Marya nodded. "Yes, Mistress," she whispered. You did not shout defiantly in a master's face; Tanya allowed frankness, you could even state opinion fairly openly, but there was an etiquette, forms of respect. And she had broken the forms, before witnesses at that. Our Lord was scourged, she told herself. It can be no worse than that. Thank you, Lord, that I may share Your wounds.
Tanya smiled and patted her on the cheek. "But I was pushin' yo', too. No sjambok; pointless to feed your desire to be a martyr, anyways. Finish foldin' my clothes, then come here an' hold still."
Marya laid them neatly on a table; caftan, cloth belt, underwear, sandals with the thongs together in a bow.
"Yo' realize I'm not doin' this because I enjoy hurtin' yo?" Marya nodded; that was true, in a sense. "Believe it or not, Marya, I'd prefer yo' were happy here. Try acceptin' this in the right sprit, and it might be a first step…" A sigh. "No, I suppose not. Speak the proper words, wench."
"This serf is ignorant and insolent. I beg forgiveness, Mistress."
Crack! An open-handed slap across the side of the nun's face, with a hand that felt like a board wrapped in cloth. Hard enough to jar her head around and sting, but not to injure.
"Thank you. Mistress."
Crack.
"Thank you. Mistress."
Crack.
"Thank you, Mistress."
"That's that, then." They walked over to the table, and Tanya leaned over the chess game, studying it in silence for a full minute.
"Knight to queen's pawn four?" she said to Professor Lebrun. He cleared his throat, glanced at Marya, back down at the board.
"Perhaps, Mistress," he said after a moment. "Though perhaps… ?" He indicated a complex of strike and counter-strike.
"Hmmmm. That's the conservative approach; still, yo' goin' to be down another castle in three moves." She indicated the sequence. "So it's probably worth the risk. Still, suit yourself."
Shifting into French: "Priest." Father Adelard looked up, carefully averting his eyes. "About that request for a school you and Marya made. It's granted." A smile. "Don't look so surprised, priest; we do need mechanics and clerks, after all. You can start this winter; no more than thirty pupils, give us a list of names. Marya, can you get me a list of everything necessary?"
"Ah, that is, yes, Mistress."
"Good: by Monday, then. Oh, and look up Solange on your way back—tell her to attend in the massage room in two hours with my riding clothes."
She nodded in return to the men's bows and walked down to the water's edge; ran the last two steps, sprang, and hit the surface in a clean flat racing dive. The sleek head broke surface ten meters further out, and she began a quick overarm crawl toward the opposite shore.
"This arrived," Jules Lebrun said, sliding the folded slip of rice-paper out of his sleeve. It was only a few letter-number combinations on a liner from a carton of cigarettes; a cheap mass-produced brand, issued to semiskilled Class IV serfs in ten thousand canteens across the Domination. His back was to the lake where the mistress of Chateau Retour was methodically swimming her kilometers, and the paper could be disposed of in an instant.
The nun came to herself with a start. He peered at her through the upper lens of his bifocals, squinting against the blur and the colored light that filtered through the glass overhead. Not hard enough to stun her, he thought. As beatings went, it had been mild, more a symbol of humiliation than real punishment. Something else had struck at her, a blow on the mind or heart. Name of a dog, but this fading eyesight is inconvenient, he thought irritably. One does not realize how much of a conversation depends on seeing the details of another's face.
"Thank you," she said, curling her fingers around the scrap of stiff liner and letting her eyes drop to it without moving her head. Her face turned, and her hand seemed to brush casually against her mouth; the Frenchman could see her throat work silently. Overlapping handprints stood out redly on her square firm cheeks, but the animation was trickling back into her eyes as she turned them to him.
"It's an acknowledgment. They know that Chantal and I have been moved out of Central Detention in Lyon, and where; you are to be the conduit." She smiled slightly at his silent nod. "Good, under no circumstances should I know who."
"Sister, I am not sure who it is," he replied dryly. One of two drivers on the regular supply run, but that too shall remain confidential. "Also, I did several monographs on secret societies during my academic career." He inclined his head toward the seat that Father Adelard had occupied. "You do not think we should recruit him?"
Marya frowned. "Forgive me, Professor Lebrun, but I would not tell you if I did. Nor approach him during a courier drop, in any case. But no…"A hasty gesture with one hand. "Father Adelard is… a holy man, a good priest. My superior in the religious life, of course."
She crossed herself. "I must risk the stain on my soul and not confess explicitly what we do, Professor. Understand… Father Adelard is a brave man, one always ready to take the crown of martyrdom for the Faith. But he thinks mainly of his flock—as is understandable. The bishop the Draka allow is duly ordained; we must obey his commands in spiritual matters, but… I suspect they selected him carefully. The Holy Father might feel constrained to agree, for fear of losing all contact with the faithful here in Europe. Likewise Father Adelard is fearful of who might be appointed to his care of souls if he were removed. And the people on this estate must have a spiritual shepherd whose first loyalty is to God. Best he not know of what we do.
"If we do anything of consequence," she added in what was almost a mumble.
Lebrun extended a hand that trembled with the misfiring of his nerves and rested it on hers; the nun's fingers closed around the professor's with careful force.
"Tell me, sister," he said gently. "If you cannot confess to a priest, let me help bear the burden of your doubts. I may not share your faith, but I have faith in you, at least. There was anger in your voice when you shouted—is that what is troubling you?"
"No," she sighed, looking up at him with a smile of gratitude. "She—not boasted, just mentioned, that they intended to… geld the Church, I suppose you could say. Over generations, alter its message into one of worship of the Draka, I suppose."
Another sigh. "God moves in history, my friend; if He sends us trials, they are no greater than we can bear. We must do our best, and the Church Militant will survive. Oh, it may fall into corruptions for a space— the Church is the Bride of Christ, but here on earth it is made of men, and all men are fallen. Satan speaks in their hearts, and chasubles and vestments are not enough to bar him entrance; the Borgia Popes, even—" A shrug. "For a moment I believed despite myself that they could do this thing, and my anger was the anger of despair."
"Something else troubles you, though, does it not?" he asked. She bowed her head.
"Another despair; for myself. All this time I have told myself that I had refused compromise beyond the point that my conscience could bear. The Holy Father has said that such religious as remain in Europe must minister to the needs of the people; they may render unto Caesar, so long as no specific action violates faith or morals. What I have done here… nothing beyond bookkeeping, and there must be records if people are to be fed, the sick tended, houses built, whether we are free or slave."
"And you have helped whenever you could," he reminded her. "Interceded, often at risk to yourself."
Marya laughed, and he was slightly shocked at the bitterness of the sound. "She… that woman, no, thatfemale Draka… pointed something out to me. That all my work, even my helping of others, makes this plantation run more smoothly. They approve! She praised my accomplishments!" Sudden tears starred her eyes and thickened her voice. "So much for my careful distinctions. This Caesar demands everything, most certainly including what should be rendered only unto God. Have I become accomplice in abomination?"
The old man felt warm drops spattering on the liver-spotted surfaces of his hands, and forced the faltering muscles to give an emphatic squeez
e to the strong work-hardened palms between his.
"Sister." He waited. "Sister Marya Sokolowska!" She looked up at him. "Remember who invented lies, Sister. And that the best lie is a twisted truth."
The nun gave a shaky nod, returned the pressure of his hands and withdrew hers to find a handkerchief in the pocket of her skirt. "It would be simpler," she said with a slight twist of the lip that might have been called a smile, "simpler, if—"
"They were just brutes and monsters?" he replied, and gave a Gallic shrug. "The Domination is an evil that twists and poisons everything it touches, including the better qualities of its leaders. You have nothing of which to be ashamed, Marya Sokolowska." A grin. "Name of a name, I don't think she would congratulate you on what we've been doing here today."
She returned his smile. "Forgive me for pouring out my doubts and despairs to you, my friend; it seems I'm nothing but a thundercloud today."
"You carry too much of a burden yourself. Chantal was involved in such affairs in Lyon; couldn't you bring her into this?"
Marya frowned and shook her head, once more in command of herself, and her tone had a professional's objectivity. "No, professor, I think not. She was with another organization, to begin with; one we felt was compromised. She herself I have no doubt of, as far as her loyalties go. But she is, you must know, under severe stress at the moment."
He nodded quickly to spare her embarrassment, and she looked aside as she continued. "I am afraid for her stability, and this is no business for one who may lose control of herself. In recklessness or otherwise. Besides which—" She paused. "I find myself reluctant to take anyone into this matter, the risks are so great, balanced against what we can accomplish, a little information passed along, perhaps a package hidden… I feel guilty at endangering you, my friend."
"Allow me to chose my own martyrdoms, my devout one. I am an old man, and will be gone soon enough in any case; let me die as something more than a Draka pensioner, at least in my own mind."
She hesitated, then pursed her lips and spoke: "You do have a daughter, and we may be endangering her as well, through you. Not to mention… well, I had hoped you might be the means of her… recovery."
It was Lebrun's turn to look aside. "Have no fears on that score, Sister. Or hopes. Solange… Solange is safe, whatever befalls me. The mistress would neither believe her capable of conspiracy, nor allow her to be punished in my stead. She is safe, even happy, regardless if I live or die. So I may operate with no fear except for my own, eminently expendable, life."
He turned his hands palm-up on the stone and concentrated on slowing the shaking. "The mistress is right, you see. My daughter would report me in a moment, if she knew." Marya made a shocked sound and reached out to touch his arm, knowing the comfort useless against a unbearable grief, but offering it nonetheless.
"I am the false idol, you see," he said quietly, looking off over the roofs of the chateaux. "She loves me still, but I am the god who failed to protect her." His hands clenched into fists, and despite the wasting and shaking they showed a little of the strength that had been his. "I did fail her and her mother, I did." He smiled. "I must have failed my daughter long before the War, for things to have happened as they did; I never wanted to be an idol in her sight. Only for her to be happy and secure, and then a woman who would remember her father kindly; one who could stand on her own feet, with no need of a protector-god. She was such a bright child, so full of life—" Jules Lebrun shook his head with slow finality. "I failed her, perhaps by seeking to protect too much. But you I shall not fail, Sister."
Chapter Eleven
DATE: 01/08/47
FROM: Cohortarch Eurydice Skinner
Stalker Sub Procrustes
Atlantic Exclusion Zone
TO: Merarch Delia Beauchamp
Third Fleet HQ Le Havre.Province of Normandy
RE: Contact with Alliance submarine
Intermittent contact from 0700 to 1100 this date: sensor data compatible with fuel-cell submersible in the 2.000 ton range proceeding ESE my position at 120 meters + - 20. Estimate probable Alliance Benjamin Franklin class patrol boat Subject's evasive action resulted in final loss of contact at 1100 hours.
Service to the State!
SEABED NEAR NANTESESTUARY OF THE LOIRE RIVERAUGUST 1, 1947
Captain Manuel Guzman leaned against the periscope well of the Benito Juarez and felt the clammy sweat trickling down under the roll-top collar of his sweater. The control center was underlit by the eerie blue glow of the silent-running lights, and utterly quiet; even the feet of the crewmen were muffled in felt overboots, and when they moved at all it was with an exaggerated care. Natural enough, since their lives depended on it: the Juarez was grounded in the soft silt of the estuary and helpless if the Draka searchers found a trace of her. The passive sound-detection gear was in operation, but they could all hear the throbbing of high-speed screws through the hull, resonating in the closed spaces of the submarine.
Twin screws, the captain thought. He was a stocky brown-skinned man with the flat face and hook nose of Yucatan's Maya Indians, old enough to have been a sub commander in the Pacific during the Eurasian war, and there was sympathy behind the impassive brown eyes as he watched the younger members of the bridge crew. This was the hardest part: nothing to do but think, nothing to think about but the crushing weight of water outside the thin plating of the hull, and of drowning in darkness.
Twin screws, going fast, his mind continued. Boosting on peroxide turbines, much more powerful than the fuel-cell cruise motors but noisy. Over them, fading now. Probably one of the new Direwolf class stalker-killer subs, based on German research the snakes had captured, they had never been much at naval design. His mind drew in the details, long cigar-shaped hull, streamlined conning tower, cruciform control rudders with rear-mounted propellors… built to hunt other subs, but the Domination's sensor-technology was nothing like as good as the Alliance's.
And the Juarez was a fine boat for this clandestine work. Modified from a mid-War cargo sub design, slow but ultra-quiet, with a hold capable of shipping a variety of surprises.
"What do we do now?" the man from the OSS asked in a whisper, after the noise faded.
"We wait," Guzman said curtly. He did not like the Ivy League types secret intelligence seemed to attract; this one reeked of old-stock Yankee money and breeding. Too many of that type at Annapolis, he thought resentfully. The type who had made his first days at the Academy Hell Week in plain truth, back when indios were a government-mandated rarity and fiercely resented; when the only other Spanish-speakers there had been criollo bluebloods, the sort of hacienda-owning maricones his father had spent a lifetime working for.
"Consider yourself lucky, amigo, that this isn't one of the old diesel-electric boats," he continued. Fuel cells did not need exterior oxygen, and if necessary they could wait two weeks, with abundant energy to crack fresh atmosphere out of seawater. "Now we wait, run up the antenna every night. When we get the message, you can bring out that fancy folding airplane of yours. If we get the message."
The agent blinked back at him; the captain reminded himself that the look of mournful reproach in the man's deepset eyes was a trick of his features, not genuine expression. Face like a horse with a receeding chin, he thought.
"Our man will make it," the OSS man said in his nasal twang. "He's been in there a long time, but he'll make it, and with the job done. He's… that sort of fellow."
Guzman nodded. It would take a man with real balls to survive very long among the snakes and make it back to the west. He looked up, imagining the destroyers putting out from Nantes, the patrol aircraft and dirigibles lifting from their runways and docking-towers. It's going to take balls and luck to be here alive when he arrives, he thought wryly. The Alliance and the Domination were not formally at war; hence the Benito Juarez was still officially in her homeport at Hampton Roads, or out on a training cruise.
That was the necessary fiction. And there would be, could be no actio
n to save the non-existent Juarez here in the Domination's territorial waters. Nothing but a "lost at sea" telegram to their families if they did not return.
His eyes went to the picture taped to the guard-rail of the periscope well, a smiling woman with hair the color of cornsilk and a Hawaiian lei around her neck. Bonnie-Lee would wait, and not in vain.
"Secure to holding stations," he told his exec. The man nodded, none of that surface-navy nonesense about bracing to attention in pigboats. "Carry on," Guzman continued, turning to go. There were always letters to write, even if they could not be posted.
CHATEAU RETOUR PLANTATION,
TOURAINE PROVINCE
AUGUST 1, 1947
"Lookin' good," Edward von Shrakenberg said, stripping back the maize-cob's silk and biting into the milky kernels, before spirting them out over the left quarter of his horse. The taste was sweet and green, halfway between candy and a grass-stem, and the feathery touch of the cornsilk on his lips was as homelike as the scent of new bread.
"Another two months, Mastah," Mohammed said, reaching across from his own saddle to take the cob from him and weighing it in one hand. "We gets one-eighty, mebbeso two hundred bushels th' hectare."
The Landholder nodded; Mohammed was his senior fieldboss, a steady and reliable buck from his father's estate in Nova Cartago Province, south of Tunis, son of a bossboy there.
"Told yo' we didn't need steady irrigation here," he said absently. Behind him the hedge rustled, new-planted rosa multiflora sending its spindly canes skyward; another year or two and it would be man-high and hog-tight, like organic barbed wire. To his left was another hedge and a board gate; beyond that a stretch of grass and trees leading to the levee that held back the Loire's winter floods. A car went by along the embankment road, a three-piston steamer trailing a plume of white dust and the crunching sound of tires on rock, louder than the engine.
Under the Yoke Page 28
