the room’s prior occupants over the decades had proclaimed the effect quite restful and relaxing; its current occupant, however, was unmoved by any such soothing effects.
Nkosi Wettig, knyaz of Orion sector, was a large man by almost any standards, nearly two meters tall and massing about a hundred and twenty kilograms. Adding to this was his demeanor, a commanding presence that radiated intelligence and decisiveness, and an attitude that brooked no incompetence. The brown eyes above his broad, flat nose seemed to see not only everything within range, but all the implications of those things as well. The mahogany-colored skin of his face was unmarked with lines of worry despite his age—and despite the fact that he worried all the time. He was used to making other people develop worry lines.
His face was also unmarked by smile lines, because Nkosi Wettig seldom smiled. Given all that he knew and all that he saw, he found little to smile about.
The Blue Room had been designed by Wettig’s great-grandfather, a man of far less spartan tastes. It served as Wettig’s principal office when he was at home on his estate—not because of its soothing atmosphere, but because it was suitably large and centrally convenient to other rooms and resources. But even if the knyaz were normally inclined to a relaxed disposition, the information on the screens set in the desk before him would have jarred him out of that mood.
The left-hand screen displayed the decrypted message he’d received from Wong Chin. In fine detail it described the number, classes and disposition of the ships in Kuznyetz’s private fleet. Though ostensibly the ships were all either merchant craft or local law enforcement vessels, all were heavily armed—and so numerous that the total firepower was nearly one-third that of the Imperial Navy itself. Though the militsia vessels should have been spread uniformly throughout Scorpio sector, and the merchant ships should have been traveling to many destinations around the Empire, the vast majority of these ships seemed to be maneuvering in and out of a small space that just happened to be the part of Kuznyetz’s sector closest to Earth.
Chin’s report also contained a list of names of people he’d confirmed had made alliances with Kuznyetz. Chin admitted the list was incomplete, but even so it was impressive: ten other knyazya, eighty-seven grafy, sixteen admirals, five members of the Sovyet Knyazey and dozens of other assorted boyare.
A very thorough report. Chin had been the best of Wettig’s people to follow him into exile.
From his other sources, dwindling as they were, Wettig had traced a money trail leading from Kuznyetz to several dozen “separatist” movements on various planets, groups that were becoming increasingly more daring and increasingly more violent. Reports of their activities filled the news virtually every day now.
It didn’t take someone with Wettig’s extraordinary perception to supply a title for this portrait: treason. Treason in its purest form. Kuznyetz was planning an uprising, and soon.
Next to the screen with Chin’s report was another that held a flattie video message from Kuznyetz himself. “Nkosi, I have some news that may disturb you. I had an officer in my kavalergardy, a Captain Wong Chin. He died today under highly suspicious circumstances. My investigators are looking into it, but since I believe you were one of his past employers I thought you might know him and care about what happened to him. Please accept my deepest sympathies.” And there the message ended.
The nerve of that man! To kill a fine officer like Chin and then to brag about it like this. He thinks there’s nothing I can do about it—and he may be right.
He stared ahead for a long moment of reflection. But maybe not.
“Intercom: Hasina.”
After a moment his daughter’s face appeared on the screen. “What did you want, Father?”
“Pack your bags for an offworld trip.”
Hasina, used to her father’s quirky orders, could only smile. “Anywhere in particular?”
“I’ll have to check their schedule. There’s a show I want you to see.”
CHAPTER 2
Le Vaudeville Galactique
The planet Turtello in Centaurus sector had only been settled within the last thirty years; it was not on the beaten trail and the population was still small compared to more established worlds within the Empire. On the one hand this was good; the people were starved for live entertainment and were enthusiastically appreciative of everything that came their way. On the other hand this meant there were no large theaters to play in; the stage of the largest theater was barely big enough to accommodate the full show, and the backstage facilities were—to put it kindly—provincial.
Even though he was one of the headliners, Judah Bar Nahum’s dressing room was tiny. And worse, he had to share it with his cousin and partner, Eva, which made it difficult to pace back and forth. But Judah paced back and forth anyway. He was a pacer, a worrier. He did it on a grand scale, and he wasn’t going to let a mere lack of physical space stay him from his appointed rounds.
At the moment there was more room to pace because Eva wasn’t there. That wasn’t entirely a good thing, though, since that was the reason he needed to pace: Eva wasn’t there.
The company had arrived at the theater and Eva wasn’t there. The doors had opened and Eva wasn’t there. The music had started and Eva wasn’t there. The curtain had risen more than an hour ago and Eva wasn’t there. And, as usual, she refused to answer her pages.
Eva had been late before. Hell, he could scarcely remember a time she hadn’t been late. And her performances were always perfect. The two of them made an ideal team; even he had to admit she was at least as talented as he was. But she cut everything so close to the edge. He looked to his wristcom for the time ….
“Thirteen minutes,” Eva Bar Nahum said, walking briskly into the room. “Plenty of time. Hello, how are you, I’m fine, it’s none of your business where I was last night, where did you put my costume oh there it is, how’s the house?” She didn’t even wait for answers before starting to strip off her clothes.
“Packed, as usual,” Judah said. “Listen, we’ve got to talk—”
“Fine, just kvetch sitting down. If you keep walking back and forth you’ll get in my way and make me late. There’s a wonderful semi-comfortable chair over there. Park your tuchis and enjoy the view.” Backstage etiquette was naturally in force; everyone was considered fully dressed no matter what they were or were not wearing.
Judah sat down, but hardly relaxed. He seemed to be vibrating on some undetectable frequency. “Why can’t you be on time once in a while? You’re endangering the show.”
“We’ve had this talk before. I’ve never missed a cue and I don’t intend to—unless, God forbid, I should die, in which case I may be a few minutes late.” She was already out of her clothes and starting to wriggle into her costume.
“I suppose you were out somewhere drapping around again.”
Eva paused a second to turn and give her cousin a big grin. “Of course. It’s fun. You should try it sometime.” And, as Judah opened his moth to respond, she added quickly,
“I know, you’re saving yourself for Vida—and she hasn’t even asked you to. Even Ilya Uzi sleeps around.” She turned back to the mirror and finished getting her costume on.
“He isn’t engaged,” Judah defended. “Well he was, once, in Red Star of Treason, but he wasn’t unfaithful until after she died. But we’re not talking about my reading habits—”
“Of course not. We’re talking about hobbies. You like reading spy thrillers, I like sex.” She finished getting the costume on and sat down in front of the mirror to apply her makeup.
“We’re talking about punctuality. I don’t care if you shtup half the Imperial Navy, but do you have to take so long?”
“When you’re as good as I am,” Eva said, concentrating on penciling her eyebrows, “you get curtain calls.”
Judah let out a long sigh. “Eva, you’re going to drive me crazy.”
Eva finished her eyebrows and started on her lips. “Don’t worry, bubbe,” she said, careful not to move the lips too much. “As Shar would say, it’s just a day trip. You’ll be back before you know it.”
“You take too much for granted. You should at least answer your pages. What if David broke his leg or Isaac got laryngitis and we had to rearrange the schedule?”
“You think that would keep those hams off the stage? I trust my colleagues. Besides, what does Ilya Uzi always say? ‘Improvise.’ You’d think of something brilliant. I have faith.”
“I know I’d think of something. I have faith, too. But faith comes a lot easier when your partner’s there with you.”
Her makeup done, Eva stood up from the makeup table and walked over to her cousin. She took his chin in her right hand and raised it so he was looking directly into her eyes. “Look at me, Jude. I’ll always be there, just as I always have. We’re a team, and a damn fine one. The show will go on.”
There was a sharp rap on the door just as they heard their cue music starting. Eva let go of Judah’s chin and grabbed both of his hands with hers. “And speaking of which, it’s showtime. Come on.” She pulled him up out of the seat. “You don’t want to miss your entrance, do you?”
* * *
Le Vaudeville Galactique was a highly unusual, if not unique, institution within the Empire. Most theatrical companies remained planetbound; the sheer expense of traveling between worlds precluded most of them from touring, particularly when there were other, cheaper methods of promulgating their performances. If a company developed a reputation for excellence, it was far easier and less expensive to record a performance for tridee than to pack up costumes, props, sets, cast and crew and go hopping from planet to planet.
Some tours happened, of course. A renowned company might travel to nearby worlds to show off their wares. The best of the best always traveled to Earth, the center of the Empire. But the distances were too vast and there were too many local theater companies to make long interstellar tours economically feasible.
“The Ville,” as its members called it, was unique because its people were unique. All were from the heavy-grav world of New Zion, with genetically-engineered strength, stamina and reflexes far beyond those of the normal Imperial citizen. As a result, its performers could not be replaced or imitated by any low-grav native; what they offered could not be seen outside the realm of this specific show.
Avram Bar Nahum, the company manager, compounded this uniqueness by carrying on the tradition of refusing to record the Ville’s performances. Some called this arrogant, others called it short-sighted—but the only way to see Le Vaudeville Galactique was to attend a show in person.
It had taken years to build up a reputation, years of expensive traveling and small audiences, years of hardship and adversity. But, as the first manager had explained, the hardship and adversity were as nothing compared to what the Zionians had already experienced. Poverty and humiliation seemed insignificant after the years of degradation, slavery and torture that were the hallmarks of “the Metamorphosis.”
The little show grew and thrived. No one had ever seen anything like it, and no one could imitate it. The show emphasized entertainment, with no message or ideology beyond that. It was sophisticated enough for the most intellectual tastes while still being accessible to any child’s delight at the beautiful and unusual. Le Vaudeville Galactique now played to packed houses wherever it went, and tickets were always at a premium.
As was the case with its twentieth-century predecessor, the Ville was a collection of variety acts, each spellbinding in its own way. Unlike the earlier version, however, the show was not modular, but carefully scripted and tied together as a unified whole. The bill did not change because a given act was shuffled in or out of the lineup. Nor did the entertainment ever stop to announce a new act. Acts melted into one another with a stylish grace that was the signature of this special event.
Comedy merged into acrobatics merged into magical illusion merged into song merged into animal acts merged into dance, and the flow of entertainment never ceased. No particular act ever exactly ended; instead, it melded and morphed into the act that followed, often with small mini-acts bridging the gap. The entire spectacle presented a theme that carried over from one act to the next.
The major act before the Dance Masters of Space—Judah and Eva Bar Nahum—was primarily a performance of strength and agility, including tumblers, human pyramids and juggling volunteer members of the audience. Even before the act was over, a chorus of singers was wandering across the stage from left to right while a trio of fire-eaters crossed from right to left. As the acrobats disappeared, Sharona Leibowitz—the show’s premier comic/clown/mime—re-emerged with a pay-off to the major routine she’d performed half an hour before. Sharona, too, had almost left the stage when the lights dimmed except for her follow spot and the music rose to cue the Dance Masters. Sharona did a sudden back flip and walked on her hands the rest of the way off, stage right.
The instant her spotlight went out a new one came on, stage left, and the pair of dancers entered. Both were in costumes that hugged their bodies without confining them. Judah wore a shirt with an open vee neckline down to his breastbone; the sleeves were just full enough not to exaggerate the well-developed musculature of his arms. His pants were tight at the waist and thighs, but flared gracefully from the calves downward—again, barely hinting at the muscles hidden within. The costume was white and red—the right side gleaming with purest white satin, the left side swirling with crimson material set with thousands of tiny rhinestones that glittered and flashed under the spotlight. His shoes were also red, and sparkled like Dorothy’s ruby slippers.
Eva’s costume was a trifle more subdued, but no less impressive. The colors were pastels, blue and gold, with gold shoes. None of it sparkled, but none of it needed to—her vibrancy sparkled enough for the entire ensemble. Her dark hair, barely shoulder-length, framed her lovely face. Her powder blue leotard with the gold swirls emphasized the luscious curves of her torso, while her full, floor-length skirt—gold with blue highlights—seemed to flow around her with a liquid grace as she moved. Even from the back of the balcony without opera glasses, anyone could see she was breathtakingly beautiful. Only Judah’s consummate skill and grace prevented her from eclipsing him.
The couple entered the stage to the applause for Sharona and the strains of a lively polka, spinning about as they took large, energetic steps. The music increased its pace as they danced, and Judah whirled his cousin around so decisively that her feet only touched the ground once every other revolution. Although she didn’t appear to be making any effort to jump, Eva was pushing off the ground each time she touched it, launching herself in a controlled leap guided only by Judah’s powerful arms. The music increased faster and faster, and Eva’s contact with the ground grew less and less frequent.
Before the audience realized it, the rapid polka had evolved into a flamenco rhythm, and Judah was now using his cousin as much like a prop as like a partner. He twirled her behind him and around his shoulders the way a flashy matador might twirl his cape.
Eva let go of Judah’s left hand with her right, leaving him to twirl her one-handed. She, meanwhile, reached down to her waist and detached her skirt, twirling the gold and blue cloth around her body even as Judah twirled her around his. The stage lights came up slowly and the spotlight faded as the audience gasped at this breathtaking display of color, strength and grace.
The whirling fabric of the skirt eventually seemed to take off on its own, fluttering up into the flies like a beautiful mammoth butterfly. As it did, the music slowed dramatically and Judah took both his partner’s hands and gave her one last spin that brought her down to the ground and facing him.
Now the music was slow, stately, romantic as the couple began a balletic pas de deux. Eva went en pointe on her right foot, and Judah took her by the waist and lifted her straight into the air over his head. He held her there for three heartbeats, then, to a collective gasp from the audience, he casually tossed her in a high arc halfway across the stage. As she flew through the air Eva remained perfectly rigid, perfectly composed; meanwhile Judah made two extended leaps across the stage to the spot where her arc descended. His foot touched the floor from the second leap at the same instant she came within his reach, and he caught her in the same exact pose as when he’d thrown her. To the wild applause of the crowd he pulled her in towards his body as she put her arms about his neck and slid slowly against him to stand on the floor.
The music changed again, this time to a sultry tango. The cousins slithered together across the stage, moving as though they were a single body with eight limbs. Sometimes they would move slightly apart, but they never broke contact. Their eyes were locked to one another’s; Eva might do a precise spin, but her head and eyes always came back to the original position, focused solely on Judah. The atmosphere in the theater seemed to heat up as the steamy, seductive movements of the tango caught the audience’s rapt attention.
Tsar Wars: Agents of ISIS, Book 1 Page 2
