Flandry scowled. “And those turn out to be Dennitzan?”
“Correct. Any such conspiracy would have to involve members of a society with spaceships—preferably humans—to plant and cultivate the seed on Diomedes, and maintain at least enough liaison with Ythri that the would-be rebels stay hopeful. When our people first got on the track of this, they naturally assumed the humans were Avalonian. But a lucky capture they made, just before I left for Sol, indicated otherwise. Dennitzan agents, Dennitzan.”
“Why, on the opposite side of Terra from their home?”
“Oh, come on! You know why. If the Gospodar’s planning an uprising of his own, what better preliminary than one in that direction?” Hazeltine drew breath. “I don’t have the details. Those are, or will be, in the reports to GHQ from our units. But isn’t something in the Empire always going wrong? The word is, his Majesty plans to leave soon for Sector Spica, at the head of an armada, and curb the barbarians there. That’s a long way from anyplace else. Meanwhile, how slowly do reports from an obscure clod like Diomedes grind their way through the bureaucracy?”
“When a fleet can incinerate a world,” Flandry said bleakly, “I prefer governments not have fast reflexes. You and your teammates could well be quantum-hopping to an unwarranted conclusion. For instance, those Dennitzans who were caught, if they really are Dennitzans, could be freebooters. Or if they have bosses at home, those bosses may be a single clique—may be, themselves, maneuvering to overthrow the Gospodar—and may or may not have ambitions beyond that. How much more than you’ve told me do you know for certain?”
Hazeltine sighed. “Not much. But I hoped—” He looked suddenly, pathetically young. “I hoped you might check further into the question.”
Chives entered, on bare feet which touched the carpet soundlessly though the gee-field was set at Terran standard. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he addressed his master. “If you wish dinner before we reach the landing approach zone, I must commence preparations. The tournedos will obviously require a red wine. Shall I open the Chateau Falkayn ’35?”
“Hm?” Flandry blinked, recalled from darker matters. “Why … um-m … I’d thought of Beaujolais.”
“No, sir,” said Chives, respectfully immovable. “I cannot recommend Beaujolais to accompany a tournedos such as is contemplated. And may I suggest drinking and smoking cease until your meal is ready?”
Summer evening around Catalina deepened into night. Flandry sat on a terrace of the lodge which the island’s owner, his friend the Mayor Palatine of Britain, had built on its heights and had lent to him. He wasn’t sleepy; during the space trip, his circadian rhythm had slipped out of phase with this area. Nor was he energetic. He felt—a bit sad?—no, pensive, lonesome, less in an immediate fashion than as an accumulation from the years—a mood he had often felt before and recognized would soon become restlessness. Yet while it stayed as it was, he could wonder if he should have married now and then. Or even for life? It would have been good to help young Dominic grow.
He sighed, twisted about in his lounger till he found a comfortable knees-aloft position, drew on his cigar and watched the view. Beneath him, shadowy land plunged to a bay and, beyond, the vast metallic sheet of a calm Pacific. A breeze blew cool, scented with roses and Buddha’s cup. Overhead, stars twinkled forth in a sky that ranged from amethyst to silver-blue. A pair of contrails in the west caught the last glow of a sunken sun. But the evening was quiet. Traffic was never routed near the retreats of noblemen.
How many kids do I have? And how many of them know they’re mine? (I’ve only met or heard of a few.) And where are they and what’s the universe doing to them?
Hm. He pulled rich smoke across his tongue. When a person starts sentimentalizing, it’s time either to get busy or to take antisenescence treatments. Pending this decision, how about a woman? That stopover on Ceres was several days ago, after all. He considered ladies he knew and decided against them, for each would expect personal consideration—which was her right, but his mind was still too full of his son. Therefore: Would I rather flit to the mainland and its bright lights, or have Chives phone the nearest cepheid agency?
As if at a signal, his personal servant appeared, a Shalmuan, slim kilt-clad form remarkably humanlike except for 140 centimeters of height, green skin, hairlessness, long prehensile tail, and, to be sure, countless more subtle variations. On a tray he carried a visicom extension, a cup of coffee, and a snifter of cognac. “You have a call, sir,” he announced.
How many have you filtered out? Flandry didn’t ask. Nor did he object. The nonhuman in a human milieu—or vice versa—commonly appears as a caricature of a personality, because those around him cannot see most of his soul. But Chives had attended his boss for years. “Personal servant” had come to mean more than “valet and cook”; it included being butler of a household which never stayed long in a single place, and pilot, and bodyguard, and whatever an emergency might require.
Chives brought the lounger table into position, set down the tray, and disappeared again. Flandry’s pulse bounced a little. In the screen before him was the face of Dominic Hazeltine. “Why, hello,” he said. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this soon.”
“Well”—excitement thrummed—“you know, our conversation—When I came back to base, I got a chance at a general data scanner, and keyed for recent material on Dennitza. A part of what I learned will interest you, I think. Though you’d better act fast.”
II
Immediately after the two Navy yeomen who brought Kossara to the slave depot had signed her over to its manager and departed, he told her: “Hold out your left arm.” Dazed—for she had been whisked from the ship within an hour of landing on Terra, and the speed of the aircar had blurred the enormousness of Archopolis—she obeyed. He glanced expertly at her wrist and, from a drawer, selected a bracelet of white metal, some three centimeters broad and a few millimeters thick. Hinged, it locked together with a click. She stared at the thing. A couple of sensor spots and a niello of letters and numbers were its only distinctions. It circled her arm snugly though not uncomfortably.
“The law requires slaves to wear this,” the manager explained in a bored tone. He was a pudgy, faintly greasy-looking middle-aged person in whose face dwelt shrewdness.
That must be on Terra, trickled through Kossara’s mind. Other places seem to have other ways. And on Dennitza we keep no slaves …
“It’s powered by body heat and maintains an audiovisual link to a global monitor net,” the voice went on. “If the computers notice anything suspicious—including, of course, any tampering with the bracelet—they call a human operator. He can stop you in your tracks by a signal.” The man pointed to a switch on his desk. “This gives the same signal.”
He pressed. Pain burned like lightning, through flesh, bone, marrow, until nothing was except pain. Kossara fell to her knees. She never knew if she screamed or if her throat had jammed shut.
He lifted his hand and the anguish was gone. Kossara crouched shaking and weeping. Dimly she heard: “That was five seconds’ worth. Direct nerve stim from the bracelet, triggers a center in the brain. Harmless for periods of less than a minute, if you haven’t got a weak heart or something. Do you understand you’d better be a good girl? All right, on your feet.”
As she swayed erect, the shudders slowly leaving her, he smirked and muttered, “You know, you’re a looker. Exotic; none of this standardized biosculp format. I’d be tempted to bid on you myself, except the price is sure to go out of my reach. Well … hold still.”
He did no more than feel and nuzzle. She endured, thinking that probably soon she could take a long, long, long hot shower. But when a guard had conducted her to the women’s section, she found the water was cold and rationed. The dormitory gaped huge, echoing, little inside it other than bunks and inmates. The mess was equally barren, the food adequate but tasteless. Some twenty prisoners were present. They received her kindly enough, with a curiosity that sharpened when they discov
ered she was from a distant planet and this was her first time on Terra. Exhausted, she begged off saying much and tumbled into a haunted sleep.
The next morning she got a humiliatingly thorough medical examination. A psychotech studied the dossier on her which Naval Intelligence had supplied, asked a few questions, and signed a form. She got the impression he would have liked to inquire further—why had she rebelled?—but a Secret classification on her record scared him off. Or else (because whoever bought her would doubtless talk to her about it) he knew from his study how chaotic and broken her memories of the episode were, since the hypnoprobing on Diomedes.
That evening she couldn’t escape conversation in the dormitory. The women clustered around and chattered. They were from Terra, Luna, and Venus. With a single exception, they had been sentenced to limited terms of enslavement for crimes such as repeated theft or dangerous negligence, and were not very bright or especially comely.
“I don’t suppose anybody’ll bid on me,” lamented one. “Hard labor for the government, then.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kossara. Her soft Dennitzan accent intrigued them. “Why? I mean, when you have a worldful of machines, every kind of robot—why slaves? How can it … how can it pay?”
The exceptional woman, who was handsome in a haggard fashion, answered. “What else would you do with the wicked? Kill them, even for tiny things? Give them costly psychocorrection? Lock them away at public expense, useless to themselves and everybody else? No, let them work. Let the Imperium get some money from selling them the first time, if it can.”
Does she talk like that because she’s afraid of her bracelet? Kossara wondered. Surely, oh, surely we can complain a little among ourselves! “What can we do that a machine can’t do better?” she asked.
“Personal services,” the woman said. “Many kinds. Or … well, economics. Often a slave is less efficient than a machine, but needs less capital investment.”
“You sound educated,” Kossara remarked.
The woman sighed. “I was, once. Till I killed my husband. That meant a life term like yours, dear. To be quite safe, my buyer did pay to have my mind corrected.” A sort of energy blossomed in look and tone. “How grateful I am! I was a murderess, do you hear, a murderess. I took it on myself to decide another human being wasn’t fit to live. Now I know—” She seized Kossara’s hands. “Ask them to correct you too. You committed treason, didn’t you say? Beg them to wash you clean!”
The rest edged away. Brain-channeled, Kossara knew. A crawling went under her skin. “Wh-why are you here?” she stammered. “If you were bought—”
“He grew tired of me and sold me back. I’ll always long for him … but he had the perfect right, of course.” The woman drew nearer. “I like you, Kossara,” she whispered. “I do hope we’ll go to the same place.”
“Place?”
“Oh, somebody rich may take you for a while. Likelier, though, a brothel—”
Kossara yanked free and ran. She didn’t quite reach a toilet before she vomited. They made her clean the floor. Afterward, when they insisted on circling close and talking and talking, she screamed at them to leave her alone, then enforced it with a couple of skilled blows. No punishment followed. It was dreadful to know that a half-aware electronic brain watched every pulsebeat of her existence, and no doubt occasionally a bored human supervisor examined her screen at random. But seemingly the guardians didn’t mind a fight, if no property was damaged. She sought her bunk and curled up into herself.
Next morning a matron came for her, took a critical look, and nodded. “You’ll do,” she said. “Swallow this.” She held forth a pill.
“What’s that?” Kossara crouched back.
“A euphoriac. You want to be pretty for the camera, don’t you? Go on, swallow.” Remembering the alternative, Kossara obeyed.
As she accompanied the matron down the hall, waves of comfort passed through her, higher at each tide. It was like being drunk, no, not drunk, for she had her full senses and command of her body … like having savored a few glasses with Mihail, after they had danced, and the violins playing yet … like having Mihail here, alive again.
Almost cheerfully, in the recording room she doffed her gray issue gown, went through the paces and said the phrases designed to show her off, as instructed. She barely heard the running commentary:
“Kossara Vymezal [mispronounced, but a phonetic spell-out followed], human female, age twenty-five, virgin, athletic, health and intelligence excellent, education good though provincial. Spirited, but ought to learn subordination in short order without radical measures. Life sentence for treason, conspiracy to promote and aid rebellion. Suffers from hostility to the Imperium and some disorientation due to hypnoprobing. Neither handicap affects her wits or basic emotional stability. Her behavior on the voyage here was cold but acceptable.
“She was born on the planet Dennitza, Zoria III in the Taurian Sector. [A string of numbers] Her family is well placed, father being a district administrator. [Why no mention of the fact Mother was a sister of Bodin Miyatovich, Gospodar and sector governor? O Uncle, Uncle … ] As is the rule there, she received military training and served a hitch in the armed forces. She has a degree in xenology. Having done field work on planets near home, several months ago she went to Diomedes [a string of numbers]—quite remote, her research merely a disguise. Most of the report on her has not been made available to us; and as said, she herself is confused and largely amnesiac about this period. Her main purpose was to help instigate a revolt. Before much harm was done, she was detected, arrested, interrogated, and sentenced by court-martial. There being little demand for slaves in that region, and a courier ship returning directly to Terra, she was brought along.
“We rate her unlikely to be dangerous, given the usual precautions, and attractive both physically and personally—”
The camera projected back the holograms it had taken, for its operator’s inspection, and Kossara looked upon her image. She saw a big young woman, 177 centimeters tall, a bit small in the bosom but robust in shoulders, hips, and long free-striding legs, skin ivory-clear save for a few freckles and the remnant of a tan. The face was wide, high in the cheekbones, snub in the nose, full in the mouth, strong in chin and jawline. Large blue-green eyes stood well apart beneath dark brows and reddish-brown bangs; that hair was cropped below the ears in the manner of both sexes on Dennitza. When she spoke, her voice was husky.
“—will be sullen unless drugged, but given the right training and conditions, ought to develop a high sexual capacity. A private owner may find that kindness will in due course make her loyal and responsive—”
Kossara slipped dreamily away from the words, the room, Terra … the whole way home. To Mihail? No, she couldn’t quite raise him from the dust between the stars—even now, she dared not. But, oh, just a few years ago, she and Trohdwyr …
{She had a vacation from her studies at the Shkola plus a furlough from her ground defense unit in the Narodna Voyska. Ordinarily she would have spent as much of this time as he could spare with her betrothed. But a space force had been detected within a few light-years of the Zorian System which might intend action on behalf of some other claimant to the Imperium than Hans Molitor whom the Gospodar supported, or might use such partisanship as an excuse for brigandage. Therefore Bodin Miyatovich led some of the Dennitzan fleet out to warn off the strangers, and if necessary fight them off. Mihail Svetich, engineer on a Meteor-class torpedo craft, had kissed Kossara farewell.
Rather than fret idle in Zorkagrad, she flitted to her parents’ home. Danilo Vymezal, voivode of the Dubina Dolyina, was head of council, chief magistrate, and military commander throughout a majestic country at the northern rim of the Kazan. Soon after she reached the estate, Kossara said she wished for a long hunt. Her father regarded her for a moment before he nodded. “That will do you good,” he said. “Who would you like for a partner? Trohdwyr?”
She had unthinkingly supposed she would go alone. But o
f course he was right; only fools went by themselves so far into wilderness that no radio relay could pass on a distress call from a pocket transceiver. The old zmay was welcome company, not least because he knew when to be silent.
They took an aircar to a meadow on the unpeopled western slope and set forth afoot. The days and nights, the leagues and heights, wind, rain, sun, struggle, and sleep were elixir. More than once she had a clear shot at a soaring orlik or a bull yelen poised on a crag, and forbore; those wings or those horns were too splendid across the sky. But at last it was sweet fire in the blood to stand before a charging dyavo, feel the rifle surge back against her shoulder, see fangs and claws fall down within a meter of her.
Trohdwyr reproved: “You were reckless, Dama.”
“He came at me from his den,” Kossara retorted.
“After you saw the entrance and took care to make much noise in the bushes. Deny it not. I have known you longer than your own memory runs. You learned to walk by clinging to my tail for safety. If I lose you now, your father will dismiss me from his service, and where then shall a poor lorn dodderer go? Back to his birth village to become a fisher again, after these many years? Have mercy, Dama.”
She chuckled. They set about making camp. This was high in the bowl of the Kazan, where that huge crater bit an arc from the Vysochina. The view could not have been imagined by anyone who had not seen it, save God before He willed it.
Though treeless, the site bore a dense purple sward of mahovina, springy underfoot and spicy to smell, studded by white and gold wildflowers; and a nearby canebrake rustled in the breeze. Eastward the ringwall sloped down to timberline. Beyond, yellow beams of evening fell on a bluish mistiness of forest, as far as sight could reach, cloven by a river which gleamed like a drawn blade. Westward, not far hence, the rim stood shadowy-sharp athwart rough Vysochina hills. Behind them the snowpeaks of the Planina Byelogorski lifted sungold whiteness into an absolute azure. The purity of sky was not marred by a remote northward thread of smoke from Vulkana Zemlya.
A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows df-7 Page 2