The Stone Dogs

by S. M. Stirling

  Five hectares; the von Shrakenbergs had arrived early, and kept wealth and power enough to preserve what they took. A slope, on the southern side of the basin that had sheltered the original city. Generations of labor had turned the stony ground into a fantasia of terraces and tiled pools, fountains, patios. Native silverleaf and yellowwood, imported oaks and paper birch towered to give shade, and the high wall that surrounded the estate was a shape beneath mounds of rose and wisteria. The car soughed to a halt before the main entrance.

  "Why are we bothering?" her assistant said, as they emerged into the dazzle of sunlight, then gratefully forward into the shade of a huge oak.

  Gayner flicked her wrists forward to settle the lace, adjusted her gunbelt. "It's like dancin', Charlie," she said flatly. "Yo' have't' ' git through the steps. Speakin' a' which—"

  The half-moon of the drive was fronted by a last stretch of rock-garden, with topiaries in pots. The stairway ran up the middle of it, polished native granite casting sun-flecks back at them; dark foreshortened strips of shade lay slanting across it, from the Lombardy poplars along the edges. Servants came forward as they disembarked, one to show the driver the way to the garages; two more knelt smoothly to offer glasses on trays.

  Gayner looked down at them, holding her gloves in her right hand and tapping them into her left. Wenches, a matched set; about nineteen, their movements as gracefully polished as the silver and crystal in their hands. One an ash-blond Baltic type, the other the gunmetal black of a Ceylonese Tamil, both in tunics of colorful dashiki, hand-embroidered cotton from the Zanzibar coasts.

  The two Draka took the wine and poured out ceremonial drops before sipping. The aide's eyebrows rose. "Constantia," he said.

  Sweet, with a lingering aroma as of flowers. Priceless; there was only one estate which produced it, down in the Western Cape province, and that was preserved as a historical landmark by the Land Settlement Directorate. Gayner smiled grimly as she replaced the glass; it was all faultless Old Domination manners, emphasizing that they were guests of the house. The finest of welcoming cups, presented with art… but no Citizen to greet them, subtly reminding her of status. Von Shrakenberg was a senator, she merely a committee-head of the House of Assembly. He a retired Strategos, a paratrooper four times decorated, while her military service had been with the Security Directorate. Her family moderately obscure Combine execs and bureaucrats, descended from rank-and-file Confederate refugees; his among the oldest in the Domination. The von Shrakenbergs had been mercenaries in British service during the American Revolution, and they had arrived in the then Crown Colony of Dralda with the first wave of Loyalist refugees. And every generation since had produced a leader, in war or politics or the arts.

  "Up," she said to the serfs. They rose with boneless grace and led the way, up the steps and into the colonnaded veranda, into the cool shade past the ebony doors. A house-steward bowed them in; he was elderly, a dark-brown man with a staff of office that he had probably borne for thirty years. Estate-bred, she decided; he had the look common in the southern Police Zone.

  "Mistis, Mastah," he said, with a deferential smile. "My Masta bids yo'z free of his house. Does yo' wish to be shown to the reception room at once, oah is there anythin' yo' desire first? Rest, refreshments?"

  "No," she said dryly. "It's excellent wine, but we didn't come here to drink." Tempting to keep the senator waiting, but childish. Nor did she wish more conversation with this relentlessly polite serf, who spoke far too much like a Citizen for her taste.

  He bowed again. "A case has been sent to yo' cah, Mistis… This way, if it please."

  Through rooms and courtyards, up a spiral staircase. Portrait-busts in niches, von Shrakenberg ancestors from the time of the Land-Taking on.

  Dead men, she thought flatly. All long dead; as useful as a plantation-hand's fetish.

  Or perhaps not. Dead as human beings able to help or harm; powerfully alive as myths. The question being, is von Shrakenberg using the myths or being used?

  The upper corridor ran the length of the building, glassed at both ends, with a strip of skylight above. The steward swung the door wide, stepped in to announce them.

  "My Mastah, the Honorable Louise Gayner, Representative for Boma-North," he said. "Centurion Charles McReady, of the Directorate of Security."

  "Gayner," Eric said.

  They had met often enough at official functions that no more was necessary. She was a slight woman, a decade younger than he. Reddish-brown hair, hazel eyes, a sharp-featured foxy face, freckled and with a pallor that spoke of a life spent indoors. Nothing soft in her stance, though; she had the sort of wiry build that always seemed to quiver on the brink of motion. Dressed with almost ostentatious plainness in pale-green linen, no more than a single stickpin in her cravat. A statement, in a way; so was the gun. Not an ornamental dress weapon. A Virkin custom job, worn higher-slung than usual and canted forward in a cutaway holster, the molded grip polished with use. A duelist's weapon, and the four tiny gold stars set into the crackle-finished black metal of the slide were a reminder of the ultimate argument in Draka politics.

  Well, I'm not the only one who can deliver a hint, he thought with self-mockery, rising to grip forearms.

  "Von Shrakenberg," she replied. "Kind of yo''t' make time fo' me, Senator."

  Did I always dislike that Angolan accent? It was ugly, a nasal rasp under the usual soft-mouth drawl of the Domination's dialect of English… but that might be subconscious transference from the decade they had spent in political sparring.

  "No trouble at all," he said.

  Which was true enough; VTOL aircars cut the commuting time to his family's plantation to less than an hour. Not like the old days… ox-wagons then, a once-a-year trip. Moving the capital here from Capetown had been the first of the notorious Draka faits accomplis; the British Governor-General had protested all the long wagon-journey through the mountains of the Cape and across the high-veldt plateau. Unavailing protests, since the local Legislative Assembly held the power of the purse, a purse England needed desperately while locked in its death-struggle with Napoleon.

  The two leaders' aides were laying out papers, treating each other with rather less courtesy than their elders. Eric watched in amusement as they bristled; his assistant was visibly looking down her well-bred nose, and the Security officer responded… exactly as you'd expect, the senator thought. He looked to be the sort of thug-intellectual the headhunters usually recruited, anyway.

  "About the legislative docket—" Eric began, and halted as the doors swung open again.

  "Oh, sorry, pa." A group of Draka adolescents in tennis whites or the loose bright-colored fashions the younger generation favored. Eric's smile turned warm as he greeted his eldest.

  "A last-minute appointment, Karl," he said. Turning to Gayner: "My son, Karl. His aunt Natalia,"—the politician blinked at the teenaged girl until she remembered that Eric's father had remarried late in life—"my sister's daughter Yolande, and her friend Myfwany, down from Italy." Eric's eyes swung back to Gayner, narrowed slightly.

  "Karl," he continued, "Miz Gayner and I were just about to discuss somethin' private. Why don't you and yo' friends show Centurion McReady an' Shirley around fo' about an hour or two? We should be through by then, and we can be down to Oakenwald by dinnertime."

  Gayner stared back at him for an instant, then gave an imperceptible nod to her subordinate, waiting until the door shut before speaking.

  "What's y' game, von Shrakenberg?"

  " An end to games," Eric replied. He walked to the desk, pressed a switch beside the retriever screen. "Private; my word on it."

  Gayner inclined her head: "I believe yo'," she said neutrally. Fool was left unspoken.

  "Gayner, between us we command the largest single voting-blocs in the Party… That's our power, and that's our danger."

  "Party unity's an overworked phrase," she said.

  "Because the Front has been in power too long; the other parties are shadows. Whic
h means that everyone who wants office or powah crowds in, which undermines unity. But contemplate the consequences of an open split, an' an electoral contest."

  She nodded warily. At the very least several years of uncertainty, while the factions settled who had most backing among the Citizen population. And it might not be her own group who came out ahead…

  "What do y' propose?" Gayner said.

  Eric seated himself across from her and leaned forward, tapping one finger on the papers. "On the budget an' the next six-year plan, we can compromise easily enough. It's all technical, after all. I still think yo' radicals are too ready to approve megaprojects. The Gibraltar dam worked out, but we're still patchin' and fittin' on the Ob-Yenisey diversion to the Aral Sea… Still, well let it pass. We agree on shiftin' mo' of the military appropriations to the Aerospace Command; we can compromise on the amount. Let's get on to the real matters, an' start the horse-tradin'."

  She tapped paired thumbs and looked aside for a moment. "Y' right, dammit." A long pause. "Of the truly difficult… the new Section fo' serf education an' selection."

  "Yo' don't think it'll work?"

  "Too well. We're concerned with the long-term implications."

  Eric sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. "Look, Gayner, the pilot program has been yieldin' excellent results; that's why we got the votes to put it through. We need mo' specialists, we can't raise them all from childhood in creches, an' psychological testing is a crude tool at best. Competition an' selection are necessary if we're to get results; we can only substitute quantity fo' quality so far and no further." A hard smile. "Or do yo' really think we can point to this one or that an' say: 'Drop the hoe, lay down that jackhammer, now go an' write compinstructions fo' our missile computers?'" He shrugged. "We've always picked out the mo' promisin' serfs for further trainin'. This just systematizes it a little mo' than the Classed Literate system."

  "What about those who get some trainin' and then aren't selected? What about 'rousin' expectations we can't satisfy?"

  "That's what the Security Directorate is fo'; let the head-hunters cut off a few mo' heads, then. Thunor's balls, woman, we need those serfs trained! If fo' nothin' else, to increase automation. We've always tried to keep the urban workin' class small as possible, here's our chance."

  Reducin' total numbers at the cost of buildin' up the most dangerous section. The fields we're talkin' shouldn't be serf work at all, nohow. We Citizens're producin' too many architects, too many so-called artists who sit an' draw their stipends and create.' "

  Eric raised his hands, palm-up. "This is an aristocratic republic, not a despotism," he said dryly. "Citizens are free to pick they own careers, providin' they do their military service. We get enough career soldiers, enough administrators. Even enough scientists, usin' the term strictly. It's routine skullwork that's unpopular, and which we're short of. A matter of choice… unless yo' were plannin' on makin' some changes?"

  "That'd be electoral suicide." Fo' now, she continued to herself with a tight smile of hatred.

  Eric nodded. "Which is why that program has solid backin' among the independents," he said. "Not much of a concession fo yo' faction to drop their opposition. Brings us to the court reforms."

  "An that's a matter of principle," she said. "That proposal isn't popular. Citizens have rights, serfs do not. At most, privileges revocable at will. If administrative changes are necessary, let the owners an' Combines make them."

  "Well," Eric said softly. "Nobody's proposin' to let the serfs have access to our courts, or to limit the power of owners. Or to limit the rights of Citizens in general." The Code of 1797 had given the free Draka as a body power of life and death over every individual of the subject races; the privilege was jealously guarded. "All that we're askin' fo' is a set of tribunals to regulate ordinary administrative punishments by serf supervisors. Not fo' convicts or labor-camp inmates; just fo' the labor force in general."

  "Why?"

  "Because as it stands every little strawboss can do as they fuckin please!" He gathered control of himself. "An' if yo' thinks that don't impact on productivity and worker morale, talk to somebody in any of the industrial branches." Eric's finger brushed at his moustache in a quick left-right gesture. "Harsh regulations can be lived with, harsh enforcement, but there has to be some regularity to it."

  "It still sounds like rights to me," Gayner said with soft stubbornness, watching him closely. "An' it sets up mo' classes within the serf caste; we've got too many as it is. I can see why Janissaries an' Orpos need special treatment, but extendin' it beyond that is bad policy, whatevah the payoff." She waited, still as a coiled mamba, before proceeding silken-voiced. "That's what I believe… an' on this issue, I've got the independents behind me, I'm thinkin'."

  Her paired thumbs tapped together. "It's quid pro quo time, von Shrakenberg. What're yo' givin' me, to take back to my people when they ask why we're not fightin' yo' in caucus?" Silence stretched. "I want the Stone Dogs, an' I want the trial run on the psychoconditionin'."

  "No." His voice was quiet, a calm that matched his face and the relaxed stillness of his body. "I'm willin' to have yo' new toy used as an alternative to the traditional drugs-an'-lobotomy fo' incorrigibles, but no mass application an' no accelerated research."

  Her palm cracked down on the teakwood. "Gods damn, von Shrakenberg, yo' the one always goin' on about catchin' up technologically; biochemicals an' genetics are ouah strengths, an' yo' fight every time we try to apply them!"

  "Incorrect. I pushed as hard as yo' fo' eugenic improvement of the Race, and fo' the reproductive techniques. I'd've thought that would count fo' somethin', especially fo' those not inclined to the traditional methods."

  Eric watched with satisfaction as Gayner flushed. She had never married, or borne children herself—which was odd, since according to his reports she was heterosexual to the point of eccentricity for a Draka woman… As little as a decade ago voluntary childlessness would have ruled out a serious political career, but now one's duty to the Race could be done by proxy, via a deposit of frozen ova with the Eugenics Board.

  "An' as far as the long-term genetics projects fo' the serfs are concerned, I'm all fo' them as long as they're selectin from within the normal range. Wotan knows we've been scatterin' Draka genes among the wenches fo' generations; breedin' the serfs for bidability might make… harsher measures… less necessary. But I say no to lowerin' general intelligence, an' no to direct intervention to remove the will."

  "Why?" she asked; he thought he heard genuine curiosity in her voice, beside the hard suspicion.

  "Well." He inclined his head toward the obligatory bust of Elvira Naldorssen, the Domination's philosophical synthesist, and the copy of her Meditations that rested beside it. "What did she say? That it was the mark of humanity to domesticate subsapient animals, and of the Race to domesticate humanity? We rule our human cattle—though they outnumber us forty to one, though even most of our soldiers an' police are serf Janissaries—by dominatin' their wills with ours. Where's the pride of the Race, if they're not human beings, with potential wills of their own?"

  Gayner rose and walked to the opposite wall, looking at the pictures hanging there. Portraits of Eric's parents, of his wife and children. One of a serf wench, a Circassian in a long white dress.

  "Yo' know," she said slowly, without turning, "that argument goes ovah well with the dinosaurs in yo' group; even with some of my people… Tickles their vanity. Yo' and I both know it's bullshit. Which leaves me with the question, why do you use it? I think yo' soft, von Shrakenberg, Weak-stomached. The serfs are organic machinery, no mo', and runnin' them all through a conditional' process would eliminate major problems an' costs. I know, I know,"—she waved an unstated objection aside—"there's still unacceptable side effects on ability. But those are just technical problems. Genetic manipulation to remove the personality is even mo' promisin'. Y' real objection is squeamishness. Soft, I say."

  Eric rose, too. "Yo' not the first to th
ink that, Gayner," he said flatly. "Those that did, mostly found I could be as hard as was necessary."

  " P'haps so," Gayner said. Her gaze had gone to a battle scene beyond the portraits. It showed the ruined mountain-pass village Eric's Century of paratroops had held against two days of German counterattacks, back in the opening stages of the Eurasian War. "This-heah certainly covered up yo' earlier peccadillos." She jerked a thumb at the picture of the Circassian. Eric winced inwardly; she had been his boyhood concubine, and he had sent the child she died bearing out of the Domination. To America, to freedom… to the hereditary foe of the Race.

  It hasn't helped that little Anna grew up to be a prominent novelist, he thought between irritation and pride. He had had works of his own win prizes; it seemed to run in the blood.

  "I hope yo' not threatenin' to bringin' that up again," he said dryly. The Archon of the time had publicly said his action in the pass had saved the Domination ten thousand Citizen lives; and the Draka were a practical people.

  "Oh, no, I'm makin' no threats," she said. She turned, and her eyes slid over him from head to toe. "There's an old rumor, that the Security Directorate tried to have yo' arrested 'by administrative procedure,' right after that there battle. Befo' yo' became the untouchable hero with the corna aurea, of course. Even sent an officer to do it."

  "His mission was classified," Eric said with the ease of long practice. There were very few left who knew the truth of what had happened… By the White Christ, was it really twenty-six years ago? "In any case, moot; he shouldn't have wandered about an unsecured combat zone."

  "Two Walther 9mm slugs," Gayner agreed. Another pause. "I used to wonder about how my brother died," she continued, approaching with steps that were soundless, leaning on the table until her face was inches from his. "But yo' know, fo' the last fifteen years I haven'twondered who fired that pistol, at all."

  Eric kept his face motionless. Inwardly he felt a chill wariness that reminded him of going into close bush-country after leopard.