The Domination, page 106
“Ma!” Gwen was on the other side of the table. “Ma, the baby’s comin’!”
“Hiyo, dumplin’,” Yolande said, distracted. “I know . . . How’s it going, Jolene?” she continued, stepping to the serf’s side.
“Fine, M—nnnnng,” she grunted. The black woman was resting on the birthing table; it was cranked up to support her upper body at a quarter from the horizontal, with a brace for her hips, raised pedestals for her feet; her hands were clenched on grips behind her head.
“You shoulda be asking me that, Mistis,” the midwife said. She was an Italian serf, spare and severe; expensively trained, in her late fifties, much in demand on neighboring plantations. The Draka had never considered pregnancy an illness, and used doctors only when something seemed to be going wrong. “Dilation is complete, the water’s justa broke; position normal, like the scanner said. Nexta time, use this wench again or picka one who’s had her own bambino, it go easier.”
“Glad . . . you . . . here,” Jolene panted.
“No more talk, I been telling you what to do these six months now. Breath in, bear down. Yell if it helps.”
The door opened again; Yolande’s mother and father came in, and her brother John and Mandy; none of her brother’s children were old enough to be here, of course; that would not be fitting until they were near adult. The serf midwife scowled at the newcomers, snapped at her assistant-apprentice. Jolene filled her lungs and bore down with a long straining grunt, again. Again. Again. Her face and body shone with sweat, and her face contorted with her effort. Yolande laid a hand on her swollen belly, feeling the contractions through the palm. Time passed; Yolande looked up with a start and realized it had been nearly an hour. The other adults waited quietly; Gwen left her seat and stood, craning her neck to see around the two serf attendants.
“Oh, wow, Ma,” she said. “I can see the head.”
“Quiet, Gwen,” Yolande said gently. “Come on, Jolene, you can do it.” The contractions were almost continuous now, and there was pain in the grunting cries. She saw the crown of the head slide free of the distended birth canal, red and crumpled and slick with fluids. The stomach convulsed under her hand, and Jolene screamed three times, high and shrill. The baby slid free into the midwife’s filmgloved hands. She cleaned the mouth and nose, then lifted it and slapped it sharply on the behind; it gave a wail as she laid it down on the platform, tied and severed the cord, began wiping the birth bloom, dipping the child in the basin of warm water her assistant held near. The crying continued as she dried and wrapped the child and handed it to Yolande.
“Ah,” the Draka breathed, looking down at the tiny wrinkled form that quieted and peered around with mild, unfocused blue eyes. “My own sweet Nicholas; I’m goin’ call you Nikki, hear?”
Gwen was tugging at her elbow. “Ma, can I see?” Yolande went down on one knee. “Why do they look so . . . rumpled up, Ma? Did I look like that?”
“Just about, honeybunch. They have to squeeze through a pretty tight place, gettin’ out. Here, see how perfect his hands are? Isn’t it wonderful?”
The girl nodded, then looked aside where Jolene was shuddering and wincing as she worked to expel the afterbirth. “That looks like it really hurts, doin’ all that. I’ll never have to do that, will I, Ma?”
Yolande spared a hard glance at Marya; what had the wench been saying to the child?
“No, of course not,” she said to her daughter.
“No, Missy Gwen,” Marya said, in her usual cool tone. “Your serf brooders will bear your eggs for you, just like this.”
Gwen nodded, and Yolande rose and bent over Jolene. The serf was still panting, exhausted. She flinched slightly as the attendants cleaned her, slid a fresh sheet beneath her and wiped away the sweat before drawing up a coverlet and setting the controls to convert the birthing table into a bed; she would be moved later. Still, she smiled broadly as Yolande brought the small bundle near, reaching out her arms. “Can I?” she said.
“Of course,” her owner replied, laying the infant gently on her abdomen. Yolande kissed her brow, then looked up to meet Gwen’s eyes. “Remember we owe Jolene a lot, daughter. We have to look after her always.”
Gwen nodded solemnly, then gave her mother’s hand a squeeze before she ran over to Marya; standing, her head was nearly level with the seated serf’s.
How swiftly they grow, Yolande thought. Her daughter reached forward and hugged the American.
“Thank you, Tantie-ma Marya,” she said earnestly. “I didn’t realize how hard you worked, havin’ me. Thank you.”
Marya returned the embrace, the other Draka were smiling at the entirely proper show of sentiment. The serf stroked the red head resting on her bosom.
“You are welcome, Missy Gwen,” she said. Then looked up, met Yolande’s gaze, looked down at the child. “You are welcome.”
Yolande felt a slight chill, then cast it aside. Hearing things, she decided, looking down at her son. A rush of warmth spread up from belly to throat, so overwhelming that her head swam with it. She was conscious of her family gathering around her, her father and mother’s arms over her shoulders. John was popping a champagne bottle in the background, and someone pushed a glass into her hand. She sipped without tasting, watching the baby lying quietly with the dozing serf. Wondering, she stroked his cheek, and his head turned toward the touch, mouth working. “Why, he’s an eager little one,” Jolene said. “Mistis, help me?”
Yolande pulled down the sheet to bare the swollen breasts, and curled the infant into the curve of her arm so that he could take the nipple. He sucked eagerly, and Jolene closed her eyes with a sigh. “They been so sore an’ tender. That feels good.”
There was more quiet conversation as the infant nursed, and then the midwife cleared her throat. “Mastahs, Mistis, this not a good place for a party. An’ this wench and the bambino, they needa their rest.”
Thomas Ingolfsson rumbled a laugh. “True enough. Out, my children.”
Chapter Sixteen
CENTRAL OFFICE, ARCHONAL PALACE
ARCHONA
DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA
NOVEMBER 10, 1991
“That will be all,” Eric von Shrakenberg said.
“Excellence,” his aide replied, bowing and leaving.
Damned insolence of office, he thought with amusement. The Domination’s chief executive was selected for a seven-year term, with no limits on reelection. Hence the Archonate staff tended to become used to an incumbent, set in their ways; he was still running into problems with that, except with the people he had brought in himself last year. The serf cadre were even worse . . .
“Five minutes,” the desk said.
He sighed and seated himself, feeling a little out of place. This shape of carved yellowwood and Zambezi teak . . . how many Occupation Day addresses had he seen it in, from the other side? On film back during the Eurasian War, on screens of gradually increasing clarity since. Wotan, fifty years! he thought, looking around the big room. Not overwhelming, although the view was spectacular, when the curtains were open; the dome of the House of Assembly was about half a kilometer away. History-drenched enough for anybody, he supposed, thinking of the decisions made here.
And now I sit here and hold the fate of the human race in my hands, he thought. If anyone’s listening at the other end of these communicators. Having people obey when he spoke was the difference between being a leader and an old man in a room. A fact not commonly known, and it’s better so.
“Incoming signal,” the speaker said.
“Receive.”
A spot of light appeared at head-height beyond the desk. A line framed it, expanding outward until it outlined a rectangle three meters by three; the central spot faded, and then the rectangle blinked out of existence. Replacing it was a holographic window into the interior of Donovan House. Eric knew it was an arrangement of photons, as insubstantial as moonbeams, but still wondered at the sheer solidity of it. Genuine progress, for a change, he thought. You could get the true measure of an opponent this way, the total-sensory gestalt read from every minute clue of stance, expression, movement. The same applied in reverse.
“Madam President,” he said, inclining his head.
“Excellence,” she replied, with meticulous courtesy.
She may have been added to balance the ticket, but I don’t think the Yankees lost when Liedermann slipped on the soap, Eric decided. President Carmen Hiero was the second Hispanic and the first woman to sit in the same chair as Jefferson and Douglas; before that she had been a Republican jefe politico in Sonora, still very unusual for a woman in the States carved out of Old Mexico. Fiftyish, graying, criolla blueblood by descent, mixed with Irish from a line of silver-mine magnates: that much he knew from the briefing papers. Old haciendado family, but not a shellback by Yankee standards; degrees in classics, history, and some odd American specialty known as political science, whatever that was. A contradiction in terms, from the title.
“I regret that I can’t offer hospitality,” he continued.
She shrugged. “Debatable whether it would be appropriate, under the circumstances. I hope you realize how much trouble with my OSS people I had to go through to allow Domination equipment here.”
“And the political capital I must expend to let Yankee electronics in here,” he added dryly. “Our Security people are still more paranoid than yours, not least because it is a field in which your nation excels us. Still, we can now be reasonably sure nobody is recording or tapping these conversations.” He paused. “Why did you agree, Senora?”
The black eyes met his calmly. Almost as much body-language control as a Draka, he thought with interest. Better than some of us do, actually. I wonder how deep it runs.
“I suspect my reasoning was much like yours, von Shrakenberg. The convenience of dealing with essential issues without the circumlocutions essential where things are said in public, without the necessary lies of party politics. In addition, the chance of gaining personal insight into my enemy, set against the risk of him doing likewise. Well worth that risk. Always it is better to act from knowledge than ignorance.” Eric nodded, spread his hands in silent acknowledgment as she continued. “Although, por favor, why did you not request such a link with the Alliance Chairman?”
Eric chuckled. “For much the same reason that you would not have agreed, had Representative Gayner’s nominee been sittin’ in this chair.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly. “I would not compare Chairman Allsworthy to your Militants,” she said.
“Not in terms of policy . . . a certain structural similarity in position on our relative political spectra. Perhaps a similarity in believin’ too strongly in our respective national mythologies. Besides, the American President is still rather mo’ than first among equals.”
It was Hiero’s turn to spread her hands silently. Certain necessary fictions must be maintained even here, he read the gesture.
“Turnin’ to business,” Eric continued, “was it really necessary to tow those-there gold-rich asteroids into Earth orbit? I admit it’s industrially convenient havin’ gold fall to the same value as tin, but the financial problems!”
A thin smile; the Alliance currency was fiat money, while the Domination’s auric had always been gold-backed. “You could refuse to trade for gold, and maintain an arbitrary value,” she said in a tone of sweet reason.
He snorted. “Thus sacrificin’ the industrial advantages, and endin’ up with all the disadvantages of a metallic standard, all the problems of a paper-money system, and none of the compensatin’ flexibility,” he said. “Between me and thee, we’re movin’ to a basket of commodities, although with the general fall in prices—”
An hour later, Hiero leaned back. “Well,” she said, “all this indicates several areas of potential agreement.” They both nodded; technical discussions were easy, once the top-echelon political decisions had been made. “Perhaps we can move on to others, at later meetings. Certainly we have more of a meeting of minds than I could with your Militants.”
Or I with Allsworthy, Eric inferred. Quite true; the Chairman had what amounted to a physical phobia toward Draka, taking the nickname “Snake” quite literally,
“Please, don’t misinterpret,” he said softly. “On some issues of purely . . . pragmatic impo’tance, perhaps. On mo’ fundamental issues of foreign policy, my Conservatives will follow an essentially Militant line.”
“Why? If I may ask.”
“Because . . . Madam President, the internal politics of the Domination can no way be interpreted in terms of what you familiar with; a word to the wise, to prevent misunderstandin’. The universe of discourse is too different. To call my faction paternalistic conservatives an’ Gayner’s biotechnocrats is a very crude approximation. Our real differences are on issues of domestic policy—very long-term domestic policy at that, arisin’ after we dispose of you. Or you dispose of us, in which case it all becomes moot, eh? It’s extremely impo’tant that we try to understand the parameters of each other’s operations, otherwise things could get completely irrational.”
“I see your point.” A hesitation. “May I ask you a personal question, Excellence?” At his nod, she proceeded: “I’ve got the usual Intelligence summaries on you . . . and I’ve read your novels. Within limits, I received the impression of an intelligent and empathetic man. Which leads to certain questions.”
Eric turned in his swivel chair and poured a measure of brandy into a balloon snifter, turned back, paused to swirl the liquid and sniff, sip.
“I assure you, they’ve occurred to me as well,” he said meditatively. “Why, in essence, don’t I retire to my estate and let the world rave as it will?” He felt his lips twist into the semblance of a smile. “Well, in all honesty, Madam President, why don’t you? It’s in the nature of an ambitious politician to imagine all alternatives to himself are disaster. I flatter mahself I’m right.”
“Duty,” she said. “I’m . . . not indispensable, but there are worse people to occupy this chair. For my children, my nation, and for the cause of freedom, if that doesn’t sound too pompous.”
Eric laughed harshly. “You Americans have been a lucky people, on the whole . . . what convenience, to have national interest an’ high-soundin’ ideals so congruent.” He made a gesture with the glass. “Forgive a slight bitterness. Leavin’ aside the question of whether morals are objective reality or cultural artifacts, I’m left with some similar motivations. I have children, grandchildren. And my people. As my fathah once said to me, you nation is like you children; loved because they are yours, not necessarily because they deserve it. Moral judgment—that has to be made in the context of political and historical reality, not some imaginary situation where we start with a tabula rasa.”
“Even in polities, surely moral choices are an individual’s responsibility?”
“A true difference of national temperament, I think. If’n a Draka thinks of choice at all, it’s as constrained within narrow bonds; human beings make history, but they don’t make it just as they choose.” He laughed again, this time with more genuine humor. “Interestin’ question, whether perception is the result or cause of social reality . . . ” He set the snifter down and leaned forward. “One thing is sure. Either of us would start the Final War if we thought it was the right choice. And neither of us wants to be forced into that decision prematurely. Which leaves us with certain common difficulties.”
“Bueno, I am glad you realize this. This conflict—it has gone on so long, both sides, they have accumulated serious vested interests with a stake in waging it. Organizations, bureaucracies, careers are invested in it; power, vast profits. Always these push toward its intensification. We have a common interest then, in not allowing the instruments of policy to set our policy.”
“True.” He nodded decisively. “Very true. Although, hmmm.” He rubbed his chin meditatively, then decided to speak. It was no secret, after all. “Madam President, remember always that there is no true symmetry between our positions, here. There is an element in the Alliance which seeks to simply grow around and beyond us, reduce us to an irrelevance.” She nodded. “This is precisely what much of our strategy has been designed to prevent. The border tensions, the convention we have allowed to grow up that there is no peace beyond Luna . . . It is you dynamism we fear. The tension inhibits it, forces you into military an’ security measures where we can compete mo’ easily.”
Hiero’s mouth clamped in a grim line. “Sí. So my analysts tell me. Let me warn you then, Excellence. This policy has its own dangers. Firstly, it makes the task you have, of restraining your military, more difficult. Secondly, both our societies are becoming dependent on resources and manufactures from space; this entails massive activities and investments beyond the Earth-Moon system. In turn, these create interests whose voices cannot be ignored. Also . . . when only explorers and pioneers were at risk, nothing vital was threatened by clashes in deep space. Now we are approaching the point where vital matters of national security are endangered in the heavens. We would not tolerate an invasion of Burma or England. Should we then regard Ceres as less?”
“Correct,” Eric said, with soft precision. “As you point out, my task of control is mo’ than yours; nor would I modify our tradition of decentralized decision making even if I could.” He sighed. “A world bound in chains of adamant, that’s our legacy. The stalemate becomes ever less stable. If nothin’ else, inaction would give my opponents too much opportunity. The fact that I’m presented with an insoluble dilemma, and they know it, will not restrain them from takin’ political advantage of it.”
