Stoney Compton - Russian Amerika

“Haven’t you heard, man? The New Openness Treaty!”

“New what?”

“Openness!” the man and woman said together.

Finally his eyes adjusted, and he could see them in the dim light. They obviously believed themselves cloaked by darkness, as they made no effort to cover themselves.

Very nice breasts .

“I don’t understand.”

“New France, California, British Canada, and the First People’s Nation have signed a treaty with us that drops political barriers and most trade and travel restrictions. The Cold War is over! We have true peace on this continent for the first time in over two hundred years.”

Grisha felt numb. Not now. Please, not yet! “ But what about New Spain, Texas? And Deseret?”

“Who cares? All are impossibly far away and none could conquer the rest of North America by themselves, or even in tandem. Peace! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes. Yes it is.” He had the money bag in his hand, he edged toward the door. New Spain lay two thousand kilometers to the south. “I must have been in transit when this happened.”

“Ah, your wife, sir,” the woman said, “she and the kommander…”

“Never mind. I know. It’s nice to see you two beginning a relationship that might go somewhere.”

“Oh, we know where we will be going,” the man said, laughing.

“Yes,” the woman said with a giggle, “right back to our spouses!”

Grisha suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here.

He slipped out the door and into the dark night, jogging the four blocks to the boat harbor before slowing. The harbor lay quiet and dark.

He stopped, weighing possible actions. There might not be political asylum anymore. Perhaps the thing to do is throw ourselves on the mercy of the crown. Karpov did start the whole thing, and wouldn’t stop until he was killed .

But Valari was right; they had disposed of the body. Honest citizens wouldn’t do that. How would they explain that away? Tell them he fell over the side?

Valari would know, she understood the international political world. She owed him.

Grisha hurried down the dark dock to his boat. No sound or movement broke the stillness around Pravda . Concern enveloped him as he slipped aboard.

“Valari, are you here?” he whispered.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded flat, official, disinterested.

Bright light stabbed out of the night and blinded him. Strong, rough hands seized his arms; he sensed many people around him.

“Are you Grigoriy Grigorievich?” an authoritative voice boomed.

“Yes, why?” He tried squinting to see past the glare.

“Is this the man, Lieutenant Kominskiya?”

“Yes,” Valari said with a quaver in her voice. “He’s the murderer.”

Lieutenant ? “Valari!” he screamed, cold fear tightening his guts. “What have you told them—”

The fist materialized out of the darkness and smashed into the side of his head. Dimly he felt them drag him off the boat. The smell of salt and tar flooded his nose.

“Time to hang a fuckin’ Creole !” someone shouted.

Fireworks exploded in the air over Russian Amerika.

Consciousness brought pain on a level new to him. A small voice in the back of his mind noted that he must still be alive unless everything the priests taught him was a lie. He wondered if they were going to kill him.

Opening his eyes brought fresh anguish and it took three attempts before he could focus his squint at the gray expanse above him. Rock, or concrete, he decided. Slowly he turned his aching head and saw a wall of bars. So it hadn’t been a nightmare, it was real.

Grisha felt so bereft and unanchored that he knew he had to be hollow. There was no more of himself to spend. His father, the Russian Army, his wife, his lover… all had used what they wanted and then discarded him.

The pain of the bruises, cuts, and scrapes covering his body abruptly lessened and he didn’t need to wonder why. Could this profound detachment he felt actually be death? It didn’t matter, he didn’t care.

“Ah, our guest is back from the land of Winken and Nod!” an ear splittingly loud voice bellowed. “We must take him to breakfast.”

Large, rough hands grabbed him by the arms and pulled him up onto his feet. If they hadn’t continued to hold him, Grisha would have fallen on his face. Strength had fled his body and it took all his will to lift his head.

His squint functioned more smoothly this time and he beheld a small man dressed completely in black whose shaved head seemed to gleam. The bright grin under even brighter eyes gave the man an elfin cast.

“No, wait. Let’s try him first and then decide whether to waste the cost of a meal on a condemned man. Bring him along.”

The man turned and walked away. The strong hands dragged Grisha along in the man’s wake and he idly wondered where they were taking him. He knew there would be more pain.

Through a doorway and suddenly the concrete floor yielded to wood and then carpet. Other people formed on the periphery but none moved to his aid. Abruptly he realized he was whimpering and he forced himself to stop.

To be frightened was to care. No reason to care, not anymore. He didn’t even pity himself, he just moved further away.

Movement had stopped for some time and it took him long moments to focus on the words enough to comprehend.

“… do you understand me?” a large man in black said in a calm voice.

Grisha tried to form the words but his scabbed lips, dry throat and aching jaw could only elicit, “Hnnn?”

“You are in the high court of His Majesty, Czar Nicholas IV, and accused of murdering one of his servants. How do you plead?”

Grisha again tried to speak; this time he did care. He hadn’t killed anyone, he was guilty only of silence.

“Wad’r,” he croaked.

“Give the prisoner some water,” the big man said in his soothing voice.

The hands didn’t slacken on his arms and a cup pressed against his lips and he gulped avidly as water poured down the front of him.

“How do you plead?” the calm man asked again.

“Not guilty,” Grisha rasped. He couldn’t tell if the man felt a flicker of disdain or mirth, but the corners of his mouth slightly twitched.

“Call the witness,” the calm man said.

Grisha fell into the silence of waiting and his mind wandered far and fast. Noise turned into words.

“… the man who cudgeled your superior officer, Kommander Nicholas Karpov of the Imperial Cavalry, to death on the Charter Vessel Pravda four days ago?”

“Yes, your honor, that is the man.”

The sound of Valari’s voice suddenly made him care, and hate suffused him, canceling all pain.

“She lies!” he rasped, willing his voice stronger. “She hit him in the back of the head with a halibut club while he was choking me on the deck.”

The calm voice rolled over them again. “Lieutenant Kominskiya has a sterling record in the Imperial Cavalry. She was also prescient enough to predict your charge against her, even though she was also your victim.”

“What?” Grisha croaked. “Victim? Of what?”

“Rape. Even the most casual examination of your berthing space condemns you.”

“She—”

“The prisoner will maintain his silence while judgment is passed.” His voice remained as calm as when he began the farce.

“Grigoriy Grigorievich, the High Court of His Majesty, Czar Nicholas IV, hereby condemns you to death for the murder of Kommander Nicholas Karpov, and the rape of Lieutenant Valari Kominskiya.”

Grisha wilted and the hands struggled to keep him upright.

“However,” the soothing voice revived the flickering flame of hope in Grisha’s core, “His Imperial Majesty has decreed that in honor of the new Openness Treaty, for the period of one month, all capital sentences are commuted to thirty years at hard labor on the Russia-Canada Highway.”