Michael Swanwick - Dancing with Bears

Perversely enough, the demon-creature’s words made Pepsicolova desperate for a smoke. Without thinking, she reached into her jacket pocket and-

– it had been sliced open and now hung down, a useless flap of cloth.

Bewildered, Pepsicolova looked up to see the underlord holding her last pack. Its metal claws had plucked it from her pocket too quickly to be seen. There was a blur in the air as it tore the pack into shreds. There was another as it tossed those shreds in the canal.

“One last thing,” the underlord said. “You thought we did not know that what you fear most is that we would become aware of Chortenko and join forces with him.

“We joined forces with Chortenko long ago.”

There was a grinding noise as the underlord reconfigured the mouth of the corpse it inhabited, stretching it wide to reveal long, bright metal teeth. It was, Pepsicolova realized, trying to approximate a grin. “Ahhh,” the underlord said, before sinking backward into the shadows and disappearing, “now you are afraid.”

Pepsicolova wasted most of an hour and a full box of sulfur matches roasting enough waterlogged tobacco dry to roll a stubby little cigarette, using half a banknote for the paper, to prove to herself that the under-lord hadn’t lied. The tobacco was ruined; it didn’t assuage the craving anymore.

A sudden sharp twinge in her abdomen almost doubled her over with pain. There was an itching deep inside her brain, where no conceivable tool could scratch it, and she wanted to vomit. Desperation crumpled her up like a sheet of newspaper in an angry fist. She wanted never to move again.

Then a skiff came out of the darkness, up the Neglinnaya. Its oarsman tied it up to a bollard, threw several crates whose markings identified them as containing laboratory glassware onto the dock, and clambered up after it. He had a pack of cigarettes tucked into a rolled-up shirtsleeve. By its plain white package she knew they weren’t the kind that could be found aboveground.

Pepsicolova discovered herself animated by something far too bleak to be called hope. Nevertheless, it moved her to go up to him and say, “Hey, buddy, listen. I’d kill for a cigarette, right about now.”

“Yeah, well, so what?” The waterman stared at her defiantly. “What the fuck is that to me?”

With a twist of her wrist, Pepsicolova sent Saint Cyrila into her hand. She smiled a ghost of a smile. Then she slammed the knife hilt-deep into the bastard’s chest.

The man’s eyes went round with astonishment, and his mouth as well. Under other circumstances, it would have been a very comic expression. His lips moved slightly, as if he were about to speak. But he said nothing. He only slumped, lifeless, to the ground.

Pepsicolova retrieved Cyrila, wiped her clean on the waterman’s shirt, and restored her to her sheath. She plucked the pack of cigarettes from his sleeve. It was half-empty, but in her desperate state, she welcomed it as if it were half-full.

“Hell,” she said. “It’s not like you need ’em anymore.”

The small triumph did nothing to lift her spirits. But she was used to despair; she had been living with it for years, and knew how to function under its weight. Sitting down by the edge of the canal, Pepsicolova dug out a smoke. She straightened it between two fingers and lit up.

She had to think.

The messenger banged on Yevgeny’s door just as he was about to leave for his cousin Avdotya’s party. When he opened it, a private in the red-and-gold uniform of the First Artillery saluted crisply. “Sir! Here by the major’s orders, sir. Your gun has been ordered into position at Lubyanka Square as soon as you can assemble your crew. Sir!”

“Lubyanka Square? Are you sure you don’t have that wrong?”

“No, sir. Lubyanka, sir. Immediately, sir.”

“Very well.” Yevgeny handed the fellow a coin for his trouble. “Are you free to carry further messages?”

“Sir!”

“Go to the barracks and rouse everybody connected to the Third Gun you find there. Give them the same orders you gave me. Then tell Cosmodromovitch that he can count on us. Got that? Don’t bother saluting, you idiot, just go.”

As soon as the door had closed on the private, Yevgeny swore sulfurously. Lubyanka? Tonight? It made no sense whatsoever. However, even as he was cursing out everybody in his chain of command from Major Cosmodromovitch all the way up to the Duke of Muscovy, he was flinging aside his jacket and dress shirt, kicking free of his boots, and struggling out of his trousers. It took only minutes to don his uniform and assemble his gear. Then he was racing down the stairs, bellowing for the hotel staff to bring around his carriage.

Everybody of any rank higher than his own might be a complete and total ass-in his experience, there was no doubt about that whatsoever-but Yevgeny was an officer and a soldier of Muscovy and he knew his duty.

Lubyanka Square was dark and deserted when a team of six galloped in, towing Gun Three on a caisson. The crew dismounted and the gunnery sergeant saluted Yevgeny. “Reporting for duty, Lieutenant. What are our orders?”

“Damned if I know, Sergeant. But let’s look sharp anyway. Set up the gun so it’s trained up the street.” Yevgeny squinted at the shadowy figures of his men, who were briskly unshipping the cannon. “Where are Pavel and Mukhtar?”

“Under the weather, sir.” The gunnery-sergeant’s face was so absolutely without guile that Yevgeny knew immediately he was lying.

“In the brothels, you mean.”

“I was lucky to find as many as I did, sir, on such short notice. It’s that new drug that’s going around. Everybody wants to try it out. The strumpets have doubled their rates, and the good ones are charging triple, and still the lines are out the door and down the street. If I weren’t broke, I’d be there myself.” The gunnery-sergeant spat and grinned. “Luckily, I noticed a couple of girls from Gun Six were still at the barracks and, as I happened to know that their lieutenant was under the weather herself, I requisitioned them.” He gestured toward two sullen-looking gunners who were, nonetheless, setting up the gun with commendable efficiency. “So we’ve got a full crew.”

“Good work, Sergeant. They seem to be doing well enough.”

“Yes, sir. Incidentally, Lieutenant, by ‘up the street,’ did you mean I should aim the gun up Bolshaya Lubyanka ulitsa, Teatralny proezd, Nikolskaya ulitsa, or Novaya ploschad’?”

“All ways are equally imbecilic. Point it west. We can always wheel it around, if need be.”

“Sir.” The gunnery-sergeant turned to the crew and started shouting orders. In no time, the cannon was ready, the slow-match lit and stuck upright in a bucket of sand, and the powder and shot ready to load.

Artillery men did not smoke, for obvious reasons. But when all was done and in order, Yevgeny got out his snuff box and passed it around, letting everybody take a large pinch. “Don’t think I’m unappreciative of the sacrifices you’ve made to be here.” He pulled a wry face. “I was on my way to a party myself.”

“Oh?” one of the men said carefully. “Was it a good one, sir?”

“I think I can safely say that it was exactly the sort of party you think it was. Moreover, I had certain hopes that the company would be good.”

Knowing looks blossomed on his crew’s coarse faces. “Somebody special, eh?” one soldier chanced. “Getting anywhere?”

“Well, you know what they say. First time’s luck, second time’s bad judgment, third time’s love. I got lucky and tonight I was hoping to move the relationship a step closer to the real thing.”

Then, having done his bit for morale, Yevgeny assumed a rigid stance and spun on his heel, all officer once more. It was important to loosen discipline now and again. But it must never reach the point of outright familiarity.