Matryoshka Read online

  Matryoshka

  NewCon Press Novellas

  Set 1: (Cover art by Chris Moore)

  The Iron Tactician – Alastair Reynolds

  At the Speed of Light – Simon Morden

  The Enclave – Anne Charnock

  The Memoirist – Neil Williamson

  Set 2: (Cover art by Vincent Sammy)

  Sherlock Holmes: Case of the Bedevilled Poet – Simon Clark

  Cottingley – Alison Littlewood

  The Body in the Woods – Sarah Lotz

  The Wind – Jay Caselberg

  Set 3: The Martian Quartet (Cover art by Jim Burns)

  The Martian Job – Jaine Fenn

  Sherlock Holmes: The Martian Simulacra – Eric Brown

  Phosphorous: A Winterstrike Story – Liz Williams

  The Greatest Story Ever Told – Una McCormack

  Set 3: Strange Tales (Cover art by Ben Baldwin)

  Ghost Frequencies – Gary Gibson

  The Lake Boy – Adam Roberts

  Matryoshka – Ricardo Pinto

  The Land of Somewhere Safe – Hal Duncan

  Matryoshka

  Ricardo Pinto

  NewCon Press

  England

  First published in the UK by NewCon Press

  41 Wheatsheaf Road, Alconbury Weston, Cambs, PE28 4LF

  July 2018

  NCP 163 (limited edition hardback)

  NCP 164 (softback)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Matryoshka copyright © 2018 by Ricardo Pinto

  Cover art copyright © 2018 by Ben Baldwin

  All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  ISBN:

  978-1-910935-87-3 (hardback)

  978-1-910935-88-0 (softback)

  Cover art by Ben Baldwin

  Cover layout by Ian Whates

  Minor Editorial meddling by Ian Whates

  Book layout by Storm Constantine

  One

  Lost in Venice, he just wants to put his head down somewhere and sleep, but her copper hair snares his eye: it falls to her shoulders, and a small hat rides its waves. An elegant suit accentuates her curves, and its square, padded shoulders make her appear even more feminine. Her skirt tapers to long shapely legs. She leans on a rail and stares down into a canal, wisps of smoke escape her strawberry mouth. Cherenkov has not seen her like since before the war began.

  Her grey eyes watch him approach as if he is a wolf. He slows and gazes across the canal at a mouldering doorway. He accepts the cigarette she offers with a trembling hand. When he glances at her, she forces a smile. He leans towards the flame in her cupped hands; close up, her face has the same tight look as everyone else’s.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he says.

  Her eyes widen.

  He indicates the city around them and says: ‘My mother was Italian.’

  ‘You don’t look Italian.’

  She is younger than he had thought: early twenties. Her milky skin, and the freckles around her nose, somehow make her eyes exotic. He senses that she has seen things she would rather not have. Her eyes narrow. ‘You’re a soldier, aren’t you?’

  ‘I was,’ he says.

  She appraises him. ‘Tell me about your parents.’

  He cocks his head to one side and smiles. ‘Sure.’ As he tells her of his father who unloaded ships down in the New York docks, of his mother who chased his brothers and sister, hands raw from washing laundry in the kitchen – she greets each statement with a little nod.

  He moves in, and stops any further conversation with his mouth. She tenses as his hand slips into the small of her back, but yields; her arms hook his neck, her breasts flatten against his chest.

  Skin, freed from clothes, touches and slides burning. She rasps her chin against his stubble. His tongue finds her mouth. He backs her into an archway. They lie on his coat. Their coupling is brutal and tender.

  ❖

  ‘Are you married?’

  He watches her, and shakes his head.

  ‘There is no woman promised to you?’

  He frowns. ‘No.’

  She gazes at him and, eventually, nods. ‘Come home with me. We must hurry, I’m late!’

  His lust rises again. ‘But first…’

  ❖

  She brings him to a door whose laurel-wreathed skull keystone grins down at them. To one side is a dusty window through which he spies a graveyard of pallid, carved boxes. He looks back the way he thinks they have come. Yellows, dirty whites, reds form impossible incandescent angles between towering black masses. He recalls bridges that they crossed, waterways, colonnades, glimpses through windows. He doubts he could find his way back on his own.

  The knocker clacks upon the ominous door. A slant of sun catches a sign above the shop: Casa Lorentz.

  Yawning, the door reveals a shadow with a Jewish face. The old woman draws back from his stare. He attempts a smile. The woman’s focus flicks to his red-haired guide.

  ‘Lady, welcome. They expect you,’ she says, and indicates Cherenkov with her chin. ‘Is he the one who is to go with you?’

  The girl blushes and looks at him with her lovely, pleading eyes.

  He says: ‘Perhaps for a moment.’

  ❖

  The old woman leads them past shelves loaded with ivory caskets. She pushes through a curtain into a gloomy, furnished room. A rug dulls their footfalls. A corridor, a door; they emerge into a well of light from which a stair rises to a cracked marble balustrade. Leaves stroke his face as the red-haired girl pulls him after her. A storeroom and, behind another curtain, a door that the Jewess unlocks.

  They follow her through into a corridor that curves away in either direction. Its inner curve is formed by a ribbed bronze wall. Set into it is a door that looks stout enough to defy a battering ram.

  The old woman fixes her dark eyes on the red-haired girl who nods, and looks up at Cherenkov: ‘You are sure you want to come with me?’ His body responds to the look of longing in her face.

  ❖

  The old woman produces a large key, inserts it into the bronze door and turns it. Clunks shudder the frame. She twists a handle, and the door opens a crack that sucks in air. Cherenkov draws back, but the girl touches his hand: ‘Please, it’s stiff.’ He helps the old woman pull open the door, and a bronze chamber is revealed that is like the crew cabin of a tank, though larger. The girl steps over the high threshold. He has to duck to follow her. Iron crates that are stacked in the centre of the floor are filled with onions, artichokes, bundles of spinach, oranges and peaches.

  ‘Please sit,’ says the girl and points at a ledge that runs around the wall. The old woman watches him from the corridor. The girl smiles. ‘Please.’

  He grimaces, skirts the boxes and does as she asks. The girl sits beside him, and reaches under the seat. He cranes forward and sees that she holds levers that are set into the underside of the seat.

  ‘You don’t want to know what would happen to us if I let these go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She gives a nod to the Jewess, who leans against the door and thuds it closed. Cherenkov swallows to release the pressure in his ears. Bolts shoot into the frame of the door and cause the chamber to shudder.

  Eyes wide, Cherenkov says: ‘What’s going on?’

  The chamber shudders again, but from the other side of the chamber where another door opens. His companion releases the levers and rises. He follows her to the open door and stares out over a vast and gloomy marshland.

  Two

  The man who waits for them wears a long embroidered coat that hangs open to reveal an equally ornate waistcoat. Matching britches stop just below the knee. Thin white socks are pulled up over his calves. A pale wig f
rames his painted face as he looks through tears at the red-haired girl, his eyebrows raised in unending surprise. She runs to him: ‘Papa!’

  The fancy dress man spreads his arms to receive her; his wrists trail lace: ‘Septima, dearest child.’

  He eases her away, and blinks away tears. ‘My, how you’ve changed!’

  Septima is tearful too. ‘You’ve not changed at all, Papa.’

  Others there are also oddly dressed, but Cherenkov ignores the pantomime and gazes out over the strange twilit landscape, with its pools and streams that glow a milky blue. He frowns and peers at the sky: flat clouds show no sign they conceal the moon.

  He becomes aware of a woman for whom he is an object of scrutiny. Her vast red dress is thickly worked with flowers and clouds of golden bees. The skirt narrows to a waist so slender that it is hard to believe that there could be a human body beneath. Her pale breasts seem about to escape the low neckline. At her throat jewels glimmer; more sparkle in the grey coiffure that lengthens her head. She raises her chin and her eyes glitter as they fix on Septima and her father. ‘There will be time enough for fond welcomings.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ says Septima.

  The older woman’s eyes look wet. ‘Is this really the man you choose?’

  Septima becomes more erect, inclines her head and half curtseys. ‘It is, Serene Highness.’

  Cherenkov thrusts forward. ‘Choose for what?’

  He flinches as the woman’s scrutiny returns to him. ‘Is he free of impediments?’

  When Septima does not answer, her mother turns to her; Septima is examining her hands. Her mother frowns. ‘Presumably you know his name?’

  When Septima does not look up, her mother appears startled.

  ‘I’m Cherenkov.’

  Septima’s mother fixes him with burning eyes. ‘Who is your father?’

  ‘What business is that of yours?’

  The men around them shift their weight. With their striped tunics and britches they look like clowns: there is nothing clownish about the poleaxes upon which they lean.

  Septima raises her head: ‘He comes from humble stock, Mama.’

  Cherenkov grimaces. ‘What?’

  ‘No doubt you have your reasons for choosing him,’ says Septima’s mother. ‘Is he at least unwed?’

  ‘He told me so.’

  ‘And has taken no vow of celibacy?’

  Septima blushes. ‘No.’

  Some of the same colour shades her mother’s face.

  Septima says quietly: ‘No woman is promised to him.’

  Her mother regards him sidelong. ‘He seems sound enough in body.’

  Cherenkov advances on her. ‘Okay, I’ve had enough of this. I’m leaving now.’

  Septima’s mother motions and the clowns close in on him. He reaches for the revolver in the pocket of his rain coat.

  Her eyes flame: ‘Stop him!’

  Instantly the spikes of their poleaxes are at his throat. He raises his hands. ‘Whoa, fellas.’

  Septima’s mother’s dress hisses as she advances. Her perfume envelopes him. She reaches into his pocket, removes the revolver and backs away as she examines it; her other hand motions to her guards. The chill of their blades against his neck, encourage him to move away from the door. As they frisk him, other guards lug the crates from the bronze chamber and stack them on a small cart. A guard leans against the door and drives it closed. Bolts slide home. Septima’s mother turns a key in the lock.

  Cherenkov tries to catch Septima’s eye, but she won’t look at him.

  Her father clasps Cherenkov’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, son, we intend you no harm.’

  ❖

  As Septima’s mother is packed into a sedan chair, Cherenkov glances at the locked door; it peers out through a ragged fence, like the eye of some monstrous bronze fish. An uncanny and blinding band of blue tops the fence. Septima’s father notices his interest, and nods at the guards. They part and Cherenkov approaches the fence to gaze up at the band of blueness. A cloud flits across it. Sky? The way the blue fades into the greyness that hangs heavy over the marsh hurts his eyes.

  He focuses on the fence. At his touch its leprous wood crumbles to reveal more bronze beneath. He raps the bronze and it emits a dull clang. The fence curves away and becomes hazy and hard to look at. He follows it a little way. A woman’s voice cries out. He tries to locate its source, and almost loses his balance: Septima and the others are inexplicably distant. The road upon which they stand no longer runs straight into the marshland, but curves. Cherenkov moves his head from side to side and the landscape distorts as if through a massive lens.

  Septima’s father calls out: ‘Go on, son, follow the wall round. We’ll wait for you.’

  Cherenkov walks on. When he looks back, Septima and the others have disappeared. The landscape looks different. He resumes his journey. He sees another bronze door and runs to it. He tries its handle, but this door too is locked.

  A voice rises in command. Nearby, two guards lift Septima’s mother in her sedan chair. More flank her. Septima and her father wait for him. He strokes the door handle again, clenches his jaw and, avoiding their eyes, he joins the procession and they set off. Behind him the crates on the cart rattle.

  ❖

  A boardwalk carries them across a drear mudscape pocked with blind-blue pools. Night falls suddenly. Only the glowing stretches of water light their way. Septima’s mother in her sedan chair heads their march. Septima follows; her neat suit now looks out of place. Her smooth gait is periodically interrupted when the heel of her shoe snags in a gap between planks.

  Her father falls back beside Cherenkov. ‘You are Russian?’

  ‘My father’s family came from Russia: I’m an American’

  Septima’s father raises his eyebrows. ‘From the North American colonies? Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Septima’s father composes his face. ‘Who is Tsar?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I heard the Russians had a woman. Of course the Austrians had one too. Though this was all mostly after my time, you understand.’

  Cherenkov grimaces and shakes his head. ‘I don’t…?’

  Septima’s father glances toward the sedan chair and leans close to whisper: ‘Reconciled me to my wife, don’t you know; to my position in life.’ He beams. ‘Of course we defeated them all.’

  ‘Them all?’

  ‘Russia, Austria, France, Sweden and even Saxony led by the great Frederick; we defeated them all.’

  Cherenkov kneads his forehead. ‘Who is “we”?’

  Septima’s father regards him with one eyebrow raised. ‘Prussia, of course!’

  ‘You mean Russia? You’re Russian?’

  Septima’s father laughs, and his daughter glances back. ‘Russian? No, I’m not Russian, my dear fellow, it is you who is Russian!’

  Cherenkov scowls. ‘Enough already! Why am I a prisoner?’

  Septima’s father pats his arm. ‘My dear fellow, there’s no need to fret, no need at all. Be assured that your questions will be answered soon enough.’

  ❖

  They reach the shore of a thick, sombre sea. A wave veined with violet glimmers mounds towards them, collapses and hisses white as it invades the mud. Cherenkov spreads his arms to catch the breeze. He closes his eyes and it blows on his back. When he opens them he sees a point of light on the horizon.

  At the end of the jetty a bell hangs from a pole. Waggling a rope, Septima rings it. Cherenkov squints uneasily at the somnolent swell.

  The sedan chair is put down and Septima’s mother blossoms from it. Mother and daughter turn from each other.

  A pale shape appears upon the sea and lingers there indistinct. Cherenkov glances back the way they have come and frowns. The bronze door seems closer than it should be, and the boardwalk seems too short.

  He returns his gaze to the sea, and starts: driven by oars, an immense white gondola bears down on them. Where has it sprung from? Lanterns stare from it
s prow. The vessel slows and looms up to the jetty. Cherenkov half expects it to be crewed by ghosts, but living men lower a gangplank for them to board. As he steps upon the deck he runs his hand along the smooth gunwale: like the rest of the boat it seems to be polished bone.

  ❖

  The gondola braids skeins of iridescence into her wake. Cherenkov grows bored of watching the beacon on the horizon ahead. Eventually this resolves into several lights that remain stubbornly distant. He catches Septima’s father looking at him, and moves away. Septima and her mother are sat on a bench murmuring to each other. They fall silent and watch him pass.

  Maddeningly, the bronze door is still visible, and the shore with its disturbingly feverish waves. Any explanation that these anomalies might be due to the gondola moving slowly is belied by the deep bow wave at her prow. He raises his eyes and gapes: a city of lights is suddenly there seemingly afloat upon the sea.

  ❖

  Presently, the gondola enters a canal. Hunched cranes rise from among warehouses on either side. More bone boats, large and small, are moored at quays or rest in cradles beyond the slurp of the sea. Fires flicker in the bowels of enormous sheds that belch smoke that reeks of burning fat. A heap of huge bones on the shore might be the ribcages of whales.

  Beyond this dockland, towers rise whose flickering windows make them seem on fire. He gets the sense of a large city, and wonders how many people dwell here. The gondola slices a course towards the towers and a colourless dawn begins to bleach the sea. Cherenkov searches for the sun but the radiant sky is blank.

  ❖

  Towers of brick have window frames and shutters, doors, domes and roof tiles – all of bone. Each tower is an island. As the gondola glides past, antique music drifts down from windows whose light is here and there eclipsed by a shadow head.

  At the end of the canal is a pale tower like a lighthouse. Nearer, Cherenkov can see that it stands at the edge of the city and gazes out over open sea.