Michael Swanwick - Dancing with Bears

“Is everybody I sent for here yet?” he asked.

Vilperivich nodded. “They are not happy, of course. But they all hold exaggerated notions of their own importance, they all have ambitions beyond their current status, and they are all, ultimately, weak. Show them that the momentum of events is with you and they will bow to the prevailing wind.”

“Excellent.” Chortenko turned away. “I will be in the library. Summon me when they have been seated.”

When Chortenko returned, an angry mutter rose up at his appearance. But as one of his agents stood behind each guest, as stiff and attentive as a waiter at a formal dinner, nobody dared speak their minds. They had all heard stories. Plus, many, if not all, of the men and women present had been plucked from mid-debauchery and given disintoxicants to undo the lingering effects of the rasputin in their systems. Their quite natural outrage at being forcibly taken away was surely tempered by the awareness that elsewhere in the building Maxim and Igorek were effortlessly memorizing the written accounts of who had been discovered doing what with whom, where, and in what numbers. Muscovy Intelligence was infamous for using such information for political purposes, which was one reason why a man with as many enemies as Chortenko had was so secure in his office.

Chortenko struck a pose at the head of the table and announced, “There is a plot to assassinate the Duke of Muscovy and overthrow his government.”

In an instant, the glares turned to looks of alarm. The gasps and cries of astonishment were most gratifying.

The Overseer of Military Orphan-Academies shot to his feet. “Give me names, and I will requisition forces to take them into custody!” It was well known that Prokazov coveted a position of authority over the adult military, so this was only to be expected.

Chortenko made a curt gesture. “Be seated, my dear sir, and you will hear all.” He spread a map of Moscow across the table. “Militant forces are at this moment assembling here, here, here, here, and here.” His finger tapped the five squares where the armies of Pale Folk would emerge from the City Below. “They possess an irresistible weapon-one that will make the citizens of Moscow rise up and follow them.”

“There can be no such weapon,” the Minister of Genetic Oversight said. “Otherwise, I would surely have known.”

“Again, madam, patience. All will be revealed.” Picking up a stick of charcoal, Chortenko returned their attention to the map. “The forces will come along these boulevards”-he drew thick lines along Bolshaya Yakimanka, Tverskaya, and Maroseika-“as well as up along the river from Taganskaya and through the Arbat, gathering in strength all the while. There is little the military can do to stop them, for most of their forces have been withdrawn to locations outside the city, and by the time they can be summoned, the rebellion will be a fait accompli.”

The lines met and merged. “Finally, the insurgents will converge upon the Kremlin. By this time, their numbers will be unimaginable, a sea of humanity, unstoppable!” He laid the charcoal on its side and ringed the Kremlin with black. “Most of the military forces within the Kremlin have been quietly pulled away and given their liberty for the night. I do not have to tell you how they are currently engaged.” There was an uneasy shifting among his auditors. “Of those remaining, a clear majority have been suborned. The Trinity Tower Regulars will open the gate, allowing the revolutionaries inside without a single shot being fired.

“There are many distinct units involved in the security of the Kremlin, and it is entirely possible that scattered centers of resistance will remain. But the mob will be highly energized by this point, and that resistance will only give them something to vent their energies on. A few short hours from now, the deed will be done, the Duke of Muscovy dead, and the present government overthrown.”

“My God, this is ghastly!” the Commissioner for Mandatory Hygiene cried. “How could such an enormous plot have reached this point without any of us hearing a word about it?”

Chortenko smiled benignly. “Believe me, madam,” he said, “it was not easy.”

Stunned silence. Then, as comprehension set in, several of the more intemperate politicians tried to stand. But the men standing behind them simply pressed hands firmly on their shoulders and pushed them back down. Chortenko raised his voice to be heard above the clamor. “At this moment, I want you all to turn over the name cards in front of you. You’ll see that written on the back is the title of the position being offered you in the new government, and your exact salary as well.”

Not even the most recalcitrant could resist looking. Most grew very still.

Chortenko casually removed his glasses, so he could read the patterns of blood-flow in their faces. It was important that he know their emotions. All those present were deceitful and potentially treacherous. Some would be planning resistance and rebellion from the very start, and those would have to be weeded out first.

It would have been foolish to assemble such a group and not have at least one ringer in it-and Chortenko was no fool. Now the ringer, Ilya Nikitovich Dubinin, currently the head of the trash collectors union and a man with a bad gambling habit, slammed his fist on the table. “This is treason! I’ll have no part of it.” There were cautious murmurs of agreement. Chortenko quietly noted from whom they came.

“But you are already a part of it. You are present at a meeting of conspirators who are choosing new government ministers before the old government has fallen. That alone would discredit you with the current regime, no matter what alibis you offered. However, you have no need to fear. By morning, the Kremlin will be ours, and everybody in this room will be written up in the history books as heroes.”

“These are merely words,” Dubinin said, keeping to the script. “There is not a jot of evidence to support your claims. Why should we accept your version of the facts? What proof do you have of the irresistibility of your putsch?”

“That is an excellent question.” Chortenko nodded, and a junior intelligence officer opened a door. “Colonel Misha, you may enter.”

The commander of the Royal Guard strode into the room, followed by two more bear-guards, their medals and ribbons bright on the breasts of their dress uniforms. Even in a roomful of conspirators and traitors, the mere presence of the giant man-beasts was shocking. The Royal Guard were incorruptible. Everybody knew that. If they could be suborned, then so could anybody.

The two guards took up places to either side of the door through which they had entered. Their commander cleared his throat. Everybody waited anxiously to hear what he had to say.

“Our new ally,” the colonel announced. An underlord clanked into the room.

Twenty faces froze in horror.

The invasion began quietly in Pushkin Square.

Underpeople began emerging from the long stairway that led from the docks below in an unhurried and orderly manner. They flowed into the square like water welling up from the storm sewers. Some of them had leather bird-masks. Others were laughing and singing. Some had drums, which they began to beat erratically upon. Others had horns which they put to their lips with lamentable results. Still others slammed pots and pans together. More emerged and more. Even when it seemed there could not possibly be any more, they kept coming and coming and coming. It was as if one last subway train from the miraculous age of Utopia had finally arrived at its station, centuries late, to disgorge its hundreds and thousands of passengers. They filled the square and overflowed into the streets converging upon it before the numbers of newcomers began to dwindle.