Russian Amerika: Chapter Three

Tolstoi Bay, Prince of Wales Island

    Pravda danced and jerked on the anchor line. The small cove on Prince of Wales Island sheltered them from the brunt of the storm. Grisha took a firm grasp under Karpov's shoulders.

    "Ready?"

    Valari nodded sharply.

    "Hup!"

    They swung the stiffing body off the deck and up onto the gunwale at the stern, balancing it carefully. The memory of butchering hogs flashed through his mind.

    "Okay, I'll hold him, put the box on his chest."

    She bent over and grabbed the box tied to the corpse with a short line, sat it in the middle of Karpov's chest.

    "Push!" Grisha ordered.

    The body splashed into the water and, spinning in a slow circle behind the heavy box of weapons, sank rapidly out of sight.

    Numb lassitude spread over him, and he relaxed for the first time in three days. Suddenly Valari pressed against him, her hands moving over his face, chest, and groin.

    "I need you," she said. "Right now."

    With a tired smile he pulled her into the cabin.

 

---

 

    The bright sky held no wind when he woke. For a long moment he lay in the bunk beside the woman and collected his thoughts. He tried to figure out how he could have changed the outcome.

    The government set up this charter; even he knew that. Would the Okhana believe their concocted story about the loss of one of their agents?

    "What's the matter, Captain Lover?"

    Grisha turned his head and looked at her. The now-familiar mouth smiled, lips parted slightly as if anticipating a kiss. But Valari's eyes held hardness unaffected through murder and sex.

    He'd seen eyes like hers only a couple of times. They had belonged to desperate men whose only hope lay with the legal benediction of the Troika Guard. Both had finished badly; one shot for cowardice and the other killed in a barroom brawl.

    He had let this situation get out of his control. With this woman he had helped murder a man and finally cheated on his wife. Too much, too fast. He knew nothing about her, yet she held his life in her hands. Amazing how an orgasm could clear the mind.

    "What are we going to do now?" he asked.

    "He got drunk and fell over the side during the storm." Her eyes searched his. "Isn't that what you said last night?"

    "Yes, but." Grisha licked his suddenly dry lips. "You must attest to what I say, no matter what. Agreed?"

    "Da." Valari's eyes narrowed and her mouth flattened. "But you must be very convincing and not waver."

    "I can do that. But you worked for him, or with him, isn't there someone you could talk to, and make this be all right?"

    Something deep in her eyes shifted and for a moment he thought he saw triumph before they became veiled. "Just who do you think I am?"

    "I know you're an agent for the government. I know Karpov was someone you reported to. There's much that I don't know.

    "Why did they hire a boat to bring you to New Arkhangel when flying would have been much more expedient? Why did Karpov hire me?" He felt angry. "Why, at my age, is everything in my life suddenly out of control?"

    "I cannot tell you more than I already have. If you do not wish to face the Okhana we have two options. We can turn ourselves in and tell the truth, which would mean the gallows for both of us-"

    "For stopping him from raping you? For saving us all from drowning because he imperiled this craft?"

    "They rarely believe survivors who do not bring back a corpse."

    "He fell over the side. We were in a storm, right?

    "Or we can go to California, ask for political asylum, and start our lives over."

    "Political asylum? Who are we to ask for that?"

    "I'm an espionage agent for Imperial Russia, you are my lover. They would give us asylum."

    He allowed himself to think about it, to savor the idea like a bite of potato salad or a mouthful of good ale. His marriage was finished and he didn't want to be in the same small town where Kazina would be showing off her new Russian husband. He would forfeit the house but if the authorities refused to believe them he would also forfeit his life.

    He had to depend on Valari. Of course, she already said she owed him, but he couldn't bring himself to trust her. A small part of his brain pointed out that this would be a new adventure, something he had sorely missed since leaving the Troika Guard.

    He couldn't go on smuggling forever.

    "We'll need money," he said.

    "Do you have any?"

    "Yes. I've put away half my earnings for three years now. At first it was for my children," he turned his head and stared toward the overhead, focused on an image infinitely far away. "Then it was for my escape."

    "How much?"

    "Enough to live on for a year."

    "It's on the boat?"

    "No. It's in my workshop behind my house at Akku."

    "Where your wife is," Valari said.

    "And her lover," he agreed.

    "Check the weather," she said, smiling.

    "I don't understand it," he said, staring at the high cloud cover where blue peeked through in spots. "Yesterday the radio said it would be worse by this morning."

    She laughed behind him. "How often are they correct?"

    He grinned and snapped on the radio. The low-pressure system had inexplicably shifted far to the north and west where the storm now pounded from Kodiak Island to sprawling St. Nicholas, the huge military bastion of Russian Amerika on Cook's Inlet.

    Good, I hope the Russian-Amerika Company offices all wash out to sea.

    They ran north as fast as he dared push the boat. Grisha settled into an apprehensive anticipation. Something about his feelings struck a chord in his memory.

    Suddenly he was again a frightened five-year-old, watching his drunken father beat his mother. His mother grunted with the blows, trying to cover her face and chest. Grisha's fear for his mother finally overcame self-preservation and he attacked his father.

    He pounded on his father with small fists. The next thing he knew, his mother was bathing his face with cold water. Pitr Grigorievich had knocked him out, realized the monstrousness of his actions, and fled into the night.

    They had waited together, fearful and expectant, for the man to return and for it all to begin again. Which it did.

    Grisha shook his head at the vividness of the memory. He knew he still harbored old anger for his father, but he thought the fear long vanquished. And how was this like that?

    They spent the night at transient moorage in a small settlement on Mitkof Island. Fuel cost more there, but Grisha didn't want to run into anyone he knew. Not that Valari let him get that far from the double bunk in the bow and her insatiable needs.

    By 0900 the next morning they were on the last leg of their trip. The fair weather held for the entire day and they made good time. Akku Channel lay quiet and empty in the late evening when they rounded the south end of Douglas Island.

    The stamp mills sat silent; something that only happened on Christmas Day and the Czar's birthday. The last glow of light reflected on the water. Suddenly fireworks shouted across the sky as they neared town.

    "What are they celebrating, a local holiday?" Valari asked.

    Grisha thought hard. "No. There's no holiday in early July. I don't know what's going on."

    He slowed as they passed under the bridge, but no patrol boats lurked in their usual spots. They idled up to the fuel dock, and he tied the boat while she stepped into the office.

    "There's nobody here."

    Laughter and music drifted down from the Harbor Hotel. Fireworks popped and whistled above them, the acrid stink of gunpowder drifted on the air. Grisha shrugged and filled the fuel tanks.

    "This bothers me," Valari said. "I want to know what's happening."

    He moved Pravda over to her normal berth as full darkness settled over an unusually boisterous Akku.

    "You wait here. I'll get the money, and we'll go look at California."

    "Be careful, Grigoriy," she whispered, and then kissed him ardently.

    He hurried away, wondering where they would be a year from now. From half a block away he could see that every light in his house blazed. People milled about, laughing and drinking.

    A party. She's actually having a party.

    Their marriage had been on the ebb for some time before tall, blonde, Kommander Fedorov knocked on their door with an "Imperial Order for Lodging an Officer of the Czar." Grisha's small chart room became the sacrifice for the officer's comfort and fanned the embers of his anger at the government. But the sudden animation he perceived in Kazina proved the heaviest burden.

    Until Fedorov arrived, Grisha entertained hope that he could find compromise with his beautiful wife. But she hadn't even said good-bye when he left for this charter. He had known all along that marrying a woman fourteen years his junior was not a good idea.

    He crept close enough to see Kazina radiant on the arm of Kommander Fedorov. She wore a dress new to him, and the kommander stood resplendent in full dress uniform. They made a handsome couple.

    Surprisingly, the teeth didn't bite at him. He tensed in the old way, but they were gone.

    It's over, and I don't care any more, he thought. A new adventure waits for me.

    The sense of freedom left him giddy. He hurried around the house to his well-built shop. Quietly he slipped in through the door and stopped, pulse drumming in his head.

    He wasn't alone. Barely discernible noises exuded from the dark, sawdust-scented space. He peered at the workbench but could see nothing in the dim light other than a few tools out of place.

    Three large electric saws dominated the center of the room. Sorted wood filled racks against the back wall, and his drafting table and books loomed on the left. The only thing against the right wall was his cot-

    "Oh, Georg! Oh, my GOD!" exclaimed a young, feminine voice from the cot. Grisha grinned despite himself and moved quietly off to the left.

    He had hidden the money in his file cabinet. Just a few more steps.

    His foot hit a can of nails and knocked it over like a thunderclap in a hospital ward.

    The woman gasped, and a male voice boomed out, "Who's there? Identify yourself. I'm armed!"

    "Sorry, friend," Grisha said in a normal tone of voice. "I didn't realize there was anyone in here until after I had shut the door. Then I just tried to get my property without bothering you."

    "I didn't hear anyone come in!" the man said.

    The woman giggled. "I wonder why!"

    Now Grisha could smell sex overlaying the sawdust. He thought of Valari and felt urgency.

    "Well, just stay there, and I'll be out of your life in a moment."

    "Wait," the man said. "Who are you? Our hostess said this was her husband's shop."

    "I'm the husband," he said.

    "But then you have just returned from New Arkhangel, yes?"

    "Yes," Grisha echoed, surprised that Kazina had even remembered his destination, and more surprised she told anyone else. "Why do you ask?"

    "What is the celebration like over there?"

    "Celebration? What celebration?"

    "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 moneybag in his hand and 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 any more. 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.

 

---

 

Akku

    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 him to spend. His father, the Russian Army, his wife, his lover: had all 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 any more. 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 capitol sentences are commuted to 30 years at hard labor on the Russia-Canada Highway."

    Grisha wilted again, it was still a death sentence. He glared at the impassive face of Valari Kominskiya as the guards pulled him from the courtroom and back into hell.