Black Skies Ch. 01

Tom pulled out her portrait again to warm his heart. The sepia-toned photograph didn't do justice to her emerald green eyes or dark brown hair, but it did capture the elegant lines which made up her face. She had dark, pensive eyelids and pallid skin, projecting a frail, waifish look. She wasn't a Circassian Beauty, but to Tom, she was the epitome of feminine beauty. Obviously her expression was placid since the picture-taking process took several minutes, but it wasn't hard to imagine her cherubic lips doing a small Mona Lisa smile for him.

A missionary's daughter, Mathilda brought the Word of God to heathens within the shores of Britain itself. A multitude of foreigners had come to find work in London, Bristol, and other cities in the South, from every corner of the world. She and Tom actually met in a lower class part of London: She was coming home from teaching literacy to immigrant children, and he was an apprentice, trying to find a shop that sold screws to fit a German model engine that his employer had just bought. Mathilda asked her father to contact his mother, and the two families came into contact with each other. Neither of them seemed likely to get married due to the passion they had for their work, but something clicked during those chaperoned dates. They found kindred spirits in each other, and had were fans of many of the same names in literature and theater. How he wished he could hear her soft voice now, reading lines from Cyrano de Bergerac to him in perfect, unaccented French.

Tom had the moody, sensitive eyes of a poet and dark, wavy hair like the Booth brothers, renowned thespians on both sides of the Atlantic, but his true genius was expressed in schematics, not dramatic words. His frame was gaunt, and not as tall as his brother Roger, who emanated health and vitality. He never had a great appetite, and would go many nights without sleeping, working on his beloved machines. He was more introverted than Roger, and awkward around the ladies, so it was a surprise to everyone when he got engaged before his brother. Though to Tom, it made perfect sense. Roger was gifted in everything, and everything in life came so easily to him that the ungrateful lout actually had the privilege of being bored with it all. Maybe if women threw themselves at Tom all the time, he'd feel contempt for them too.

Mathilda was the one water lily in the murky pond of his life. His webbed feet could rest on her green pad while her pink blossom would keep fill his nose with a rosy scent before he had to plunge back into Stygian depths. Sailing to Crimea on a warship seemed almost like impressment to him. The only good thing about being a military engineer was getting to work with state-of-the-art automata and bodysuits, even if their purpose was to destroy other machines. And humans.

He should have been on the barge where they were being transported, rather than on an ironclad with the officers and marines. It was only to maintain good relations with his connections that he chose to be parted from his beloved machines.

The Royal navy resupplied in the balmy ports of Hanya, or Chania, in Ottoman Crete. The principal harbor-city of Kandiye, or Heraklion, was too silted up to be usable to dock Britain's massive fleet.

There was hostility constantly brewing under the surface between the island's Turks and Greeks, many of whom wished to be united with free Hellas. Naturally, these Orthodox Christians also openly sympathized with Russia's actions against the Ottoman Empire.

While Great Britain tried to stay agnostic to these conflicts, recent events had pushed Queen Victoria ever closer to the Sublime Porte: She needed to prevent an ever-expanding Russia from upsetting the balance of power on the continent, and couldn't allow the decaying Ottomans to collapse into a thousand ethnic warzones, which would destabilize the naptha trade and shut off England's access to India. Europe was thirsty for petroleum, and had as many uses for it as it did for coal. Russia was interested as well, and intervened continuously for the rights of the Ottoman Empire's millions of Orthodox Christians for pragmatic, idealistic and prestigious reasons. France was aching for military glory and a chance to avenge the humiliating loss of 1812.

The Sultan, with the implicit backing of England and her Navy, rejected all offers of compromise and diplomacy from the Tsar. The failure of diplomacy did not come as a surprise to the Russians, who were already mobilizing on the Southwestern border with the Ottomans, occupying the Danubian principalities with 100,000 men, and many pieces of advanced artillery and experimental steam repeater-guns. There was virtually no resistance, as Wallachia and Moldavia were already largely under Russian control after the revolutions of 1848. France and Britain could not let Turkey be conquered when the real war broke out, so they immediately dispatched fleets to secure the Black Sea while they mobilized their troops for a land war.

None of this mattered to Tom, who just hoped he wouldn't have to see any direct combat. He and several officers were having luncheon at the bazaar, all loosening the buttons of their coats and relaxing in the Mediterranean summer. He was having döner with sesame seed bread and strong black coffee. There was a big bowl of eggplants, peppers and potatoes stewed in yogurt in the middle of a metal tray between all of them. Afterwards, he planned on buying some Turkish delights to bring aboard. Osmond was painting a picture of the harbor with the warships and Abercrombie was buying a crucifix from an Armenian vendor.

Tom's skin suffocated under his starchy shirt. Well, at least he got to see the world.

Once again, his mind plaintively turned to his darling Mathilda, who was waiting eagerly for his return. Hopefully the war would be over in time for Christmas. He had never spent a Christmas outside of England or away from family, but he was only twenty-four, and had just started his military career. Hopefully the crisis with Russia will resolve itself soon.

--+--

Bucharest, Principality of Wallachia - under Russian military occupation

October 1853

Alexei Illyich Semyonov, or Lyosha as his fellow cadets called him, was born in St. Petersburg to a minor noble family. Growing up in a city that faced the West, Alexei toyed with liberal ideas, bouncing them against his pious religious education. He finally gave up his faith at the age of 13 at his father's death bed, when the man had briefly come back to life after his heart had stopped. The boy already considered the Bible's stories to be fables more usefully read for moral instruction than as revealed truth about the world, but hearing his father confirm to him that the world beyond was just a black void sealed the deal for him, and Alexei lived the rest of his life as a private atheist.

In his teen years he was accepted into the illustrious Page Corps in the Vorontsov Palace, where he studied mathematics, science, language, and military strategy, all in preparation for a career in the army like his forebears. The discipline was spartan, and the hazing horrific, almost sexual, but Alexei survived and graduated with many friends. The birch rod had whipped his coarse Ingrian butter into a fine Russian cream, the cream of all creams.

But he was a sensitive and idealistic man underneath his stoic veneer, having taken great inspiration from the Tirukkural's teachings. Even though it went against his family name, the military, and the cult of the Tsar, he believed that the world needed to change in a radical way. He never uttered a word about this to anyone, not even Isaak, his closest friend.

That's why it hurt him to see the poverty and suffering of the Rumanians. Alexei had spent most of his time in the Saint Petersburg, but even he knew that Russian serfs did not fear daily for their safety. If Russia's fair face was pockmarked by peonage, then the Ottomans' was scarred by slavery.

The cities along the Danube were enriched by trade and their denizens much further from away from harm, but those near the Ottoman border were subjected to frequent raids by Turkish and Bulgarian brigands who'd carry off wagon-loads of girls to brothels and secret slave markets. Some markets were not so secret, but the West turned a blind eye to these evils.

Keep the petrol flowing! Perhaps Marx was right about Capitalists.

Alexei lit a cigarette, wondering when the forces of Reason would fully liberate this land.

Isaak Abramovich, a convert and private atheist, would argue with him that their own country was not so enlightened either, as the Tsar still employed khappers to kidnap his fellow Jews for fill out conscription quotas. Some of the boys were as young as ten years old, and would bemoan the fact that military life required them to break all of the Jewish laws, while accommodating the religious observances of Christians.

"But don't you think it's silly to have all these rules about what is pure to eat and what is not? As far as I know, all livestock dwell in filth and all crops grow in dung. Yet they're delicious, all the same."

"Perhaps, Lyosha, all of these rules are outdated, but they're what keeps the Jews as a people. Just like how getting piss-drunk every Sunday makes you Russian."

"You racist!" Alexei laughed. "And you're wrong about Sundays."

"Perhaps it's every day, then," Isaak joked softly, lowering his gaze until his round glasses rested beneath his expressive eyes.

It was well that Isaak did not keep kashrut, for the Dacian countryside was overflowing with swine. And if the Army stayed here until Christmas, it would be nothing but pork sausages, pig's blood pudding, pork liver, pork stew, and dried pig's feet every day. Alexei once joked that they could simply load them into their cannons and shoot the Turks with them.

That is, if they would ever dare cross the Danube. The border had been disturbingly quiet. Was he waiting for the river to freeze? Such an event happens only once a lifetime, so it must be that he was biding his time, waiting for the British and French to arrive and bolster his armies. His ultimatum issued just the previous month was basically a declaration of war, but it would be a while before his allies arrived in force.

In all this peace and quiet, Alexei and his fellow cadets followed up on the liberation of Rumania by 'liberating' some wine cellars during their time off. The proverbial Russian (or Mongol, if one were being derisive) drunkenness was on full display, to the consternation of their senior officers. Alexei himself preferred to visit the sites of Rumanian intellectual life, such as the newly established Casa Capșa restaurant and Grand Theater, or to promenade about the Cișmigiu Gardens, but as it was difficult for most to understand a non-Slavic language, his fellow soldiers preferred the simpler language of the bottle.

One night, Alexei decided to linger on while his friends retired early to their quarters. The outskirts of Bucharest were lovely at night, with red leaves falling from the many Birch trees and swirling around in the breeze. The houses dropped the pretense of old Roman grandeur and looked more quaint and lived-in. People here didn't force themselves awake with coffee, and the streets were empty and quiet, the perfect background for Alexei's contemplative and reflective mind. Bucharest had been making great progress, but it was no St. Petersburg. If only this place had some canals! Then he would feel at home again, with his mother and father and his darling little sister Katya, who was probably sick with the flu right now. He should be at home, feeding her soup, or sharing humble Pirog with his family after a cultured evening at the theater.

And, when no one was in the house, slip into the tub with Katya and help her with her bath...

He would come home and do all those things and more, once he made a name for himself.

He came to a stop at the corner of a street. There was a young oak sapling whose branch was wrapped in a yellow ribbon. The signal. Alexei fondled the coin-purse in his green coat. More than enough.

Alexei untied the yellow ribbon from the branch and stuffed it in his pocket, walking with eager steps to the dilapidated section of Bucharest. It was a good thing his body didn't require much sleep, for he planned on staying out late tonight.

He came to a closed butcher shop. It was a shabby, one-story building with dirty glass windows. He walked past the front door, heading into the side entrance in the alley. He gave a few quick raps on the door. A slot opened, revealing a pair of cautious eyes.

"Semnal?" came the low voice.

Alexei didn't answer back. He just slid the ribbon through the slot. Wrapped in it were twenty-five kopeks, or a quarter of a ruble. He could hear the man counting the coins before unlatching the door.

"Come in," said the man in Russian. "Who do you want?"

"Dika."

Alexei put on a sack with eyeholes on it, covering his face, before following the bald pimp through the basement underneath the meatshop. The ground was just dirt, and there were slabs of meat, fresh but uncovered, dangling from hooks from the ceiling above. Small lamps lit the way through the narrow passages between the rows of meat.

Finally, at the end, there were several makeshift cubicles, divided by the wooden support beams holding up the building. They were sectioned off by old, but beautiful, patterned fabrics that served as dividing walls. These were not living spaces for the prostitutes, but simply their working quarters.

The man pulled the corner of the carpet, talking to the woman inside in a gruff voice, before turning to Alexei.

"One hour."

Alexei stepped inside the narrow space, already taking off his shoes. A dusky Romani girl was lying naked on top of a blanket covering a pile of hay. She had two necklaces with charms around her neck, and a long, patterned scarf covered the top of her head, letting her long, wavy black hair come down to her buttocks. Two golden hoop earrings dangled from her lobes. She observed him with a neutral expression on her face, waiting for him to undress. He put all his clothes in a pile on the floor, and took off his mask. Her eyes made a small gesture as she recognized him.

Finally, Alexei stood and faced her. They were both equally naked. He massaged his penis into an erection and she got on her knees in front of him. The air was warmed a bit from the other...business transactions that had gone on in this cellar, but it was still chilly. Alexei's bollocks clung to his body, and his penis was not as big as it could have been.

The gypsy woman fixed that for him by taking him into her seasoned mouth. Instant relief came to Alexei, who praised her diligence and business-like attitude. He closed his eyes and imagined it was his younger sister pleasuring him, taking all of him in her small mouth, showing him her cheekbones as she puckered her lips. The skin directly underneath her blue eyes would flush hot red against her anemically pale face.

Despite her youth and beauty, Yekaterina found it difficult to land a suitor because of her poor health, so it was up to big brother Alexei to comfort her. The intimate letters they wrote each other were filled with coded references to sex. Hers were subtle and romantic while his were unrestrained and so animalistic he prayed to a god he didn't believe in that no one would discover his depravity. Only his sister was privy to his darkest fantasies.

Even the prostitutes didn't know the filth that went on inside Alexei's mind. Dika was good because she never, ever spoke a word, so he could maintain the fantasies inside his head. Though the two looked completely different, they were about the same size and build. If Dika were offended that he made love to her with his eyes closed, she didn't show it. In fact, she did the same thing, pretending she was with some swarthy lover on a spoked wagon, drifting through the Balkans on a life of adventure and freedom.

Alexei fed gently on the woman's dusky breasts, resting his sensitive rod between their abdomens. He had to admit, Katya did not smell as good as this woman did with her exotic incense and perfumes. It flooded through his nostrils, making him see red like a frenzied bull. Her hands grabbed his rod and brought it to position. Alexei sank it in without hesitation.

Their untrimmed crotch hairs tangled and coiled with each other as his phallus parted her dark lips. Her well-trained muscles gripped him tightly, but allowed him to move freely. The nerves of his foreskin and glans quivered near her cervix, making his tip burn hotly with sensation. He had to pace his thrusts so that his experience would not end prematurely.

Sex with his sister was much more nerve-wracking, as releasing his seed inside her would lead to dire consequences. Even if the two could hide their incestuous relationship if a pregnancy occurred, Katya's reputation would be forever tarnished, and she could never marry another man. The devil in Alexei would have been perfectly happy to have her all to himself, but his sense of ethics knew it would be unfair to her and to their child, who would undoubtedly suffer from impairments. Alexei's 'angel' would always win in the end, and he would pull out of Katya to spray his essence onto her stomach. He'd stare contemptuously at his wasted load, which would never know union with Katya's womb. Thus, he would always be reminded that their relationship carried a limit.

With Dika, Alexei never had to worry about pulling out. He tried to find out what contraceptives she used, but there was no one in the brothel he could ask that question.

The Romani girl would pant and moan, but keep quiet so as to not disturb her fellow prostitutes, or cause a din that would attract the authorities. Alexei had no interest in hearing her voice and disrupting his fantasies either, so every encounter he had in the brothel also limited the extent to which he could experience intimacy with a woman.

Still, he paid for an hour, and a part of him did want the girl to enjoy herself, so he would try to last as long as possible. He also saw it as practice for Katya, though he wondered if things would be different if he were staring into those blue eyes. How long could he resist defiling his sister with his seed?

Alexei finally finished, filling Dika's dark womb with milk. He got up without a word and put his clothes back on. Dika stared inscrutably at the strange man who somehow managed to endure and give her several orgasms, yet always seemed conflicted and angry with himself. He voided the makeshift tent and left the basement, running back to his barracks to sleep.