The next morning, Kier was awoken by a bell ringing at his door. It was chilly in the small room and the youth had slept in his uniform, wrapped in the thin blanket Underman had managed to procure. Having carefully stuffed his feet into his heavy regulation boots, Kier tottered to the door and flung it open. There stood the red-faced fat man from yesterday, though now he wore a rumpled green uniform, the same as Kier’s. He looked sober, but his shaking hands and unpleasant breath gave away his condition.
“You are Ensign Kier Vorsmith?” the unwanted guest asked in a husky voice.
“And who are you?” came the sharp voice of Sergeant Underman behind the fat man’s back. Kier’s bodyguard had come out of his room fully dressed and with a pistol in his hand, its red laser sight pointed right at the intruder’s nape.
The fat man slowly turned, and after estimating the threat, quickly introduced himself. “I’m the First Lieutenant Passat Shtillius. I’m the senior weatherman. I need to pass on this assignment to the Ensign Kier Vorsmith.”
“That’s me,” stated Kier, deciding not to delay the conversation. “What can I do for you?”
“Don’t care to salute,” stated Shtillius, beaming. “The helicopter to Zassadar is flying away in half an hour and we haven’t signed all the necessary papers. I also need to load the luggage. Come quickly!”
“Where to?” asked Kier, who was still groggy from being half-awake.
“To my … well, it’s practically your office now. Your bodyguard can escort us.” He glanced cautiously at Underman, who was still standing with his pistol at the ready.
Kier sniffed several times, and then, blowing his nose, followed the fat lieutenant.
After passing through the unforgettable door with the pompous sign, they found themselves in a surprisingly vast facility filled with various furniture, stationary comms, and several large screens. It smelled strongly of booze and caustic tobacco smoke. Not used to such a noxious mixture, Kier immediately coughed. A dusky young man in glasses, approximately the same age as Kier, knelt on the floor, which was covered with a dirty green coating. He was dressed in the gray uniform of a civil servant and was collecting the spread bottle shards with his bare hands. Kier noticed the grimace of disgust that flashed across the face of the young man. After spotting the officers, and Underman with a pistol, the guy sprang to his feet, saluted and shouted, “Private of the Civil Service Harry Karlsen, ready for duty, sir!”
“At ease,” Passat absently waved his hand.
Harry got back down on all fours again as the fat man led Kier to a small corner, isolated from the rest of the room with a plastic shield. There was an active comm-terminal with some text displayed on the large screen.
“Please, sign here, Ensign,” said Shtillius, pointing at the scanning plate with his shaky hand.
“What’s that?” Kier grew suspicious.
“The report on transfer of the matters, of course. Don’t behave like a child. Passed-accepted, the fingerprints. Sign now, I’ve got a helicopter to hurry to.”
The young lord hesitated and turned to look at Underman, but the Sergeant was standing resolutely at the door, fixing his eyes somewhere faraway.
Kier decided to be stubborn. “I was hoping you would delay your flight and explain everything to me.”
“Well then, you should have come yesterday, young man,” Shtillius said in a reproachful tone. “You arrived yesterday, didn’t you, Ensign? According to the regulations of the Aurora Borealis Base, you were to report immediately, go through the brief, and check the equipment. Well, either you sign, or I stay and make a complaint against you for a severe violation of the military discipline.”
Kier understood that further discussions with Passat were useless and bravely put his hand into the scanner. The former senior weatherman sighed with relief, drenching his successor with a reek of booze and snapped, “Private, take the luggage and follow me!”
Harry, who was still collecting the shards, sprang to his feet and grabbed the prepared totes. When the fat man and the weedy, scrubby youngster, bent under the luggage, finally swept from the room, Kier and Underman were left alone.
Some mysterious signs and numbers glistened on the screens and electronic maps colorfully pulsated.
“And what shall I do now?” Kier asked his bodyguard lamentably.
“Let’s go and have breakfast, my lord,” Underman said calmly.
* * *
After having breakfast in the officer canteen, which astonished Kier by its squalor of furniture and meager menu, the youth and his guard went shopping.
Underman advised that there was a baggage warehouse at the base, which should provide the officers with all the necessities. But the reality was the former sergeant of the Special Corps had managed to get only a pair of poor bed sets the day before. Even to gain those paltry items, Underman had been forced to refer to General Morosev, Count Vorsmith, and even threaten the tenacious bursar with a pistol. As a result, they had to acquire all the necessities for a more or less comfortable life at the base at their own expense.
The local shop was located on one of the lower levels of the dam and was basically a long, narrow, and badly-illuminated corridor. Various goods with pasted price tags were lying about in a complete mess right on the stone floor. The only entrance and exit out of this improvised shopping mall was decorated with a large ornate sign that read: Morosev-Boutique. Two armed guards in the rank of Special Corps sergeants were standing under the sign, along with a beautiful young woman in a gray uniform. She sat behind the comm-net terminal and fulfilled the functions of a cashier.
After he looked at the proposed goods, Kier was knocked back on his heels with the local prices. All of them were in yellows and considerably higher than the prices in New Roma. For example, he could have easily bought a simple electric heater in the capital of Northern Heartland for one hundred greens; here it cost one hundred yellows. And most of the goods were proposed only as a single item.
A good business for General Morosev, or whoever owns this bench, Kier thought.
“My lord, do you like preserved ham with rice?” Underman inquired of his ward. Without waiting for a response, the Vorsmiths’ henchman loaded Kier’s trolley with several sets of metal tins packed in transparent plastic. They were decorated with the red letters S.P.A.M. on yellowed labels.
“Well, there’s nothing else,” Underman explained. “From the point of security, it would be better if we ate only in our rooms and only tinned food. By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, the same ham and rice are offered in the officer canteen.”
Kier estimated that the tins bought by Underman would last at least a month. Eventually, the youth and his bodyguard put all the essential stuff into several big trolleys. The cashier girl smiled at the young vor and scanned the goods. After checking Kier’s hands—fingerprints and the structure of the blood vessels—his bank, through the comm-net, displayed the state of his account and the assumed sum of purchase. Kier confirmed the transaction with his forefinger. His father’s one thousand dariks had decreased almost by two-thirds.
Following his ward, Underman performed similar operations, and Kier noticed that there were more than ten thousand yellows on his account.
Well, it would be very hard for anybody to buy him off. Father has covered everything, Vorsmith-junior thought.
Kier and Underman had come out of the elevator on their floor and suddenly heard someone cry out. Near former Passat’s residence some swarthy man in glasses was squirming on the stone floor. Four bulky guys in gray uniforms were towering over him and kicking him with relish.
“Kick him inna balls, this fucken nerd, inna balls!” cried one of them enthusiastically.
Their victim tried to protect his crotch with his hands, but in vain. A short yelp broke out and the swarthy man, outstretched on the floor, went limp.
“What the hell is going on here!” Kier snapped.
For a moment, four bullies went numb, but then turned to the youth with bold smirks.
“And wh-who are you?” The drunken Passat’s question was repeated once again by one of the bullies. He seemed the leader. “Maybe you also want some for your balls? Come on, guys, let’s kick off the boy’s desire to fuck chicks!”
His cronies laughed at their bellwether’s dirty joke, as a red laser dot appeared on the leader’s forehead. Underman, who had been unnoticed in the shadowy corridor, got into game.
In the silence that fell as if by command, the former tough guy’s voice sounded full of fear. “I’m sorry, sir. It was a mistake. We are in the Civil Service. Private Karlsen is from our group. He drank a little and refused to go to the barrack. Allow us to take him with us, sir?”
Not without difficulty, Kier recognized the beaten fellow as the man who had recently served the former senior weatherman.
“Leave him alone, and get the hell out of here!” the young vor ordered.
The bullies in the mouse-colored uniforms hesitated, but then deemed it right and proper to disappear as soon as possible. It was amusing to watch the four gorillas humbly scurrying along the wall to get as far from Underman as possible. Kier’s bodyguard kept his pistol aimed at them to the last. Finally, he lowered his weapon and, in a tone of discontent, said, “My lord, why do we need this private? They should have taken him with them.”
“He’s worked for my predecessor, Sergeant. I’m interested in why he was beaten.”
“To maintain discipline amongst the civil servants, strict educational measures are often taken. This is the general order. You shouldn’t interfere in the affairs of the base, my lord.”
“But I’m interested. Perhaps Karlsen has some valuable data and will be of use to us. I want to speak to him.”
“As you order, my lord.” The henchman gave up with reluctance and, grumbling a bit, took Karlsen’s senseless body to Kier’s apartment, while the young aristocrat continued on to his work station. Once there, he discovered three wage-technicians. They were working intently at the comms. Two of them ignored the appearance of their chief, while the senior technician introduced himself, and then dryly asked what his next orders would be. Kier, who was afraid that he’d have to face inquiries about meteorology, graciously ordered them to “work as usual” and fled in shame.
Upon returning to his room, Kier found Underman within. The henchman unloaded his ward’s purchases, and then dribbled some cold water on the face of beaten Karlsen, who scrambled about on the floor and groaned.
“If you want to interrogate him, my lord, now is the time. He has no weapon. Though where would a civilian get one? After the interrogation, I recommend you to send him into the general barrack of the base for further record of the Service. Or does he interest you from a sexual point of view?”
“Do not forget yourself, Sarge!” Kier said with anger. “Why would you be anxious about my sexual needs? Find a whore and relax. I’ll take care of my desires.”
Underman smirked, but refrained from dwelling on the matter. After the bodyguard asked, “Can you handle a weapon, my lord?”
Kier was surprised. After he turned sixteen, Brutari started to teach him shooting. After many months of training on a shooting range, Kier learned to hit a half-meter circle from ten meters, but with some difficulty. No matter how hard Brutari tried, his ward didn’t show any better results.
“I can shoot a pistol,” Kier answered with care. “What’s the matter, Sergeant? Do you want me to shoot somebody?”
“Not quite, my lord. You are, even though only formally, an officer of the Special Corps. All the officers on the base are to carry a weapon. This is essential to keep the civilians at bay. If it hadn’t been for my protection, you would have had problems back there in the corridor.” Underman paused. “Do you understand me, my lord?”
“Not quite. I thought you were to be by my side constantly, protecting me from all kinds of trouble.”
“Of course, my lord. But it is quite difficult to be with you all the time. As you have just noticed, I may have my own private affairs. The count didn’t order to keep you under arrest. On the contrary, he wished that you were granted some freedom of movement … of course, on the base territory.”
“Is that to give my elder brothers more opportunities to finish me?” Kier mocked, he couldn’t help teasing Underman.
The bodyguard shrugged his shoulders.
“If you wish, you can lock yourself in and sit in your room. I doubt it would save you from real troubles.” With a confident flourish, Underman pulled a mini-gun from the hidden pocket of his brown uniform. “Here you are … the newest modification. Full auto, lightweight, made especially for your arm.”
Kier carefully took the deadly weapon and checked the safety. Brutari had given him a similar pistol. This gun was equipped with an expensive laser sight and loaded with live ammunition.
“Do you actually want to give it to me, Sergeant?”
“Yes, my lord. Put it away in the pocket of your uniform and carry it with you at all times. And don’t be shy to shoot if you are in danger. Ultimately, you are the heir of the Vorsmiths.” The formidable bodyguard smiled predatorily and added, “I have only one favor to ask, my lord—don’t shoot me.” His smile widened to a grin. “Even if you manage to kill me, you won’t get away from the base. Your father will send new bodyguards, and then you will be tied to your bed. You don’t want all that, do you?”
“I hadn’t even thought about it,” Kier said testily, his temper flaring that he was being taken for such a fool. “And don’t you think of finishing me off in “self-defense”! My brothers could greatly reward you for that.”
“Your assumptions are wrong, my lord. The count would kill me with an utmost severity.” Underman sounded sincere. “For each day of your life, I get five hundred yellows. The next year, if everything remains well, I’m planning to resign and open my own business. So I’m interested in your staying alive as long as possible … at least until the Empire’s Millennium. You should practice shooting the pistol”—he paused—“there is a good rifle range on the base. That would improve your chances, my lord.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Kier didn’t know if he should be glad or not. He slipped the gun into the pocket of his uniform, just as Underman had advised. Of course, this little pistol was no comparison to the lethal possibilities of his elder brothers, but Kier still felt more confident.
“Stay here, my lord,” Underman instructed his ward. “I will take care of some other affairs. By the way, your new pet woke up some time ago and has been eavesdropping on us.”
That said, the henchman quickly disappeared.
Private Karlsen had stopped sobbing several minutes ago and was now lying on the floor, suspiciously quietly. Kier panicked, thinking he’d lost consciousness again, or worse, had died. However, he decided to check Underman’s words and so, copied his actions. Kier splashed a metal capful of water right into face of the beaten fellow, who jerked and opened his eyes.
Kier sat down on his bed, and then quietly said, “Don’t be afraid. Get up.”
The fellow in glasses got to his feet with difficulty and tried saluting.
“Private of the Civil Service Harry Karlsen, ready for duty, sir!”
“You were collecting the glass shards this morning …” Kier remembered yesterday’s acquaintance with the drunken Passat and today’s scene in his former dominion.
Noticing that Karlsen was barely standing, Kier added, “Take a chair and sit down normally.”
“A private of the Civil Service has no right to sit in the presence of an officer, sir,” eked out the fellow, trying to stand to attention.
“Does a private have any right to lie down and eavesdrop on a conversation?” Kier remarked sarcastically. “Now sit down and tell me why these bastards were beating you up in the corridor.”
Harry cautiously sat down on the edge of the chair, but remained stubbornly silent.
“Nobody will hear us here,” said Kier, trying to calm him. “I’ve saved you from these bullies. I want to help you, if I can.”
“I understand, sir! Thank you, sir!” The dusky guy took off his glasses and shortsightedly narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you are not aware, but all the events on the base get recorded. And not only by the Special Corps. The Civil Service is overseen by the ImpSec.”
Kier remembered some of the phrases of Underman.
“I’m Lord Kier Vorsmith,” the new senior weatherman proudly presented himself. “My henchman has checked the room and installed a whole load of anti-spying devices. A full professional package, Anti-spy-99, developed by the Special Corps. Protection against any external observation, including the protection of the comms. In addition, signalization, scanners, and special electronic locks at the door. I doubt that the local ImpSec agents can crack such protection.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate them!” The fellow’s reaction to all this was unexpectedly vivid. “Can we really talk freely here?”
“There’s no point for me to deceive you. Either way, you are completely in my power. However, when you are dealing with the ImpSec, there is always a risk.”
“But I risk more than you, sir!” Karlsen noted. “Can you actually become the next Count Vorsmith?”
Kier thought for a moment, and then carefully answered, “Theoretically, yes. You can call me Kier, by the way. This ‘sir’ of yours sounds like mockery. I’m already fed up with Underman ‘my lording’ me. And I will call you Harry. I don’t like Private Karlsen.”
“You can call me as you like.” The servant suddenly threw aside his reserve. “If I understand it correctly, your elder brother and competitor is a big boss in the ImpSec branch of the county—and the local ImpSec boss, Captain Vladimir White, is connected with him. Beware of White! However, General Morosev can’t stand either of them. But it’s always like that. The ImpSec and the Special Corps get on like cats and dogs. The outs have been pitting them against one another for ages.”
“Stop!” Kier sprang up from his bed, having heard such an unexpected information flow. “How do you know that and why are you telling me? This talk smells of treason!”
“It was you who wanted some directness,” Harry parried. “You’ve saved me and I’m giving you some valuable information. Be honest—you didn’t know a thing about White and his relationship to your brother.”
“Maybe so. But I wanted to know why you were being beaten by those guys in gray,” Kier said, returning to the beginning of conversation.
“Oh, this wouldn’t be interesting for you.” Harry winced and eased himself on the chair. “Though they will possibly bugger me, anyway.”
“Bugger you?” Kier started walking back and forth about the small room and stumbled against the electric heater that provident Underman had already turned on.
“Don’t you know what that means?” Harry marveled in return. “Although, you are the vor, a son of a count. Why in the world would a grand boy know of such unpleasant things?”
“Do not forget yourself!” roared Kier, rubbing his slightly bruised leg. “Tell me the things in a proper order.”
Karlsen’s story forced Kier to shiver several times, although it was still warm in the room.
Harry was born in New Roma and had lived in the capital of the Northern Heartland until recently. His mother, elder brother, and almost all the relatives died in a crash when Harry was seven. Some drunken vor, vigorously celebrating his return from Gomorrah, crashed his auto into their car. Moreover, the vor survived, unlike Harry’s family, though he had to pay a big fine. Harry’s father, who had worked as a teacher at the university, raised his son, but also died at an early age. The unfortunate man had come under the influence of one of the numerous quasi-religious sects, where he was given some heavy drug, inducing almost momentary addiction and destroying his brain in no time. Harry couldn’t do anything about it. His father spent all the money on the sect and the drugs and, finally, sold their flat in New Roma. He died when his son was just past seventeen. Harry was left alone. His study in a private mathematics school was pre-paid, but he couldn’t pay for the CALL and the Civil Service. Thus, the young man was sent to the Aurora Borealis Base. Here, Harry had had a stroke of luck. His contract was bought by the senior weatherman, Passat Shtillius.
“Did he rape you?” Kier asked, after remembering Underman’s words.
Harry shook his head.
“No, Passat was a good one, though he drank too much. As he loved to say, ‘I need some spiritual recreation.’ Anyway, he was a complete impotent, so neither girls nor boys interested him. I saw to it that the boss wouldn’t kill or injure himself during benders. It was crucial, because the year I served under his command he was indulging in more and more ‘spiritual recreation.’ By the way, almost all the officers on the base either drink or jab. Besides, I watched over the technicians and would inform Passat after he recovered a bit. He gave them a wigging and fined them with no mercy. He even fired one guy. So they all hate me.”
“And do you have a knack for meteorology, Harry?”
“Only from a mathematical point of view. But if you listen carefully to the technicians’ chitchat, you can understand a lot. For example, last winter they decided to set Passat up and faked the forecast; allegedly, as a joke. Instead of wow-wow and minus forty, they forecast no wind and only minus five. I overheard and told Passat after he sobered up a bit. It was then that he fired the chief technician.”
“And what is ‘wow-wow’?” asked Kier, who started to guess that the post of the senior weatherman at the base was not as senseless as it seemed.
“Wow-wow is a sudden and very strong north wind from the ocean that can easily blow a man away. Combined with the local winter frost, it means one hundred percent death. When a wow-wow rises, all the works on the base and the oil facility are stopped and people hide in the shelter …” Harry paused and then added, “Of course, you know all that and just wanted to check me, huh?”
“Of course, I do.” Kier sensed hidden scorn, but decided on ignoring it. “But why did they beat you up?”
“That’s simple. The day Passat resigned, my contract with him was automatically canceled. When the new draft arrives here to the Civil Service, I will be sold again to somebody. For now, I’m—so they say—ownerless. The weather technicians hate me and ratted to the elders that I was left without protection. So they decided to bugger me. Most of the servants don’t like guys like me. Too clever—that kind of stuff. If it was not for your interference, they would now be beating and raping me in one of the barracks.”
“And the elders are the ones who serve longer than the others?” Kier asked, after remembering some of Brutari’s stories about the Civil Service. “I haven’t been particularly interested in this stuff. I just know that all civil servants are used for public works. Supposedly, for the good of the Empire. Since it is usually various scum that gets into the Civil Service—I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean you—fights and other troubles often take place amongst them.”
“That is the half-official version,” Harry said, wincing. “The reality is that it’s much worse. You’ll see it soon enough for yourself. Don’t forget about Captain White! Officially, the Special Corps base and the local ImpSec branch are not subject to the Vorsmiths’ county, but your elder brother and White are good acquaintances. I accidentally saw them meet last summer, when I first came to serve here.”
“Thank you, Harry. I’ll remember.” Kier enjoyed talking to this young simple. “But what shall I do with you now?”
“My lord,” Harry pleaded, “take me into your service. I’ll serve you well. Even better than I served Passat. I can look after the technicians …”
“Underman can take care of the technicians,” Kier said, and then hesitated. “You told me to be wary of this local ImpSec-agent, White. If I buy out your contract, it could attract his attention to both of us. Besides, there are my elder brothers. My patronage could be dangerous for you.”
“I don’t have any choice!” Harry fell on his knees. “You’ve saved me and you are giving me away to them again!”
“I would have paid a ransom for you, but I don’t have that kind of money,” Kier tried to explain. “To ask the count is useless.”
“My lord!” Harry cried in utmost despair. “If you want, you can fuck me; I’m ready for that! Better you than them!”
“You’re not up my street,” muttered the young vor, who grimaced before continuing. “Okay, you’re accepted. You will be serving me personally. You can refrain from an oath of loyalty.”
“Thank you, sir—my lord!”
“Stop calling me ‘Si’ and ‘my lord.’ I’ve already told you,” said Kier, stepping over to his first vassal and slapping him on the shoulder. “Get up—I don’t like people kneeling to me!”