The Domination, page 62
“Oh, yes, Master, of all things I want that most in the whole world, believe me, yes, certainly. Master . . . how shall I carry this?” His voice shook with a crawling eagerness to please.
Vashon laughed again, as he flipped the switch on his desk. “They’ll take you down to the clinic an’ show you right now, Jean. I’d have thought it was obvious.”
The two Order Police troopers came back in, silent helmeted shadows, saluted, picked up the serf and radio with similar lack of effort, left. As the door soughed shut, Andrew rose and stooped to take the print between thumb and forefinger.
“Feh,” he said, studying it for a second with a grimace of disgust before sliding it back onto the Strategos’s desk. “Strange friends you has, Vashon, no offense.”
“None taken,” he said, keying the room lights and holding it out at arm’s length. “It’s a standard print from Gelight’s Erotic Art Sampler. Minority interest, but de gustibus, eh? Actually, I think this is simulated.”
Andrew chuckled reluctantly. “Strategos, you are one evil son of a bitch,” he said.
“Goes with the job, Merarch. Taken as a compliment . . . Your hunters are here in Lyon, aren’t they?”
“Mm-hm. Ready fo’ stand-down; experimental unit, aftah all. Castle Tarleton”—meaning my new aunt—“wants to do an evaluation, befo’ they decide on the program as a whole. I’m goin’ to lay over at my sister’s plantation; there’s a namin’ feast fo’ her newborns comin’ up in a few days.” For courtesy’s sake: “To which I’ve been asked to invite you, of course.”
“Ah. Why, thanks kindly, I think I could find the time,” Vashon replied blandly, hiding his amusement at the other’s surprise; it might be interesting to mingle with the Landholders for an evening, and once the full consequences of the disaster at Le Puy avalanched down, there would be little free time in the Lyon office. “Care fo’ a little huntin’, first?”
“Huntin’? I take it you don’t mean wild boar?”
“Another type of swine altogetha. If the local bushmen are involved—still mo’ if it’s you Yankee—we’ll have somethin’ from young Jean, and soon. Hell, maybe tonight!”
“Agreed,” Andrew said, finishing the Calvados. “I’ll alert the watch officer at transit barracks, if you can get us transport fo’ insertion in-city.” The secret policeman nodded briskly. “We’re supposed to be developin’ closer liaison, anyhow; it’ll be good practice.”
He stood, slipping on his gloves and smoothing the thin leather over his fingers. His eyes met the Security officer’s, and Vashon felt a slight sudden impact along his nerves, like a cold brush over the face. “And I hope we meet my Yankee. I sho’ly do.”
The blindfold was snug, and Kustaa resisted the temptation to tug at it. It was sensible, simply the easiest way to make sure he could say nothing even if he broke under interrogation; the same reason he had torn up the slip of paper the serf stewardess had handed him without looking at the number, and flushed it down the commode with the address he had found under his souffle, during dinner. That he had to remember, of course, but it had simply been the point where whoever-they-were had met him. Since then he had moved on foot and in vehicles, indoors and out; presumably discreetly—an armed Draka Citizen being led blindfolded by serfs was a trifle unusual . . . Once through a sewer, he thought, but a dry one.
“Arrête,” the voice at his elbow said.
Halt. He stopped obediently, obscurely glad of the knife and pistol at his belt, the battle shotgun across his back. As irrational as the feeling of helplessness the blindfold engendered, but a useful counterweight. He could sense that he was inside a building from the movement of the air, from its smell—factory smell. It reminded him of the summer he had worked at the National Harvester plant in St. Paul, machine oil and steel and brass, rubber transmission belts and the lingering ozone of industrial-strength electric motors, underlain by a chalky scent like an old school’s. Something else as well, sickly-sweet, a hint of decay.
A hand turned him to his left; he could hear a faint sound from that direction, a tiny wheezing and shifting.
“Take off the blindfold, American. But do not turn.”
A new voice, an educated man’s French, sounding middle-aged. Kustaa obeyed, squinting his eyes against the prospect of light. Even after an hour of blindfold, the interior of the great room was dim. He had been correct: a factory. Dim shapes of lathes and bench presses around him, fading into distance and shadow, a little light from grimy glass shutters far above. Enough light to see what hung on the wall before him. A man standing with his feet on an angle-iron brace bolted to the sooty brick. His weight rested on the steel hooks through ribs and armpits.
Dead, Kustaa thought. That’s the smell of rot. Then he saw the outstretched fingertips flutter, the whites of eyeballs move.
“Hnng-hnng-hnng,” the pinned man said, “hnng-hnnng-hnng.”
The quiet, cultured voice came again from somewhere in the room; there was a hint of movement, but Kustaa’s eyes remained fixed forward.
“You see this thing,” the man said, “and you think, ‘Monstrous, inhuman.’ Do you not, Mr. American?”
“Yes,” Kustaa replied quietly. “At least that.”
“Ah, no, my American friend. I will explain why that is an error. To think of this as the act of inhuman monsters is a step toward thinking of it as the work of devils. Toward thinking of the Draka as not human, as devils: which is a step in turn toward thinking of them as gods. That, my old, is what they themselves think, in the madness of their own hearts, that they are gods or devils, perhaps they care little which. This . . . A Citizen supervisor noted that the output of this plant was too low, or more likely the spot-checks showed too many defective parts. He informed a born-serf manager, who passed it on down the line to a gang boss, probably a Frenchman like myself, who picked perhaps the least popular or most insolent of his gang, and the plant’s serf drivers came and took him from his machine one shift, and put him on the hooks. Men did this, human men.”
Kustaa waited a few moments before replying, in a soft and careful voice. “Why have you brought me here, then, monsieur?”
“Did you not wish to make contact with the Resistance of Lyon? Voila, we are here.” There were rustling noises around him in the darkness. “More of us than have gathered in one place in some time, Mr. American. Ah, to this spot? Because it is as safe as any . . . and for the same reason that our masters put this man on the steel, as an object lesson.”
“Which is supposed to teach—?” Kustaa continued. The pinned man’s eyes might be open, but the OSS agent did not think there was much mind or consciousness left behind them.
“A different lesson, my old. This man, perhaps he is my brother, perhaps my son, perhaps my closest friend. Here am I, one of the leaders of the best organized Resistance group in all France, perhaps all Europe . . . and what can I do for him? Nothing, not even to end his agony, not unless some means can be found utterly untraceable.”
“Why not?” Kustaa said.
“Because then, there would be two men on this wall. You see, Mr. American, Mr. Secret Agent, I think you seek to make contact with us for certain reasons. To call us to valiant action, perhaps? This man here, he was active: now he is less so. There were other groups here, in the beginning, more daring than we. Some of them believed, for example, that we could deny the Draka the fruits of their conquest with the weapons of class struggle. Strikes.” There was an ironic wonder in the man’s next word: “Strikes. Can one believe it? Others thought of sabotage, assassination, very active measures. Now these other groups are corpses, or lobotomized in chain gangs . . . and very much less ‘active’ than our network. Like the maquisards in the countryside, the last of whom are being hunted down like starving animals.”
“The Finns—” Kustaa began.
“Ah yes, the heroic Finns. The extinct Finns, very shortly. Mr. American, there are always those who would rather die on their feet than live on their knees; if you seek to make contact with such, you had best hurry. If there is one thing under heaven at which our masters are experts, it is for arranging for such to have their wish, and die.”
“You are running a very considerable risk by having an organization,” Kustaa said. “If you don’t do anything with it, what is the point?”
“Very true . . . Mr. American-whose-family-is-far-away, we do take this risk. Because we are not content to live as cattle, between our work and our stalls and our fodder, to be bred and sold as cattle, slaughtered when it suits our owners with as little thought as a chicken is killed and plucked. Why does this organization exist? For memory’s sake. To preserve that discontent, not simply as sullen beast-hatred, but as knowledge. That once there was something different, that there may be again. That we are a nation . . . perhaps no longer the nation of France, but still a people.
“Thus we organize, we recruit, we organize . . . in tiny groups, with cutouts at every stage. We pass on information; occasionally we can help individuals who suffer more than the common lot. Simply to tell a kinsman where his family has been sent, that is victory. Very occasionally we take direct action, against a foreman perhaps; even the Draka cannot make massacres at every accident. And we wait. We were conquered by an enemy more patient than we, more far-sighted, more ruthless; by conquering us they offer lessons, and we learn. Do you know how many Draka there are in Europe?”
“We estimate no more than a million.”
“Too high, I would say . . . many times that many born-serfs, of course. The great strength of the Draka is that they are skilled at using others; thus they accomplish feats far beyond their own raw power. Their great weakness, exactly the same, that they must use others. These born-serfs, the Draka bring them to teach us obedience. They are just beginning to suspect, I think, that such learning can be a two-way process. Always before they have smashed the societies they conquered, killed their elites and reduced the survivors to isolated human atoms, to be refashioned as they wished. Here as well, to a certain extent, but not completely. And that is the central purpose of this organization. To exist, simply to exist. So long as we do, their victory is not complete.
“What we have done—are trying to do—is build a brotherhood that they can wound but cannot kill. Strong and hard they are; if we try to match their strength, we will be smashed. Instead we must be as soft as water and as patient. Enduring, that wears away the rock slowly, but, oh, so surely. Perhaps you Americans and your allies will come and liberate us; if that is so, we will welcome you with tears and flowers and as much gratitude as humans can find in their souls to give. But we are those to whom the worst has happened, and we must prepare for the worst, that they destroy you in the end as well. Then our quiet war must last, who knows, perhaps a thousand years, to ensure that their ‘Final Society’ joins so many lesser tyrannies in the grave.”
“That,” Kustaa said with a slight chill in his voice, “sounds very much the sort of plan a Draka might conceive.”
“If they had the flexibility, my old, which they do not.” A laugh. “Perhaps we become like that which we fight.”
Perhaps, Kustaa thought, looking at the man on the wall, if you have to fight an enemy too closely, too long, perhaps that is so. “You refuse to help me, then?”
“Did I say this?” The same even, almost monotone voice. Control would be something living at the bottom here would teach, Kustaa thought.
“No, we will aid you, Mr. American, on our terms. Information, yes, provided it can be conveyed without serious risk. The Draka are no fools, but sometimes they forget we have ears . . . and sometimes they are too eager to believe a serf has knelt in his heart and accepted chains upon his soul. Although, God in His mercy knows, that is true often enough. Sometimes, rarely, very rarely, we will be prepared to take direct action on your prompting. None of us is essential; they could take everyone in this building, and what we have built will continue. Wounded, but that is the virtue of an organism so simple and diffuse as ours, it regenerates. And endures if need be, generation after generation, until . . . in the end, if nothing else, they will become lazy . . . ”
“Information is what I’m mostly after,” Kustaa said. And getting. Not information that will make Donovan or President Marshall particularly happy, but then, just because these people are allies doesn’t mean they have identical perspectives or interests. “Specifically, here, information about the Draka weapons program at Le Puy.”
A laugh startled him, full and mellow. “Well, after all my eloquent preaching of the virtues of inaction, I must confess that something along those lines has already been done. The facility at Le Puy was largely destroyed a short time ago.”
“Judas Priest!” Kustaa said, grunting as if a fist had driven into his belly. Donovan will shit his pants. “You did that?”
Another laugh. “No, no, au contraire. It was done by one of the scientists themselves; we merely took advantage of the confusion.” More soberly: “And thousands were nearly killed, as well . . . remember that we live here, Mr. American; and our families. And atomics were used on our soil. Our feelings concerning the good professor are, how shall I say, mixed. You may turn, monsieur.”
Kustaa swiveled, thankful for the opportunity to take his eyes from the thing on the wall. A man was standing close behind him, a tall cadaverous-looking man in middle age, dressed in badly-fitting servant’s livery. Still no sight of the Resistance people, he thought. Good.
“Ernst Oerbach, at your service, Mein Hen,” the man said, offering his hand and inclining his head with a gesture that somehow suggested a heel click. The face was too expressive for a Prussian’s, though, now showing mostly exhaustion and a bone-deep melancholy. “Late of the Imperial University in Vienna, physics department.” Kustaa took the Austrian’s hand, a dry firm grip.
“I’m going by the name Frederick Kenston, just now,” he said in reply. “You were in a position to sabotage the plant? I’m surprised the Draka let a serf that close to critical equipment.”
“Ah, Mr. Kenston, I was not a serf, you see. I was given Citizenship after the war, in return for my services. “
“What?” Kustaa managed to restrain himself from jerking back his hand, or wiping it on the side of his jacket.
Ernst Oerbach smiled sadly. “A natural reaction, Mr. Kenston. One I have felt myself, often enough . . . but though my son was dead by then, my daughter-in-law and grandchildren were alive, and included in the offer.” His eyes went over the American’s shoulder, to the figure on the wall. “You can imagine the alternatives. The Draka considered me valuable enough, for my genes as well as my self.” Another of those gently self-deprecating smiles. “I was fencing champion of Lower Austria in my youth, I suppose they decided my descendants would be desirable . . . The children were taken away, of course. Helge and I would be Citizens by courtesy, only: a sort of second-class Citizenship, always closely watched. The children were to be adopted into Draka families who could not bear, and would forget.”
Kustaa’s eyes narrowed. It fit with what the OSS had been able to learn from European scientists who had made it out in the chaos toward the end; the Draka had contacted some of the ones who decided to chance a try for the Alliance instead. Not many—this would be a one-in-a-million arrangement—but there weren’t that many first-rate creative brains. Others could be forced to work by more immediate pressures, but for a few Citizenship made sense. Hell, it’s only a generation since they stopped accepting selected immigrants, he mused.
“Why did you change your mind?” he asked.
“I could not stomach it any longer,” Oerbach said simply. “Even in luxurious isolation, I saw too much of what I was giving the power to destroy the earth.”
Kustaa grunted again. That bad, whatever it is, he thought. “Your grandchildren?” The man winced, but it was necessary to be quite sure.
“There the Draka made a mistake,” he said. “Citizenship would mean nothing if it could be withdrawn. Citizens can be killed, yes . . . but I have come to believe that a clean death might be preferable, even for little Johann and Adelle. And they will not kill them, because there would be nothing to gain from it once I am out of their power, and two members of the Race to lose.” A shake of his head. “I have come to . . . understand them, somewhat.”
Kustaa turned his head sharply. The faceless voice spoke confirmation: “A major disaster. Hundreds killed. They have been flying in decontamination teams and doctors around the clock. This is being kept very secret, you understand, Mr. American. But continue, professor, you have not told our friend what other gifts you bring beside yourself.
“Ah, ja,” he said, patting at his pockets like a movie-version absent-minded professor. “Ja, the microfilm of my research results on the threshold temperatures for deuterium-lithium fusion.”
A spool of translucent tape, and a masked face wheeled a green steel box beside them on a dolly, let the stand-bar come down with a thump that told of considerable weight. “Well, it was not my department, you understand, the plutonium refining. Plutonium for the triggers, you see. But it was there. You must understand I had been thinking of doing something for some time, but the opportunity was fleeting.” A bleak grin, over in an instant. “You might say Satan whispered in my ear, and I fell. It probably even looks like an accident, and this unprocessed material was there; plutonium is a considerable bottleneck, so . . . ”
Kustaa took a half-step back and leaned against a lathe, heedless of metal angles digging into his back. “Judas Priest,” he whispered again, this time almost as a wheeze. “Tempted by Satan? More like divine inspiration, Professor Oerbach! Maybe you should have been in my line of work.”
