"Destiny is what we make it.Service to the State!"
The guests came to their feet in a sustained roar.
"Glory to the Race!" It crashed out like thunder, broke into a spontaneous chant that lasted for minutes before dying out into self-conscious laughter and a rising buzz of conversation once more.
Short and to the point, Kustaa thought behind his grin, looking up at the lights in the upper room of the tower. Let's see how you like being on the receiving end, you evil old bastard. He had a perfect excuse, too. One hour more, and he could call. He rose, bowed to the center of the head table. Tanya von Shrakenberg's head came up, and returned the gesture with a wave.
"A good evenin' to yo', Mr. Kenston," she said. "Just tellin' Uncle Karl here that he should go into politics, but some things are even mo' urgent, eh?" Slyly: "And don't let her convert yo'."
Good-natured laughter followed him. He smiled, nodded as he walked toward the glass wall on the inner side of the terrace. For a moment he halted beneath, stared up at the glowing backlit shape of the Drakon. Fuck you, snake, he thought, and pushed through. Behind him, the lambent yellow eyes stared sightless out over the darkened fields.
The sounds of the waters outside her hull were the loudest things that could be heard in the control center of the Benito Juarez. Whale-song, mysterious clicks and pings and creaks. Occasionally the distant throbbing of engines, once or twice the hard ringing of a sound-detection scanner.
"2100," the horse-faced OSS controller said.
The captain nodded to a tech-5 at a console. "Up buoy, stand by to monitor," he said softly. Theoretically a normal speaking voice was no threat, but pigboaters had a superstitious reverence for "silent running," and the attitude of mind was one valuable enough to encourage. The man nodded, depressed a switch.
Guzman strained his ears, but only imagination could supply the sound of the float inflating, rising out through the flooded hatchcover, rising with its spool of wire paying out carefully behind. Breaking surface with an inaudible splash, invisibly black against black water, no more metal than the cable itself and so near-invisible to electrodetectors, nothing for their microwaves to reflect from. Not much risk; the quick throbbing of destroyer screws had not been heard since they settled to the bottom.
The radio operator clamped on his headset, twisted dials. Time passed; Guzman brought out a stick of mint-flavored chicle, offered it to the agent, grinned to himself as the man refused with a repressed shudder. Not a gringo custom, but more comfortable for a submariner than tobacco; although he had to admire the way the yanqui waited without a twitch as the minutes dragged, most of the bridge watch were fidgeting and glaring at the unfortunate able-seaman like buzzards around a dying donkey. The captain himself planned to turn in as usual when his watch ended; this would be the first vigil of many.
Time passed. Guzman looked at his watch: 21:15. Ten more minutes until—
"Contact," the radioman whispered. "Contact on the assigned frequency, sir."
The OSS man crossed to the radioman's seat in two strides, took the headphones and listened; his face was still impassive, but the blue lights glistened across the wet skin of his forehead. His right hand went out, and the operator shoved the pad and pencil beneath it. He jotted without looking down, waited.
"They're repeating," he said. "Prepare to send confirmation."
The operator looked up at Guzman, unconsciously touching his tongue to his lip. The dark officer took the wad of chicle out between thumb and forefinger, considered it for an instant. Now; the danger began. The jaguar is in the jungle, he thought.
"Do it, sailor," he said calmly, and replaced it, chewing stolidly.
The OSS man took the microphone, spoke slowly and distinctly. "The caa is in the paaak," he said, just once. A slow smile spread over his mouth as he looked up at Guzman.
"Two men and a treasure-chest coming back, Captain," he said in his nasal Bay State twang.
Guzman surprised himself; he saluted, and took the agent's hand. "He is a man, that one," he said quietly; then thought of this dry stick of a spy flying low and slow up the Loire, over the Domination's defenses, landing with nothing more than a sidearm and risking capture by a people to whom mercy was scarcely even a word. "And so are you."
To the exec: "Number two, maintain silent running drill; all hands to action stations, prepare to take her up." Ten minutes on the surface, to unpack and launch the bird. Two hours waiting at periscope depth for the return, and then the hideous risk of a radio beacon. We're all going to be, he thought. Or dead.
"Nobody here!" Solange sang, as she and Yasmin came out onto the terrace. The lights had been extinguished and the tables stripped; shadows washed across the yellow marble of the floor, and the air had begun to take on the cool spicy smell of late night in the dog days of summer. The Frenchwoman sang again, a wordless trill, and danced out into the open space, whirling the other serf by the hands until she pulled them to a halt, laughing herself in dizzy protest.
"They loved us, me, wheee!" Solange sang again, giggling. "Did you hear them applaud, did you see their faces. Mistress says I'll be in demand for appearances all up and down the river, maybe she'll even send me to the city for more training, maybe even to Archona, and they'll make recordings." She spun, arms high. "And I'll perform before the Archon, and people will offer Mistress millions for me and she'll laugh at them!"
"Solange, honeybunch, yo' drunk an' on more than wine 'n smoke. Calm down, maybeso it happen that way an' maybeso no—mmmmmmph!"
Solange had stopped her mouth with a kiss, and when she released her Yasmin was laughing again herself.
"That nice," she said. "But I've got anothah engagement, Solange-darlin", an' he impatient. See yo''t'morrow, and doan' dance the whole night away."
Yasmin left, and Solange laughed more quietly; she began dancing by herself, singing wordlessly under her breath, until she saw the glow of a cigarette-tip by the far end of the terrace, froze for a moment, then walked forward swaying toward the white outline of Tanya's gown.
"Don't let me stop the celebratin'," the Draka said. "You deserved it, Solange." She was leaning back against the angle where the head table met its neighbors, one hand under the other arm and the free fingers holding the cigarette. "I really may look into that trainin', that voice deserves to live."
"It was all for you, Mistress," Solange crooned softly, when they were at arm's length. "I was doing it all for you, couldn't you see it? I could feel your eyes on me, warm like hands." Her own eyes were wide, the pupils swollen until the violet color was a rim around pools of black, her voice slurred and husky. "Everything I am and do is yours, mistress. Everything."
Very true, Tanya thought happily. But still nice to have it so enthusiastically volunteered. The serfs swaying made her platinum sheath quiver in the night like a candle-flame of moonlight. You are a treasure Solange, an absolute treasure. She smiled, shivering slightly at the expression in the other's eyes, abasement and exaltation. So much beauty, so much intelligence and talent and skill, and you are mine.
"Oh, mistress, you give me so much, make me so happy," the serf said. "How can I thank—oh!" She giggled again. "Don't move, mistress, stay right there, I know just the thing." She skittered off, returned in an instant with a cushion from one of the chairs, dropped it at Tanya's feet.
"A cushion?" Tanya said. Solange was playfully crazy even when sober, but wild on wine and kif…
"Mais non, the cushion is for me, mistress, these flags are hard." Her open mouth was moist as she leaned forward to press a quick kiss on her owner's, and she smiled slyly as she dropped to her knees on the padded cloth. "I am for you, Tanya."
The Draka looked around for a moment to make sure they were truly private; it was dark… Hell with it, she decided. Why not. The cigarette made a minor meteor as she flicked it away over the railing and leaned back, resting her weight on her palms. There goes my little half-hour chat with Tantie Sannie about the trials of childbirth, oh well, tomorrow
. She let her head loll upward; that brought the dim light of the tower's highest room to view.
Damnation, she thought with a frown, as Solange lifted the fabric of her skirt and tucked the front hem neatly into her belt.We are visible from the radio room. Not that that would bother her normally; serfs did not count much when it came to privacy, but Jules Lebrun was up there tonight, and making him watch this would be the sort of pointless cruelty she despised.
Tanya looked down; Solange was rolling down her left stocking with elaborate slowness, planting light kisses on the leg as it was exposed. The soft moist sensation was unbearable, and the singer was humming as she worked. On the other hand, he can always look out the other window at the pavilions.
"God, I though't I'd never get away," Kustaa muttered as he pushed in from the tube-like spiral stairwell; the efforts of the other partygoers to make the cripple feel wanted had been as entangling as glue-covered bunji cords. The radio-room door was a blank steel sheet like the armory one story below, but not locked in the normal course of things. He halted outside the panel; there was a murmur of voices from within. According to plan, then.
The American halted, drew his automatic and took in a deep breath. A glance at his watch: 23:30, right after the plantation's scheduled call-in, no alarm until the next was missed in four hours. The stairwell was redolent of old stone, with a faint underlying tang of ozone from the electronic equipment within; cables in metal conduits ran up the walls beside him, new metal and brackets drilled and bolted to the ancient tufa ashlars. This was the turning-point, the step that could not be taken back. He shook his head; that was cowardice speaking, as stupidly as it always did, the desire to buy safety for a few more hours or days at the expense of real escape after a brief risk. He firmed his lips and pushed open the door.
A square room, the size of his bedroom. Brightly lit, naked overhead fluorescent tubes. Small square windows facing east and north. Metal tables bolted to the walls, and banks of equipment: telephone switchboard, short-wave set, teletype. Five people: Ernst and Jules sitting stony-faced over a chessboard, Sister Marya, Chantal—what in God's name is she doing here—a nameless ordinary-looking serf with his back to the door, sitting in a swivel-chair and speaking to the nun.
"I know the visitor's boy is authorized up here to play chess with Jules, Sister, but you and the other lady will have to—"
"Don't look around," Kustaa said in French, in the flat emotionless voice that intimidated so much better than screaming. His hand had locked in the serfs hair, drawing his head to one side until the muscles creaked. The agent reached around to waggle the muzzle of the automatic in front of his eyes, just in case, then put it in his ear.
"One sound and you're all dead," he said for the watch-stander's benefit. "Down on the floor, hands behind your heads, move. Not you," he added, checking a scrambling movement to exit the chair and the hard cold metal grinding into an ear.
"Don't kill me," the man blubbered, but enough in control not to shout. "Please, Master, I'll—"
"This is the Resistance," Kustaa said. The man started violently.
"Oh, God, no, please, go away, you'll get us all killed, they'll impale us all, our families, please—"
"Shut up." You never knew what twisted paths courage might take, even in a rabbit like this. "I'm going to let go your hair. Keep your head pointed the same way or I'll blow your brains all over the wall."
Trembling silence, while Kustaa unclenched his left hand from the man's scalp and used it to pull the hypodermic from his pocket. The serf started once when the American plunged it home, then slumped.
"Out for hours," he said, as Marya rose and scrambled across to lay the man straight and peel back an eyelid for a check. The agent tossed her a roll of adhesive tape, and she began to bind the unconscious form, hands and ankles, strips across mouth and eyes. Kustaa dropped the hypo by his side. It was Domination-standard with his own fingerprints on it. All that should spare the bystander from anything too gruesome; serfs were expected to surrender meekly to force. If not…
Toughski shitski, as they say in the Polish Marines, Kustaa thought, gleeful under the hammering pulse of action. His movements were crisp and controlled as he sat before the shortwave set.
"What the hell is she doing here, Sister?" he asked as he turned the dials, calling up the settings before the eye of memory. His head jerked towards Chantal, as he set pistol the pistol by his right hand and propped the battle-shotgun by the chair.
"She is with us," the nun said, rising and coming to lean beside him. Swiftly and very quietly, in German: "She is the communist from my cell; she saw us together and guessed what you are. Be careful, we must get her to the cave, the master has been forcing her and she is pregnant and it has driven her… wild, she thinks you can take her out and will not listen to reason."
"English or French!" Chantal hissed. "Don't think I'm stupid. If I suspect you, I will scream."
The settings were as correct as he could make them, and this was a big military-issue set, powerful enough to punch messages across continents. He took up the microphone, giving the young Frenchwoman a single hard glance. Par for the course, always something to fuck up at the last minute, he thought. There was a certain detached pity in it, the girl looked close to the edge, but… Mission first, buddies second, your own ass third and bystanders a distant fourth, he quoted to himself, the unofficial rule-of-engagement the Marine assault battalions had operated by.
"Break, four-seven, four-seven," he began, repeating it half a dozen times. You had to believe they were listening, that no electromagnetic freak was damping it out so that they got static and a ham operator in Patagonia picked it up loud and clear.
"This is loganberry"—Donovan's perverse sense of humor again—"loganberry, with a friend, repeat, with a friend and a Christmas package. A package as big as two loganberries." The extraction aircraft wasn't very fast, but at least they'd factored in a wide margin on lift. "Co-ordinates follow." He read them off. "A grassy path bordered by light, repeat, a grassy path bordered by light." Let whoever they'd sent wonder how he'd gotten a marked runway for them. "Over."
He lifted his thumb from the send button and waited, suddenly conscious of sweat soaking his cotton jacket beneath the arms, crawling greasily out from around the rim of his hair; a hand squeezing up under his lungs. One broadcast might not catch some monitor's attention, but…
Hiss. Crackle. Wavering hints of words, spillover, this was close to a commercial frequency, an unused bit of bandwidth in a crowded neighborhood. Then: "The caa is in the paaak."
Kustaa grunted in sheer relief, suppressed euphoria; this was no time for it. He pulled out the yellow-edged Pan-Domination Map for the region, confirmed his earlier estimate. "ETA, not long, it's a good little aircraft," he said. "Hit that light."
He looked up, saw that the northern window that overlooked the terrace was shuttered, the one the Resistance people could see through the periscope. "What the fuck—sorry. Sister."
"I have heard soldiers before, Frederick," she said, rising to open it and giving Jules Lebrun's shoulder a silent squeeze on the way. "This is a battle."
The lights flickered three times, three times again. "Now, let's go—" he began, rising.
And there was a scream from the door, long and loud. Kustaa whipped around so quickly that the swivel-chair nearly dumped him on the floor, time slowing like treacle as he clawed up the pistol and staggered into some imitation of a crouch. The singer, the one from the banquet, standing in the doorway in some sort of pajama outfit, eyes wide and drawing breath to scream again. Chantal directly in his line of fire. His own legs driving, throwing him to one side, left hand slapping out for a breakfall, too late too late—
"Get the fuck out of the way!" he yelled, trying to get off one shot, but the girl was collapsing backwards; Chantal was standing with her mouth an O of surprise.
The face vanished as the girl threw herself back; there had been only the single scream, but he could hear the
sound of tumbling and running footsteps going down that narrow stone corkscrew. God, a single woman's scream is nothing here, if she just goes to ground we can still make it—
"Quickly," Marya said. "Quickly, she will go straight to the mistress, quickly."
"Three lights!" Henri said, and slapped up the handles of the periscope. Ybarra and Jean sprang to their feet and snatched up their sacks. "You two, down to the cars; I'll get the lights. Allans, mes enfants!"
There was a smile on Henri's face as he led the charge out the opened door of the shelter, and up the short length of runnel, and hurtled the green steel box they had placed on the lip where excavation met pavement. It would be quicker to load that way, and besides, being in the same room with it made even Henri nervous.
Moaning, Solange rumbled out of the stairwell into a main corridor; it was dimly lit, and for a moment she nearly screamed again, in panic at not knowing where she was. Blood was trickling salt-musky from her nose, and one eye was almost swollen shut where her fall had driven her face against the stone. She moaned again, seeing the horror of the room, the man bound, the gun coming up toward her, its black pit turning toward her, and father sitting there, looking at her, doing nothing while the gun came up to kill her, kill her…
She shook her head, whimpered at the pain but almost welcomed it as her thoughts cleared. Tanya, she must get to Tanya at once, get out of this nightmare, get to safety. Hugging her bruised arm to her side, she limped down the corridor, tears of pain running down through the sheeted blood on her face, not conscious of speaking aloud.
"My God, Poppa, how could you, how could you betray me again, Poppa, Tanya help me, everything was so nice, Poppa, why did you spoil it—"
Under the Yoke Page 43