Under the Yoke

by S. M. Stirling

  "Edward von Shrakenberg, Landholder, Tetrarch, Archonal Guard, Reconnaissance," the man said.

  Shit, Kustaa thought. Recon-commando, close-combat specialist, have to watch it.

  "Tanya von Shrakenberg, Landholder, Cohortarch, Archonal Guard, Armor," the woman added.

  Oh, goody, an armored-battalion major, he mused. Well, she looks tough enough.

  Ernst spoke for him. "My masters, my owner is Frederick Kenston: traveller in art materials, private, XX Mechanized Infantry Legion, Combat Engineers. He regrets that his injury from blast and gas renders speech difficult, besides damage to balance and hearing. I am his medical attendant as well as his servant."

  That had been the best cover available. A Category III veteran got a pension of 5,000 aurics a year, equivalent to a steady middle-class income, enough for a ten-room villa and six servants. 'Traveller in art materials" meant loot-buyer essentially, a free-lance contractor who bought from individuals to resell in the cities of the Police Zone, or to collectors and museums; it was a plausible occupation for a restless man, one not content to sit and vegetate. The injuries enabled him to avoid an accent only years of practice could duplicate exactly; when he did have to speak, the croak would cover most of it, and the XX Legion was raised in Alexandria, where the usual Draka slur was more clipped, a legacy of 19th-century immigration.

  And the balance problems… He recalled the defector: "Yo' combat-style would be a dead giveaway in any palaestra in the Domination, an' anyhows yo' cain't fight worth shit. Kustaa had bristled at the time, but a few humiliating sparring-sessions had cured him of that. Mo' to the point, yo' cain't practice, or do gymnastics or even dance, and all of them is impo'tant socially. This gets yo' off, an nobody will pick fights with yo'. Impaired hearing would make others more likely to talk around him, and the Combat Engineers accounted for the workman's set of his muscles.

  The two Landholders stepped back and saluted him, fist to chest, then gave him the forearm-clasp Draka handshake. "Honor our home," the man said. Edward, I'll have to remember that, Kustaa prompted himself.

  "Stay a day, stay a week, stay a month," the woman added. "An' while yo' do, what's ours is yorn."

  Kustaa nodded, failed to repress an enormous yawn. His fingers signed at Ernst.

  "My master thanks you, masters," he said. "And begs your pardon, but he is very weary." The Cartwright system, American, but that would arouse no suspicion, the Domination had never evolved a full-fledged sign language. Handicapped serfs went to jobs within their capabilities, Draka born without hearing were sterilized and sent to luxurious institutions calculated to shorten their lives. For the few cases outside those categories, a Yankee invention was tolerable.

  "Pas de problem, as they says hereabouts," the mistress of the plantation said, clapping for service. "The guest room is ready; dinner by yo'self, right away? Good."

  Kustaa hardly noticed the stairs. The bed was wide and soft; sleep softer, deeper, more dark.

  Chapter Twelve

  No better example of the hysteria and economic illiteracy of the Democratic-Progressive bloc in Congress could be found than the foreign-trade provisions of the Donaldson-Obregon Omnibus Trade Bill passed last week and currently undergoing debate in the joint sessions. First, the attempt to interfere with the political independence of the Federal Currency Board, already gravely limited by the Treaty of Rio. opens the way to further inflationary…

  … and lastly, the ludicrous provisions of the so-called "embargo" on trade in advanced industrial machinery with the Domination deserve special condemnation. An unholy alliance between southern-state special interests determined to protect their high-priced sugar, cotton and coffee; trading blocs whose links with our South American allies open them to outright blackmail on tropical products and minerals: ideologically-blinded labor leaders, obsessed with fear of competition from so-called "slave-labor" goods—all are conspiring, in effect if not in fact, to raise producer and consumer prices at a time of serious shortages in raw materials, when capacity utilization is at unprecedented levels. The editors of this magazine urge President Marshall to veto this measure, or at least exercise his line-veto on the most objectionable clauses. The Domination, with its extension in the Eurasian War is an unpleasant fact of life with which sensible men must come to terms: trade is mutually beneficial, the best means of raising the standards of living of the suffering underclass: and contact with a free economy could be the most effective long-term means of softening harsh and archaic aspects of the Draka system. Besides these arguments, sufficient in themselves, it must be borne in mind that we hold no patents on the laws of nature: the Domination will develope its own rare-earth and transistor-manufacturing plants in due course. An embargo would harm nobody but our own American industries, already suffering from competition from a South America, Japan. Australasia rebuilt at our overburdened taxpayers' expense.

  Editorial. Capital Monthly

  Chicago Union PressJuly 17, 1947

  So what if they're technologically superior? What we can't steal, we can buy. When the time comes to geld the Yankees an' hitch them to the plough, we'll cut off their balls with a knife they competed to sell us: an' while we rape their virgin cheerleader daughters, they'll still be whimperin' about contracts.

  Minutes of the Supreme State Council

  Archon Edwina Palme Presiding

  Archona. Executive BuildingJuly 10, 1947

  MOST SECRET:

  LEVEL XIX PERSONNEL ONLY

  CHATEAU RETOUR PLANTATION,TOURAINE PROVINCEAUGUST 2, 1947

  "Mastaire, wake-up, plait," the voice said.

  Kustaa's hand darted under the pillow to touch the butt of his pistol; the Domination's 10mm service-issue but he had practiced enough to be as much at home with it he had been with the Concord .44's he carried in Sumatra. Awareness came on the heels of the movement, and he relaxed into his yawn, catching himself in time to stop his natural reflex to cover himself with a woman in the room.

  She had stepped prudently back after putting the tray on the table beside the bed, and smiled timidly at him as he sat up with another yawn and a stretch. God, it's difficult to be nonchalant with a hard-on, he thought, unconsciously glancing down at a morning erection like nothing he could remember since he was a teen-ager. Well, two months of celibacy doesn't help, he reminded himself wrly. That brought other memories, and he slapped the servant's hand aside with unnecessary violence when she followed his eyes and reached tentatively for him.

  "Sorry," he grunted, and saw confusion added to alarm as she jumped back with a cry, cradling her hand. Christ, what a bastard you can be, he thought at himself. Bad enough the momentary temptation, but to take his self-disgust out on her in anger… She's just a kid. Sixteen, he judged; slim, with long russet hair and eyes the honey-brown color of water in a forest pond blinking at him. Dressed in some sort of long knit-silk shirt to just above her knees, and a tied-off cloth belt, with sandals that strapped up her calfs.She's probably afraid of getting whipped if she doesen't lay you. The orange number-tattoo was obscenely evident behind her ear.

  Kustaa stood and let her put the caftan over his head, sat while she poured him coffee. The smell was almost intoxicating, and it was black and strong, enough to jolt him into higher gear. The room was midway up the taller square tower at the rear of the old chateau building, about ten feet by fifteen. Two tall narrow windows, one looking east over the gardens and the other north along the roofline of the new wing, with its neat black slates and the balustraded terrace at the end. A small lake beyond that… Both windows were open, letting in fresh green smells and early-morning light; it was about six, he estimated.

  I could at least have fallen in among decadent aristocrats who lolled in bed until noon, he thought grumpily. The ones who owned this estate were probably up already, working at the famous Draka fitness. No rest for the wicked, he mused sardonically. In this case, literally. The coffee finished, he accepted a glass of orange juice and began prowling about the room; it was
panelled in plain dark polished oak to thigh level, then finished in deep-blue tiles with silvergilt edges. The ceiling looked like translucent glass, probably some indirect-lighting system; the floor was jade-green marble squares, covered by an Oriental-looking rug that felt silky to his bare feet. He stopped by the east window, pointing east to a set of large striped tents half-hidden among trees, a thousand yards away.

  "What a-re those?" he grated. Not quite so exaggeratedly as he had for the Draka—it was unlikely they would compare notes with the French girl.

  "Ces?" she said, coming to stand beside him. "Pour… fo' les guests, maistre. No, how yo' say, room here fo all."

  A discreet scratching at the door; the girl answered in French and another woman entered, pushing a wheeled tray. This one middle-aged, dressed in blouse and skirt; there were razors, basins and towels on the metal-framed stand before her. With a sigh, Kustaa sank back into the chair, submitting to the routine of hot towels, a trim for hair that was growing a little shaggy by the standards of the Domination's military-style crop, a careful edging with tiny scissors at his moustache, manicure, pedicure, neck, face and scalp massage…

  The girl kept up a stream of French chatter throughout, handing tools to the older woman in an apprentice-to-master style. Kustaa waited until his face was being rubbed with some astringent cologne before he pointed a finger to the ceiling.

  "Up… there?" he said.

  "Above us, master, is the armory," the woman replied in accented but fluent English; learned pre-War, he judged. "Above that is the communications room, for telephone and radio." A jolt of excitement ran through him at the news: perfect. There had to be a communications room, every plantation had one, there was a regular schedule of calls required by the Settler Emergency Network, to make sure no uprising went long unreported. But to have it right over his head—frustration followed; here he had an English-speaking informant, a legitimate excuse for curiosity… and a cover story which kept him dumb as a post. Nor could he simply say; "Where is Sister Marya Sokolowska?"

  I can't count on having made it clean away, he thought. With returning vigor the fear was having its usual effect, sharpening wits and sight, making the world clearer and more real. Nobody can throw sixes on every roll; Lyon was far too close anyway. It's getting tight. The sub would be in place from tonight, for a full week. Waiting that long would be an invitation to disaster.

  Patience, patience, he told himself. One battle in a campaign, one campaign in a very long war. More haste less speed.

  The plantation was not a very large community; he would have breakfast, and then wander. Sooner or later he would make contact, and he would just have to hope it was soon enough. One of the things the most gung-ho officer had to keep in mind was that men were going to stop to rest, eat and take a crap every so often, whether they had orders to or not. He had slept, and now—

  "Thank you," he said to the manicurist.

  "It is nothing. Master," she said, packing away her instruments with quick, efficient movements. "My name is Annette—Tom's wife Annette, anyone will direct you—if you require anything. This young wench is Madeline; she will show you the Great House, if directed." A stern glance at Madeline, who looked meekly down at folded hands. "Although her English is not of the best, Master. Breakfast will be served on the terrace for the family for the next two hours; your servant has been directed there. Nothing more? A good morning, then, Master, and may you enjoy your stay on Chateau Retour."

  "I—will," he grated. To himself: But Chateau Retour probably will not.

  The terrace was a section of flat second-story roof at the north end of the new wing. Inside, the recent construction was still mostly empty echoing space, smelling of green concrete and strewn with ducts and wires, no break in the sweep but the occasional structural member. The far wall was stained glass; he gave the design a quick cursory glance, the usual intertwining vines and flowers the Draka were so fond of. Up under the peak of the roof, in what would be the attic crawlspace, he could see the mounts for an extensible aluminum-framed glazed shelter that would run out over the terrace in winter or bad weather. As he pushed through the swinging doors, he noticed the metal rails for more glass panels, running out along the sides; a clear wall, to make the outdoor space a greenhouse-like enclosure.

  Now it was open to heaven, a stretch of warm yellow honeycomb marble flooring, the cells separated by strips of darker stone. The edges were fringed with a balustrade of some shiny reddish stone that looked semi-transparent, carved into fretwork; the surface was big enough to seat fifty or sixty when tables were set out, not counting the space taken up by potted trees, topiaries and flowers. Six tall cast-iron lampstands held globe-lights about the perimeter in tendrils that looked suggestively like tentacles; pots of brown earthenware trailed sprays of impossibly red-purple bougainvilla. Actually quite pretty, he thought.

  Somewhere within him a puritanic Lutheran was asking where all this came from, and if he would ever find bayonet marks on the furniture from the last moments of the previous occupants. Shut it off. Show some interest, man: you're a Draka, an aristocrat, aesthetics are half your life. Plus he was what passed for a lower-class Citizen; mixing with Landholders wouldn't be all that common for him.

  He nodded appraisingly and turned in a circle, froze with his back to the north and his face turned to the stained-glass wall. The view from this side was better, much, much better. The vines ran around the border of the arched picture, and wove through the base of it. It depicted a row of crouching figures, naked human forms all enlaced about with thorn-vines and flowers no redder than the trickles of their blood; there were chains dangling from collars about their necks as well, down to pitted eyebolts in the ground. The faces… every race and age of mankind, male and female, alike only in their expressions of weary despair and endless strain.

  Across their backs, supported by shoulders and knotted hands, was the bottom of a terrestrial globe; not a solid sphere, but an openwork projection with outlines for the continents. Overlaying the world, the Dragon.

  Drakon, he thought. I've met you before, oh, yes. Whoever had done this one was a real artist, of sorts. The vast wings outspread, angled out and up in a flaring gesture; scalloped like a bat's, and colored a dull crimson that experience reminded him was almost exactly the shade of clotting blood. A skeletal ribbing supported the stretched skin, rendered in a glass halfway between black and indigo blue. Taloned feet braced against the outline of the globe, clutching symbols: a slave-manacle, the glass somehow suggesting the pebbled black surface of wrought iron, and a sheathed bushknife, the machete-sword of the Domination. The body itself was the same dead-blood red as the wings, with an underlying hint of darker color where the bones would be. Enough to suggest a starved leanness to match the eternal hunger in the yellow eye that caught at his.

  The face was a final masterwork, the bony outlines of the reptile visage curved and planed, not with any obvious mimicry of expression, yet still conveying something… a mockery that seemed to see within him and laugh at his defiance and his plans, an arrogance and cruelty vaster than worlds. Power for power's own sake, he thought, recalling the words of Naldorssen, the Draka philosopher. Power as an end, not a means. Power to crush the homes and hopes of men like him, to be used as building-rubble in this prison they called a Domination. Eternal tyranny.

  With an effort that brought sweat to his face he stopped himself from emptying his automatic into the obscene thing. Hatred he had felt before, but it had always left him feeling a little dirty; like masturbation. This hatred felt clean, as if the thing on the wall before him was something that it was truly right to hate, the thing for which the feeling of hatred had been made.

  You've been here too long and seen too much, he thought. Control, control. Then: Come on, you're a Draka, you fucking love the shitty thing.

  He turned with a cheerful smile plastered on his face. I was not cut out for clandestine ops, I truly was not. If-—when I get back, I'm going to tell Donovan to go
fuck a duck, and settle down with Aino so hard I'll grow roots like a barnacle. Re-up to Active in the Corps, even a line command, go back to university, hell, take the wife and daughter and head for the north woods and farm with Dad. His false smile turned genuine and wry. Who am I kidding? Every time I looked at Aino or the kid I'd be seeing these people here in Europe. Watting for the bomb to drop.

  The family breakfast table was in the far left corner of the terrace, with a good view over the courtyard at the north side of the chateau and the lake beyond. A few serfs were sitting at a smaller table nearby. Personal servants, he supposed, required to be on call at all times. They rose and bowed to him, the hands-over-eyes gesture that always set his teeth on edge. Two caught his eye. One was a pretty colored girl who looked like a mulatto, with a mandolin propped beside her, and a smile that seemed genuine. The other was a Frenchwoman; her brief flicker of the lips had all the warmth of February in Minnesota, but her looks were enough to stop him an instant in midstride. God, what a mantrap, he thought. That brought a chill, as he considered what it probably meant to her life. No wonder the poor bitch looks depressed.

  He seated himself where the house-servant indicated; the table was set for seven, with plenty of room, and he was the first there. Folded newspapers beside five of the plates, with neat stacks of mail on top for four, those must be the resident adults. He unfolded the paper, grateful for its cover, remembered Aino scowling at him while he hid behind it over the breakfast table at home. Some men like to talk in the morning, some don't, he'd said. Me, I like to chew my way through the sports section while I eat. Hands filled his coffee cup, began piling his plate. Little fluffy omelets stuffed with herbs and cheese, smoke-cured bacon and sausages, grits with butter, hot croissants… Kustaa waved them to a halt, propped up the paper and began methodically fueling himself.