Shunkt!

With a hiss of relieving pressure the newsmatic tube secreted another roll of papers onto Caspar’s RECEIVE pile where it joined the slush already cluttering up his desk. Caspar swam dutifully through the ocean of periodicals, memorandum and complaints and seized the new arrivals with fevered intensity.

“Well?” Venzini demanded, knocking back a glass of rotgut whiskey in one swig, “Have they crowned you Queen of the Protectorates yet?”

“Shurrup,” Caspar burped, “You’re making my ears ring. And your breath stinks.”

“Of course it does,” Venzini declared, “I’m sloshed. We’re sloshed. We’re sloshed on a Wednesday at ten in the morning. Why is that, I wonder?”

The papers were proving to be tricky reading; the letters kept sliding off the page and onto the floor. Caspar squinted through the hammering pain in his temples and managed to make out the headline on the Galloping Gazette:

TERRANIST PLOT FOILED—VESTAL ESCAPES UNSCATHED!

Below that was an article praising Her Majesty’s servants for warding off disaster. But as for the dashing young officer who had done the noble deed, there was not so much as a peep. Caspar chucked the paper into the incinerator on the side of his desk and read the Daily Herald:

SAVED BY CIVIL MILITIA; STAHLKA SURVIVES ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT

There was an entire interview with a certain Private Bodis Broadus, then two paragraphs dedicated to praising the quick, decisive action taken by the nation’s first line of defense. The author then had the gall to question why the Commissariat had been caught with its pants around its ankles, and were the Civil Militia expected to shoulder the responsibility of state security? The author, for his part, said that he would welcome such a change.

“It’s all so wretchedly unfair,” Caspar moaned, bundling up all the papers into a ball and reaching again for the fire bin.

“Have another drink, you’ll feel better,” Venzini advised him.

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“How can I when these cursed tabloids have stolen my moment of glory?”

He held the ball up and was about to cast it in when his friend cried:

“Wait, don’t!”

“Why not?”

“I want the funnies. Large Brother Bogg comes out today.”

“You’re a child.”

“Spoilsport!”

Shaking his head, Caspar riffled through the papers till he found the picture boxes. Venzini snatched them out of his hands and read them eagerly. As he did, something slipped out from between the sheafs and rolled under the chair. Caspar stooped and found himself looking at a tiny scroll with an even tinier wax seal. An oily, black wax stamped with a four-pointed star.

“Get this,” Venzini was chuckling, “Brother Bogg is trying to sell this cow, see? But the merchant refuses to buy it. So he says to him, he says…”

That could only mean one thing. With trembling fingers Caspar took his letter knife and slit it open.

“…he’s a bonafide moo-sician!” Venzini continued, unaware that he was being ignored, “Don’t you get it? Moo-sician! Ha ha. Very droll. I say, Cas, are you quite alright? You look about as pale as a leechling.”

“I’m…” Caspar licked his lips, which were suddenly dry as bone, “I’m to report at once to the Principia.”

There was a flurry of commotion outside their office and Lansil burst into the room unceremoniously, out of breath and wild-eyed.

“Caspar, you donkey!” he cried, “What are you still doing here? They sent you the dispatch ten minutes ago. The Office of the Chiefs of Staff hates to be kept waiting.”

“The Office of the Chiefs…” Venzini echoed in a faint voice.

“Yes, yes,” said Lansil, sounding equally shaken, “Well, don’t just sit there filling up the crossword puzzle. Get a move on. Wait a minute—good heavens man, are you inebriated?”

So. This was what victory tasted like. Caspar stood slowly, rearing up to his full height as he advanced on Lansil, a madcap grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Why, yes, deputy-commissar,” he said, “I am. But you are ugly, and you’ll still be that way when I’m sober. I’ll move when I bloody well feel like it and I certainly won’t budge for some buttoned-down weasel with a dead caterpillar on his lip!”

“Insubordination, vin Destria?” Lansil took a hasty step back, touching his rapier, “I’ll have you written up for that!”

“You might as well,” Caspar riposted, “A quill suits you better than a sword ever did, you limp-wristed ponce! Now are you going to get out of my way, or do I have to explain to Stahlka how you were personally responsible for my delay?”

Lansil could only blubber as Caspar brushed him aside and marched to meet his destiny. Venzini stared after him in bug-eyed wonder. Framing the scene with his hands as if it were a slide in the picture box, he said:

“I can see it now: Deputy-Commissar Caspar vin Destria. How’s that for a punchline, eh Lansil?”