Victime et Bourreau

What was the price of the stars? Michael Von Ekaterinburg thought he knew, and paid it gladly.

Little did he know that he was only making a down payment.

Generations have come and gone. Michael and Alexi are long dead, but the dynasty they built together endures. Young colonies have sprung up throughout the Local Bubble and beyond. The ghostwrights of the foundry work night and day to meet demand for spooky engines. But someone has come into their midst, and with her comes the rumor of troubles ahead.

This is a standalone piece. It is not a short story, but an excerpt from an unpublished novel. I beg your indulgence if it is ill-rounded, and beg it again because it isn't strictly pulp. But it is the best way to introduce you to Raina, the actual, infinite, price of the stars.

Victime et Bourreau

What Price the Stars? Annex 1

“...Sed libera nos a malo, Amen, Amen,” concluded Father Andre Dumiel, rector of the chapel of Our Lady of the Secret Fire and Third Principal Ghostwright of the foundry. The rotund priest’s exalted position did not relieve him of his chapel obligations. This was his day to cover the Lauds. As he snuffed out the candles, he noted without surprise that he was alone in the dark little sanctuary. It was rare for anyone to attend Lauds on the Foundry moon. There were few outside visitors, and the ministers of the Foundry were extremely busy this time of the day. But there was tradition to consider, and the preferences of the Watchman who dwelt within the Sanctum surely inclined toward piety. Therefore the hours were celebrated religiously, even in the absence of worshippers.

It came as a great surprise to Father Dumiel when something tugged on a fold of his green vestments, and he nearly dropped the snuffer. He turned to find a little girl standing behind him. She was pretty in a tomboy way, with a shiny mop of jet–black hair and bright eyes that sparkled in the dim light. Her colorful dress and strappy Mary Janes proclaimed her to be a visitor. Dumiel smiled at her. She grinned back, revealing a mouthful of perfect but unusually prominent teeth.

“Hello, little friend. Have you been here the whole time?” Dumiel asked.

She nodded. “Since before you came in.”

Dumiel was embarrassed. He’d been so sleepy when he arrived that he hadn’t even noticed her. “I’m very sorry that I missed you. What is your name?”

“I’m Raina, but everyone calls me Inna.”

“It’s good to meet you, Inna. I am Father Dumiel, but you may call me Papa if you like. Did you enjoy the service?”

“It was very pretty, but I didn’t understand it. Was it in Old French?”

“It was in Latin, but it does sound a lot like French, I suppose. Parlez-vous le français?”

“Oui, a little.”

“I would be delighted to hear you speak it,” Dumiel prompted.

Little Inna frowned, but after a moment spoke confidently, her francophone diction nearly perfect: “Il serait peut-être doux d'être alternativement victime et bourreau.”

Dumiel flinched at her savage chestnut. “Do you know what that means, Inna?” he asked, a little hesitantly.

“Sure. It’s Baudelaire, from Mon Cœur Mis à Nu. My dyadya loves Baudelaire.”

The priest breathed a little easier, but he wondered what sort of uncle would introduce his tender niece to such unrestrained verse. “How old are you, Inna?” he asked, his curiosity piqued

“I’m seven. How old are you, Papa Dumiel?”

He smiled at her cheekiness. “Well met, little one! I am too old. But since you asked, I am bound to tell you that I am two hundred and sixty-five, in earthyears.”

“Oh! My Papka is only one hundred and fifty–two.”

“Where is your father, little Inna?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since breakfast. I guess he is in the Foundry office. He’s here to meet the new wrights.”

The pieces clicked together. “You are Boris Von Ekaterinburg’s child? But I thought his daughter was named Alexi?”

Inna made a face. “Alechka is my older sister. She likes boys,” she proclaimed, with the dour gravity of a judge passing out sentence.

Dumiel laughed. This odd girl was the daughter of PVEK Heavy Industries Chairman of the Board Boris Von Ekaterinburg, the sole distributor of the foundry’s singular product, the Spooky engine. Chairman Von Ekaterinburg and his family were frequent visitors on the Foundry Moon, but before this day Dumiel had not heard even a rumor of this child. But he counted her father as a friend, and he welcomed a mystery as much as any bored old cleric might.

He extended a hand to little Inna. “I have a few hours before my next duty. Would you care to join me for tea and sweets?”

Inna’s fantastic silver eyes went wide with excitement. “Yes, please, Papa!” she said happily. She took his hand. Her small fingers pinched uncomfortably. She had a startlingly powerful grip for a little girl.

By the time the Prime was sung, they had put paid to a pot of fruity tea and a quantity of sweet biscuits and cinnamon straws. Dumiel’s spacious office impressed little Inna tremendously, or at least his window did. Giving on a vista of the cerulean gas giant Tiber, it was a fantastic amenity. The eerie black dimple of a permanent storm in the southern hemisphere dominated the view. Vast purple lightnings pulsed silently in its depths. Inna was enthralled.

“Is it always this pretty?” she asked.

Dumiel nodded. “It is. Sometimes it is even more magnificent, when the aurora draws her curved sword.”

“I would love to see that,” Inna said, munching yet another biscuit. Dumiel smiled and reached for a fresh package. It was rare for him to have company this agreeable. His stash of treats was a small price to pay for it.

“You may see her, if you are staying a while. She comes most often when Lucifer is at opposition. That will occur the day after tomorrow.”

Inna’s expression turned sulky. “I’ll miss it, then. Papka says we must leave tomorrow morning.”

“That is too bad, but I am sure your father knows best.”

“I guess. He always does what the company wants.”

“Do you travel with him often?”

“Starting this year, he’s been taking me everywhere.” she replied, her mood brightening.

“Are your brother and sister along, too?”

She shook her head. “Nope, just me. It’s okay. Alechka only thinks of herself, and Slava hates everything but his sims.”

“You like to travel, don’t you?”

“More than anything! I’ve been all over the galaxy! I’ve seen the River of Fire, the Devil’s Black Vaults down in the Rift, and now…” she gestured toward the abyss below.

“The Cloaca Maxima. It’s very large this year.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“No, no. Just beautiful.”

While his guest studied the view with rapt interest, Dumiel sipped his tea. After a time, he realized that her attention had returned to him, and her eyes were sparkling with amusement.

“I am glad to be able to entertain you,” he said.

She giggled. “Why do you stick your finger out like that?” she asked, her eyes tracking the extended pinky of the hand that held his teacup.

“It is how cultured people drink tea,” he replied.

“Really? Why?”

“I have no idea. I gather that there are people who sit around and think of these things. Folks like me merely try to keep up.”

“That’s weird,” said Inna, but when she again picked up her teacup, she did so with her pinky up, like a proper dowager.

Inna might be strange, but she delighted Dumiel. In his opinion, her estimate of her siblings was quite accurate. Alexi was a shallow girl, and Jaroslav was insufferably dull. Why Boris had kept this fascinating child a secret defied his imagination.

She chose that moment to ask a question. “What were you doing in the chapel this morning?”

Has she never attended church before? he wondered. “I was celebrating Lauds, dear Inna.”

“It sounded like you were talking to someone. Were you diving in Rapportspace?”

“No, no,” he replied with a smile, laboring not to laugh, “I was talking to God.”

A baffled look crossed Inna’s face. “God?” she asked.

Her question drew Dumiel up short. He knew well that Boris and his wife were irreligious, as were all Midworlders, but how could Inna have gotten all the way to her seventh year without having heard of God? He supposed that he should tread lightly, but he was a priest, first and foremost. It was time for a bit of religious education.

“God is the creator and sustainer of everything. He made anything that you can imagine, from stars to stones, the Cloaca Maxima down there, and you and me. He is all around us. In Him, we live and move and have our being.”

Inna looked around the room, her eyes narrowing.

“God is invisible, Inna. You cannot see Him.”

The girl paused, her brow furrowed in thought. Dumiel prepared to answer the predictable objections to an unseen God. Her reply blindsided him.

“If invisible god is who you say he is, why should he listen to you?”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “Because He wants to, dear Inna. He loves to hear from His children,” Dumiel offered lamely. He hated to be so glib, but he had no answer that a child might understand.

“Are you the only one?” she asked.

“What do you mean, Inna?”

“Are you the only one who can talk to invisible god?”

“Heavens, no! Anyone can talk to Him.”

The furrowed brow, again. “Does he listen to them?”

A drop of cold sweat trickled down the back of Dumiel’s neck. Little Inna had a quick mind. Too quick. He stared into her gleaming eyes, and for an instant it seemed as if something ancient and cunning was staring back at him.

She blinked, and the sensation passed.

“Inna, God hears everyone,” the old priest said, collecting his wits.

There were innumerable childish objections to his statement, but by now he knew better than to expect one of them. He was right.

“Not hears, listens,” Inna elaborated. “When I talk to Matushka, she hears me, but she doesn’t listen, because I’m nothing to her. When I talk to Slava, he hears me, but only listens to me when I threaten to beat him up. But when I talk to Papka, he hears me and always listens, because he loves me.”

“That is your answer. God is like your father. He loves everyone.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Papka would never hurt me. If invisible god loves everyone, why do people get hurt?”

This, at least, was a question that Dumiel had heard before. “It is a mystery, Inna. We have to trust that God is doing what is best for people.”

Her reply shocked him. “What is best for him, you mean?”

“I wouldn’t say that. God is good. He must do what is best for everyone,” Dumiel quickly corrected, but Inna’s expression turned cross.

“Papa, that can’t be right. Even invisible god couldn’t make everybody win. You are just making an excuse for him. If I were him, I’d always do what was best for me.”

“Inna, God cannot be selfish. He does no wrong,” Dumiel gently corrected her.

“But being selfish wouldn’t be wrong for him. When Matushka makes me clean out my toy box, I keep the stuff I like and throw away the stuff I don’t want anymore. Is that wrong?”

“No, I suppose not. But people are not stuff.”

“Maybe they are to invisible god. He helps some people, and hurts others, because they are just his stuff. Does that make sense?”

It did, indeed. “O homo, tu quis es, qui respondeas Deo?” Dumiel murmured under his breath.

Inna heard him. “What does that mean, Papa?” she asked.

It meant that the conversation was over, before he landed himself in a theological debate with a seven-year-old girl. “I am sorry, Inna. I was just thinking of something. My head has begun to hurt, and I could use a diversion. Do you play dominoes?

“Yes, Papa.”

Dumiel produced a box of well–worn tiles from his desk, and the two of them whiled away the better part of an hour gaming. Inna was a cutthroat player, and only by distracting her with a fresh tray of tea cakes was Dumiel able to eke out a win.

A chime at the office door interrupted their game. A small holo of a man with a clerical tonsure appeared in front of it.

“Please pardon the interruption, Father. You have a guest,” the man in the holo said.

“It is no trouble, Fra Mauro. Please send him in,” Dumiel replied.

A moment later the door opened, and a heavyset man with salt–and–pepper hair stepped in. Dumiel recognized him instantly.

Inna squealed with delight. She leapt from her chair to hug the newcomer around the waist. Boris Von Ekaterinburg laughed, but he winced, too. Dumiel smiled knowingly. Inna was an tremendously strong child.

“Good morning, Dominie Von Ekaterinburg,” Dumiel said. “Inna and I have been having the most wonderful chat.”

“And cookies and tea!” Inna added happily.

Boris chuckled and tousled her glossy hair. “What? Didn’t you have enough for breakfast?”

The girl shook her head solemnly. “Olga never makes enough blini,” she replied.

“You ate enough for a grown man!”

“But I’m not a man!” she protested.

Her father turned to Dumiel. “If you feed Raina, she’s yours. Perhaps I might reimburse you? She has a way of emptying the cupboards.”

“No, no, little Inna was a picture of moderation,” Dumiel dissembled. The truth was quite the opposite. Most of his snacks were inside her. “She is a skilled conversationalist, and quite a deep thinker for her age. I am glad to have been given the opportunity to meet her,” he said, pointedly.

It was a subtle rebuke, and Boris took it well. “I am sorry you were not introduced earlier. Raina is our youngest, and I may be a little overprotective of her. But now you have met. I can tell that you have hit it off.”

“Papa Dumiel is the best!” Raina announced, and sent a sly silvery wink his way.

“The pleasure was all mine, Inna.”

“So, what did you two talk about all this time?” Boris asked her.

“God,” she replied happily.

A faint shadow crossed Boris’ face. “I imagine it was a very interesting discussion.”

“It was!” said Inna.

“It was a stimulating chat,” agreed Dumiel. “She has a unique outlook for one so young.”

“Raina is nothing if not unique, aren’t you, mya Zaichika?” Boris said, taking her by the hand.

“Must we go, Papka?” she beseeched him. “We were having such fun!”

“Your tutor is asking after you, and you must not neglect your studies. That, and we must be sensible of the good Father’s time.”

“She is no trouble, really,” said Dumiel, but Boris could not be dissuaded.

After a firm hug from Inna, Dumiel bid father and daughter goodbye. The time had not come for his duty rounds in the foundry, but it was hard to focus on preparations. His mind chewed on the things that little Inna had said. In his many decades in the priesthood, no one had ever defended the freedom of God to him, let alone an unchurched child. She innately apprehended divine liberty, and readily identified with this most uncomfortable of doctrines. It was most abnormal. Dumiel watched the angry black maelstrom of the Cloaca Maxima swirling on the limb of Tiber, and brooded.

Eventually he was called to do his duty, and shelved his unease. After a busy afternoon, he had gained enough perspective to feel ashamed of his discomfort. It’s foolish for a mature man to be disturbed by a conversation with an innocent child, he reproached himself, pulling on his alb in preparation for Vespers.

...

That night, Dumiel dreamed of a fiery winged serpent with three starry crowns and shining silver eyes. It reclined at a little table set for tea with exceedingly handsome royal and argent china. The air was heavy with the smell of sweet cakes and cinnamon. An empty chair stood before Dumiel, and he lowered himself into it.

“Who are you?” he asked his uncanny host.

“I am the victim and the executioner,” the serpent replied, in Inna’s cute little girl voice.