Under the Yoke

by S. M. Stirling

  He let slip the control that had kept his thrusts slow for twenty minutes, increased the speed until Chantal's buttocks were slapping against the hard flat muscles of his upper thighs with the violence of their movement. Yasmin's long cool fingers stroked unendurably at him, and he could hear her calling encouragement to the wench; until everything was lost in the long exquisite moment of release and his own triumphant shout.

  The Draka came back to himself with a long sigh and worked his hands down under the Frenchwoman, working his fingers into the slackened muscles and feeling the residual tremors deep within. Her head whipped back and forth, a sound halfway between a whimper and a cry of protest escaping her: there were words in it.

  "No," he heard. "No, no, no, not with you, no, never."

  Pity she takes it so hard, Edward thought idly. There was a… what was the French word? A certain frisson to it, with her so visibly defiant; still, it would be better when her heart broke and she truly submitted. Tanya was right, he mused. This one's hard but brittle. Not the type who can live without hope.

  He released her, and she moved away to the edge of the bed with jerky motions, curling her knees up against herself and reaching blindly for the mouthpiece of the water pipe, drawing on it as if it were air and she drowning. Drawing, coughing, drawing again. The Draka yawned hugely and stretched out his arms, the thick muscles sliding and bunching beneath the damp skin. Yasmin was looking at Chantal's hunched back, shaking her head with a frown; at his movement she shrugged, smiled and picked up the damp and dry cloths from the head of the bed.

  "Pleasure yo' good, Mastah?" she asked politely and began to clean his genitals with gentle deftness.

  "Just fine," he said, with another stretch and yawn, conscious of enormous contentment. And of a full bladder. Damn.

  The dark girl had finished and was cradling him in her hands. "Then maybeso yo' doan' need Yasmin no mo', mastah?"

  He laughed and ran square strong fingers through her hair as she bent her head to take him in her mouth. "Yo'll see how much in a little while," he said, using the thick black curls to lift her away from his crotch and kiss her. "Wotan's balls, yo' do that good. But first I've got an errand. Back in a minute."

  Yasmin watched him pad across the darkened room and then moved to touch the other woman's shoulder where she lay in a shuddering ball. Chantal slapped at her without looking around.

  "Go away, don't touch me, go away," she said, in a hoarse thready wail.

  Yasmin caught the hand that struck at her and held it in a grip as soft as her voice. "Chantal, honeybee, it's terrible to see yo' sufferin' so. Is there anythin' I can do't'help?"

  "Help? You help him, bitch, slut, whore, go away!"

  A sigh. "Chantal, we all does what we's told; me an yo' both, we's serfs, honeybee. I tries not to hurt anybody, I really does. Look, Chantal, it's just fuckin', that don't mattah nothin' at all, really it doan'."

  Wide-pupilled black eyes came up to peer at her through matted hair and a face wet with tears and sweat. "So you serve him with a smile, you!"

  "Well, I's born 'n raised to service, Chantal. He was m'first man, too… sometimes I'm not bothered by it, sometimes I likes it, an' if I could take all this on mahselfan' spare yo', I would certain-sure. But I cain'. Jus' like you cain' say no, or lie still like yo' tried." She shook her head." Sometimes they can be pow'ful cruel…"

  Patting the other's hand. "I knows yo' doan' want to end up like Solange, givin' them everything well, I doan' give everythin', either. Somethin", yes, cain' be helped an' why bothah? It like the wind an' rain; no shame to bend to the wind, let the rain fall on yo'. Grass an' reeds, they mighty humble, bend right to the ground, but the rain and wind, they come an' go and the grass and reeds still there. Proud strong tree git rumbled ovah, broken."

  "I want to die," Chantal whispered, letting her head slump back to the bed. "I want to die."

  Yasmin gave an almost-painful tug on her arm, and there was real fear in her voice. "Now that jus' stupid, wench! 'Less'n yo' believes Marya's stories 'bout the place we go when we dies, which is too good't be true, like-so them tales 'bout the Western Land where everyone free an' happy. Yo' die an' that an end to everythin', good as well as bad. No mo' eatin, drinkin', singin', tellin' stories, playin' with babies—" She stopped, struck by a thought. "Is that it? Chantal, is that it? Yo' quickenin'?"

  A mumble almost too low to be heard. "I'm three weeks late. Vomiting in the mornings."

  Yasmin's face lit in a smile as she leaned over the other serf. "Why, that wonderful! A chile of yo' own, an'—"

  "It's his!" The Frenchwoman's face was a gorgon's mask as she reared off the resilient surface, hissing so that a drop of spittle struck Yasmin on the cheek. "He put it in me like a maggot!" She collapsed as if a string had been cut. "I want to die," she repeated, in the voice of a weary child. "I want to die."

  "Oh, honey, doan' feel like that!" Yasmin said softly. "It only a baby, doan' matter whose seed, baby belong to the momma. Be your'n to raise, iff'n yo' wants. Jus' little an' helpless, needin' everythin'. Your'n to love an' to love yo'; everybody need that. Where we all be, iff'n our mommas didn' raise an' care fo' us?" A sigh. "Yo' feeling pretty bad, I knows. Doan' do nothin' foolish… but look, Chantal, when they knows, they leave yo' alone, doan' bed yo' fo' a year or mo'."

  Truly?"

  "Mmmm-hm, that the rule." A hesitation. "They pro'bly let yo' get rid of it, iff'n yo' wants, but then yo'…" She patted the surface of the bed. "Say, honeybee, yo' go back to the room now. Only, first, go take a nice hot shower. I tell mastah yo' take too much smoke an' puke; ain' no man in creation wants a pukin' woman around while he pleasures hisself. Then I make him feel real good, an' I tells him yo' bearin', and gets him to say yo' doan' have to bedwench no mo'. Hey?"

  Chantal nodded dully and pulled herself to her feet, groping along the wall in the detached lassitude that kif and despair together bring. To be left alone, she thought; it was like a vision of… of the Revolution. She touched her stomach and thought of the price, and almost doubled over with nausea in truth. Shower, she thought. Shower first, long and hot.

  "I'm sorry, Sister," Kustaa said, as she sat hunched and shivering in the chair with the blanket wrapped securely around her, eyes fixed on the knife in her lap. "I just couldn't see any other safe way of managing it, without blowing my cover."

  "I forgive you, Mr… no, don't tell me. 'Need to know.' A day of fear is a little thing, compared with what so many others have suffered. And suffering is a great teacher: how did the Englishman put it, More, I think? 'God whispers to us in our thoughts, sings to us in our pleasures: but in our pain, He shouts.' I forgive you as I hope for forgiveness."

  "Forgiveness?" he asked, puzzled. "Given what you thought was in store for you, it was… heroic." He glanced at the bed, with the dangling bonds he did not dare remove. "By the way, my first name really is Frederick. My friends call me Fred. And considering your, ah, vocation, Sister…" He paused delicately.

  To his surprise, the nun laughed. "You are a Protestant, are you not, Mr… Frederick? I know Americans use first names easily, but…" At his nod she proceeded. "I swore an oath of chastity, Frederick. Renouncing a good for a higher good; but when I became a Bride of Christ, I did not swear to be omnipotent, able always to prevent my body being violated and abused by armed and ruthless men. Chastity is a matter of choice, Frederick."

  He blushed, and she returned her gaze to the knife. "So I ask forgiveness for the sins of pride, cowardice, despair…" At his startlement, she nodded to the weapon. "I thought all today, as I counted figures and solved problems… I thought, why has God let this thing come to me? To strike a blow and die? As I decided in the end, fully expecting to be killed, either tonight or later on the stake. Perhaps that was God's will. His test of me, as He tested Abraham when He commanded the son of his heart be laid upon the altar. I knew that there was purpose in this," she continued, with another of those astonishing smiles. "Vanity is not one of my sins, Frederi
ck: I know why that particular trial has not been mine so far. I am not comely."

  A slow shake of the head. "Or perhaps, I thought, God wished me to know—with my heart and soul, not merely my intellect—how it feels to be so compelled and used as the vessel of another's lust, so that I might better comfort others." She sighed. "This very night, on this very estate, others are experiencing that which I only feared. Some with complaisance or even willingness, no doubt; so staining their souls with sin, but sin may be forgiven. Others, more, in fear and pain. How better could I aid such, perhaps even lead them a trifle closer to the Truth, than if I could say: 'Sister in God, I know your anguish, it is my own?' If that was God's purpose, then I have failed Him, who said 'Be ye perfect.'"

  A smile. "There are no end to my doubts and weakness, it seems. For I also thought, perhaps God wishes me to preserve my life for some small part in the greater work that you, Frederick, are also helping to accomplish, the overthrow of the Domination."

  "Sister, I've wondered why—if there is a God—He permits it to exist. I was raised Lutheran, don't go to church much anymore, but I guess I still believe… but…" A wave of his hand. "Ah, hell—sorry—why are we talking about this?"

  "Because it is late, and we have neither of us had a chance to talk openly and without fear for very long… and I think also because we are friends, is that not so, Frederick?" The smile again, and he wondered how he could have thought her plain. Beautiful, not in any sexual sense, but beautiful still.

  "And as to the Domination, that is part of the Problem of Evil, bearing on free will—and I will not burden you with the theology of Aquinas tonight, my friend. Also a Mystery, which we can never completely understand… You see my problem, though? Every day the Domination exists, it causes evils far greater than the mere theft of my body's privacy; which if I truly do not consent is mere suffering, even suffering for the Faith.

  "The Domination… it feeds on all the seven deadly sins, and engenders them. It robs men of everything. Of the fruit of their labors, making them despise the toil which is Adam's legacy; of the building of their own families and households, the source of right education and morals; of the chance to hear uncorrupted the Good Tidings; menaces Holy Church; crushes the ordered liberty in which men were meant to live… Its very existence causes millions to doubt God or His goodness; it is the masterwork of Satan." A long pause. "Not least for what it does to the Draka themselves. I often think of that."

  Slowly: "So, if in any way my services could hasten its end, was it not my duty to endure all, even…"—she nodded to the bed—"… for other's sake? And my reluctance mere pride, desire for death, my being delicati, fastidious? Or was that the voice of the Tempter, using Scripture for evil's ends, when my duty was resistance unto death and the martyr's crown?"

  Kustaa looked at the square face, the pale brows set in a frown of thought. Opened his mouth, closed it, struggled to put a name to an unfamilar emotion, finally decided: awe. "You don't hate the Draka, then?" he asked.

  "I try not to—to hate the sin and not the sinner," she said with a wry grimace. "Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Mary Mother and all the Company of Saints know, it isn't easy, the Draka do their vile best to make it impossible." A quick glance up at him. "You know, Frederick, if you think about the implications, the most terrifying thing Our Lord ever said was: 'Judge not, lest ye be judged.' Draka children, at least: no more innocent than other children—we are all fallen—but no less so either. Then think: all their best qualities turned to the service of their worst. Natural love of homeland and family, twisted to idolatrous worship of a 'Race' whose philosophy is about as close as imperfect man can come to pure evil. Bravery and loyalty turned to brutality; every perversion of natural feeling which we are prone to encouraged… Socrates, who so often glimsed doctrines of the Truth, said it was better for one's soul to suffer evil than to do it. Also a counsel of perfection…" She threw up her hands. "But on to practical things, Frederick. Tell me just so much of your plans as is necessary for me to accomplish them."

  "Just for starters, Sister, you've increased my morale."

  "What, by half-hysterical spoutings of the words of those greater than I? And burdening you with my doubts?"

  Kustaa shook his head. "I don't know how or why, Sister, but just listening helped." A nod. "Now, here's what I need—"

  She listened in silence, nodding occasionally. When he had finished she propped her chin in her hands and frowned.

  "An old man, a scholar from the few words I had with him, and a heavy box," she said. "I think I can guess." A troubled sigh, and she spoke as if to herself. "This is a Just War if ever there was one, yet the Just War must be waged by just and appropriate means. Perhaps it is legitmate to use these weapons as a threat to prevent the Draka from using them, which they would… yet to be believed such a threat must be genuine, and no earthly cause whatever could justify…" The words sank away, and she stood up briskly.

  "Frederick, you Protestants cannot know what a comfort dogmatic authority and the Magisterium of the Holy Father can be in cases of doubt. If all use of these instruments of destruction is evil, the Church will tell me. Until then, I may safely assume it is not.

  "Our first item of business is to get this box of yours safely close to the place where your airplane may land; the shelter near the winery and airstrip will be ideal; nobody enters it, and I have the combination. Come."

  She started toward the door. "Wait, Sister," he said. "Whoa a minute. Can we be sure nobody's going to stop us?"

  Marya looked aside, then down at the blanket and visibly forced herself to unwrap herself and fold it neatly over one arm. When she spoke, it was to the wall. "It is a warm night, Frederick. Anyone who sees us will assume you—the Draka you pretend to be, rather—is simply taking his, ah, wench elsewhere for his sport. Outside, that is. We can drive to our destination quite openly. The message—that should be sent tomorrow, I think. The confusion of the feast will be at its height, and… yes, tomorrow."

  Kustaa smothered a grin: the nun could be quite wickedly cunning, it seemed. He bowed her toward the door, then froze as two screams rang out from a window somewhere on the same side of the Chateau as his room. A woman's screams, desolate and piercing, full of pain and raw grief.

  "What the hell—" he began.

  Sister Marya touched his arm, her face sorrowful. "There is nothing you can do, my friend. That was Solange, Mistress Tanya's… body servant."

  He remembered the elfin beauty of the sad-faced girl at the breakfast table, the hard strength of the Draka woman's face, and shuddered. "Poor bit—sorry, poor woman."

  The nun looked at him with eyes full of reflected pain and pity; pity for him, he realized, for his innocence. "Poorer than you think, my friend. That was nightmare, not mistreatment." At his raised eyebrow, she continued. "Solange has… embraced her chains. With the zeal of a convert, I fear. At least, one of her has."

  "One of her?"

  "The one that rules her waking soul. I think… I think there is another; and sometimes, at night, it remembers what it was, and what it has become."

  He recalled the scream and shuddered again. "Let's get going," he said roughly. "Get the hell out." Of hell, his mind japed at him.

  The driver slowed, easing the long lever of the steam throttle back. The vehicle rattled and whuffled in protest, bolts groaning; it was an ancient Legaree that might have hauled supplies in the Great War, an antique with a riveted frame and steel tires. He dimmed the headlights and peered around; nothing, except a few distant houses showing yellow-soft through the trees, the blinking running lights of a dirigible high overhead.

  "Now!" he called back through the window behind him, into the body of the truck. It was brighter tonight than he liked, and the stretch of road beside the Loire looked hideously exposed in the moonlight. A patrol-boat had gone by a few minutes ago, and he could still taste the sour fear at the back of his throat from that moment when its searchlight had speared him, hiding the ready muzzle of
the gatling-cannon behind.

  There was a series of thumps from the road behind him, and he rammed the throttle back up with a nervous jerk and twisted the fuel and water intakes to the boiler.

  A stop in a few kilometers, to lace the canvas tilt back up, and then on to Nantes ahead of schedule. The "feedpump problem" that kept him from the usual daylight departure-time had already earned him ten strokes with the rubber hose from that swine of a foreman.

  "Filthy Serb," he muttered, as the bruises shot pain through his back; the man couldn't even speak understandable French. The driver knew nothing of the men who had darted out of an alley into the briefly halted truck, wished to know nothing. It was better that way; an order came through, passed anonymously, and you carried it out. Never anything conspicuous—a driver with nightpass papers was too precious an asset to waste.

  I am a highly valued man, me, he thought sardonically. The Transportation Directorate used him on high-priority transport like this load of parts for the naval shipyard at Nantes. Electronics, he speculated, then consciously washed the guess out of his head with a drift of no-thought. That was a habit they were all getting used to. The Frenchman reached down beside the frayed padding of his seat and carefully extracted a cigarette, pinching the end to prevent the loosely packed tobacco from falling out. A7 Drivers got a double ration, which opened up interesting trading possibilities, if one was abstemious. The match went scrit on the crackle-surfaced metal of the dashboard, a brief smell of sulfur and glow over the dim bulbs of the dials.