The two Draka shook their heads; the woman seemed about to speak when the Issachar jolted. Kustaa looked up, and saw that they had docked. The dirigible quivered as her steerable tiltmotors held the nose threaded into the anchor ring of the tower; then there was a long multiple clicking sound as the restraining bolts shot home into the machined recesses. Another quiver as the engines died, the sudden absence of their burbling whine louder than their presence. More clicks and jolts as the anchor ring moved to thread the docking cable through the airship's loops, then cast them loose.
The American looked out the window, saw the horizon sinking as the winches bore the dirigible down below the level of the surrounding buildings, down to the railed tracks. A final quiver as the keel beneath them made contact with the haulers, and a whining of pumps as gas was valved through the connectors into the haven's reservoirs, establishing negative buoyancy. The observation deck was only five meters up, now; he could see the cracked concrete surface, the interlacing rails, the huge silver-gray teardrop shapes of the other dirigibles, most locked at rest, flocks of nose-in circles around their terminals. Groundcrew swarmed about, little electric carts flashed by tugging flatbed trailers loaded with luggage; a train of heavy articulated steam drags was passing under an anchored airship, unloading cargo-modules that clipped down on their backs with prefitted precision. The scene moved, creeping by as the haulers dragged the Issachar to her resting place, and there was a bustle as the passengers moved to fasten jackets and assemble forward.
Kustaa remained in his seat as the disembodied voice came tinnily through the speakers; just as fast to stay in comfort for a minute as wait standing at the end of the line. "Prepare to disembark. All passengers to Lyon prepare to disembark by the forward ramp, please. Through passengers to Marseilles, Genoa and Florence, please remain seated."
He was alone when the stewardess came by again. Her eyes flicked aside at him, returned to the table she sponged down. Her face was gray, with a bleak pinched look that aged her ten years, or a hundred, and she moved with the arthritic care of an old woman. Against his will, Kustaa felt his hand go out to touch her sleeve. She came to a halt, instantly.
"Sor-ry," he croaked, standing and taking up the heavy leather case that never went out of arm's reach. "Ve-ry sor-ry."
The stewardess's face crumbled for an instant at the words, then she shot a lightning glance around and began to speak, her eyes flickering up to his face as she whispered fiercely and scrubbed at the veneer:
"Oh, Master, you look like a kind man, please here's my number"—a slip of paper, palmed and tucked into his jacket pocket in an invisibly swift movement—"please, I can't stand it any longer, buy me, please, I know it can be done, someone bought Inge out just last month because their children liked her, I'm a hard worker really I am, I can cook and look after children and type and drive a car and play the piano and I'm good in bed, very very good, buy me and I'll be the best worker you've ever had always, master, only 75 aurics, please."
She scuttled away to the next table and Kustaa stood for a moment, fingering the slip of paper in his pocket. Then he turned and walked calmly along the gallery, out into the passageway and down to the ramp that dropped from the nose of the airship, forward of the control deck. The last of the passengers were still there, checking out their firearms from the counter-clerk, smiling and laughing in unconscious relaxation as they shed the subtle tension Citizens felt when deprived of their weaponry. The American watched his hands strip the clip from the automatic, reinsert it and chamber a round and snap on the safety before holstering it. The battle-shotgun was handed to him still in its black-leather scabbard, with the harness wrapped around it. An auto-shotgun, basically, with a six-round tube magazine below the barrel, the butt cut down to a heavy pistol grip. He jerked it free, popping the restraining-strap, and checked the action; six rounds, alternate slug and double buckshot.
How many could I kill? he thought calmly, estimating the placing of the dozen Draka around him as his fingers caressed the chunky wooden forestock of the weapon. You for sure, Mr. concerned-Citizen airplane maker who wonders how little girls look stripped. Maybe you too, bignose pilot, you'd be meat just like the two-legged cattle you killed to get that medal.
More calmly still: I am going insane. A few of the Citizens were glancing his way, feeling the prickle of danger without knowing why. When I get back to my family, will I still be fit for them?
His hands put the shotgun back in its sheath, slung it over his back with the butt conveniently behind his right ear, buckled the harness around his chest; while his mind painted the varnished metal red and pink and gray with blood and shattered bone and brains. Not enough, he decided. Not nearly enough.
"How may I serve yo', Mastah? Kellerman two-door? Here keys, yaz sar, Mastah, right this way—"
Where had that been?
"Street St. Jacob? Right that way, suh; my respects to one who gave so much fo' the Race. Nothin' more I cain do? Service to the State!"
What had he replied?
"Drink? Certainment, maistre, you wish perhaps other entertainment—yes, maistre, I go—"
"Yes, this is certainly the place," he said to himself. Then started to his feet, the snifter of brandy in his hand. A frantic look at the bottle reassured him: only two drinks. He strode over to the table beside the bed; 25 Rue St. Jacob, Transit Hotel #79, room 221. Precisely right.
"My god, I nearly lost it," he muttered to himself, raising the blinds. An ordinary European street, a little broader than most, five-story brick buildings. A few autosteamers going by; sunset behind the buildings opposite, streetlights winking on, the branches of the chestnut tree outside tapping against his window. Ordinary hotel room, bed with white coverlet, nightstand, desk, carpet, bathroom. "I nearly lost it, my subconscious is a better fucking agent than I am."
He threw up the windowpane, letting in a breeze cooling with evening and fragrant with city-smells, coalsmoke, dirty river, acre upon acre of summer-wanned brick and stone, burnt steamer distillate. A few deep breaths and he took up the phone. "Dinner," he rasped. "Stan-dard." Now to wait for contact.
Well, well, fancy being back here so soon, Andrew von Shrakenberg thought, looking around the office of Lyon's Security chief. Not just shopping, this time, unfortunately. The room was much as he remembered it, really quite nice murals, the two glass walls with their tinted panes swiveled open like vertical Venetian blinds to let in the cooling evening air. Westering sunlight sparkled on the broad surface of the Saone where it swung south and east to join the Rhone, forming the Y shape whose tongue of land had been the original site of Lyon. Celtic, he remembered. Called Lugdunum, originally. After the Gallic Sun-god; then a Greek settlement, followed by a colony of Roman veterans. Burgundians, later, an east-Germanic tribe related to the Goths and Vandals. French, of various types… and then us, which is the end of the story everywhere.
He took another draw on the cheroot, a sip of the coffee, touched his lips to the Calvados in the goblet in his right hand; he had always enjoyed the scent more than the taste. Strategos Vashon was at his desk, checking through a report and making notes on a yellow pad with his left hand. Ignoring the Security Cohortarch standing at parade-rest in front of his desk, who was probably earnestly willing a suspension of her vital functions behind the blank mask of her face. The bruise that was turning most of its left side an interesting shade of yellow-purple helped, of course. The Strategos continued his methodical labors, with a detachment which was certainly an effective demoralizer for the officer on the carpet before him.
The problem is, does he really want to demoralize his subordinates? Andrew asked himself, laying down the eau-de-vie and fingering the gold hoop in his left ear. The headhunters were set up to play that sort of mindfucking game; the problem is, they become addicted to it, even with each other. Which raised the interesting point, frequent at the higher levels of the War Directorate, of whether they were being too paranoid about the paranoids… I wonder what the head-hunter
is thinking, I really do.
Strategos Vashon scowled slightly at the report before him, stripped the handwritten notes off the yellow pad and peeled the foil-paper off a wax seal to attach it. The development people are letting their enthusiasm run away with them again, he decided. Pages of hyperbolic notes on how addiction to pleasure-center stimulation produced complete docility in even the most refractory subjects… Of course it did! So did lobotomy! This new treatment degraded performance levels almost as much, and to boot they had to leave a bloody great electrode sticking in the subject's skull; most of them developed infections and died, and the remainder had to have intensive medical care.
"Note:" he wrote on the bottom of the paper, "The Race's need is not for a breed of hospitalized idiots to serve them." So far, this new approach was no better than the standard electroshock-sensory deprivation-pentathol chemoconditioning methods; a little more sure to stick, but with even more unfortunate effects on their capacities. The Holy Grail of a safe, quick method of ensuring absolute obedience without affecting intelligence or ability would have to remain a dream a while longer; and serf-breaking would have to remain a primitive craft industry, not one conducted on modern conveyor-belt principles.
He closed the folder, wound the cord around the fastener, sealed it with another prepackaged wax disk and tossed it in the "out" box for his assistant to take in the morning. Morning… he glanced out the windows. After seven again; perhaps he should go home… No, he decided. Home was an empty shell; his wife was six years dead in a traffic accident, his children off at school, nothing to do at home but prowl about, reread Psych and Organization texts, mount his concubines… dull, compared to work. He took a sip at his coffee; decaffeinated, like eating deodorized garlic, but he had to watch the stimulants, the doctor said. Sometimes I wonder who's the one who works like a slave around here… That was the price of power; the serfs down on the lower levels were the ones with nice regular ten-hour days.
He transferred his gaze to the officer from the… research facility, better keep it at that level even mentally… research facility at Le Puy. The medical report said she hadn't been exposed to more radiation than would result in some nausea and purging. Which was less than the bitch deserved.
"Well, Cohortarch," he said pleasantly, looking at her for the first time and steepling his fingers. "How do yo' account fo' yesterday's events in Le Puy? Is it treason on yo' part, or simple incompetence?"
She did not move her head, but he could feel her attention move to the War Directorate officer in the lounger. "Don't worry, Cohortarch Devlin, our comrade-in-arms here is involved." Slightly, his mind added, but he could see another film of sweat break out on her face at the hint of yet higher levels of interest.
"Now, Devlin," he continued, leaving out her rank with deliberate malice, "I'm waiting fo' an explanation."
"Suh." Her eyes were fixed on the window behind his head. "The new link fixtures fo' the reprocessin' of the enriched uranium were shipped from the Kolwezara facility, in the Police Zone, an' checked as adequate because the machinin' matched the older European parts. Incompatible alloys, leadin' to possible corrosion—"
"Shut up." Vashon's voice returned to its even, genial tone. "That's in TechSec's preliminary report, Devlin," he continued. "And TechSec sees the world in terms of engineerin' and physics, but we know better, don't we?" Another bark: "Don't we?"
"Yes suh. Mah own prelim'nary survey indicates that there could have been a manual override on the standard valve shunts, allowin' explosive mixtures of gases in the precipitatin' tanks."
"Oh, very good, very good. An' who would have had the required access?"
"Ahhh… suh, apart from mahself, the personnel with the required access levels are all among the casualties. Suh."
"Buggerin' marvelous!" He leaned forward over the axeblade of his steepled hands. "Devlin, we lost four hundred dead, an' twice that injured in this little accident of yorn. I'm not talkin' about field-cattle or broom pushers, Devlin, I'm talkin' about the most highly trained scientific an' technical personnel in the Domination, Devlin. A hundred of them Citizens, Devlin; their skills an' heredity lost to the Race, Devlin. Includin' ten European scientists so good we gave them an' their families Citizenship in return fo' workin' fo' us, Devlin. Not to mention we've lost facilities crucial to the… new weapon project, which we're runnin' neck-and-neck with the Alliance in even befo' this happened—they may not take advantage of a one-year lead, but would yo' care to bet on it?"
Vashon smiled and tapped his fingers on the blotter of his desk; tip-tap, tip-tap, and the Cohortarch gave a nearly visible flinch at each sound. "Anythin" mo', Devlin?"
"Suh… yes, suh. Nothin' certain, but…" She glanced at his eyes, returned hers to the windows over his head and continued hurriedly. "We haven't found some of the bodies… well, the acids used fo' refinin' the plutonium out of the spent uranium slugs… but Professer Ernst Oerbach was completely missin'. He's over on the… new weapons side, but was visitin', some conference on trigger-timers an' deuterium processin'. No trace 'tall, an'…"
"Tell me the joyful news, Devlin."
"Well… twelve cylinders of first-stage plutonium oxide from the recovery process are unaccounted fo' as well. They could have been ruptured an' scattered in the original explosion, but—"
"Joy." Vashon dropped his head, supporting his forehead on the splayed fingers of one hand. "Explain, please, Cohortarch, how a man supposedly under twenty-fo'-hour surveillance fo' the rest of his life would get out. If he wasn't just dissolved in a bath of acid an' suspended particles of uranium-238, that is."
"Suh." The Cohortarch came to attention. "Suh, the responsibility is completely mine. The, the explosion released radioactive an' toxic material extensively suh, and the fires would have released mo'. Extensive contamination outside the restricted area was barely avoided. I authorized all personnel undah my orders to aid in the containment efforts." More softly: "A numbah of them died doin' so, suh."
Vashon was silent for a full minute, then lit a cigarette and considered the glowing tip; it had become dark in the wide office, as the sunset-glow faded. "I agree, Cohortarch. And will so note on my report."
The woman in Security Directorate green managed to convey surprise and relief without movement of face or body. Vashon smiled once more, unpleasantly. "Agree reluctantly, Devlin. Emphasis on the reluctantly. Yo' know the code; there is no excuse fo' failure, yo're responsible fo' everythin' yo' subordinates do, and so am I. Skull House is on my ass about this; so is Castle Tarleton an' the Palace… shitfire, every agency of every Directorate is formin' line on the left, tappin' lead pipes into their palms an' smilin' in anticipation!"
He paused. "Yo' know, they're diggin canals to join the Ob-Yenisey system southward to the Aral Sea? Irrigate Central Asia. Need administrators fo' the labor camps: nice simple work, no technical problems, just plain diggin'. In West Siberia province. Fo' the next thirty years. If I go there, yo' join me! Now get yo' ass back to Le Puy, and find out what happened. I want to know, I want the report on my desk by yesterday. Is that clear?"
"Yes, suh!"
After she left, the two Draka sat in silence while servants came in with a fresh tray of coffee and a cold supper. Vashon moodily buttered a piece of baguette and spoke to the younger man:
"Well?"
"Well, I was beginnin' to think yo' were the sort of commander who keeps his subordinates so scared of failure they're unwillin' to take risks. Glad to see I'm not"—entirely, his mind added—"right," Andrew said.
"Thank yo' kindly," Vashon replied dryly. "Try the anchovy salad, they do it well here. What I meant, do yo' think the Yankee yo've been chasin' is involved, Merarch?"
"Hmmm." A moment of impassive chewing. "Not unless he's an amoeba who can split in two; besides Finland"—for a moment a hungry carnivore looked out through the handsome aquiline face—"we're pretty sure he was involved in the Hamburg incident. Sparked it, rather; the local bushmen stuck they heads out to impress
him, wanted a Yankee link real bad." A grin. "Foolish of 'em, we chopped a good few off an' turned the prisoners over to yo' people there. This hunter-team thing Castle Tarleton came up with is workin' out surprisin' well; thought it was a boondoggle, at first, but it's becomin' real interestin', integratin' and gettin' the best out of a mixed force. We got real close to him there."
"Close only count with fragmentation weapons," Vashon said. "What trail?"
"Dam' little, the ones we caught unfortunately doan' seem to know much. Last seen at the airship haven."
"Which is right next to the port an' the heavier-than-air station; could be anywhere from Archona to Beijing, by now." He pulled over a file. "Got a physical description… tall, fair hair, muscular build, blue eyes, moustache."
Andrew laughed, a deep chuckle of unforced mirth. "Oh, wonderful; accordin' to my recollections of the Eugenics Board survey, the average height fo' an adult male Draka is 183 centimeters, and about 40% are blond. Leaves about six million possibles, 'less'n he's dyed his hair; 83% have light eyes, that ups it a bit." He snapped his fingers in mock enlightenment, then swiveled his forefinger inward. "I've got it! It's mel"
A sour smile. "Well, at least we know he's travelin' alone." Vashon slapped his hand on the desk. "Loki's balls, we've got to have more checks on Citizen movements."
Andrew shrugged. "Strategos, we already restrict movement of people an' information about as much as practical. We start runnin' that sort of surveillance on each other, there'd be no time fo' Citizens to do anythin' else. 'Sides, Draka don't like bein' gimleted all the time, what's the point of bein' on top, then?"
"True, but… anyway, this thing at Le Puy—provided it isn't jus' an industrial accident, the gods know quality-control is always a problem—it's out of character fo' the local bushmen."
Under the Yoke Page 34
