Another generation. Two. Three. A century. Ten centuries. Millennia. Tens of them. People would adjust. Or they wouldn’t, and the Master Race would dispose of them, the way you disposed of any malfunctioning tool.
Just now, a fair-sized party of Saanaae was forming up for a sweep down the Tennessee valley. Their object was to clear out all the little hollows and mountain valleys, move whoever they could find off to bustees lining the Mississippi River. I went off line, sat for a few minutes more in the semidarkness, then went on back out into the sunlight.
o0o
When the Saanaae figured out we meant business, when they realized they were losing their position in the empire, some of them took it hard. Most wanted to cut their losses and play the next hand as dealt, hope for better luck next time. Some didn’t, groups of them here and there fighting back, especially after our reaction to the spearhead of the insurrection resulted in a clean sweep, captured Saanaae gathered up and executed as quickly and quietly as possible so as not to infect the others.
I was a havildar, leading a maniple of sixteen, in the days when we took Rouhaaz. It had been, once upon a time, a Saanaae colony world, back before the Master Race found them, Saanaae like humans with their own high-tech STL starships, pretending they were the lords of creation. They’d been at it longer than we had, even had their own empire of sorts, with five or six subject species. I understand there’d been one on Rouhaaz, but it had gone extinct under Saanaae stewardship.
Now, of course, Rouhaaz had been quiet, occupied by the Masters for several thousand years. They hadn’t put up much of a fight when the Masters came, hadn’t shot down a single starship, had killed barely a dozen Kkhruhhuft. You can lose that many to technical glitches in a big combat drop, giant armor-clad dinosaurs whistling down out of the sky, slamming in head first, penetrating hard, so that only their tails are left sticking out.
And yet, when the time came to take their medicine for defying the Masters, these Saanaae, hopeless, decided to dig in and fight.
We’d come down a rocky defile, red forests all around us under a dusky mauve sky, sky lined with pretty brown and orange clouds, layered like broken sheets of mica overhead. A quick firefight, primitive Saanaae small arms rattling futilely off high-tech human armor. All they had was police weapons, not even as good as the thermonuclear artillery they’d had the first time around.
We mowed the forest, scarlet trees toppling, spongy trunks spewing white, milky sap through their wounds, things like hairy birds screaming in terror as they flew away. The broken trees smoked as they fell, as they lay in heaps on the ground, but nothing would burn.
Then we made the survivors drag their dead comrades out of the bunkers, made them line them up in long, crooked rows on the ground, pour alcohol on the corpses and set them ablaze. It was messy looking. The Saanaae, with that awkward bend in the middle, couldn’t be laid out as neatly as bipeds.
I remember one of my soldiers trying to hurry them, “Come on, Sambo! Hurry it up!” Smashing the business end of his torch in the Saanaa’s face. It said nothing, just stumbled to its knees, staring back at him, yellow-brown blood starting from its lips, dripping down onto that green, scaly chest.
Got back up in a moment and continued dragging its dead comrade off to the fire.
When that was done, we killed the wounded and burned them too, then made the uninjured survivors strip and throw their uniforms into the blaze. Shackled them in a long coffle and stood by while the fires burned, made them watch as their friends were consumed. Along with their identities.
And laughed at them, though their sounds and ours were hardly the same. Poking at their nakedness, sticking things in the males’ breeding pouches, watching them wince and cower. The women troopers seemed especially amused at the female Saanaae’s ovipositors, handling them, laughing, wondering, “Do they get hard, you suppose?”
I’ve watched Saanaae mating rituals since then. They do, and dance with each other around midnight fires, a lovely dance that hardly seems like sex at all.
When the fires were finished and the dead burned away to bones, we marched them down the valley to a prison camp, where more would die waiting until the ships could come and take them away.
o0o
Night came and I went home to Alix, who’d apparently fretted the afternoon away, standing before me now in the lamplight, large-eyed and serious, holding my face in her hands, kissing me, struggling to hold me close, then moving against me, murmuring.
We don’t have to go to dinner. I’ve got a few things here. We could spend the evening here, the night, be well-rested for tomorrow’s early start...
One hand rubbing gently on my abdomen, fiddling indecisively with the buttons on my jeans. A seductive temptation, devoted Alix naked in my arms, images of her beneath me, absorbing me, as if I’d not had every bit of female flesh a man could truly use...
But that, they tell us, in stories, in serious psychological studies, in poems and videoplays and songs, is not what a man really wants. If it was, well-lubricated masturbation would do. Or large dogs. Small sheep.
Alix looking up at me, quizzical, wondering, I supposed, what made me smile just now. I laughed and hugged her, and we went out into the night, holding hands.
o0o
Davys was bustling at the dinner hour, more people having meals than drinking just now, music from the three-piece combo soft and gentle, mood-music from the late 2140s, acoustic base thudding slowly, bracketing gentle chords, the drumbeat no more than a hiss of brush strokes. I remembered suddenly this piece was called “Heartbeat Afterward,” one of my mother’s old favorites, from when she and my father were young.
Though it was a hot night, it only seemed cozy inside the pub, warm and close, as if I were sharing in the camaraderie of the people who came here. I could imagine it winter outside, a cold January rain falling, filling the gutters, overflowing the old, no longer maintained storm sewers, fires in the fireplaces, the smell of dry pine in my nostrils...
Lank, Davy and Marsh joined us at our table, Marsh with a tall, angular, woman I didn’t know, Sandy-something, who said she was from Charlotte. Marsh’s girlfriend, apparently, from the way she tended to touch him and look at him, and a sagoth coworker as well. Davy’s minions served us a reasonably sumptuous meal, pasta with a meaty, garlicky, pizza-flavored sauce on it, hard rolls, some sharp-tasting, unidentifiable red wine.
And more talk, endless talk. Old times that Sandy hadn’t shared segueing into a discussion of Charlotte, which had taken a hit from some kind of big Kkhruhhuft siege weapon. She described a deep, conical crater in the middle of town, the way debris had splashed in all directions, taking out buildings, crushing suburban homes miles away.
“I was little, though,” she said. “Only five. I don’t remember much.”
“Me neither,” said Lank.
I twirled the linguine-like pasta on my fork, rolling it in the sauce, which was really pretty good, and said, “Probably what they call a maul-gun. Supposed to be for knocking down hard stone fortresses and breaking into underground bunkers. Kkhruhhuft don’t use it much.”
Silence, almost covered by noise from diners at other tables, from the muted, whispery music. Everyone looking at me, silverware poised just so.
Then Sandy said, “Then why the hell did they use it on downtown Charlotte? My mother was killed, for Christ’s sake.”
A quick glance at Alix, who was looking down into her plate, face neutral. I shrugged. “Probably an accident. There used to be a shielded underground comm center somewhere between here and Charlotte, you know. Kkhruhhuft aren’t perfect, anyway. Maybe somebody tried to nuke their ship while they were aiming.”
Sandy shook her head, face slightly darkened. “Bastards.”
Suddenly jovial, Lank said, “So. You and Alix really going up into the mountains tomorrow?” Talking to me, but looking at her. Marsh was looking at Sandy, his hand covering hers, looking into her eyes. Concerned? Or just trying to keep her quiet?
/> Alix put her hand on my forearm, and smiled. “Just like old times,” she said. Undercurrents. Well. These people have known each other for years and years. I’m really a stranger here. I know that.
The evening ended and then we were back at Alix’s house, lying naked on the slightly damp sheets of her aging bed, and she insisted on doing for me what I’d been doing for her, though I hadn’t asked or even hinted. Making me lie on my back, lying still, legs splayed, she crouched between them, bending over me, loose curly hair falling down over my abdomen while she worked at me, lips and tongue moving on my flesh, fingers rubbing that sensitive place just behind my scrotum, pressing firmly, but not too hard, something she may have remembered from long ago. More likely learned in the interim, I couldn’t quite remember.
Tireless by the wan light of a single dim kerosene lamp, its exhaust filling the air with a faint chemical tang. Head bobbing slowly, casting a huge shadow on the wall, jaw adding just the right amount of pressure, the occasional dainty scrape from her teeth...
And holding still as my orgasm pulsed hard, once, twice, before diminishing away. Holding still for another few seconds, as if she expected something more, tongue moving slightly, then she was up on my chest, kissing me, lips and tongue tasting of nothing but me.
A breathy whisper: “All right?”
I hugged her close. “Definitely.” I slid my hand down her abdomen, running my fingers into surprising moisture, saw her teeth glitter in the lamplight.
“All right,” she whispered, arching her back, holding on.
o0o
In the later darkness, the lamp turned out, muted moonlight coming through the window and filling the room with deeper shadows, Alix slept with her head on my chest, snoring softly, a faint, smooth sound, little more than hollow breathing. The window was open a bit, warm breeze blowing in, carrying with it an earthy smell reminiscent of loam and mold, and we were almost dry again.
Discomfort, though, from these slightly damp sheets. Back home, my real home, Hani would judge my comfort, would, if necessary, summon the others to change the bedding for us, so we could sleep crisp and dry. And more often than not, go herself for a warm, damp facecloth and clean, fluffy towel, see to my needs before curling up again by my side. Just in case.
I felt dazed now, ready to sleep but unable to close my eyes, watching the darkness outside the window, the slowly shifting angle of the moonlight, listening to the distant rustle of the trees. Somewhere, a dog was barking intermittently, very far away.
The summer before that first Spahi intake, when we already knew it was coming, Alix and I exercised together, trying to hone our strengths, analyze each other’s weaknesses, certain we would either pass or fail together. We would go rock climbing together, riding our bicycles all the way down to the Cape Fear River, to Raven Rock. We would camp out, sometimes with little or no equipment, daring nature to discomfit us, and, in time, it toughened us to the point where our outdoor North Carolina world seemed the only real world, our old world of home and hearth a sanctuary for weaklings. The illusion comforted us. Now all that remained was a series of broken images.
A sunny day when we stood atop a rocky bluff, a cleared place where there’d once been a wildlife observation platform, buck naked, Alix bent over before me, the two of us laughing in our wildness. All I can really remember are the sleek, muscular lines of her back, the conditioning we’d built for each other, the days and nights when we never seemed to tire.
The two of us walking together through a dank, gray forest, rain pouring down out of the sky in a steady torrent, the Neuse River barely visible through the trees, dark brown water at flood stage, moving, moving, bits of foam here and there, the two of us walking and walking, laughing in the rain.
What if I’d failed as well? A delicious moment, imagining those heady days going on and on. Hard to know what life’s disappointments would have done to us. Maybe she’d’ve left me instead of fat, little Benny Tekkomuz.
A final image of us that summer, hiding naked in some thick underbrush, peeking out onto what had been an empty, sun-washed parking lot, site of a few crushed cars, the splintered remains of some old building. We’d been making love in the sunshine, enjoying the feel of the hot paving stone on our bodies when they came. Now we were hiding, hoping they wouldn’t find our clothing, start beating the bushes to drive us out.
Kkhruhhuft. A dozen of them. Like something out of an old monster vid. Like one of those big-budget Mesozoic fantasy movies that are popular from time to time. Wearing their armor, so they looked like robot dinosaurs. And they had people with them, naked people in chains. Bleeding people, who could barely walk.
I remember feeling Alix’s hand in the middle of my back, firm, not a shiver. I’d glanced at her face. Fearless. Nothing but intense interest.
One of the men in the coffle was dragging hard, blood running from a big open wound on his back, running in thick rivulets across his buttocks, down his legs, and he was leaving sharply defined red footprints on the paving stone.
They stopped. One of the Kkhruhhuft unchained the dragging man and pulled him out of the coffle, pulled him a short distance away, cast him sprawling on the ground.
Moment of silence, rustle of chains, then someone in the line said, “Oh, Jesus, Mike...” The man on the ground started to cry suddenly, rolling onto his side, looking up at the Kkhruhhuft looming over him. A weak voice, no more than a sob, hopeless, full of fear, “Oh, God! Please, no...”
The Kkhruhhuft soldier stamped on him, once, very hard, like a man crushing a mouse. The man on the ground grunted when the foot fell on him, the sound of breath driven from his lungs, like a very loud burp.
The Kkhruhhuft ordered their coffle and moved on then, leaving the flattened corpse behind. Alix and I stayed hidden until we could no longer hear anything but the wind in the trees, the soft chirr of summer insects, then waited another little while before going out to look at the dead man.
Most of the damage was to his chest, but his face was dark orange now, his skull swollen like a cartoon character with a basketball head, distorted features ludicrous with terror. Alix said, “Merciful, I guess...” Voice emotionless, but we were holding hands now.
We finished making love by the side of the old parking lot, then put on our clothes, retrieved our bikes from where we’d hidden them in the woods, and rode on.
o0o
Alix began the next day with an infectious happiness, gay and energetic, as if everything in the world were different now, would stay different forever. There were moments of oddness for me, knowing full well we would go on our little trip together, then it would all be over, but it was contagious. As if, somehow, those twenty years had disappeared or, better still, been filled with an eternity of us.
We rode the monorail westward past where Asheville had been, craning our necks to see out over a rolling landscape of green forest. I’d never been here before, but supposed it must have been a towering city of glass and steel skyscrapers. Nothing was left behind, not even humped ruins as in Durham.
Alix held my hand and talked and tried to neck with me a little bit, making one of the sagoths look at us uneasily. None of the other passengers seemed bothered, one elderly woman turning to stare at us, smiling, shaking her head with a grin. No one but the sagoth knew who I was, in any case.
Like we were young lovers, off on our first escapade.
Let it be that way, then. Look hard at all the feelings you left behind. See if it’s all been... worth it.
Alix, for her part, seemed obliviously happy. Hard to imagine what her expectations might be. Even harder to ask.
By mid-morning, the monorail was sliding above buckled green terrain, low, rolling mountains, clad to their peaks in forest, bisected here and there by the white beds of old concrete roads, sagging bridges over shiny mountain streams. Every now and again I’d see the smoke from a fire, thin, gray-white, some last vestige of human habitation.
We got off the train at a tall wooden platfor
m by the Little Tennessee River, a cleared place surrounded by low mountains and forest, the sun standing high overhead, the air hot, but nothing like what it is down in the lowlands to the east. It was cooler here, drier, the world sharper and more defined. Just south of us, I knew, was the old national park, where no one had lived in centuries.
The train slid away, a soft, rumbling hiss, leaving us alone in our aerie. And Alix put her arms around me, her head on my shoulder, and said, “I can’t believe we’re here.”
Nothing really sensible to say to that. Just give her a squeeze and laugh. “If here is anywhere at all...”
We shouldered our packs and I took the tent as well, then we went down the ladder to the ground. The land on the other side of the river, beyond a narrow, new-looking footbridge, had been cleared, flat bottom land that must have been put to some use before the Invasion. Over by the edge of the forest were heaps of broken red bricks, rimed with bits of cement. Whatever had been here, that was all that was left of it.
Alix said, “Look! Horses.” Starting out on the little bridge. Horses then, naked in pasture, being led by bridles, gathered in paddocks, beyond them long, low sheds, the heads of horses visible through half-doors. Four or five Saanaae visible, blanketed and straw-hatted as usual.
Moving right in. I wonder how long it’ll be before people like that major domo find themselves displaced? Something rather like this had happened before, led to that other uprising, Master Race so careless in its power. Or perhaps its lack of understanding.
Over by the trees, chained to a tall stake, was some kind of fat, medium-large, tentacled non-human. I wondered for a moment why... and realized with a small shock I was looking at a leathery old domestic elephant. I’d forgotten they ever existed, hadn’t thought about elephants in twenty years.
What would they be doing with an elephant up in the Tennessee woods?
The elephant was skittish, uneasy, rocking back and forth on its broad, flat feet, breathing audibly, and kept looking toward the trees. Something...
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