Marching Through Georgia

by S. M. Stirling

  He pulled the towelcloth robe around himself and looked about the… baths. It was more like a gymnasium-health club complex, filling most of a wing, with artwork that a du Pont might have envied…

  If those pirates knew a work of art when it bit them on the leg, a New Dealer in the back of his mind prompted. The whole thing was of a piece with his experience of the Domination, so far: unthinkable luxury, beauty, blood, cruelty, perversion. But not decadence, whatever the Holy Rollers at home thought; these might be hedonists, but it was the sybarism of a strong, hungry people. Quo Vadis, his mind continued sourly. If de Mille had any taste, and didn't have the Catholic Decency League on his ass.

  Rahksan sat on a stool nearby, knitting again, with A long-haired Persian at her feet making an occasional halfhearted bat at the wool. That had bothered him more than he thought it would, too—particularly since Johanna had mentioned that she was engaged to be married, and the serf girl seemed to be—having an affair? Could you use that term when one party was chattel to the other?—Whatever, with Eric. Things got thoroughly confused around here. He chuckled to himself, remembering how his mother had warned him about loose women when he left for that assignment in Paris, back in '22. Little did she know, he thought.

  Rahksan looked up and met his eyes. He coughed, searching for words. He always felt so sorry for the poor little bitch—a combination of pity and bone-deep distaste. And on top of that awkwardness, it was always difficult to know what to say to a serf, the need for discretion aside. The tattoo on her neck drew his eyes, loaded with a freight of symbol that made it difficult to see through to the human being, the person, behind it. He'd had something of the same feeling in India back a decade ago, when he'd been reporting on Gandhi, with some of the Hindu sadhus he'd met; a feeling that there was simply no meeting place of experience.

  "We'll be going soon," he said. It beat my, aren't the walls vertical, at least.

  "Yassuh," she said tranquilly, and sighed. "Be a montha so, fo' Mistis Jo git perm'nant quahtahs, send fo' me." She held up the knitting, pursed her lips and undid a stitch, then giggled. "Glada tha rest; naace havin" they both heah, buta little, strenuous-ifyin, does yaz be knowin' wha' Ah mean."

  "Ah," he said noncommittally, lips tightening. This is either the best actress I've ever met, or what southerners used to call the "perfect nigger," he thought.

  The serf dropped the wool into her lap; she was looking cool and crisp and elegant in a pleated silk skirt and embroidered blouse of white linen. A slim gold chain lay about the smooth olive column of her neck, sparkling against the blue-black curls falling to her shoulders. He forced his attention back to her face; it had been a long time since he left home and wife.

  "Yaz doan laahk me ovahmuch, suh, does yaz?"

  The young woman's voice carried the usual soft, amiable submissiveness, but the words were uncomfortably sharp.

  "No… what makes you think that?" He felt slightly guilty agreement, and a sharp wish he had been better at concealing it. Goddamit, you're a newsman, act like it! he thought savagely to himself.

  "Masta Dreiser, moas' freemen tink bondfolk be foolish, which ama foolishness itself. Mebbe moah 'scusable ina Yankee, wha doan see us day by day."

  She looked over to the pool. Brother and sister had climbed up on the rocks beneath the waterfall, and Eric had just pitched his sister backwards into the torrent.

  "Ah doan' remembah mucha mah fam'ly," she said meditatively. " 'Cept lying undah they-ah bodies, an' being pulled out." She turned her eyes to the Draka. "They didn' do it, Mastah Drieser," she said. "Ah unnahstood that, soon's Ah stahted thinkin' bout things. Coulda spent alia mah taahm hatin"; what it get me? Just twisted up insaahd, laak them is what makes a life a hatin'." She smiled grimly.

  " 'Sides, what Ah do remembah, is mah fathah hittin' me fb' makin' noise. An' mommah, she give th' food't' mah brothahs, on 'count they boys, leave me cryin' an' hongry. Ifn the Draka hadn' come, Ah'd a growed up inna hut with the goats, been sold fo' goats, hadta put onna tent't' go out. Chador, hey? Nevah been clean, nevah had 'nuff't' eat, nevah seen anytin' pretty…

  "So-an." She touched the numerals behind her ear. "This doan mean Ah's a plough, oah a stove. Cain' nohow see how a man's thinkin' undah his face. Serf need that moah thana freemen." She paused. "Yo" a Godshoutah, suh?" At his blank look: 'Christ-man, laahk somma they-ah down in't'Quahtahs. What jects to folks pleasurin' as they-ah sees fit?"

  "No, not really." Not altogether true, but he should have remembered that illiteracy was not synonymous with stupidity. "Besides, you don't have much choice in the matter."

  "Oh, but Ah does. Luckiah than 'lotta folks, thayt way." She leaned closer. "Masta Dreiser, yo' a Yankee-man, means well, so Masta Eric tell thissun'. Say talk if'n yo' wanna, so Ah bean' talkin', not justa Yassuh, masta, an' Nossuh, masta laahk Ah could. So Ah says, keep youah pity an' youah look-down-nose foah them as needs it. Two 'tings y'otta 'tink on, masta: Ah laahks Masta Eric well 'nuff. Good man, when he-ah doan' git't'tinkin' so much. Laahk Mistis Jo lot moah; she allays been naahce't'me. Weeeell, near allays as no mattah, nobody naahce alia taahm.

  "Othah ting: serf, buck oah wench needa good masta, good mistis. Tings diffren yaz contry, mebbe; heah anytin can happen't' the laahk'sa me. Anytin. Yaz tinks onna thayt. Ah grows up witta Mistis Jo, Masta Eric, t'othahs. Laahk… pet, hey? Ah knows they; they knows me, near as good. Doan't gonna laahk me if n Ah doan laahk they, yaz see? Easy 'nuff to laahk they, so-ah? Doan't nuthin' bayd happen if n Ah wuz ta act sullen. Ah jus end up cookin', oah pullin' spuds, milkin' cows. Thayt mah choice."

  For a moment the softly pretty face looked almost fierce. "So-ah, yaz doan' hayve mah laaf't'live, mah de-cisions't'mayk, does yaz, masta? So, mebbe little lessa drawin asaahd't'skirts of tha garment, eh, Masta Dreiser, suh?"

  He flushed, slightly ashamed, feeling a stirring of liking despite himself, nodded. Well, you always knew people were complicated, he chided himself.

  The Draka returned. Rahksan bounced up to hand them towels and began drying Johanna's back.

  "Well," Eric said, pulling on a robe in deference to the guest's sensibilities. "You'll be glad enough to get where you can put the war back into the correspondent, eh?"

  Dreiser nodded. "Although I've gotten some interesting background material here," he said.

  "Yes," Johanna chimed in, muffled through the towel. "And even more interesting, the way you slanted it. Gives me a good idea of what the particular phobias of the Yankees are: nasty-minded lot, I must say."

  "And I've been working up some stuff on the domestic angle," he said, indicating the interior with a nod. "How the Draka live at home." Some of which won't see the light of day until after the war, he added silently.

  The two young Draka stared at him. "I hope," Johanna said carefully, "you aren't under the impression that most citizens live this way." She waved a hand, indicating the Great House. "Or maybe you do? I've read some American novels about the Domination that are real howlers."

  "Well, most Draka are quite affluent," he replied. "And I did get the impression that most citizen families were serfholders.

  "Oh, yes," Eric said. "You have to be an alcoholic or a retard to be really poor, and then they just put you in a comfortable institution, sterilize you and encourage life-shortening vices."

  Dreiser blinked. Eric was a decent enough sort, but half the time he just didn't seem to hear the things he said.

  "Yes; well over ninety percent hold some serfs," Johanna said, propping a foot on the plinth of a statue. It was an onyx leopard, with ivory fangs and claws.

  "But… hmmm, last census, three-quarters held ten or less. Half five or less. Look, you know how our economy's set up?"

  "Vaguely. 'Feudal Socialism'—that's the official term, isn't it?" the American said.

  Eric sighed. "Carlyle popularized the phrase, back over a century ago. Actually, it just sort of grew. To simplify… big industries are owned by the State, by the free-employee guilds, or by the Landholder's L
eague."

  "That's sort of like a cooperative for plantation owners, isn't it?" Dreiser said.

  "Plantation holders. We don't have private ownership of land, strictly speaking. That's what the League started out as, yes. Branched out into shipping, transport, processing, then banking. Nowadays, hmmm, take the Ferrous Metals Combine. Iron and coal mining, steel, heavy engineering. Ten percent of the shares are owned by the War Directorate; used to be more, they started in with cannon-foundries. Thirty percent are owned by the Ferric Guild. The rest are shared by the State and the Landholder's League. The same is true in varying proportions with the others: Capricorn Textiles Combine, Naysmith Machine Tools, Trevithick Autosteam, Dos Santos Dirigibles…

  "So instead of industry exploiting agriculture, the way it is with you Americans—well, the von Shraken-bergs get a third of their income from the League, apart from what four thousand hectares brings in."

  Johanna stretched and yawned. "So these days, most citizens are city-dwellers—technicians, engineers, overseers, bureaucrats, police agents, artists, schoolteachers… The salatariat not the proletariat."

  Eric snorted. "Feeble wit, sister dear. Actually, it's more complicated than that. There's a, hmmm, 'private sector'—small business, luxury goods, mostly. And, for example, guess who lobbies for a higher standard of living for the factory-serfs?"

  "Nobody?" Dreiser said coolly.

  The Draka laughed. "Actually, the League," Eric said. "Plantation agriculture means farming for sale; 91 percent of the population are serfs, after all. The better the Combines feed and clothe their workers, the more we sell. In the old days we sold abroad, but that's out of the question nowadays—we're just too big."

  Johanna nodded and tossed her robe over one shoulder. "Adieu, Bill, Eric; see you at dinner." Rahksan rose to follow her. "You two discuss the whichness of wherefore; time enough for work when the leave-pass is up."

  Dreiser watched her go. Colored light reflected off marble and fresco to pattern her skin, which rippled smoothly as she swayed across the floor. He indicated the block, with its knives, and the exercise floor. "That sort of thing is impressive as hell, especially the chucking-each-other-about part," he said, as the women left.

  "Oh, you mean the pankration? Actually, we got most of that from the Asians, oddly enough. Despite the Greek name. Back in the 1880's, when we imported a lot of coolies. The overseer tried to touch up a lot of Okinawans with his sjambok and found out they had ways of personal mayhem… bought their contracts, learned it all, and set up a salle d'armes."

  "Ah," Dreiser said again, making a mental note. "Surprising how well your sister stands up to you, considering the advantages."

  Eric ran fingers through his short, damp hair. "Size and reach, or gender?" he said. "Incidentally, watch what you say on that subject when we get back to the field. Lot of women are still pretty sensitive about that sort of thing; there was a long controversy about it when I was a toddler and you still find the occasional shellback conservative. You might be able to get away with turning down a duel, being a foreigner, but there are some who'd… react."

  "React how?" the American asked.

  "They'd break your bones."

  "You re serious? Yes, I see you are. Thanks, Eric." The Draka shrugged. "You'll understand it better when we're in the field," he said.

  Chapter Five

  Both love and hatred can be frustrating emotions, when their object is not present My father had sent me away. Not that I missed him overmuch; it was not he who had raised me, after all. But he had sent me away from the only home I had ever known, from those who had loved and cared for me. How could I not hate him? But I was a precocious child, and of an age to begin thinking. In Philadelphia I was a stranger, and lonely, but I was free. Schooling, books, later university and the play of minds; all these he had given me. at the risk of his own life; there was nothing for me in the Domination. And he was my father; how could I not love him?

  And he was not there; I could not scream my anger at him. or embrace him and say the words of love. And so I created a father in my head, as other children had imaginary playmates: daydreams of things we would do together—trips to the zoo or Atlantic City, conversations, arguments…an inner life that helped to train the growth of my being, as a vine is shaped by its trellis. Good training for a novelist A poor substitute for a home.

  ―Daughter to Darkness: A Life, by Anna von Shrakenberg, Houghton & Stewart, New York, 1964

  Oakenwald Plantation October 1941

  Arch-Strategos Karl von Shrakenberg sipped carefully from the snifter, cradling it in his hands and looking down from the study window, southwest across the gardens and the valley, green fields and poplars and the golden hue of sandstone from the hills…

  One more, he thought, turning and pouring a careful half-ounce into the wide-mouthed goblet. One more, and another when Eric came; he had to be careful with brandy, as with any drug that could numb the pain of his leg. The surgeons had done their best, but that had been 1917, and technique was less advanced; also, they were busy. More cutting might lessen the pain, but it would also chance losing more control of the muscle, and that he would not risk.

  He leaned weight on the windowsill and sighed; sun rippled through the branches of the tree outside, with a cool wind that hinted of the night's chill. He would be glad of a fire.

  Ach, well, life is a wounding, he thought. An accumulation of pains and mannings and grief. We heal as we can, bear them as we must, until the weight grows too much to bear and we go down into the earth.

  "I wish I could tell Eric that," he whispered. But what use? He was young, and full of youth's rebellion against the world. He would simply hear a command to bow to the wisdom of age, to accept the unacceptable and endure the unendurable. His tongue rolled the brandy about his mouth. Would I have stood for that sort of advice when I was his age?

  Well, outwardly, at least. My ambitions were always more concrete. He rubbed thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, wearily considering the stacks of reports on his desk; many of them were marked with a stylized terrestrial globe in a saurian claw: top secret. I wanted command, accomplishment, a warrior's name—and what am I? A glorified clerk, reading and annotating reports: Intelligence reports, survey reports, reports on steel production and machine-tool output, ammunition stockpile reports…

  Old men sitting in a basement, playing wargames on sand tables and sending our sons and daughters out to die on the strength of it, he thought. You succeeded, won your dreams, and that was not the finish of it. Not like those novels Eric was so fond of, where the ends could be tied up and kept from unravelling. Life went on… how dry and horrible that would have seemed once!

  Stop grumbling, old man, he told himself. There had been good times enough, girls and glory and power, more than enough if you thought now most humans had to live out their lives. Limping, he walked down one wall, running his fingers lovingly along the leather-bound spines of the books. The study was as old as the manor, and had changed less; a place for the head of the family, a working room, it had escaped the great redecoration his mother had overseen as a young bride. His eyes paused as he came to his wife's portrait. It showed her as she had been when they had pledged themselves, in that hospital on Crete, looking young and self-consciously stern in her Medical Corps uniform, doctor's stethoscope neatly buttoned over her breast and her long brown hair drawn back in a workmanlike bun.

  Mary would have helped, he thought, raising his glass to her memory. She had been better than he at… feelings? No, at talking about them when it was needful. She would have known what to do when Eric became too infatuated with that damned Circassian wench.

  No, he thought grudgingly. Tyansha understood— better than Eric. She never tried to get him to go beyond propriety in public.

  He had tried to talk to his son, but it had been useless. Maybe Mary could have got at him through the girl. Mary had been like that—always dignified, but even the housegirls and fieldhands had t
alked freely with her. Tyansha had frozen into silence whenever the Old Master looked at her. Tempting just to send her away, but that would have been punishing her for Eric's fault, and a von Shrakenberg did not treat a family serf that way; honor forbade. He had been relieved when she had died naturally in childbirth, until…

  Mary could be hard when she had to be, Karl thought. It was a tool with her, something she brought out when it was needed. Me… I'm beginning to think it's like armor that I can't take off even if I wanted to.

  The Draka had made more of the differences between the sexes in his generation, although less than other peoples did. The change had been necessary— there was the work of the world to do, and never enough trustworthy hands—but there were times when he felt his people had lost something by banishing softness from their lives.

  Well, I'll just have to do my best, he thought. His hand fell on a rude-carved image on a shelf—a figurine of Thor, product of the failed attempt to revive the Old Faith back in the last century. "Even you couldn't lift the Midgard Serpent or outwrestle the Crone Age, eh, Redbeard?"

  A knock sounded. That would be his son.

  * * * *

  Haven't seen the inside of this very often, since I was a boy, Eric thought, looking about his father's study. And not often under happy circumstances then. Usually a thrashing. There was nothing of that sort to await today, of course; merely a ferewell. Damned if I'm going to kneel and ask his blessing, tradition or not.

  The room was big and dim, smelling of leather and tobacco, open windows overshadowed by trees. Eric remembered climbing them to peer within as a boy.

  Walls held books, old and leather-bound; plantation accounts running back to the founding; family records; volumes on agriculture, stockbreeding, strategy, hunting. Among them were keepsakes accumulated through generations: a pair of baSotho throwing spears nearly two centuries old, crossed over a battle-axe—relics from the land-taking. A Chokwe spirit mask from Angola, a Tuareg broadsword, a Moroccan jezail musket, an Armenian fighting-knife with a hilt of lacy silver filigree…