by Anthology
:as the Lurleen McQueen she musta taken a direct full-force blow right to the vitals m she goes splowen in all directions, plumes of fumes m chunks of guts m hull m hardware, guns m control gear, power plants m fuel supplies (that lady she had the biggest damn balls in the whole furgem fleet packed full of agonized matter!), sealed-suited spacerines blown out, twirling m snapping through blacuum some clearly dead, some not so, some clearly holed, some still looking sealed m now:
:sliding silently upside the Eastland Gord sees a shape, a hardlooken plasmetally thing, huge, biggern the Eastland even, close even to the blowed Lurleen m she’s a clearly she’s he knows he can identify her from Fort Sealy Mae dayroom ID posters she’s a she’s no doubt about it a a gigantic damn nigra ship she’s in fact that superwagon Oh! Oh! N’Ala spacerines call her, the Annie Eyes, the Oginga Odinga m on her hull Gord sees vast rectangular pullbacks inside battle-dressed armor-glinting star-shine-lit black-suited black-skinned N’Haiti colleagues-in-arms Gord’s copro’s no mistakenem nigra spacerines m with a helmet-shaking common roar:
Lt. Jimmie Rainie’s spacerine platoon kick off from the hull of the Eastland, grabboots shloop up off the hull, that blattering bunch of old Pissfire’s finest, lase-axes light-lining m illuminated only by multi-originned stars-light m the glints of their own lase-axes they see black-suited nigras leap fly/fall from that pullback opening in the Oh! Oh! sweeping up/down/out to meet them m with a crash the first two foes meet, lase-beams missed, chest-plates giving a radioed clank, pants m gasps of Creeso can you tell the sounds of killing from those of coitus!
Now too late, forget that interlocked murdering pair, Gord too flying up/down a blacksuited papadoc falling up to meet him, Gord sends a lase-beam, sppssp! across meters of blacuum, papadoc keeps coming but starts to fold, spindle, mutilate, Gord takes a good two-hander on his lase-axe, feels his own chest heaving, deep breaths demanded, adrenaline spurting through hot moist vascules, sweeps his weapon overhead in two hands, feels null-weight trained habits acting unconsciously, hips jerking into involuntary thrusts and a:
:whap!:
:Gord’s lase-axe-head comes down on the nigra’s back armor with a pacifying thukky noise, armor m bone conducted right up Gord’s arms to two much-gratified ears m Gord wrenchesiz l-a free m kicks papadoc’s body spinning infinitely away m Gord looks around for new worlds to conquer m comes face to face with another nigra spacerine m:
:he brings an axe around m:
:he brings an axe around m:
:he opens his mouth in a silent shriek m:
:he opens his mouth in a silent shriek m:
:the axe, blooded m starlit, swings gracefully m:
:the axe, blooded m starlit, swings gracefully m:
:smashing, m blood gushing, m a sound:
:smashing, m blood gushing, m a sound:
:a scream too loud too shrill m:
:a scream too loud too shrill m:
:red:
:red:
:black:
:black:
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: :
9. Aboard the Starship Oginga Odinga
: :
: :
:black:
:black:
:red:
:red:
:a scream too loud too shrill and:
:a scream too loud too shrill and:
:smashing, and blood gushing, and a sound:
:smashing, and blood gushing, and a sound:
:the axe, blooded and starlit, swings gracefully and:
:the axe, blooded and starlit, swings gracefully and:
:he opens his mouth in a silent shriek and:
:he opens his mouth in a silent shriek and:
:he brings an axe around and:
:he brings an axe around and:
* * *
The inside of his black space-armor stinking of terror and his own vomit, Christophe Belledor recovered from momentary unconsciousness. The body of the blanc marine had gone into a mad binary orbit with him, the two of them, the live and the dead, holding captive millions of tiny red glinting globules. More globules continued to pour from the axe-rent in the armor of the dead N’Alabamian.
Christophe kicked away the corpse, as he had been trained, using the equal-but-opposite force to drift back toward the main concentration of troops, his comrades and their foe, struggling and hovering between the Oh! Oh! and the Eastland. Corpses hung balanced in the small gravitational fields of the two great ships, or swung in long elliptical orbits away from the battle. Survivors on both sides dodged frenetically, alternately seeking to assure themselves that they were not about to be attacked and seeking enemies to attempt to beam down or axe.
Of the hundreds of N’Haitians and N’Alabamians who had entered the battle, only the untouched and the dead remained—non-fatal wounds were all but unheard of in a vacuum-environment battle. Self-contained resealant systems in space-armor could handle the occasional micrometeoroid strike that might occur in hard vacuum, or might even close off a tiny puncture from a glancing beam or point, but any significant hole in space-armor produced quick death from decompression and fast freezing.
Christophe, circling in free fall, found himself again startled, face to face with another enemy marine. He valved slightly, thrusting toward the enemy. The enemy remained stationary, as if not knowing what to do. Christophe aimed his lase-axe, fired at the enemy’s chest. He missed.
By now they were very close. The enemy raised his own lase-axe; as he did so Christophe saw the jagged shards at the laser end, where some blow must have been blocked, saving the blanc’s life but also destroying his laser. Too close to beam again, Christophe raised his weapon to port, blocked the enemy’s swing, attempted to come under it and jab to the pelvis but the N’Alabamian twisted and Christophe’s blow landed harmlessly on the man’s flank, sending a ringing vibration through his armor.
The blanc leaned sharply backward, spinning on his own axis, checked and started forward and down again, his axe a gleaming streak of white starshine as it sped murderously toward Christophe’s helmet. Christophe tried to get his own lase-axe handle above his head to block the blow but he miscalculated and his mass slid “downward” leaving an open target.
The gray-dull chestplate of his opponent’s armor splashed into sudden glory, glowing momentarily rust-red, then scarlet, yellow-orange, then back with equal speed through the spectrum. Even through his own insulated plasmetal suit Christophe felt the heat of the radiant energy. The enemy now floated away, performing a series of graceful back somersaults, lase-axe still strapped to one wrist, arms thrown backward and knees spread and buckling. With each revolution of the body Christophe could see the circular black opening where the laser had seared away the N’Alabamian’s armor.
Too late to counter an attack upon himself—if one was coming—Christophe whirled to face the unquestionable source of the laser beam, but saw no possible origin of it.
He shrugged, checked his weapon, valved again toward the mass of space-armored figures that floated between the Oh! Oh! and the Eastland. For him the battle was over. For thousands of cubic kilometers around N’Haitian and N’Alabamian ships maneuvered and fired, rammed and dodged, disgorged miniature hornet-ships to harass the enemy and marines to board or to place skin-charges on enemy craft.
If this battle ended like most, it would go on for hours, even for ship-standard days. Then each fleet would withdraw, the well ships guarding the withdrawal of the crippled, towing away what salvage they could scour from the wreckage of those ships, both their own and the opponents’, that were too far gone even to stagger away under partial power and post-combat conditions.
One difference this time.
The Oh! Oh! was little damaged. Eastland, a hulk. Her command module had taken a partial ram. It lay crushed and opened against the instrument unit, itself hanging against the distant stars with one chord sheared completely away, the remaining ring lifeless, data-acquisition circuits silent, storage banks dead, processing modules hop
elessly fused by fantastic overloads of random heat and power surges produced by monstrous laser rakes.
The long shaft was crumpled, drooping where some surface charge had blown in a jagged section, orbiting flotsam circling the equator of the ship. At the base of the hull one huge fuel tank was torn away, flung out of sight by the residual energy of whatever force had torn it from the shaft—an internal explosion, perhaps, set off by intense heat from a N’Haitian beam, or a ram where the globe was seamed to the cylindrical hull of the Eastland.
Dead. Perhaps salvageable. Whichever force was stronger in this sector, whichever fleet retained sufficient strength to board Eastland with a salvage crew, make fast for towing, protect their prize from the opposition until they had withdrawn out of range, would return to its home base with whatever weapons and equipment, engines and communications gear, intelligence data and flight-and-battle records as she contained.
The hulk itself would be examined and evaluated. If reparable—she would spew her exhaust once more between the stars. As the Eastland if salvaged by N’Ala, as something else, Duvalier perhaps, or perhaps Cleaver or Newton or Seale, if by N’Haiti. And if Eastland should prove to be beyond repair, then still the plasmetal of her hull would be rendered and recast and emerge someday as something new, to lance down the stygian star-tracks and fight again for the eternal glory of N’Alabama. (Or N’Haiti, as the case might be.)
But one difference in this salvage operation.
Not merely the hulks of battered starships this time. Not merely the metals and esters and silicons. Not merely the fabricated goods. This time the men.
Between the star-glinting Oginga Odinga and the dead and crumpled Eastland the unit of Christophe Belledor was beginning once again to form. Christophe moved toward his place in ranks, noting the gaps in the disc-shaped free-fall formation. Far, far in the distance he could see other salvage-ready situations, illuminated ships nestled triumphantly near to dead hulks like triumphant beasts of prey near the dead bodies of their victims. Here Belledor could recognize the form of a N’Haitian victor, there a N’Alabamian. In the aftermath of interstellar battle a strange truce seemed to fall as the survivors, gratefully wonder-struck by the fact of their own survival, concentrated only on their own withdrawal and on the rape of their own victims. They did not choose to jeopardize their status as survivors with any foolish picking of fights with other survivors, of the other fleet. Belledor gazed into the distance: N’Haitian plundered N’Alabamian; N’Alabamian plundered N’Haitian. One hulk swung about and for an instant, by some odd trick of optics, her name, marked in huge letters, caught a glint of light and became visible for the briefest instant: Bilbo, then was lost.
Inside Christophe Belledor’s helmet the voice of his commander spoke, synchronized with the movement of the commander’s arm. The instructions were clear. In company with his fellows, Christophe set to work gathering the shattered and frozen cadavers of the two space marine detachments. White and black, burned and axed, he collected them all. Those with only punctures in their armor to let in the drowning ocean of nothing, and those with organs roasted, and those with torn-away limbs and heads and chunks of torsoes.
What could be salvaged would be used or banked. The remainder, well, at least would not remain behind to leave a cluttered battlefield.
For a moment, Christophe entertained a stray wonderment: Now that the battle was ended, who had won? But then, the admirals and the captains, the generals and the intelligence staffs, were paid to determine such abstruse mysteries. He, Christophe, was paid to do as he was told, and to try to stay alive until such time as he could return to his comfortable desk, his comfortable wife, and his occasional pleasant encounters with the daughter of Leclerc. Meanwhile, Grand Admiral Goude Mazacca probably knew who had won the battle.
10. At the Gran Houmfort Nationale
Perhaps as Papa claimed it was all nonsense. Still, Yvette would not miss the great ceremony. A row at dinner, Mama trying ineffectually to mediate, shouts, angry gestures, and Yvette sent to her room. All for the best, all as if she had herself made the plan.
She locked her door from the inside, vowing to answer no question or plea that penetrated its heavy wood, and flung herself onto the bed to fume. The more she thought of the argument the angrier she became. Did they think her a child? She was a young woman, her days of pigtails, pinafores far behind. She looked at herself, her figure. She had seen how men looked at her—grown men, not merely the coltish boys at the ecole, half-eager and half-timid in their own new hungers, but grown men. Even their neighbor M. Belledor, before he had been called to military service.
Yvette rose from her bed, turned on a small light. She drew the shade of her window and stood before the mirror, slowly removing her school dress. If Papa forbade her to attend the danse calinda, she would go anyway. He might think the newly revived vodu mere nonsense, but all of her friends at the ecole knew better. No boy or girl in Yvette’s class was without some macandal, caprelata, vaudaux dompredere, or ouanga. She herself had an ouanga of goat’s hide, filled with the ingredients of the ancient prescription: small stones, a vertebra of a snake, black feathers, mud, poison, sugar, tiny wax images. Normally it was kept hidden in her room. Tonight she would wear the ouanga.
Out of her dress now she stood naked in the center of her room, feet spread, arms raised, breathing deeply in anticipation of the ceremony to take place at the houmfort. Ah, such a fool as Papa deserved his ignorance. Again Yvette looked down, studying her own form: the graceful breasts and sharply pointed nipples so admired by the boys at school; the slim waist, the swelling pelvis and thickly curled, glossy arrow of black pubic hair pointing unerringly toward its precious goal. She ran her hands once over her smooth sienna-colored skin, feeling alternately waves of hot and cold at the thought of the hours ahead.
Still naked she removed the ouanga from its hiding place, for a moment held the rough skin bag against her cheek, then kissed it and placed the leather thong about her neck so the bag hung between her breasts. Standing again before the mirror Yvette crossed her arms beneath her breasts, forcing her breasts together so that the ouanga bag, between them, was held tightly, the protruding evidence of the objects within pressing and rubbing on her sensitive flesh, exciting her so that she ran one hand down her belly, threading her pubic hairs and kneading her labia for a moment.
Then she whirled, ran barefoot to the closet and removed her clothing for the danse. A satiny blouse of brilliant stripes, yellow, green, blue; tight trousers of white, cut low to come beneath the navel. She slipped her arms into the blouse, drew it about herself, leaving the front open to reveal her talisman, then drew on the pants and tied them at the front. Sandals now, and now she turned out the light in her room and raised the window shade.
In a moment she had the window open and had eased herself through it, slipped softly to the grass outside and moved quietly away from the house. She ran through dark streets, silently, a light mist in the air coating her skin, each droplet seeming to stimulate her further. At the appointed spot near the house of her friend Celie she looked around, found Celie waiting beneath a tree.
She hissed for silence and the two of them dashed off silently toward the hoverail depot. Once away on the train they would reach the houmfort without interference.
At the houmfort Yvette and Celie found a crowd assembled already. Great torches ringed the open plaza before the houmfort; above them in the black sky La Gonave hung huge and dully glowing, adding its light. In the misty air the light of La Gonave was fractionated, making tiny nocturnal rainbows when Yvette looked toward the sky. The torches wavered in the night air, the orange-red flickerings making the shadows of the people dance even though they themselves as yet merely stood awaiting the commencement of the ceremony or milled about seeking friends or positions from which better to see the proceedings of the night.
On the low portico of the houmfort, backed by the scrollery and pillars of the building, the carven serpents and gourds, crucifix
es and thornpierced hearts stood row on row of low catafalques, each surmounted by a long shrouded unmoving manlike figure. Before these stood the three great drums, the boula, the maman, the papa. At either side of the plaza stood other drums. In the center, an altar.
From within the houmfort was heard a drumming and chanting. Lights flickered and figures advanced from the building. Papa Nebo, the hermaphroditic guardian of the dead, a silken top hat ludicrously perched on his head, his black face solemn, solemn, then cracked by the rictus of a tic, shirtless but wearing a tattered black dinner jacket and a ragged white skirt, his bare feet held alternately off the ground, wavering as if undecided before plunging ahead with each step. In one hand he held a human skull, in the other a sickle.
Behind Papa Nebo, reeling and staggering, robed and turbaned, in one hand a glittering bottle, in the other a silvery flute, Gouede Oussou, his eyes dull, his face flaccid, ready to perform the role of the Drunken One.
Finally the woman Gouede Mazacca the Midwife, her traditional garb trimmed with naval decor in honor of her namesake the grand admiral, the Midwife’s serpent-staff in one hand, her bag of charms and implements in the other.
More figures, robed, hooded, turbaned, followed from the houmfort bearing torches and bags; some moved. They made their way to the drums at the sides of the plaza, three others accompanied Papa Nebo, Gouede Oussou, the Midwife Gouede Mazacca to the three great drums, then retired. They began to beat the drums rhythmically, supported by chanting and the tapping of the smaller drums. Then they began to chant, the deep voice of the Drunkard, the high voice of the Midwife, the contralto of the Oracle blending as they repeated over and over:
Legba, me gleau, me manger:
Famille ramasse famille yo:
Legba, me gleau, me manger.
Over and over the three chanted, drumming, shuffling their own feet as they drummed; before them in the plaza the crowd began to respond; Yvette began to move her feet and her hips, and to join in the chant to Legba, Legba, food and drink are here, family gathers with family, Legba, food and drink are here, over and over, at first self-consciously, almost giggling at herself and her friend Celie, then more confidently, moving her body in the torchlight until perspiration began to mingle with the droplets of mist on her skin, her voice rising in the chant, famille ramasse famille yo.
