Page 21 of Ascendent
Sergey’s gaze lasered to him. He beamed. Winked, and then moved on into the ballroom, swept into the crowd of celebrities and special guests, all vying for his attention. Women shivered under diamond necklaces and fur stoles, fox and ermine hanging from their delicate collarbones and slim shoulders. Pouty lips stained in ruby and plum and perfect pink smiled up at Sergey, blew him kisses. Men clasped his hand, his shoulder, guided him further into the ballroom… away from Sasha.
Along one wall, promotion posters for the first movie released since the coup’s end hung at even intervals. Broody heroes sulked from the posters, overlaid with bombshell heroines and sultry femme fatales.President/Insurgenttold the story of a massively popular president overthrown by a dastardly military coup, and who fought back with the support of the people. He retook the Kremlin in a decisive victory to the swelling cheers and pride of Muscovites who chanted their vociferous support in the streets. In the penultimate scene, the president faced down his traitorous general, who held the buxom Russian beauty the president had fallen for in the Russian hinterlands hostage in the Kremlin. Of course the general didn’t surrender. Of course the president had to kill him. Save the girl.
The movie had everything except for the polar bear.
The lead actress, Svetlana Shevchenko, rested her delicate hand on Sergey’s arm. Her dress clung to every illegal curve of her body, enough twists for even Sasha to get lost in. She laughed at something Sergey said, her neck arching, her violently vivid lips a perfect curl of seduction. Sergey smiled down at her.
“Like I said. He’s a damn flirt.” Ilya chuckled, blowing a puff of smoke away from Sasha.
Sasha’s heart hollowed in the gleam of Svetlana’s smile.
He and Sergey had planned this, had discussed the movie premiere, the after party. They had planned to attend separately, Sasha as a Hero of Russia, Sergey as, obviously, the president. Other heroes were attending, and Sasha would be one of the many guests of honor. He could be as present as he wanted, or he could stay on the edges, out of sight. But he’d be there, and they’d be at the event together.
If only in their minds.
Sergey was far better at pretending his entire universe wasn’t concentrated in one person. Sasha felt the pull of Sergey on his soul, and he’d spent the entire movie premiere orbiting Sergey on the edges of the theatre. He’d do the same here at the after party, no doubt.
“Come on.” Ilya motioned for Sasha to follow him. “We need to work the room.”
“I don’t—”
“Just stand there and brood. You’re basically one of the movie characters. Women eat that up.” Ilya winked. “You can be my wingman.”
Sasha followed after Ilya, grabbing another glass of champagne as a waiter passed. They moved from group to group, Ilya first chatting with the movie producers, praising them on all they got right in the film, applauding their stunning accuracy in portraying their hero of a president. The women laughed in all the right places, rested their hands on Sasha’s arms, his shoulder. One kissed his cheek as they bade farewell.
“You’re a natural,” Ilya grunted, leaning in to Sasha’s shoulder. “Keep doing exactly that.”
“I did nothing.”
“Exactly. Keep it up.” Ilya smacked Sasha’s back.
The next group were environmentalists, scientists and international observers studying the Kara Sea and the Arctic and the effects of Madigan’s attempts to destroy the world. Norwegian, Finnish, and American scientists were living in Murmansk, heading up a fleet of international surveyor ships to Novaya Zemlya, the K-27 wreck, and the destroyed ice caps in the Kara Sea. Nuclear engineers from Norway worked to contain and salvage the K-27 wreck, alongside Russian scientists who were dredging and removing all nuclear waste from the Arctic waters.
The filmmakers had agreed to share half of their profit with the scientific teams in the Arctic. They were basking in the glow of worldwide press, glorious fame for the righteous cause.
Sergey had quietly agreed to pay back every ruble the filmmakers donated, paid from the Kremlin for services to the country. Everyone came out on top, and everyone looked good.
Ilya started a conversation with a Finnish scientist, a curvy brunette in a simple sheath dress and colorful woven shawl. Confidence roared from her. To Sasha, she was far too good for Ilya, and Ilya would be eaten alive, he thought, if he tried anything with her. Like a cat playing with a new toy, she indulged Ilya’s conversation.
A sweet blonde, who introduced herself as “Gunda, on the Norwegian expedition,” chatted at Sasha. He tried to reply, but ran out of his short stock of responses after “Hello,” “How are you,” and “Interesting.” He tried tommhmmand nod and follow along, but he was out of his depth. She took pity on him, flagged down a waiter, and handed him another glass of champagne.
Sasha didn’t drink much. He’d never cared for it. Losing his edge, losing control, letting his guard down.Nyet. He didn’t want the world to go soft on the edges. Didn’t want to stop white-knuckling life. That’s when things always went wrong.
He didn’t recognize it when the champagne sneaked up on him, when the lights in the ballroom blurred into the sounds, the crescendoing laughter, the click of stilettos, the warmth of perfume and cologne and aftershave. Sergey caught his gaze more and more, and he stared over Gunda’s perfect French twist, past Ilya and the Finnish scientist twirling Ilya’s tie. A blitzed smile quirked the corners of his mouth as he slowly downed another flute of champagne. Waves of warmth vied against the ice floes in his blood, disparate curls of heat and frigidity curling through him.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out, almost dropping it. Gunda had moved off, chatting with an actor who played one of the plucky, yet hunky, scientists who discovered the imminent Arctic catastrophe and notified the Russian president. Somewhere, there was an actor who’d played the sacrificial MiG pilot. In the movie, he’d gone down with his MiG in a blaze of Russian glory, delivering his last lines mid-fireball as he radioed the president the crucial bit of intel the insurgency needed. In the film’s last scene, the president went to the crash site and collected a piece of his broken MiG. Planted a Russian flag in the center of his burned crater.
Would Sergey have done the same if he’d blown apart? What would Sergey’s grief look like if he’d died? He’d seen Sergey’s anger, his rage at Sasha’s determination to fly the mission. But had he grieved when he thought Sasha was dead?
He swiped his screen on.
Hello gorgeous.
Sasha’s head whipped up. He searched the ballroom.
There, leaning against the bar. Sergey was waiting for a drink, Mikhail and Ruslan bracketing him, glaring at the crowd. Sergey had his phone in his hands. He smirked at the screen.
