Vasily & The Works (Tales from the Middle Empires Vol III)

by J. Patrick Sutton

  #

  “She’s alright, in a patrician, bony-featured sort of way,” Nisus said. “You could do worse than Marielle Chernow.”

  “You know her?” Vasily said, surprised.

  The boulevardiers sat on a sunny bench outside The Ball Joint, awaiting someone Nisus had invited. It was just before dinner, and the shy-lips had pulled in their buds for the night. A masked golly-sticker on one of the branches blinked a wet, iridescent inner eyelid at a passing lev-palanq.

  “Dunno,” Nisus said. “May have met her once or twice.” He looked bothered and swiveled his head to peer each way down the avenue.

  “Who is this you brought?”

  “Didn’t yet, did I?” He checked his comm. “Anyhow, you’ll see soon enough. Are you clean?”

  “Clean enough. My prerogative. I’m the heir, after all.”

  “Sure, Vas.” Nisus put on a thick manufactory accent and elbowed Vasily in the ribs: “It don’t hurt to buff it up a notch, like. Makes the going easier, eh?” He winked broadly.

  “No one ever faulted my hygiene, that I’m aware. Anyway, I can take care of where ‘it’ goes just fine. This is really a waste of time, Nisus.”

  “A waste of time to you, maybe. I’ve got to do something for those credits your Mum’s handing out, or there’ll be hot brazing flux.” Nisus began snorting with laughter.

  “What?” Vasily demanded.

  “Nothing. It’s just the way she put it to me, so prim but so hard, so businesslike: ‘He must learn the very latest arts and methods. I want no expense spared, even if he balks or fidgets. You keep him in there until he can do it in his sleep — his waking sleep, that is. His father died before he could take matters in hand with Vasily, so I am charging you with doing that.’ Anyone would think she was getting you ready to work a station!”

  Nisus snorted some more. Vasily rolled his eyes.

  “She really has no idea what went on at college,” Vasily said. “This is all so unnecessary.”

  “Anyhow,” Nisus said, turning the conversation around. “It’s a bit of fun, isn’t it? Getting ready for the Chernow tough.”

  Vasily started. “What do you mean, ‘tough?’ I thought you said you didn’t know her?”

  “She’s Chernow, that’s all. Trained.” Nisus did a chop-chop with his hands.

  “Oh, that,” Vasily said. “But she’s not an heir. They wouldn’t train her in defensive arts.”

  “Don’t you be too sure, Vas. The mother’s all spry-legs and contortions, the father’s hale even yet, as a doddering half-wit. The elder brother is positively lethal: I nearly — nearly — took him in a game of taps-and-chasers once.”

  “I don’t understand. He’s good at cards?”

  “Of course not. I’m good at cards. Too good for my own good. My buddy whispered for me to look up. I look up, and there’s this oligarch with hot-pokers coming out of his eyes. Chernow, the eldest son. I said to myself, No way I’m dying for a crucible of credits. I put ‘em down; I put the cards down. I let ‘im have the hand. A big hand, you understand. He had a lot on the line. He could lose the little ones. He couldn’t lose if we were down to a pair of us, big bluffs, big hands, whatever.”

  “Oh,” Vasily said.

  “Not to worry, Vas,” Nisus added. “I’m sure it’s not the same, oligarch-to-oligarch. You won’t ever mention it, will you? What I said?”

  “What?” Vasily seemed distracted. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

  “Because if he ever heard I said I threw a game . . .”

  “No, no. Don’t worry.”

  The pair sat in silence for a time.

  “Where is that piece?” Nisus said, looking down the street.

  “She’s right here, greaseluber,” said a tart voice.

  Vasily started and jumped up. Nisus turned his head.

  “I knew it,” Nisus said calmly. “That’s why I called you.”

  The woman ignored him. Her features turned to broad smiles and sweetness. She had dazzling teeth, large and regular like those of some beast. She had a huge mane of dark hair and a lovely, aquiline nose. Her eyes nearly met her temples. She was very tall. The effect was dizzying.

  “Mr. Alexseyev?” she said. “You must be Nisus’ great friend. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  She held out a hand. Vasily, squinting in the bright mid-day sun, weakly held out his own.

  “Pshaw,” she said, looking over at Nisus. “And I thought you said he was a bonaventure, with girls all over the district?”

  Vasily looked over at Nisus nervously. Nisus kissed his own hand.

  “Oh,” Vasily said. He groped for the girl’s hand and made a fair attempt at chivalry.

  “Oooh, a gentleman,” she said. “I like that.”

  “Vas,” Nisus said, rising. “This is my friend Petronella. You’ve seen her before, you just don’t know it.”

  Petronella rolled her eyes.

  Nisus went on: “The Industry Forum building. The frieze. Big, central figure — Mother Industry with the hammer and flowing molten metal.”

  Vasily’s eyes grey wide. “That’s you?”

  “Oh, I’ve been modeling, you know, forever.” She feigned abashment. “But I’m not old, of course. Ha ha.”

  Beads of sweat formed on Vasily’s brow.

  “That’s . . . awfully interesting,” he stammered.

  “Not nearly so interesting as running a great Works. You must tell me all about it.”

  She took him by the arm. Before Vasily knew what he was doing, he was in The Ball Joint watching her fantastic teeth glint and flash at him as she spoke flattering pleasantries and glided from topic to topic. He seemed to remember a meal being set before him, but then it was gone and cleared off. Nisus no longer sat with them. They were out the door. He escorted her into a flat somewhere nearby, where a decrepit unicore chimed out a steady stream of incoming messages she ignored or cursed beneath her breath as Vasily was led by degrees (and certain firmly-uttered commands) into exotic postures with poetic names — and sometimes even numbers. Vasily would have felt abashed, but she hardly gave him the opportunity to reflect on what he was doing.

  When Vasily came down the stoop some hours later, firmly gripping the handrail, Nisus strolled up. The rake glanced up at a window significantly.

  “Baby steps, Vas. Baby steps.”

  Vasily rubbed his jaw and looked at his friend goggle-eyed. “I’m going home. I’m tired.”

  “No doubt. Did you notch the sprocket, then?”

  “Which one was that?”

  “Never mind. You were rubbing your jaw, so I thought . . . .”

  Vasily managed to collar an auto-ped skimmer, who delivered him at the gate of the Works. He slipped into the penthouse and then into his room, where he collapsed onto his bed lying upon his stomach. His mind drifted, and saliva spilled out the edge of his mouth. He started recalling images from before. Petronella had looked into his eyes and taken his soft, uncalloused hands into hers. Large veins overlay her hands like pipes pumping hydraulic fluids into her long, perfect fingers.

  “No, Vas, not like that,” she had said. “A woman wants to wait. Until she is ready. Don’t think about yourself. And don’t bother with that thing.” She looked down, and he averted his gaze. “Just think about her eyes growing large and distant, and her lips parting. Then pull around just so, so that she’s . . . .”

  He lay lost in images and remembered sensation for what seemed like hours, but he stirred as big-sun was setting and little-sun made its first annual appearance low on the horizon.

  He stood and gazed out at the Works. His eyes welled up and a tear fell. He brushed it away.

  “Petronella,” he said. “I’ll show them.”