The Stone Dogs

by S. M. Stirling

  "Careless," Yolande chuckled, and walked over to it. There was a wrap-robe on the back of the chair. The Draka picked it up and brought the cloth to her face; there was a faint scent or Marya on it. Damn, I wish she was here, Yolande thought, sitting and picking up the dataplaque lying on the table.

  " 'Serving Pleasure #15," she read, and laughed again. An erotic-instruction sequence. No wonder she's getting so imaginative, she thought, flattered. Wonder what's on it. Impulsively, she snapped it into the port and hit the DIVIDE command on the keyboard. The perscomp was a fairly capable one, the type midlevel serf bureacrats were issued. Embedded accounting, typescribing, datalink and display functions. A million-transistor logic deck, two hundred thousand bits of core storage besides, and a plaquereceptor.

  The screen blanked to light-gray, then lit. Yolande watched in growing bewilderment. Sodomy? Basic Passive Sodomy? she thought, watching as the instructor showed the young buck how to brace his elbows on his knees before stepping behind. What in Freya's name is Marya doing with—

  The screen blanked again, the grunting figures replaced by a man's face. In an Alliance uniform, with Brigadier's shoulderboards. American eagle, OSS flashes. Unremarkable free, square, rather dark, big-nosed; in his fifties, plenty of gray in the flat-topped black hair, eyes black too, so that the pupil didn't show. Deep grooves, ridged forehead, the face of a man hagridden for many years. Yolande heard her own breath freeze in a strangled gasp, felt a sheet of ice lock her diaphragm.

  Him.

  "Marya, my sister, you must realize from this how desperate the situation is."

  Him. India. The cool Punjab night, and the missiles arching up from the trees. Psssft-thud, and Myfwany's graceful stride turning to a tumbling fall.

  "This plaque must be wiped as soon as you've read it. Likewise the others. Those most of all. Here are your instructions."

  Him. The face, under the upraised visor. That single glimpse.

  "… je't'aime, ma soeur," the voice concluded. A moment of blank screen, and the instruction sequence cut back in. She touched the controls. Her own face reflected dimly in the darkened screen. Eyes gone enormous, lips peeled back until the gums showed. A trickle of hoarse sound escaped her throat.

  "His sister. His sister. I've had his sister in my own household fo' twenty-five years!" A bubble of laughter escaped her, and she ground her teeth closed on it, feeling something thin and hot stabbing between her eyes.

  I'm dead. The thought was almost welcome. I'm a walking corpse. Nothing and nobody could save her from Security after this. The message had mentioned previous drops; even if nothing vital—there couldn't be, I hardly talked to her for years until—"Until she volunteered to play pony, gods damn me for a fool, why else would she suddenly decide she wants to lie down with me," she said. And now a sabotage operation.

  I could kill her, Yolande thought. Just one quick bullet, and call disposal. Or indent for some drugs, get the information, then kill her. Perfectly legal—no the headhunters would smell something immediately. The Directorate of Security was an unofficial arm of the Militants, or vice versa. They watched the von Shrakenberg connections like vultures around a dying camel. For an Ingolfsson to kill a houseserf was a break in the pattern, a red flag that something unusual was going on. They would ferret it out if it took them a decade.

  No, it was her duty to report this. Put down everything she knew and suspected, write up a report, then one quick bullet of apology to the temple. The family will be involved, tolled through her with dreadful knowledge. A knot like the claws of something insectile hooked under her ribs. Gwen will be disgraced.

  Duty—

  "Oh," she breathed. There was a way to use this. A spy you know about is an asset, not a liability, she reminded herself. A slow, calm smile touched her lips. It's even personally fitting, she reflected. He's known I had his sister as my serf. Used her for a brooder, probably knows she's been serving pleasure. Torture, to a Yankee. Her hands touched the keys; she would have to find out what the perscomp was running. Carefully, Yolande, carefully. She can't suspect, not for a moment.

  This evening.

  "You bit me, Mistis," Marya said.

  Yolande bent and kissed the U-shaped bruise on the inside of the serfs thigh. The bedroom was dark, and she had set the wall for a winter landscape in Tuscany.

  "I was excited," she said, lying back. True, by Loki lord of lies. I didn't expect that. It was odd, she felt no hatred. I suppose I burned all that out long ago, for her.

  "It usually dosen't take you like that, Mistis."

  "It's the news," Yolande said. "Here, rub my back." She rolled on her stomach, felt the serfs breath warm on the damp skin of her neck as her fingers kneaded at the muscles along her spine.

  "What news, Mistis?"

  Yolande made herself hesitate. "Well, it can't hurt now. No point in bein' overcorrect. Remember the good news I got back when, in Archona?."

  "I thought it must be important," Marya said calmly, with a hint of a wink. "Certainly set you at me, Mistis."

  Are her fingers trembling? Yolande thought. Good. Sweat, a little. Don't stop to think.

  The Draka laughed. "It's our secret weapon," she said. "There really is one. I always knew they must have somethin' planned… A biological, to disable the Yankee crews in near-orbit. Really nice piece of work; codename Stone Dogs. It's a stone killer, too! Delicate trigger, modulated microwave emission. We go to War-Condition Alpha tomorrow."

  The serfs hands were shaking now. Yolande put a raised eyebrow into her voice. "Whats the matter, Marya? Don't worry, yo' aren't in any danger. Should be a cakewalk, and anyways, this is the best-defended place on Luna." She pulled the other close and kissed her. "Think I'll get a landgrant in California, after," she continued. "Anyways, stay close to the quarters, the tubeways'll be closed down." The lights dimmed toward sleepset.

  "On second thoughts, I've got a few things fo' yo' to do. There may be some surface damage, worst-case. That crate of Constantia '87 Uncle Eric sent, fo' that cruise on the Mamba." She felt the serf jerk slightly at the mention of the yacht. "Be a shame to lose it, even if that damned toy's not here when Gwen gets back fo' the victory party. Go on out tomorrow, and supervise strippin' all the personal effects out, bring them back to quarters. No droppin' hints, now!"

  "What?" Yolande looked up from her desk at the holo image of Transportation Central, the traffic control nexus for Aresopolis.

  "The Mamba, Commandant. We would have appreciated notification of a lift!"

  Yolande felt a cold pride at the expression of mild surprise on her face. Of course, it's a good thing they don't have a medical sensor going on me, she thought stonily. The face in the screen was New Race; they could control their heartbeats. She wondered how it felt…

  "So would I," she replied dryly. "Since I am here, and have authorized no such mission. Where is the pilot?"

  "I…" The hawk-featured young face took on an imperceptible air of desperation. She knew the feeling; the sinking sensation of bearing very bad news to someone far up the chain of command. "Yo' pilot is in his quarters, Arch-Strategos. That was why we assumed, ah—"

  "Don't assume, Tetrarch, do. I presume yo've hailed?"

  "Of cou—Yes, ma'am. No response."

  There wouldn't be, Yolande thought. She had very carefully had all the com systems decommissioned for preventive maintenance. An investigation would find that significant, but far too late.

  "Well, well have to assume an unauthorized lift," she said, frowning with the expression of a high-ranking officer forced to intervene in trivial matters. "Issue a warnin' to the Mamba and whoever's aboard, to surrender or be fired upon. Alert the orbital platforms."

  "Ma'am, it's, ah, the trajectory indicates a boost for transluar space. Mars is, well—"

  "I'm familiar with orbital mechanics, Tetrarch," she said. " Stop tormenting the poor boy." Her fingers touched the desktop. "On that burn, the Belt would be the logical destination. Hmmm. The Mamba's fairly valuable
, but there's nothin' on board we'd be all that embarrassed fo' the Yankees to get… W'orth a chance on not scrubbin' it. Dependin' on who's aboard. Get Merarch Tomlins on the screen, we'll see if we can set up an intercept.

  "

  "Yo' what? Yo' pillowtalked a bedwench that, and then let her escape?"

  The Archon's image was alone before her. For a moment Yolande felt a sensation she had not known for many years: raw, physical fear.

  He looked down at the copy of her report, and the fury on his face went cold and blank. "This had to be deliberate on yo' part. Usurpation of command prerogative, as well as treasonous incompetence."

  "She was an agent, Excellence," Yolande continued expressionlessly. "If yo'll examine the appendix to that report, yo'll see we found clear evidence of dataplague sabotage. No way of knowin' how long this has been goin' on, either." A skull grin split her face, below eyes that were edged in red. "We went aftah the Yankee personnel. They planted a, a virus in our comps. Typical, isn't it?" Her hand twitched slightly as she reached for the glass of water. "The fact remains, Excellence, that we no longer have an intercept or strike option on the Mamba. Inside of three days, the Alliance craft will intercept, and shortly thereafter they'll know about the Stone Dogs."

  She waited the seconds it took for light to reach Earth and return, on this most secure of links.

  Eric von Shrakenberg rose behind his desk, and she felt his will beating on her like waves on a granite headland. "I will have yo' shot. I will have yo' fuckin' shot!"

  "That is yo' prerogative, Excellence," Yolande said. And I don't care nearly as much as I thought I would, she realized. Yes, the body reacted: sweat rolling down from her armpits, muscles tensing in millennial fight-flight reflex. But somewhere deep in her soul, she would accept it. "If yo' wishes to relieve the Commandant of this installation just befo' the… outbreak of hostilities."

  She saw that ram home. "Use it, or lose it," she continued.

  Silence, for long minutes. At last he looked up again, older than she remembered. "Why?"

  "I—" A pause, while she considered how it could be said. "I disagreed with yo' hesitation, but I would have accepted that. On a professional level. But yo' gave me a weapon, Uncle Eric. And I decided to use it. Fo'… personal reasons. Love and hate." Another pause. "And afterward—if there is an afterward—" she laid her sidearm on the desk, in range of the receptor—"I'll save yo' the trouble, iff'n it's still important."

  The ancient, weary eyes stared into hers. "The fete of worlds, fo' personal reasons?" he said, wonderingly.

  "Are there any other kind?" she answered.

  At last: "Go to Force Condition Seven, and await further orders, Arch-Strategos." With a touch of ironic malice: "Service to the State."

  "Glory to the Race, Excellence."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DATE: 01/07/98

  FROM: Supreme QHQ, Castle Tarleton

  Archona, Archona Province

  by order of His Excellence the Archon Eric von Shrakenberg

  Commander of the Destiny of the Race

  TO: All commanders Classification 7-Z and above

  RE: Force Condition Seven

  Be advised that as of this instant the Domination is moving to Force Condition Seven, as per War Plan Zebra-Kohln. Sealed orders are to be opened and all prepared measures taken. An Archonal Decree of War Emergency Status is in effect as of this communication, and all civil and Security organs are to consider themselves under the authority of the Supreme General Staff and the Directorate of War. Where necessary, exemplary measures may be taken to secure public order and the speedy implementation of evacuation. The highest readiness must be maintained, but on pain of immediate execution no hostile measures toward the enemy are to be taken until the receipt of orders moving to Force Condition Eight or until the enemy initiates action.

  This is no drill

  DRAKA FORCES BASE ARESOPOLIS

  MARE SERINITATIS. LUNA

  NOVEMBER 2, 1998

  0600 HOURS

  "Whew." Yolande collapsed into the chair. For a few minutes she forced herself to sit quietly, breathing, letting the wash of cool air from the vents help her body flush out the hormonal poisons. Then she reached for the communicator.

  "Staff conference, immediate," she said. "Forcecon 7."

  "… And all nonessential traffic between sectors has been closed down," the civilian administrator was saying.

  Yolande looked around the table. "Mark?" she said.

  The Aerospace Command Strategos shrugged. "We've moved all the available units into sheltered orbits," he said. If there was one thing that a generation of skirmishing in space had shown, it was that ships were helpless in confined quarters with high-powered energy weapons.

  "Move them out further," Yolande said. "Outer-shell orbits fo' the Cislunar Command zone. Sannie, start pumpin' down the bulk water in the dome habitat, fill the reservoirs."

  "That'll play hell with the Ecology people's projects," she warned.

  "Don't matter none." The other officers around the table glanced sidelong at each other; Yolande saw carefully controlled fear. This was the nightmare that had haunted them all from their births. "And yes, that means I knows somethin' y'all don't. Somethin' bad—and somethin' good, too."

  "Now, and this is crucial,"—she paused for effect—"startin' immediately, and while yo' moving to full mobilization, bring yo' redundant compunits on-net. Then do a physical separation of the main battle-units, and run simulations of actual operations—everythin' but the final connections to the weapons units." She held up a hand to still the protests. "Y'all will find malfunctions, I guarantee it. Report the make an' number of the malfunctionin' cores, immediate, to Merarch Willard here, who's now Infosystems Officer fo' Aresopolis. We'll patch across to maintain capacity. Believe me, it's necessary."

  CLAESTUM PLANTATION

  DISTRICT OF TUSCANY

  PROVINCE OF ITALY

  NOVEMBER 2. 1998

  "Vene, vene, keep movin'!" The serf foreman reached out to stop a fieldhand family; one of the children was cradling a kitten. "No livestock in the shelter, drop it." The girl began to cry in bewildered terror.

  The bossboys were as ignorant as the rest of the serfs, but they had caught the master's nervousness. John Ingolfsson whistled sharply to catch the man's attention and jerked his head; the foreman's rubber hose fell, and the line began moving again as he waved the serf girl through with her pet.

  Makes no nevermind, the master of Claestum thought, watching the long column disappearing into the hillside. He swallowed to moisten a dry throat, pushed back his floppy-brimmed leather hat, and wiped at the sweat on his forehead. It was a clear fall day, and still a little hot here in the valley below the Great House. The shelter was burrowed under that hill, quite deep; begun in the '50s, and refined and extended in every year since. This entrance was disguised as a warehouse, but behind the broad door and the facade was a long concrete ramp into the rock. The elevators were freight-type, and the thousand-odd serfs would be in their emergency quarters in another hour or so. Armorplate doors, and thousands of feet of granite—

  It should be enough, if we have an hour, he thought. There was hatred in the glance he shot upward. Nothing but the coded messages over the official net, but you could tell… I always grudged the money and effort. Full shelter for all the serfs, sustainable if crowded; fuel cells, air filters, water recyclers, and food enough for three years on strait rations. He had had just time enough to put most of the farming equipment under wraps; the sealed warehouses held seed grain. There was even room for basic breeding stock, on the upper level.

  The last of the fieldhands passed through, and the overseer looked up from the comp screen by the door. "That's the last of them," she called. Rumbling sounded within, as thick metal sighed home into slots.

  Silence fell, eerie and complete. Nothing but the hot dry wind through the trees, and the tinkle of water from one of the village fountains. He stood in the stirrups and
looked around; the land lay sere and dry with autumn, rolling away in slopes of yellow stubble, silver-green olives, dusty-green pasture and the lush foliage of the vineyards. Commonplace, infinitely dear. Yesterday his only worry had been the falling price of wheat and the vintage.

  "Run one mo' check," he said. "Wouldn't want to leave one of they brats out by mistake." The overseer was taut-nervous herself, but her fingers were steady on the keyboard.

  "All of em."

  "Right." He ran a soothing hand down the neck of his horse as it side-danced with the tension. "Sooo, boy, easy. Now, let's go jump in a hole and pull it in aftah us."

  WASHINGTON HOUSE

  NEW YORK CITY

  FEDERAL CAPITAL DISTRICT

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  NOVEMBER, 1998

  0700 HOURS

  "Could it be a drill of some sort?" one of the figures in the screen said.

  The Conference Room was nearly empty; the president, and a few of her chief aides. The Alliance Chairman was in the center of the holoscreen, with the military chiefs and some of the most crucial administrators. In theory the other Alliance heads of government were co-equal, but this was a time for practicalities, and the American head of state was still much more than primus inter pares.

  Carmen Hiero forced herself not to sigh in exasperation. "Amigo, they've started closing down factories and evacuating the population to the deep shelters," she said. "Look at the reports; there are abandoned dogs walking through the streets of Alexandria! You think they're doing this—it must be costing them astronomically—for a drill?"

  Allsworthy tapped his fingers together and looked to one side, toward his pickup of the ACI chief. Hiero frowned slightly; she thought the chairman tended to rely on his Intelligence people rather too much.Enough, she thought. Listen.

  "Anything congruent? Any reason for it to start now?" the chairman said.

  The ACI man licked his lips slightly. "Nothing we can spot on short notice, Mr. Chairman," he said; his face was calm, but the tendons stood out in the hands that twisted an ivory cigarette-holder. His Australasian accent had turned slightly nasal.