The Domination, page 68
A long pause. She looked down and saw the red brows knitted in thought, then a slow nod.
“Will I ever have a special friend like your Miss ’Zandra?” she asked shyly. “The girls in the senior forms at school, they’re always goin’ on about who’s fallin’ fo’ who, and it all seems so . . . silly, like a game.”
“Sometimes it is, Carrottop, and it’ll all seem less silly once you body changes—I know it’s hard when we say, ‘Wait until you older,’ but sometimes it’s all we can.” She kissed the top of the child’s head, feeling the sun-warmth still stored in the coppery hair. “Jus’ have to wait, child; doan’ ever rush into things ’cause others are doin’ it and you want to fit in. When you time comes listen to you heart; maybe in school, maybe later in the Army when you old enough fo’ boys, maybe not till University. Maybe everythin’ will work perfect right off, or you might have to try an’ try again—most folks do.”
“If . . . if you love someone like that, and it doesn’t . . . work, does it hurt?”
A rueful laugh. “Sweet goddesses, yes, baby, worse than anythin’ else in the world.”
“Then why does anybody do it, Ma?”
“Can’t help themselves, child, no ways.”
Another silence. “Pa never had a special friend like Miss ’Zandra, did he, Ma?”
Tanya squeezed a hug. “Freya, Carrottop, you wants to find out everythin’ in a hurry.” A pause for thought. “No, though some do . . . Men are different from us, baby.” A nod: Draka children learned the physical facts of life early, from observation and in their schooling. “Not just the way they’re made, but inside.”
She tapped her daughter’s head. “They . . . come to the need fo’ lovin’ late, but need the pleasurin’ part of it more, ’specially when they’re young, and they can keep the two apart more. We’re the other way ’round, the lovin’ comes first, in general, and then the needin’ grows on us. Not everybody’s that way, you understand, but most. That’s why the boys mostly start with wenches, because at first with them it’s just this . . . blind drive to plant their seed.”
Gudrun frowned again, and when she spoke it was in a quiet voice. “Ma, doesn’t that mean . . . well . . . ”
Tanya rocked her, smiling over her head. That was a question all Draka children asked, sooner or later; important to give the right answer. “An’ you wonderin’ if that means he loves you less, with all those wenches’ babies he made, makes you less special,” she said. A quick nod. “No, never, darlin’ of my heart,” she went on, letting a note of indulgent amusement into her voice, showing that the fear was understood but not a thing to be taken seriously, feeling the momentary tension relax out of the girl’s body. “You see, Pa and I made you together; like he loves me special out of all the world, we love you and Timmie and the twins, because only you children of our blood are really ours. Y’understand, sweetlin’? You the children we raised an’ trained, and you our . . . well, when we’re gone, you’ll be all that’s left of us.
“Know how we always say, ‘Service to the State,’ and ‘Glory to the Race’?” A nod: civics classes would have taken care of that. “There’s another meanin’, and this is real important. You are the glory of the Race, darlin’. Because of you and you brothers and sisters, Pa and I are joined to the Race, through the children you’ll have some day, and their children and children’s children, forever. Just like we join y’all to the ones who went before, right back to the beginnin’.”
“Oh. That’s sort of scary.”
“Mm-hm. Big responsibility, Carrottop, but it’ll be a while before you has to worry about that. Never be in a rush to grow up, my baby; that’s what ’Zandra and I were talkin’ about, before you came. Lookin’ ahead you see all the things you can do that you can’t now; but lookin’ back, you see what’s lost. Take each year with what it brings, Gudrun.”
“Ma . . . ”
“What, mo’ questions?” A laugh. “Go ahead, daughter, go ahead. Just remember, fo’ you own when their favorite word is ‘why.’ ”
“Why do Pa and you . . . I mean, I know you love each other, so why, umm—”
“Aha, the wenches. Well, darlin’, that’s another thing you’ll understand better when you’re older, but . . . it’s like candy and real food. You could live without candy, fairly easy, but on nothin’ but candy you’d sicken. Nice to have both, though.”
“Why only, well, only wenches, Ma?”
“It isn’t,” she said frankly. “Fo’ men so inclined, there’s prettybucks. Remember what I said about the Race?” A nod. “Well, women can’t mother as many as a man can father, and it takes a Draka mother to make Draka, child. Especially since we’ve other things to do, like fightin’ and helpin’ run the estates and so forth. So we have to save our wombs fo’ the Race’s seed.” We’ll leave aside the vexed question of whether contraception’s made the Race Purity laws obsolete, and the even more vexed question of the primitive male confusion between penetration and domination; that’s for your generation to deal with. “Another thing that pro’bly won’t trouble you for a good many years yet.” More somberly: “When it does, remember, we’re like iron, they’re glass; be careful touchin’ them, you can shatter them without meanin’ to.”
Gudrun yawned again, snuggled her head down against her mother’s bosom, squirming into a more comfortable position. Tanya sat without words for a few minutes, watching the near-invisible lashes flutter lower, the near-transparent redhead’s eyelids drooping down.
“But what did you come runnin’ in to ask, my sleepy baby?”
Another huge yawn, and a near mumble. “Beth said I had to nap, but I’m too old to take naps in the afternoon, Ma.”
“ ‘Course you are, honeybunch. You just lie there a while, and momma’ll sing fo’ you.”
Rocking, she began very softly: “Hush little baby, doan’ you cry/ You know the spirit was meant/ To fly—”
“ . . . fiasco in Lyon,” someone’s voice was saying.
Kustaa pricked up his ears, bending over the gift table. It was sunset, and the night’s entertainment had begun. He glanced at his watch; Ernst and Jules would be in the radio room at 2130, and for three hours after that. His scheduled transmission time started a half hour later. Plenty of time, and it would be suspicious in the extreme if he absented himself; he could plead sickness but then his hosts would exercise their damned consideration and call for medical help, which he could not afford.
He smiled to himself as he edged nearer to the cluster about Tanya’s brother and the Security general. The throat story was bad enough, making elaborate explanations impossible; sometimes he felt Donovan had outsmarted himself there. The speech training had worked to some extent, a more moderate injury would have been better. The head injuries were even worse, because if he played sick they might override his objections to a doctor’s examination.
Ah, well.
“Not quite a fiasco, sho’ly,” Vashon was saying.
“Since I was there, and jointly responsible, I think I can speak frankly without givin’ offense, Strategos. ‘Fiasco’ I said and meant,” Andrew replied.
Kustaa moved down again, past studbooks showing the pedigree livestock among the presents, past a da Vinci and a Cellini saltshaker. There was no formal organization to the viewing; you went and examined young Karl and Alexandra in their cradles, perfectly ordinary looking examples of two-month-old children, round squashed-looking faces and starfish hands. Then you drifted along, giving each item the grave attention or amusement or comment it merited; the American took his cues from others. A pair of pistols caught his eye, and he lifted one out of the satin lining in the rosewood case.
“We caught a good number of them,” Vashon objected.
“Spearchuckers. That bunch is so tightly celled, even they contact men don’t know who their opposite numbers are, they just a voice in the dark.”
“So they’re claimin’, to date.”
“Strategos, you know as well as I do that it isn’t impossible to lie while bein’ castrated, blinded and bastinadoed, but it is impossible to lie well and coherently and consistently. We didn’t get their leaders, or the American, or the scientist, or the . . . well, you know.”
Kustaa turned the weapon over in his hands, hiding savage elation as the old oiled metal sheened in the lamplight. It was a six-shot revolver, but—with a second barrel under the normal one—a massive weapon: the patterned Damascus steel inlaid with elongated leopards and buck, the butt with plaques of turquoise and ivory. He flipped it up to look at the white-metal plate on the end of the grip: Le Matt, Virconium, 1870. Back, to examine the barrel. There was a slight pattern of randomly-etched pits around the muzzles; these had been used, and fairly frequently. He reached into the case for two of the cartridges—brass centerfire models, no corrosion—so they must be made up to fit the antique. A standard revolver bullet, about .477, and what looked like a miniature shotgun shell. There was a faint smell of gun oil and brass about the weapon, the patina of another’s palm on the grip.
“Cobbler to the last, a fightin’ man to weapons,” a voice said by his ear. He turned, startled; the speaker was a tall gray-haired man in an Arch-Strategos’ uniform. That was a rarity; there weren’t more than a hundred or so in the Domination.
“Karl von Shrakenberg, Landholder, Arch-Strategos, Supreme General Staff, retired,” the man said. Kustaa took his hand and gave the strangled grunt expected of him. Another of the eagle faces, but this was an old bird, tired, face scored by years and pain; he moved stiffly, with a limp.
“Sannie von Shrakenberg, Landholder, Strategos, Supreme General Staff, Strategic Plannin’, active.” Kustaa blinked; the woman looked to be in her forties, a little old for the six-month belly, but it was still disorienting. Like seeing one of the Joint Chiefs knitting booties, he thought with a smile. The woman nodded to him again and moved off.
“I knew Charley Stenner, you commander,” the retired general said. Kustaa turned his start into an appropriate grimace. “Good man, pity that strafin’ got him.”
Maybe Donovan was right after all, Kustaa thought thankfully. Following two conversations at once was another skill he had been taught; the secret policeman was still arguing.
“ . . . not an irretrievable disaster, in any case. We were a little ahead of the Yankees on that project, now we’re a little behind. Bad losin’ Oerbach, but the basic research is done an’ recorded; the plutonium is really unfortunate, bottleneck fo’ us and the Alliance both.”
“It’s the Yankee that sticks in my gullet,” Andrew replied. “Much mo’ of that and we’ll have them runnin’ wild. And Corey Hartmann was a friend of mine.”
“Agreed. I want a film of him dyin’ on the stake. After we’ve gotten what he knows, of course . . . still, in the long run, we gain mo’ from espionage than they do.”
Kustaa put the pistol in the general’s outstretched hand. The older man snapped the action open with a practiced motion. “Le Matt,” he said. “He did his best work in Virconium after the Yankees ran him out of New Orleans; sugar country must have been homelike to him. This was his first swing-out cylinder model, and the last black-powder sidearm authorized for regular use. Best close-quarter weapon of its day.” He made another adjustment, and the thicker barrel beneath the main one slid forward. “Buckshot barrel, just the thing fo’ a cavalry melee.”
“One thing, I’m glad we’ve still got his grandchildren. Nice to have that tricky an’ ruthless a set of genes in the Race.” Andrew, in a tone of rueful admiration.
“I still say we should hold them ready to use as a lever, should, Loki fo’bid, he surface in Yankeeland.” Vashon’s voice was neutrally cold.
“No. Primus, he’s shown he’s ready to sacrifice them fo’ principle; secundus, by grantin’ Citizenship, we made them part of the Race. With all the protection that my sister’s children have, or any other young Draka.” Still friendly, but with an icy finality underneath. That would be reassuring to tell Ernst. As far as the OSS knew, the military were still more powerful in the Domination’s hierarchy. Of course, the Party was stronger than either of the armed branches . . .
“These were my father’s,” the old general continued. Kustaa smiled and nodded. “Weddin’ present; my mother’s parents were Confederates. He carried them in the Northern War.” The American racked his brain . . . yes, that was what they called the Anglo-Russian War of 1879-1882; the Draka had saved Britain from ignominious defeat, an important step in their progress to Great Power status.
“See the inset gold notches? Kills. Duels only of course, not countin’ war. The last one was the one he remembered best. An Englishman, durin’ the stalemate on the Danube. Damn fool thought a duel was a game fired in the air.” Karl smiled, the warm smile of a man remembering his childhood. “Pa always laughed when he told us how surprised the Brit looked when he gut-shot him . . . Honor makin’ you acquaintance, sir.” He replaced the pistol. “Best ever . . . still take them ovah anythin’ but a submachine gun . . . ”
A liveried servant took stance by the doors that led into the palaestra wing and the stairs to the terrace.
“My Masters!” she cried, sharply rapping the staff she carried on the flags. “The banquet awaits you.”
“Oh, Poppa, are you sure you can’t come?” Solange said, stepping back and turning her head a little to examine herself in the mirror.
How lovely, Jules Lebrun thought. How much like her mother. The image twisted with a pain worse than the growing lumps under his ribs, and he smiled to cover it and the tears that threatened his eyes. His daughter was dressed in a long form-fitting gown of platinum sequins, burnished until they glittered in a blinking, continuous shimmering ripple. Her hair hung loose down the length of her back, and thrown over it was a net of gossamer silver wire, the joinings of the mesh marked with tiny blue-white diamonds.
Solange turned to view herself from a different angle her hands moving down from below her breasts and over her hips. “I look like a princess,” she said happily, with a smile that highlighted the slight flush on her cheeks.
No, my child, you look like a very expensive toy, Lebrun thought with an aching sadness. The chamber that had been set aside as a dressing room was crowded: the quartet and their instruments, Solange and Yasmin, their friends. It smelled of cigarette smoke, clothes, brandy from the flask one of the musicians was handing around, faintly of the singer’s jasmine perfume.
“Ernst is an old friend, child,” he said. “Mr. Kenston will be leaving tomorrow”—actually rather sooner—“and we will never meet again, probably. I must spend some time with him, while his duties allow.”
Solange sighed. He could tell why—only a few privileged house serfs would be allowed to listen to the entertainment, from below in the courtyard, and she must have wheedled to get him included. Then he saw her cast off the shadow. Determined to be happy, and allowing nothing to stand in her way, he knew. She came over and embraced him lightly and he put his arms around her scented and bird-delicate shoulders.
“I love you, Poppa,” she said, brushing her cheek against his. “Wish me luck—this could be the most important performance of my career!”
Career? he thought. “I love you too, my child,” he whispered. And it is true. We love our children as we love our country, not because they deserve it but because they are ours, and we must. Angrily, he felt his weakened body betray him and the tears spill over his eyelids.
“Oh, Father, don’t be that sad, you will have hundreds of times to hear me sing!” She straightened, and gave her makeup a last check. “Yasmin, are you ready?”
The other serf girl looked up from her mirror. “Hold you horses, Solange sweet,” she said placidly. “Plenty of time.” She was dressed in a white-silk fantasia loosely based on an Arab burnoose, a color that set off her creme-caramel looks. Satisfied, she nodded, rose, hummed an experimental note and opened the neck of her garment a trifle more.
“Goin’ be some hungry eyes on us tonight,” she said complacently, linking arms companionably with Solange. “Only until we sing. Then they will be lost, and afterwards, it will drive them mad.”
They made for the door, the musicians trailing, but it opened before they reached it and Chantal stepped through, followed by Marya.
“Why, hello!” Yasmin said to Chantal, then looked more closely. “You lookin’ bettah, honeybunch!” The Frenchwoman flushed at the faces turned toward her, but it was true; she was still haggard, but neatly groomed and holding herself erect.
Chantal’s eyes passed over the serf with blank indifference, fastened feverishly on Jules Lebrun. Yasmin pursed her lips and turned to Solange with a shrug and roll of the eyes that said what-can-I-do more eloquently than words.
Solange’s smile and nod to the nun had a trace of good-natured mockery, looking her up and down. “You are also looking . . . well . . . Sister,” she said as the two singers passed through the door. “Good night.”
Lebrun remained silent after the door closed, glancing warily from the flushed excitement on the young woman’s face to the worried concern of his Resistance commander’s.
“Well?” he said at last.
“Chantal . . . Chantal, unfortunately, has stumbled across our . . . enterprise, Professor Lebrun. Specifically, she has deduced that Frederi—Mr. Kenston is not what he seems.”
“I saw him with you, last night,” Chantal said triumphantly. “But I wouldn’t have been fooled; I saw you all day when you thought you’d have to lie down for him. You hid it but you were looking into the grave. I’m not stupid enough to think you would change so quickly. He is an American, an ami agent, is he not? And that ‘servant’ of his, he is from the nuclear facility—”
