February, 1893
Colonel Kasteen was decked out in her full dress uniform and overcoat, a rather uncomfortable affair covered in braid, brass buttons, and sashes. At least this time Colonel Chenkov, may he stay dead, couldn’t forbid her from taking her pistol, the standard-issue Union-made Smith and Wesson revolver. Years of fighting in the untamed wilds outside the cities, facing both Kenai ambushes and irate polar bears, hammered in the dangers of going unarmed anywhere. The bindings were chafing, the airship didn’t allow her the privacy to do them properly, but she’d gotten used to that particular occasional mild discomfort over her two decades of military service. It was better than the alternative, while women were an open secret among several of the more independent regiments, especially amongst the Cossacks, if they were found out by the politicals it generally meant quietly being shuffled out of military service.
While she was high enough rank, higher than any woman she’d heard of, that it would be difficult to disappear her it would still effectively kill her career. The Colonel would certainly have tried if he’d ever found out; he had been ‘reassigned’ to the Pacific Directory straight from a cushy posting in Ukraine and was still bitter about the exile, politicians, and women in general when he died last summer. The fact he replaced a major general but remained a colonel himself certainly hadn’t helped. Truth be told she was a little bitter about it too, but her authority on military matters was second only to the Chief Director himself so she was in no position to complain.
Speaking of the Director, she couldn’t put off this meeting any longer. With an irritated sigh she went to talk to his horrible manservant, Jurgen. Krepost Petropavlovsk, the fortress that doubled as the Directory’s administrative center, was going through a yet another remodeling effort to handle the steadily growing bureaucracy and it was increasingly difficult to keep track of who was where. She could remember a scant decade ago when the place had a mere two thousand people, most trained soldiers, and finding the correct officer was just a matter of grabbing the nearest private and yelling at them.
Now there was over ten thousand people, many practically civilians with a scant month of boot camp, and the continuing growth of the staff and resulting constant expansions meant that even the permanent staff didn’t know who was where on any given week, with the only ones who could reliably find the Chief Director palming her off onto flunkies who would slowly escort her to his office from two weeks ago.
Eventually she was deposited outside an office which was clearly in the middle of yet another move, though she had no idea whether it was coming or going. The secretary who’d brought her here went in to talk to Volya’s manservant then left in a sudden rush, barely stopping long enough to tell her that the Director would see her shortly. She stepped into the cramped forward office Jurgen infested, managing to filthy up the place with his mere presence. He leered at her over the top of his paper, “Ah, Kolonel, to vat do Hy ow de illustrious pleasure uf you komphenny?”
Kasteen fixed him with her best glare, “The Chief Director insisted I present my case against this ‘expedition’ to the far pole in person.”
His grin widened, “Hy'm afraeed de Admiral iz busy vith de important vork at de moment.”
She did her level best to keep her voice level as anger welled up. “This meeting was arranged two months ago. What is keeping him?”
Jurgen shrugged and turned back to his paper, “Very important schtuff. It hall goes over my head. I iz just poor servant.”
There was a thud and Kasteen realized that her sidesword was out and embedded in the desk. Jurgen calmly put down the two halves of his paper. “Hy vill go sees if’n he's ready to see hyu now”
It wasn’t until after he disappeared into the inner office that Kasteen relaxed enough to pull the sword from the desk. It took a couple tugs, the soft spruce of the desk only reluctantly letting go of the steel. The blade shook slightly as she put it back in its sheath. It took two a deep breaths to push down the anger enough to stop the shaking. The Chief Director’s pet seemed to pride itself in provoking her exactly enough to avoid summary execution and any lesser punishment was in Volya’s hands, being his aide and outside her purview.
As she stood there fuming another person stepped into the room, slightly out of breath. It took her a moment to recognize the tall, dark-haired Muskovite as Director Vitus, his lanky hair slicked back by what looked, and smelled, like two pounds of pungent hair wax. Her fist clenched by her side as she gave him a curt nod. He responded with a small bow, “Ah, Colonel Kasteen! This is a wonderful surprise. How goes the bear hunting?”
Kasteen’s eyes narrowed, “The Chinese border remains secure and the Manchurians have behaved themselves”
“Good, good. That’s good. My min-officers have done their jobs well then.” He flashed a grin at her and her hand formed a fist again. The man was far too smooth, no doubt from his aristocratic background, and his levity ground on her nerves. He was competent, sure, but his flippant manner went against every hard-earned instinct she had for military discipline. It didn’t help that the man had, as far as she knew, no military experience whatsoever but had no problems ordering around real officers. Even despite the Directorial Reforms after the Second Time of Troubles, the nobility was still a privileged class.
Instead of respond she went to the door and rapped on it, anger making it rather more forceful than she intended. From behind the door she would hear a crash and a muffled curse, followed by a muffled voice call out, “Vun moment, Herr Colonel.”
She turned with an irritated sigh and was confronted with Vitus’s grin. He waggled his eyebrows at her. No, screw this. Twenty years serving in one of the most powerful armies in the world and fighting three wars deserved more respect than this. That little piece of Muscovite filth and his German lackey had no right to so willfully disrespect one who has fought and bled for the Motherland so often. She threw open the door, ready to give her best drill sergeant shout at the Chief Director, and was cut short by the sight within.
The room stank even worse than the barracks in mid-March and there were dozens of bowls and bottles scattered around, week-old kasha still lining the inside. From behind the mounds of bowls and paperwork the Chief Director was staring at her with bleary eyes while Jurgen was in the process of expertly removing what looked like a good week of hair growth, one burly arm holding Volya’s head still while Volya’s hands scribbled away at the top layer of paperwork, seemingly with no input from his brain. What was going on? Jurgen shot her a murderous look and his arm blurred, the door banging back shut as a ledger the size of a drawer slammed into it.
“A sad sight, that.” Vitus said from behind her. She turned and saw he was offering her a glass of what smelled like dirty vodka, apparently taken from Jurgen’s desk. “I’ve tried telling him he can’t run the entire bureaucracy by himself, but he’s never been good at the whole delegation thing”
She just stared at him, “He’s what?”
VItus shrugged and downed the glass himself, “Oh, he’s trying to run the entirety of Petrokrepost by himself. Says that everyone is too busy with the renovations, or the cultural exchange, or whatever project he’s dreamed up.” He took a long drag from the second glass, “Well, and his clerks, but there’s only a couple dozen of them.”
“But that’s ridiculous! He can’t possibly run all of Petrokrepost with only thirty people, that’s the work of a hundred!”
“Of course its ridiculous, Colonel. Frankly I’m surprised he hasn’t crashed and burned yet.”
She looked at him aghast, “Why did you let this happen? If you knew this was coming you should’ve stopped it”
He shrugged again, tucking the bottle into a pocket and pulling out a pocketwatch “I tried, but it didn’t exactly happen overnight. Every new project just took away a few more people while adding to the workload.”
“We have to do something. Surely he’ll listen to you and his pet”
“Jurgen wouldn’t dream of questioning Volya. As for me, well...” He trailed off and bent over to the office’s mailslot. He pushed it open with an envelope and shouted through it before shoving it through, “Mail delivery!”
He straightened as muffled voices rose from the far side of the door, “Well, that’s taken care of. Why’re you here?”
“I had an appointment at nine to talk about this damnfool Antarctic expedition with those Dixie prat-” She caught herself at the last second, “-ically brothers. But apparently he slept through it”
Vitus frowned, “And you decided to show up two hours early?”
“What?”
“Its seven. Look.” He proffered his pocketwatch which, sure enough, said seven o’eight. She pulled out her own watch which clearly showed nine o’seven. She gave him a confused look when he burst out laughing.
“Oh, oh dear. You forgot about his decree about the Fleming time zone stuff last year. Petropavlovsk is two hours ahead of Manchuria”
She was saved from further embarrassment by a shout and crash from the office. A moment later Volya barreled out, half in a waistcoat and wide awake, with Jurgen in hot pursuit. Vitus laughed as Volya sprinted past, bouncing off the wall in the hallway outside.
“What just happened? Where’s he going?”
“To the airfield I expect. I invited an old friend to come out here.”
“Who?”
“His fiancee. My autocar is waiting outside, want to meet her?”