Under the Yoke

by S. M. Stirling

  "Amen," she murmured, and took the switch in her hand, pressing down sharply.

  The others looked up at the hard clicking sound. "It will not become easier to do if we wait," she said. "If we are successful, I can disconnect one of the wires."

  Chantal glanced aside, then laid her head back on her knees, muttering under her breath. From this position, the nun could hear clearly what she had only suspected.

  "I had to do it. She deserved it. I had to. She deserved it."

  "Chantal!" Marya snapped. "I am losing patience with you!" The other's head came up, with anger in her eyes. "That is half a lie, worse than a whole one. It was necessary, to save Frederick's life. And she did not deserve it; the poor girl had been mistaught, grievously, since she was a little child. But of herself she was a gentle soul, who only acted from natural grief. You are trying to blame her because it eases your conscience, aren't you? So that you won't see her face and what you did to her? Remember it! Don't lie to yourself, and don't lie to me, either."

  Chantal turned her back, but silently. Marya looked down at the bundle of steel and explosive again. And it makes my temper still worse than it usually is, she thought.

  "By God, the plane," Kustaa said quietly. "The plane!" he shouted, half rose, sank down again with a grunt. Marya strained her eyes and ears: nothing. Then a hint of something, a shadow against the stars, a muffled purring drone. Circling, returning toward them, falling featherlight in a steep slope out of the sky, and the nun felt her eyes prickle with tears for the first time that night. It landed, bounced, trundled toward them, a flat complex wing with two engines buried in the structure and thickly wrapped in shrouding cowl, a teardrop fuselage.

  "That's it, that's the Spector," Kustaa was saying in what was almost a babble. "Isn't she a beauty, takes off on a postage stamp, lands on a balcony, noisy as a scooter, seats four with cargo—" He stopped, looked at her. "And Ernst is dead," he finished in something closer to his normal tone.

  "But Henri is alive," she replied sharply, turning to find the darker shadow that was the sole survivor of the Resistance team. He was walking up the slope in a crouch that rose toward a full stride, his impassive stubbled face finally breaking into a grin of unbelieving triumph as the cockpit window of the aircraft folded back and an arm emerged, waving.

  Marya smiled at the Frenchman in return, watching as he grew solid in the darkness, as his grin went fixed, his stride stiff-legged, as he toppled forward with the glint of the throwing-knife's hilt winking from his back. Thump went the body, limp as sleep, limp as death, kicked twice, lay still.

  "Down!" Kustaa yelled.

  "Deadman switch, deadman switch," Marya shouted out into the night, at the full stretch of her lungs. "The plutonium is sitting on ten kilos of high explosive, and we have a deadman switch. Think about that and hold your fire!"

  There was another shout of pain, mingled with rage this time, from the encircling shadows. Then a brief burst of fire, a Holbars on full automatic, a dozen rounds that chewed into the left engine of the American aircraft, whapping thuds and sparks and a sudden metallic screeching as the internal parts seized hard. The prop slowed from its silent blurr, froze into four paddle-shaped metal blades. Then the stream of tracer waggled crazily up into the sky, went out, more thuds and grappling sounds.

  "Wait, wait!" Tanya's voice. "That was a rogue… no, don't kill him, yo' fools!" The latter seemed directed at her own people. The hailing voice again: "There are twenty of us out here, we have enough firepower to cut that paper airplane into confetti, think about that!"

  Silence, until Kustaa crawled to the airplane's landing struts; the effort left him gasping.

  "No closer," Tanya called. "No packages!"

  They were close enough for words, murmured too low for the nun to hear. He crawled again, to her side, and lay for a moment with fresh blood seeping through her careful bandages, his fingers digging into the soil as if it were his mother's body to which he clung.

  "We're fu… we're in trouble, Sister. One engine completely out." The voice had the hard flatness she had come to know meant his deepest effort at control.

  "It can fly. It can even carry a passenger… one passenger, preferably a very light one."

  Marya prayed again, this time an utterly wordless appeal. She gasped sharply.

  "What is it?" Kustaa asked.

  "I think… I think I see what I must do," she said grayly. "Oh, Frederick, I had hoped… hoped so much you might return to your wife and daughter."

  Aloud: "We have no time, and nothing left to lose. Will you talk, or do we all die?"

  "I'll talk. Shall I come closer?" Tanya again.

  "Agreed."

  The Draka strolled into the dim glimmer of the landing lights, elaborately insouciant, her hands on her hips. Dark clothing, bright hair, the eyes throwing back the light like ice; she stood waiting for the nun to speak.

  She is playing for time, Marya thought. Then: Of course. They have sent their children to safety, the longer we wait the better. And the authorities will arrive at any moment.

  "No games," the Pole said. "The plane can take one of us out, only."

  "Not the plutonium, of course… and not the Yankee. He stays; that's a matter of honor."

  The OSS agent sighed, then looked up at Marya with a smile more relaxed than any she had seen him wear before. There is a relief in acknowledging the race is lost, she thought. But there are more important things than life.

  "I won't let myself be taken alive," Kustaa said.

  "Well, obviously," Tanya said with cool contempt. "Yo' a treacher who abuses hospitality, but not a fool. Yo' have that gun, don't yo'?" She grinned with bared teeth. "The one that yo' kill drunk old men an' harmless serf-girls with?"

  "Enough," Marya said. "If you let the plane go with one of us, we will promise not to detonate this weapon."

  "I made the mistake of underestimatin' yo', but please don't reciprocate with an insult to my intelligence," Tanya replied evenly. "Once it's out of sight, yo'd simply set it off anyway."

  "To spare myself pain?" Marya asked. "Have you sent your children away?" Tanya nodded warily. "And those of your serfs?"

  "Ahh, I see," the Draka said. "Then yo' will surrender anyhows?"

  "No," Marya replied, meeting her owner's eyes in a steady glare as hard as the Draka's own. "Frederick knows too much. We will take it below, into the shelter. That can be sealed, and I will promise not to release the switch until it is. Quickly, decide, there is no time."

  Tanya nodded, turned. "The terms are these," she said in a clear carrying voice. "We let the Yankee plane take off, with my wench Chantal on board. My wench Marya an' the Yankee go into the shelter an' we seal them in with they little hellbomb, after one hour's grace." There was a protesting murmur, and she held up one hand. "Listen! We lose nothin' by allowin' the plane back. Chantal's also nothin', unless the Yankees are perishin' fo' want of a so-so bookkeeper and bedwench." A mutter of unwilling laughter. "We keep the plutonium, it can be recovered, an' they lose their agent an' all his knowledge. I'd call that victory! An' I take full responsibility fo' any repercussions from the State. Objections?"

  "It's agreed," she said, turning to the American and the nun and raising her hand. "Word of a von Shrakenberg, by our honor."

  Chantal had turned back to them, and watched Marya's face with an expression of thoughtful wonder. "No," she said, on the heels of Tanya's oath.

  Marya looked over at her and laughed with a catch in her voice. "What a collection of martyrs we are… of course you must, Chantal."

  "I… can't take your life!" the Frenchwoman said. "I want to, God, I want to, but how could I live with myself, remembering this? How could I owe you this, and never be able to repay?"

  Marya sighed. "Chantal, nobody can give you their life. Only your own." More softly: "If you feel you owe me a debt, choose another and pay it to them, and I will be repaid in full and to overflowing." Chantal's face cleared; she touched her stomach involuntarily, th
en gave the nun an ashen nod.

  "Will you give me the kiss of peace, Chantal?" Marya said, brushing her free hand across her face. The younger woman stood with sudden decisiveness, bent to offer her cheek, met the Pole's lips instead. Her eyes widened, and she swallowed convulsively.

  Kustaa reached inside his jacket. "And would you take this to—" he began.

  "No!" A voice from the darkness. "No papers, no chance to pass along microfilm, Yankee."

  Suddenly Kustaa was on his feet, a big man bristling with rage, the lumberjack strength of his shoulders showing despite wounds and weariness. "It's a letter to my wife, you bastard!" he roared.

  "Mah heart bleeds fo' yo'. Verbal only!" A dozen lights speared out to trap Chantal. "An' the wench has to shuck and bend, so's we can see she's not carryin ."

  Kustaa turned to the Frenchwoman, who stood blinking and shading her eyes with a palm. "Tell Aino I love her," he said. "And Maila. Say"—he glanced back at the nun—"say she can be proud of the way her father died, and the company he kept. Tell her… tell her everything."

  "I will. Rest assured, I will." When the cockpit door of the airplane closed on her, the nakedness was a lack of clothes only.

  The single engine whined, stressed beyond its limit. Kustaa sank to the ground beside Marya, the shotgun clenched white-knuckled in his lap as the Specter took off

  "I know," she said. "I want to run after it shouting, 'come back, come back' myself."

  "Good," he sighed. "I was beginning to think saints were too perfect to live around."

  "Mr… Frederick," she said, and he glanced around in shock at the cold anger in her voice. "You will never call me that again. Never!"

  "Sorry, Sister," he said.

  "I too… my temper was always bad…" To Tanya: "Mistress, it would be a courtesy if someone would fetch the radio for us, from the shelter."

  The Draka nodded, and signaled with one hand; the parcel came, and Kustaa busied himself with dials and antennae, tuned to the Draka Forces emergency network. Time passed, and the night grew colder and more silent; in the distance, the fires of the burning vehicles guttered low. The headlights of a high-speed convoy flickered up to the main gates of Chateau Retour, and a runner went at Tanya's order to halt them. Another returned with a radiation detector, pointed it at the box with its leprous covering, and paled as the needle swung; there was a rustle from the darkness as the besieger's circle drew back.

  Kustaa looked up, squeezed his eyes shut. "They missed it," he said softly. "It's full time, and they're going crazy looking for it. We won." A sour laugh. "In a sense, I suppose."

  Tanya shifted her stance, the first movement in half an hour. "The Security people will be here soon," she said. "I've got influence, but not enough to stand off their rankin' people. My oath; I'm not answerable for them."

  "It is time," Marya said. "Just one more thing." She raised her voice. "We need someone to carry this box; Frederick is wounded and cannot possibly do so."

  Tanya snorted. "We'll send for a strong serf."

  "No! Someone here, immediately. No time for tricks." And I will not condemn an innocent. Any adult Draka is a murderer, fornicator, blasphemer.

  Another slight rustle in the darkness. "I can't order anyone to—"

  Then a voice: "I volunteer."

  "No," Tanya snapped, as her brother Andrew strolled up, paused to lay his weapon on the grass, walked toward the American's shotgun, which tracked him with a smooth turret motion.

  "But yes, mah sister," Andrew continued gently. "Be logical, as yo' usually are. Here I am, thirty-two, unmarried, no children of the Race, a middlin' good Merarch among thousands… The Race can spare me."

  "It can't, and neither can I!" Tanya said, and Marya heard open pain in her voice for the first time that night.

  "Yes, yo' can," he said, stopping to confront her. "Mo" than I could yo'. Furthermo' it's a risk of death, not certainty. Furthermo' to that, it's my choice. Service to the State, sister mine." Matter-of-factly: "iff'n I'm unlucky, would yo' see to my girls and my valet?" She nodded wordlessly. "Glory to the Race, then."

  "Yes, indeed," she said thickly. "I love yo', brother."

  "And I yo', Tannie." Two more strides brought him to Marya's side, and he crouched smoothly.

  "Watch it, you son-of-a-bitch," Kustaa said, holding his weapon close. "Slow and careful."

  "Yankee, don't be mo' of an imbecile than nature intended," Andrew said dryly, running his hands around the box. "I'm squattin' next a live bomb, with enough poison inside to destroy Archona, an' yo puts a shotgun in mah ear an' tells me to be careful?"

  Kustaa flushed slightly, but kept the weapon pressed against the Draka's back. "I know how you snakes train by snatching flies out of the air without hurting them," he said. "You still can't grab her hand faster than I can pull this trigger. Like I said, slow and careful."

  Andrew's face went blank as he drew a deep breath. "Now," he said, and exhaled with a long sustained grunt as he stood. A seam parted along the rear of his jacket, and they could feel the ground shake slightly as he took the first step toward the shelter door. Tanya stood to one side, eyes hooded. As they passed, her hand came up in salute, held there. "I'll see there's a priest to bless the ground," she murmured.

  "Thank you," Marya replied. Their eyes met, but there were no more words.

  The shelter lights seemed painfully bright; Kustaa blinked against them, and the ringing in his ears that was growing worse. Andrew was whistling under his breath as he bolted home the steel covers over the ventilators, checking carefully to make sure the sealing-rings seated square. Almost, the American missed the quiet sobbing sound.

  "Sister, what is it?" he said anxiously, dropping down beside her with the shotgun trained across the room. Tears were dropping into her lap, onto the clenched knuckles of her right hand on the switch, onto the steel and dough-gray explosive.

  "Fear, Frederick," she said, between catches of breath. A laugh through the sobbing, as she saw his face.

  "Frederick, I fear death, so much… pain even more. You know what they can do, would do if they took me, they can make a hell on earth, less than Satan's only because it is not eternal. They would never believe I knew nothing of consequence… Oh, Frederick, I have had nightmares of that, ever since…" A shake of her head. "But if there was a way, I would walk out that door and right now and let them take me to the place of torment."

  "What?" he said.

  "Thank you for listening, my friend, when you too must need to speak… Frederick, I am in such fear that I cannot bear it, that this thing I am doing is self-murder. I tell myself it is not, it is as a soldier does when he charges the machine-gun or throws himself on a grenade to save his comrades, but… Self-murder, murder of the soul, damnation." The tears became softer, and her voice thickened. "Damnation… not the pains of hell, but never to to see God in the face… never… never to see the other Sisters of St. Cyril again, and Frederick, I am the last, they are all with Him in Glory, they were saints and martyrs, but sisters in truth, dearer than any earthly thing to me. Never to see them, never to share their joy, oh, I cannot bear it!"

  I have gone crazy, Kustaa thought, as he heard himself speak. But it's a pleasanter madness than the one before. "I'll do it then," he said. "Here, give me the switch."

  "No! Frederick, no! You may not believe suicide is mortal sin, but it is for you as well, how could I buy Paradise at the cost of your damnation? This is my fault, Frederick, my weakness, if I were more worthy God would have called to my heart, shown me a better way…" The control and serenity were cracking out of the nun's voice, leaving only raw pain and will.

  Kustaa turned and drove a fist against the wall. "Dammit," he swore. "If only we could have gotten the microfilm out. If only that, at least!"

  "Oh, we did, Frederick," Marya said, half listlessly. "Did you not notice—" She halted in mid-sentence, and both their heads swung to the Draka. He completed the last bolt and dropped lightly to the floor, dusting his hands on
the black uniform trousers.

  "Feh," he said, an exhalation of disgust. "I don't suppose yo'd believe a promise not to tell… No, I don't suppose so." There was no need to mention that the Draka would mobilize every keel and wing to hunt the Alliance submarine if they knew. He walked lightly to the outer door, stood with one hand on the wheel. "I could refuse to close it," he said.

  "Your friends and relatives, snake," Kustaa said with a grin of jovial hatred. "Much more limited spread, from here."

  "Yes, there is that," Andrew said, pulled the door home with a clang, spun the wheel until the bolts went shhnnnk-click into their slots, pushed the locking bar. "Shit," he said meditatively. "Suddenly a long, dull life becomes so much less wearisome in prospect." Suddenly he was laughing as he strode back to stand before them, a low wicked snicker.

  "What the fuck are you laughing at?" Kustaa glared, glancing from the weeping nun to the scarred aquiline face and the earring that jiggled in time with his mirth.

  "Everything an' nothin', Yankee. Yo' bourgeois have such a tiresome gravity about serious mattahs, takes a gentleman to bring the proper levity to the grave. If it's one thing I've learned in thirty-two years, it's that the only thing mo' amusin' than this farce we call life is the even more absurd farce known as death. If there was an afterlife, the sheer comedy of it would be too much to bear!"

  "Have some respect," Kustaa said raising the shotgun despite his own sense of its futility.

  "Oh, I do, an' that's the most comical thing of all, Yankee." His voice dropped. "Sister." She raised her head, startled to hear the title on a Draka's voice. "Sister, pardon me fo' listenin' to yo', ah, confession. But it occurs to me that while yo' belief is as absurd as anythin' else, yo' belief in it, is not." He spread his hands. "So, since if one is goin' anyway, one might as well go with a grand gesture—"