But the Cyclops wasn’t through, and said neutrally, “Is the alert of three, that is three autos, confirmed arriving at—”
“Acknowledged,” Victorine almost shouted the code word to shut Cyclops up.
“He’s such a drimp,” Dancy said impishly. Then she took her mother’s hands. “Don’t worry, Mother. I know this is upsetting, because the commissar trolls are sneaking in and not telling you anything. But I know that the Lord protects us, always, and I believe that now He’ll be especially watching out for you.”
Victorine stared down at her daughter, this woman-child with her flashes of knowledge that surely were not borne of human intelligence. It seemed that Dancy had been doing, seeing, knowing this kind of thing often. But Victorine knew this wasn’t the time to contemplate her daughter’s psyche, so she took a deep breath, nodded, and made herself relax. “I love you, Dancy. You’re a treasure. All right, are we ready? Let’s go down and do our curtsies.”
“What’s that?” Dancy asked curiously.
“You don’t need to know,” Victorine answered calmly. “And by the way, stop calling them trolls. It’s going to jump out of your mouth in front of a high commissar one day, and we might just find ourselves in a mud hut in the Fargo, North Dakota, co-op. And I mean you, too, Mother.”
“That’s not what I call them. That’s nicer than what I call them,” Tessa Kai muttered under her breath, but Victorine chose to ignore her.
Victorine’s unit was on the top corner, a luxurious penthouse condominium that her father had left her. Together, she and her mother had bought the other top corner unit for Tessa Kai after Victor’s death eleven years ago. It had taken almost all of Tessa’s and Victorine’s cash after settling Victor’s estate, but it was a necessity. The MAB Project Fourth Directorate, which managed the Gulf Coastal Plain Biome that included all of Florida, had put a time limit on private purchase of any housing on the beach that was to expire the same year that Victor died. If they hadn’t bought the condo for Tessa Kai, she would have been assigned to a co-op, probably Miami. Then they worried about how to support themselves, when all beach areas, including the keys, were being brought into MAB compliance—which meant moving the humans out.
Victorine, through a year of hard study and apprenticeship work and sheer stubbornness, had taught herself how to manage a condominium, and had secured a position as a Diversionary Facility Hospitality Manager for the Fourth Directorate. She had been the guiding force behind getting their condominiums, the Summer Sea, in first-class shape so that they were designated as suitable for high commissars, MAB ministers, and high government officials.
Her exalted title was deceiving, however, for Victorine did everything from maid work to interior decorating to grounds maintenance to inventing impromptu cafés and doing the cooking, too. But Tessa Kai helped a lot with that, and Dancy was a quick and efficient maid, though, like most teenagers, she had to be prodded quite a bit to help out when Victorine got overwhelmed. All three of them were grateful to have the work, because it meant that they were some of the very few people who actually got to continue living on the beach, and were even allowed to keep their own homes.
Now they went to the outside scenic elevator, a glass cylinder that floated down the center of the building and offered a panoramic view of the bay just across the street from the beach. Victorine smoothed her hair again, made sure that all two dozen tiny fabric-covered buttons of her tunic were done, checked to see that her shoes weren’t dusty, took a deep breath, and moved to the front of the elevator to look down at the arriving guests.
The cars, though electrically powered as all vehicles were now, were a vintage design: long, sleek black limousines with black-tinted windows. They sat in a row, directly in front of the building, as if in a phalanx. Then, as Victorine watched, the doors came open on all three cars and people began getting out. Victorine’s eyes widened, and then she frowned. She had been expecting Alia Silverthorne with her friend Dr. Niklas Kesteven, and maybe a larger-than-usual contingent of commissars. Unconsciously, she touched her hair again; Dr. Kesteven, the first time he had come with Commissar Silverthorne, had impudently stroked her hair and murmured something about how thick and beautiful it was. Alia Silverthorne, who sported the man-cut of all women commissars, had shot Victorine a look of pure menace. She’d resented Victorine ever since, and never bothered to hide her dislike.
But Victorine forgot about the wolfish Dr. Kesteven. Alia Silverthorne was, of course, here, with a full twelve-man squad of commissars. In the second car a man, dressed in a dark suit and wearing dark glasses, was helping a lady out. The woman, whom Victorine assessed only quickly, was dressed in flowing white. It was the third limousine that worried Victorine.
Six German soldiers had poured out of it. They stood facing into the light sea wind, as if at attention, staring up at the elevator as it descended. Hastily Victorine stepped back, which was silly, since the entire elevator was glass and they could see all occupants perfectly well, no matter where they stood.
Turning to Dancy, Victorine felt a small frisson of fear. They had only rarely had German military men stay at the condos, and then only one or two at a time, as guests of some chief or second minister, usually. But Victorine’s experience with them wasn’t very reassuring. Besides being arrogant, they seemed to treat women— perhaps it was American women—with a marked lack of respect.
Even though Victorine was thirty-eight and thought that she looked and dressed as if she were fifty-eight, they still leered at her and made crude remarks when she walked by them. True, most of the time they made their vulgar jokes in German, but Victorine understood German, because she’d studied it for fun, as she had accumulated much knowledge. She didn’t actually speak German because she’d never practiced. But she could understand it well enough to recognize lewd comments. Now she cringed inwardly as she stared at her young, innocent daughter. Dancy was like a flower in delicate first bloom, with clear blue eyes and thick sandy-gold hair and girlish curves.
Victorine put two fingers under Dancy’s chin and lifted her face. Keeping her voice calm and neutral, she said, “Dancy, when you are introduced, keep your eyes down. Don’t look the German men in the eye, don’t smile directly at them. Just nod and smile in a very general way. Do you understand?”
Dancy smiled up at her mother, a sweet but knowing smile. “Better than you think, Mother. Don’t worry, I won’t flirt.”
“I’m serious, Dancy.”
“I know. I promise; it’ll be all right.”
Victorine had to be content with that.
The elevator floated to a stop, and Alia marched forward to stand in front of her squad, her jaw square, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “Thayer, I hope your preparations are adequate. These are important guests, and will require very special attention.”
“I’m certain we can make them comfortable, and competently attend to everyone’s needs, My Commissar,” Victorine said smoothly.
“Better be more than competent. You better be real good, Thayer,” Alia grunted. “Now, the scenic elevators hold six? The inside ones twelve?”
“Yes.”
Alia turned and went to the couple, who were standing with two Germans. They all returned to the scenic elevator.
As they neared, Victorine received another shock. She hadn’t looked too closely at the couple, as she had been worrying about the Germans. But now, as they neared, she recognized them.
The man was Aristide Luca Therion, the vice president of the United States. The woman was Minden Lauer, the Lady of Light, the leader of Earth’s Light. Victorine’s indrawn breath was ragged. Behind her, her mother and daughter were whispering furiously. Victorine hoped they would be quiet and circumspect; obviously this was some sort of secret meeting, and she was certain that the vice president didn’t want to be remarked upon under the circumstances.
It did seem that was the case, at first. Alia walked by and took her station in the elevator, her head moving around alertly, as
if on lookout. The vice president followed her without a glance at Victorine or her mother and Dancy.
But the lady in white hesitated.
She was Minden Lauer, no doubt about it. She was wearing an ankle-length white sheath of three filmy layers, with white shoes. A long white scarf was draped over her silvery hair and wrapped around her elegantly long neck. The long ends of the scarf, as filmy and insubstantial as ghosts, floated in the gentle breeze behind her. She wore large dark glasses with white square rims. What little of her face showed was perfect, however, with her trademark translucent skin and a perfect wide bow of a pink mouth. She stopped, and Victorine couldn’t tell what she was looking at behind the dark glasses.
Without speaking to Victorine, Minden glided past her and came to stand directly in front of Dancy. Victorine’s heart plummeted with fear, though she was unsure why. She whirled, saw that Tessa Kai had a decidedly disgruntled look on her face, and gave her mother a severe frown-warning. Tessa Kai almost, but not quite, made a face at her in return. But she said nothing.
It didn’t matter, however, as Minden completely ignored Victorine and Tessa Kai. They might not have even been standing there.
Long, elegant fingers, the perfect oval nails painted a delicate shell-pink, caressed Dancy’s face, and she looked up, narrowing her eyes a little against the bright morning sun. “What a lovely child,” Minden murmured. “What is your name, little water sprite?”
Dancy swallowed hard, but her voice was calm. “Dancy Flynn Thayer, ma’am.”
Minden laughed, a tinkling bell sound lost on the wind. “How quaint! ‘Ma’am.’ Most people don’t use that word much anymore, Dancy. And most people call me ‘My Lady.’”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dancy murmured, bemused. “I mean, My Lady.”
Minden, her fingers still on Dancy’s cheeks, stared down at her. She was motionless, and Dancy obediently kept her face upturned, unflinchingly staring into the dark glasses, which only mirrored her face.
Finally Minden spoke again, in a voice so low that Victorine almost couldn’t hear. “Dancy Flynn Thayer . . . you haven’t joined us in Earth’s Light, have you, darling? No, I can see you haven’t . . . but you must, Dancy. Because you’re special, aren’t you?”
Dancy said nothing.
Minden nodded once, affirming herself. “Here, I want you to have this. It’s so much better than that old one you have . . .” She untied the scarf from around her neck, then with a graceful movement, pulled it free. It fluttered, flying high above her head, and she held it out to Dancy.
For one moment Victorine was horribly afraid that Dancy would refuse it, but finally Dancy reached out slowly and took the long white piece of the most delicate of silks. “Thank you, ma’am. I mean My Lady.”
Minden smiled again, then said, “You, Dancy, may call me Minden. I’ll see you again soon, won’t I? Good.”
Serenely she floated into the elevator, where the vice president of the United States and two severe-looking German soldiers waited patiently for her to play out her surreal scene. Victorine, feeling as if she’d received a stunning blow to her head that had numbed her brain, stepped woodenly onto the elevator and mumbled, “Six.”
The elevator rose, and no one spoke a word. But Minden Lauer turned and leaned far over to wave at Dancy’s tiny little form far below.
TEN
OBERSTLEUTNANT RAND VON DRACHSTEDT eyed the twenty-eight dripping candles with narrowed, almost colorless hazel-brown eyes. Raising his fine crystal goblet to his lips, he took a small sip of burgundy to hide a contemptuous smile. A perfect symbol of the American weak mind . . . They shudder in horror at misusing the earth’s natural resources, while burning pure beeswax candles simply for ostentation . . .
The German colonel, a craggy, severe man of fifty, deliberately shut out his dinner companions’ light laughter and polite conversation that would last until the hospitality manager and her assistant cleared away the remnants of the evening meal. Rising, he moved to the great expanse of glass that viewed the Gulf of Mexico. No outside lights burned, so he couldn’t see the gentle surf below. He listened to the rhythmic cresting of waves with their withdrawal echoes. Drachstedt disliked the sea. Born in the dark and fir-scented shadows of the Black Forest, the sea was alien to him, and therefore hostile. He much preferred impenetrable depths of misted woodlands, or soaring mountains and stringent air and the bite of snow. This lazy semitropical paradise, to him, was uncomfortably warm, the humid air oppressive and somehow decadent.
Turning, he made slight adjustments to his evening dress uniform so that it would be perfect. My commandant is a shrewd man, he reflected proudly. General Tor von Eisenhalt had ordained new uniforms for the Joint Task Forces of the Germanic Union of Nation-States. That was just a nice-sounding euphemism for the combined military of seven countries that represented the mightiest armed forces the world had ever seen.
A lilting voice, full of laughter, interrupted his reverie. “Colonel Drachstedt, you must convey my compliments to my kinsman Tor for his choice in the Joint Task Force military uniform,” Minden Lauer said. “Oh, they are so handsome, so dashing. So much more striking than American military uniforms.”
She’s never seen it before, Drachstedt thought with grim amusement. No one, except obscure military historians, perhaps, and they are nearly extinct!—would recognize it.
Then Drachstedt was taken aback for a moment. He thought he saw the serving woman—what was her name? Victoria? The Thayer woman looked shocked at Minden’s bubbly foolishness. And did she give the Germans a quick glance of recognition, of comprehension? Surely not, she looks so—normal. She must be like all the rest of these fat slugs of Americans . . . sitting in front of their Cyclops, their brains turning to gray slush . . . She couldn’t possibly recognize the uniform, or make the connection . . . Drachstedt dismissed the “serving woman” from his mind.
The uniform was distinctive. The cap was visored, and still all men—even Commandant Tor von Eisenhalt—took out the rigid crown spring and crumpled the cap. The uniforms were olive drab, the gray-green color of lichen. The jacket was a tunic, with a wide leather belt and a shoulder strap. The tunic had front flap pockets, with discreet collar insignia and cuff flashes and shoulder boards. Tor had, without comment or explanation, decreed that a dagger, a plain silver one with brown leather scabbard, be an integral part of the uniform. Drachstedt and his men, in evening dress, wore the dagger suspended from a silver ring at their left tunic pocket instead of on their left side, at their belt. The breeches were jodhpurs, and the footwear was knee-high black jackboots.
Only the red armband with the black broken cross was missing.
Hitler was a madman, Drachstedt reflected bitterly, turning to the darkness again. But Tor von Eisenhalt is not. It was wise of him to give us these uniforms, an unmistakable identification with the fatherland, a defiant reminder that we are still a proud people, and that not all German leaders are deluded egomaniacs . . . But I would be willing to bet that no one in America ever has, or ever will, connect this dress to those long-ago, long-forgotten fallen millions of the Waffen S.S. . . .
He turned slightly to survey the room. It was a combination kitchen, dining, and living area; large, he supposed, for the cramped quarters that Americans had built so extensively in the last century on their beaches. It seemed small and suffocatingly severe to him. Drachstedt hated the angular and hard-edged modern furniture of black, silver, and glass. The dining table, where his dinner companions still sat as the serving women cleared, was a long, glaring expanse of glass, with uncomfortable black minimalist chairs. Drachstedt preferred a long-lost, almost forgotten style of the burnished gleam of wood and dull, aged brass and heavy brocades and luxuriant lines. For such an ascetic man, his taste in rooms and furnishings was quite baroque.
The colonel noted, with approval, his two bodyguards, hard-edged, silent men, formerly of the grim Kommandos Spezialkréfte, standing in the shadows. Though they took care to remain—in physical distanc
e and in demeanor—removed from the principals, Drachstedt could see the vigilance in their stances and in their eyes as they swept the room, the doors, the windows, assessing and watching him and his assistant, Oberleutnant Jager Dorn, continuously. They were professionals, men to be depended upon, guardians who would gladly die for Commandant Tor von Eisenhalt. As their commandant had ordered them to be ready to die for Oberstleutnant Rand von Drachstedt or Oberleutnant Jager Dorn, Drachstedt knew that nothing would touch him or his assistant as long as these two grim soldiers lived.
With disdain he glanced at the vice president’s bodyguards, the commissars. The two men and the woman were careless in their watch, too avidly listening to the conversations, too interested in the food and drink and party. The woman—Commissar Alia Silverthorne—was more guarded and professional than the two men, Drachstedt begrudgingly admitted to himself. However, she was the team leader, so the two male commissars were under her authority, and therefore their shortcomings were her shortcomings. They slouched against the wall behind the vice president and his woman, grinning at jokes, sometimes even impudently laughing out loud, talking in low voices to each other, both of them obviously smitten with Minden Lauer. Minden continually gave them barely hidden seductive glances and slyly made delicate gestures of inclusion toward them.
Again the colonel took a sip of the rich burgundy wine to disguise his contempt. Distilled to its finest essence, his judgment of the vice president of the United States of America and his consort, the Lady of Light, Minden Lauer, was this: Fools.
“I am a soldier, and I am a simple man,” Drachstedt stated. “Normally, I don’t serve as a diplomat, or an adviser, to men such as you, Mr. Therion. My only credentials to offer you are that I have been fortunate enough to be in service to both Count von Eisenhalt and Commandant von Eisenhalt for many years. They entrusted me with so important a mission as to serve you and your country in this matter. I hope that will be sufficient reference for you to trust me and, of course, my aide-de-camp, Oberleutnant Dorn.”
The Beginning of Sorrows Page 15