The tall fair teenager was leaning against the open door of one aircar: Mandy, the just-graduated pilot. And his Draka persona's lady-love, Alexandra, supervising the loading of two dead boar; her ghouloon attendant lifted one under each arm and slung them casually into the bed of the truck. The van jounced on its springs under the impact, and the American felt a slight crawling sensation across his shoulders and down the spine. That things as strong as a gorilla, he reminded himself. Rather stronger, in fact, and much faster. It snuffled at its hands, licking away the blood and turned to its owner; standing erect it was easily two meters tall.
"Eat?" it said, in that blurred gravelly tone. "Eat?"
Alexandra laughed and slapped it on one massive shoulder. The sound was like a palm hitting oak wood. "Later," she said, and the transgene bobbed its head in obedience, tongue lolling and eyes turning longingly toward the meat; drops of rain spilled from the coarse black fur of its lionlike mane.
He turned a grimace into a smile as she looked up at him and waved. It would not do to appear unenthusiastic. Actually, it had been interesting, at least the sex had. That was like coupling with a demented anaconda. The smile turned into a rueful chuckle; it was also the first time he had been called "charmingly shy" in bed.
"Hiyo!" he called, as he and Marya handed their boarspears down to the servants. "Sorry we got separated."
"Whole damn party did, Toni," Alexandra said. "John's out gatherin' them all up, with Yolande and her girlfriend. Ah'm gettin' hungry as Wofor."
"Wofor eat," the ghouloon said.
"I—" Mandy began, and was interrupted by a chiming note. She leaned in to take the microphone of the aircar's com unit. "Wonder what the headhunters're sayin'?" she said curiously.
The American felt a sensation like an ice-drill boring through the bottom of his stomach. That was the Security-override alarm. Casually, he whistled the first bar of "Dixie," the code-signal. Marya swung down from her horse and turned toward the aircar; he slid the pistol from his gunbelt and checked it. A late-model Tolgren, 5mm prefragmented bullets, caseless ammunition and a 30-round horizontal cassette magazine above the barrel. He slipped the selector to three-rounds and set the positions of the Draka in his mind. The youngster leaning into the lead aircar. Alexandra ten meters back, by the steamtruck. The serfs could be ignored, they would hit the ground at the first sign of violence and stay there.
"Not bushman trouble 'round here?" he said, with a skeptical tone.
"Gods, no," Alexandra replied. Her hand had gone to the butt of her sidearm automatically, but it dropped away again as she twisted around to look toward Mandy. "I's born not a hundred clicks from here."—news to me, the American thought—"and the last incident was the year I born."
Time went rubbery, stretching. His body felt light, almost like zero-G, every movement achingly precise, the outlines of things cut in crystal. Mandy was speaking again.
"Oh, moo. Some sort of escape or somethin' from a head-hunter facility. Everyone's to stay put an' report movement until further notice. Eurg, mo' waitin' in the rain."
"Damn," the American said. "And I's real anxious to get out of here."
Wofor gave a growl, and Alexandra began to run back, a casual movement that turned blinding-fast as her peripheral vision caught the muzzle of his Tolgren. Even then, it cleared the holster before the flat brak of his weapon stitched a line of fist-sized craters from breastbone to throat. Falling, she was falling away in a mist of blood and roar the ghouloon leapt from the rear of the steamtruck, its great hands outstretched and jaws opened to nearly ninety degrees. Flying toward him, the huge white-and-red gape, and two pistols fired in the background and he was levering himself backward off the horse. Inertia fought him like water in the simulator tank, back at the Academy. Then he was toppling, kicking his foot free of the stirrup.
The horse shied violently at the ghouloon's roar and the crack of the firearms, enough to throw him a dozen paces further as he fell. Damp gravel pounded into his back, jarring, but he scarcely noticed. Not when the the transgene struck the horse at the end of its flight; the big gelding went over with a scream of fear, and for a moment the two animals were a thrashing pile on the surface of the road. Just long enough to flick the selector on his pistol to full-automatic and brace it with both hands. Wofor rose over the prostrate body of the horse, looming like a black mountain of muscle and fur, yellow eyes and bone-spike teeth.
Even with a muzzle brake, the Tolgren was difficult to control on full-automatic. The American solved the problem by starting low enough that the first round shattered a knee and letting the torque empty the magazine upward into the transgene's center of mass. Wofor's own weight slewed him around when the knee buckled, and the massive animal slammed into the ground at full-tilt, a diagonal line across his torso sawn open by the shrapnel effect of the prefragmented bullets. The earth shook with the impact. Lefarge yelled relief as the pistol emptied itself, screamed again as the ghouloon's one good hand clamped on his ankle. Dying, it still gripped like a pneumatic press, crushing the bone beneath the boot leather and dragging his leg toward the open jaws. The human twisted, raised his other leg and hacked down on the transgene's thumb with the metal-shod heel of the boot; once, twice and then there was a crackling sound. He rolled, pulled free, came to his feet with a stab of pain up the injured limb.
Boot will hold it, he thought with savage concentration, as his hands slapped another cassette into the weapon.
Marya was running down the line of cars; the blond Draka lay on the ground, her hands to her belly. Lefarge hobbled forward, felt a stab of concern at the spreading red stain on the side of his sister's jacket.
"Just a graze, first car in the row, go, go, go," she shouted. At each car she paused just long enough to pump three rounds into the communicator; even so, she was in time to help him into the first as he hop-stepped to safety.
"Let's go," he snarled, wrenching at the controls as she tumbled through the entrance on the other side. The turbines shrieked and the aircar rose on fan-thrust, just high enough to clear the treetops before he rammed the throttles forward. The SD would not shoot down a planter's car, not until they got confirmation, and Marya had delayed that a vital fifteen minutes. At worst, a clean death when a heatseeker blew their craft out of the sky; at best, they would make it.
"We did it," he breathed. Something slackened in the center of his body, and pain shot up the leg from the savaged ankle.
"We—did," Marya replied. She was fumbling in the first-aid box. "We… did."
"I didn't know that," Yolande said, looking down at the body of her cousin.
The eyes stared empty upwards into the rain, and the steady silver fall washed the blood pale-pink out of the sodden cloth. The ambulance took off with a scream of fans; Mandy would be in that, and John riding beside her. Myfwany put an arm about her shoulders.
"Yo' couldn't, sweet," she said. "Iff'n Alexandra couldn't tell, how could yo'? Y' hardly met them."
"Oh?" Yolande shook her head, and indicated the ghouloon; Wofor was not quite dead, though far beyond help. He had crawled the ten yards from the broken-backed horse with one good arm and one leg, trailing the shattered limbs and most of his blood. Now he lay with his head at Alexandra's feet, and Yolande crouched to shelter his head from the rain.
"Not that," she said softly, as the last trickle of sound escaped the fanged mouth and the labored breathing stopped. Her hand indicated the ghouloon, touched its muzzle. A bubble of blood burst at the back of its throat. "I didn't know these could cry, is all."
Chapter Ten
Draka serfdom is legally a rather severe form of chattel slavery, much like that of Classical times, except that there is no manumission. In terms of institutional history it descends from the plantation system of the Caribbean and the southern portions of the 13 Colonies, as absolute a system of bondage as any. However, there is slavery and slavery; slave status is a different thing in a society where the institution is rare and marginal than in one where
it is nearly universal. In the Domination, over 93% of the total population are serfs; serfs labor in immense numbers as fieldhands, miners, factory workers, and domestic servants. But they also work as soldiers and police, foremen and boss-boys, machinists and clerks and bureaucrats. Existence in a mine compound can be very grim; plantation life depends on the whim of the owner, but is tied to the seasons and their demands as in any unmechanized farming system; domestic service is absolute personal subordination. The bulk of the urban working class have seen a slow improvement in their conditions since the Eurasian War—families now have rooms of their own, rather than bunks in a barracks, for example—but their work is long and their lives monotonous and closely disciplined, more by serf administrators than by the Citizens themselves. Their world is one of impersonal bureaucratic regulation.
For the ambitious or lucky there is the possibility of advancement in the military, the police, the technical and administrative services of the Combines or the State. Bright young men and women are picked out and educated, and those already at the top of the heap make strenuous efforts to see that their children do likewise. The rewards are great more interesting work and shorter hours, leisure, power. The top echelons enjoy a living standard comparable to the wealthy of the Alliance countries if not to the Citizens: large homes, privacy, even servants. Of course, the unsleeping gaze of the Security Directorate rests on them more closely than any others, and a single slip can mean death.
The Mind of the Draka:
A Military Cultural Analysis
Monograph delivered by
Commodore Aguilar Emaldo
U.S. naval War College,
Manila 11th AllianceStrategic Studies ConferenceSubic Bay, 1972
NEW YORK CITYFEDERAL CAPITAL DISTRICTUNITED STATES OF AMERICADECEMBER 31, 1975
"Should auld acquaintance be forgoooot—"
"I hate that bloody song," Frederick Lefarge muttered, taking another sip of his drink. The room was hazy with smoke, and flickering light and music came through the door from the dance-floor; the room smelled of tobacco and beer. More and more of the patrons at the bar were linking arms and swaying, attempting a Scottish accent as they sang.
It reminds me of Andy. Forget that.
O'Grady's was supposed to be picturesque, a real Old New York hangout and Irish as all hell. The wainscotting was dark oak, and the walls of the booths were padded in dark leather as well; there were hunting prints on the walls, and landscapes. It was crowded as all hell tonight, and noisy, but Cindy had swung a private booth just for them; some noncom friend of her dad's ran the place. The food was better than passable, and the sides of the booth made conversation possible. There was a viewscreen on the opposite wall, showing the crowds outside in Jefferson Square, and the big display clock on the Hartmann Tower. Ten minutes to midnight, and the screen began flashing between views. Different cities all over the Alliance, Sao Paulo, London, Djakarta, Sydney. The Lunar colonies—they could almost be called cities themselves, now—and the cramped corridors of the asteroid settlements. A shot from low orbit, the great curve of Earth rolling blue and lovely.
"Don't be such a grouch, honey," Cindy said, and nibbled at his ear. Lefarge laughed and put an arm around her waist, always a pleasant experience. "You were happy enough after dinner."
"There were just the two of us then," he said.
"Grrr, tiger!" Another nibble on his ear. "And I've got some news for you, darling."
"What?" he asked, raising the glass to his lips.
Cindy Guzman had had only two glasses of white wine with seltzer, but there was a gleam in her eye he knew of old. She was sitting in a corner of the booth, looking cool and chic in the long black dress with the pearl-and-gold belt. Her legs were curled up under her; the glossy dark-red hair fell in waves over her shoulder, and the diamond-shaped cutout below the yoke neck showed the uppper curve of her breasts. The glass in his hand halted and he sat motionless, utterly contented just to look. She gave off an air of… wholesomeness, he thought. Which was strange, you expected that word to go along with some thick-ankled corn-fed maiden from the boonies, not the brightest and sexiest woman he had ever known. It was like a draught of cool water, like… coming home.
"Miss?" Lefarge started slightly. It was old Terrance Gilbert, the proprietor, a CPO on one of Cindy's dad's pigboats, back when. He gave the young woman a look of fond pride, and Lefarge one of grudging approval. "Will there be anything else, Miss?"
"Not right now, Chief," Cindy said. "Happy New Year."
"And to you, Miss. Sir." Lefarge was in uniform tonight, the Major's leaves on his shoulders; the owner nodded before he disappeared into the throng.
"Finish your drink, darling," Cindy said.
He sipped. "What was the news, honey?" he asked.
"I'm pregnant."
He coughed, sending a spray of brandy out his nose; Cindy thumped him on the back with one hand and offered a handkerchief with the other.
"The devil you say!"
"Dr. Elaine's sure," she said tranquilly. "Aren't you happy? We will have to move up the wedding, of course."
She flowed into his arms, and they kissed. Noise and smoke vanished; so did time, until someone blew a tin horn into his ear. Cindy and he broke from their clinch and turned, he scowling and she laughing. It was Marya and her current boyfriend—cursed if I can remember his name… yeah, Steve. Wish she'd pick a steady—in party hats and a dusting of confetti.
"It isn't 2400 yet," Marya said, sliding into the other side of the booth. Her face was flushed, but only he could have told she bad been drinking; there was no slur in her voice, and the movements were quick and graceful.
She's a damned attractive woman, Lefarge thought. In a strong-featured athletic way, but there were plenty of men who liked that. Plenty who liked her intelligence and sardonic humor, as well, but she seemed to sheer off from anything lasting. Hell, this isn't the time to worry.
They all turned to watch the screen again; it was coming around to time for the countdown to midnight. It blanked, and there was a roar of protest from the crowd, redoubled when an NFS newscaster appeared. Sheila Gilbert, he remembered; something of a star of serious news analysis, a hook-nosed woman with a patented smile. She looked… frightened out of her wits, he thought suddenly. And it took something fairly hairy to do that to a professional like Gilbert. There was a sudden feeling like a trickle of ice down his stomach to his crotch: fear. Lefarge and Marya glanced at each other and back at the screen.
"… President Gupta Rao of the Progressive Party has committed suicide."
"Shit!" Lefarge whispered.
"I repeat, the President of the Indian Republic has shot himself; the body was found in his office only two hours ago. The suicide note contains a confession, confirmed by other sources in the Indian capital…" More shouting from the customers, but less noisy; Lefarge strained to hear, and then the volume went up. "… Hindi Raj militants have documentary proof that OSS agents were responsible for planting the information which led to the Hamburger Scandal and the disgrace of late Presidential candidate Rashidi. Riots have been reported in Allahabad and —"
It was a full ten seconds before Lefarge felt Cindy's tugging on his arm. Gently, he laid a finger over her mouth and looked at his sister.
"We'd better —"
"Attention!" The civil-defense signal came on the viewer, cutting into the newscast. "Alliance Defense Forces announcement. All military personnel Category Seven and above please report to your duty stations. I repeat—"
DRAKA FORCES BASE ANTINOOUS
PROVINCE OF BACTRIA
DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA
JANUARY 14, 1976
1500 HOURS
" Tent-hut!"
The briefing room was in the oldest section of the base; built fifty years before, when this had been part of newly-conquered northern Afghanistan. Built for biplanes, ground-support craft dropping fragmentation bombs and poisongas on the last badmashi rebels in the hills, when the Janissary
riflemen had flushed them out. Yolande blinked at the thought: two generations… her own parents squalling infants, way down in the Old Territories. Her birthplace still outside the Domination… A few banners and trophies on the walls, otherwise plain whitewash and brown tile.
Fifty years from biplanes to the planets, Yolande thought as she saluted. Not bad.
"Service to the State!"
"Glory to the Race." A crisp chorus from every throat.
"At ease." The hundred-odd pilots sank back into their chairs.
The hooting of the wind came faintly through the thick concrete walls, and the air was crackling dry. There was very little outside that you would want to see. Pancake-flat irrigated farmland hereabouts, near the Amu Darya, and the climate was nearly Siberian in winter; even more of a backwater than Italy, unless you were interested in archaeology. The hunting was not bad, some tiger in the marshes along the river, and snow leopard in the mountains. Quite beautiful up there, in an awesome sort of way; the Hindu Kush made the Alps look like pimples. Otherwise nothing to do but fly and study, almost like being back at the Academy. She and Myfwany had both passed their Astronautical Institute finals last month, and could expect transfer soon. Now that would be something…
"The balloon's going up day after tomorrow."
The squadron-commander grinned at them with genial savagery. Her nickname among the pilots was Mother Kali, and not without reason. There was a collective rustle of attention. Yolande felt a lurch below the breastbone, and reached out to squeeze her lover's hand.
"Here's the basic situation." The wall behind her lit with a map of the Indian subcontinent; the Domination flanked it to the north and west, the Indian Ocean and the ancient Draka possession of Ceylon to the south.
The Stone Dogs Page 24