DOWN BUT NOT OUT. Monique Dutourd had seen those signs so many times in Marseille, she was sick of them. She was, by late summer, sick of everything that had anything to do with her home town. She was sick of wreckage. She was sick of high prices everywhere she looked. She was especially sick of the tent city in which she had to live, and of being crammed into a tent with her brother and his lover.
French officials had promised things would be back to normal by now. She hadn’t believed the promises, and her skepticism was proving justified. The French hadn’t done anything but what the Germans told them to do for a solid generation. Now the Germans were gone. The French bureaucrats were on their own. With no one to tell them what to do, they didn’t do much of anything.
Monique picked her way through one of the market squares. Everybody who had peaches and apricots wanted an arm and a leg for them. She scowled. Shipping hadn’t come back the way the bureaucrats promised it would, either.
She almost ran into a Lizard. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” the creature said in hissing French. Monique wanted to laugh in its pointed, scaly face, but she didn’t. In a way, dealing with someone who couldn’t tell whether she was male or female was refreshing. She wished a good many of her crude countrymen had the same problem. She wished even more that Dieter Kuhn had had it.
For once, thinking of the SS Sturmbannführer made her smile. Odds were, he’d died when the Lizards detonated their explosive-metal bomb on Marseille. If he hadn’t, he’d gone back to the Reich once France regained her freedom. Any which way, he was out of her life for good.
Thinking of his being out of her life for good made her a lot more cheerful than she would have been otherwise. That, in turn, made her more inclined to spend her money—well, actually, her brother’s money—on the fruit she wanted than she would have been otherwise.
Stringbag full of apricots in a wire basket behind her, she rode a battered bicycle back to the tent city. She’d had a far better machine before the bomb fell. Now she was glad to have any bicycle at all. The chain she’d used to secure it while she shopped weighed more than it did.
Commotion rocked the tent city when she reached it. A squad of hard-faced men in uniform were trundling a man and woman into a waiting motorcar. A crowd followed, yelling and cursing and throwing things. Monique couldn’t tell if they were pelting and reviling the captives or their captors.
“What’s going on?” she asked a man who was just standing there watching. With luck, that made him something close to neutral.
“Purification squad,” he answered, and jerked a thumb toward the captives. “They say those two were in bed with the Boches.”
“Oh, are they finally down here?” Monique said, and the man nodded. Now that France was free again, everyone who’d collaborated with the Nazis in any way was all at once fair game. Since the country had been under German rule for a quarter of a century, the new government could make an example of almost anyone it chose. No one said a word in protest, though. To complain was to appear unpatriotic, un-French, and probably pro-German: and therefore a fitting target for the purification squads.
They’d been in the news for weeks, fanning out through northern France to get rid of people described as “traitors to the Republic.” But everything reached Marseille more slowly than almost anywhere else. Till now, traitors here had been allowed to go on about their business like anybody else.
One of the men from the purification squad drew his pistol and fired it into the air. That gave the angry crowd pause. It let the men get the couple they’d captured into the automobile. Some of them got into it, too. Others piled into another motorcar behind it. Both cars drove away in a hurry.
“Are they really collaborators?” Monique asked.
“Ferdinand and Marie? Not that I ever heard of, and I’ve known them for years.” With a shrug, the man went on, “It could be that I did not know everything there is to know about what they did. But it could also be that someone who does not care for them for whatever reason—or for no reason at all—wrote out a denunciation.”
He said no more. Had he said any more, he might have got into trouble himself. Twenty-five years under the Nazis had taught wariness. They’d also taught Frenchmen, once lovers of freedom, to write denunciations against their neighbors for any reason or, as the man had said, for none.
“Do the purification squads ever let people go once they seize them?” Monique asked.
She got only another shrug by way of answer. The man with whom she’d been talking had evidently decided he’d said everything he was going to say. Monique shrugged, too. She couldn’t blame him for that. Under the Germans, talking to strangers had been a good way to land in trouble. Things didn’t look to have changed too much with the coming of the new regime.
With the motorcars gone, the crowd that had followed the purification squad out to them began to break up. Monique walked her bicycle to the tent she shared with Pierre and Lucie. She brought the bicycle into the tent, too. The folk of Marseille were notoriously light-fingered even at the best of times. In times like these, a bicycle left outside for the evening was an open invitation to theft.
“Hello,” Monique said as she ducked her way through the tent flap and came inside. She wondered if her brother would be dickering with Keffesh or some other Lizard, and would have to explain her presence. What infuriated her most was that he always sounded so apologetic.
But he and Lucie were alone in the tent this evening. Lucie was cooking something that smelled good on a little aluminum stove. Pointing to it, Monique asked, “Is that Wehrmacht issue?”
“Probably,” Lucie answered. She went on, “If it is, what difference does it make?”
“I don’t know for certain that it makes any difference,” Monique said. “But I wouldn’t let the purification squads know you’ve got a German stove.”
Patiently, Pierre Dutourd said, “Monique, probably seven-eighths of the people in this camp are cooking off Wehrmacht-issue stoves. There are a lot more of them in France than there are French-made stoves these days.”
“Without doubt, you have reason,” Monique said. “But will the purification squads care even the least little bit about reason?”
“Oh.” Pierre nodded. His jowls wobbled a little. Monique was glad she was slimmer than her older brother. “I don’t think we need to worry about the purification squads. We have enough friends among the Race to make it very likely indeed that they’ll leave us alone.”
“I hope you’re right.” Monique was willing to admit he might well be. The Lizards didn’t formally occupy France, as the Germans had. But the French were still too weak, still too unused to ruling themselves, to have an easy time standing on their own two feet. If they weren’t going to lean on the Nazis, the Race was their other logical prop.
That savory odor Monique smelled turned out to come from a rabbit stew full of wild mushrooms. With a tolerable rosé, with some cheese and afterwards the fruit Monique had bought, it made a good supper.
Monique and Lucie washed the dishes in a bucket of water. Then Lucie and Pierre settled down, as they usually did of evenings, to hard-fought games of backgammon. Backgammon held no interest for Monique. She wished she had her reference books. She never had finished that article on the cult of Isis in Gallia Narbonensis. Her books, like the apartment from which her brother had spirited her, were bound to be radioactive dust these days.
She sighed, wondering if she would be able to find a teaching position in the new France. She was sick of living with her brother and Lucie. But the Reichsmarks the Race had given her not so long ago were worth hardly anything at the moment. New French francs were coming into circulation, and German money was shrinking in value almost as fast as it had after the First World War. It seemed most unfair.
Her brother didn’t think so. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph after winning the game. “If we’d been playing for money, I’d own you now, Lucie.”
For all practical purposes, he did own Lucie. Mon
ique was almost angry enough to say so, which wouldn’t have made the tent a more enjoyable place to live. Pierre and Lucie started another game. That didn’t make the tent any more enjoyable, either, not as far as Monique was concerned. Her brother and his lover, unfortunately, had other ideas, and they outnumbered her. The tyranny of democracy, she thought.
She heard footsteps outside: not the soft, skittering strides of Lizards, but the solid steps of men, and men wearing heavy shoes at that. One of them said, “Here, this is the place,” right outside the tent flap. He spoke clear, Parisian French. That should have warned Monique what would happen next, but she was taken by surprise when the men with pistols burst into the tent. The man who’d spoken outside now spoke again: “Which of you women is Monique Dutourd?”
“I am,” Monique answered automatically. “What do you want with me?”
“You were a Nazi’s whore,” the man snapped. “France needs to be cleansed of the likes of you. Come along, or you’ll be sorry.” He gestured with his pistol.
“Now see here, my friends,” Pierre Dutourd said, making what sounded to Monique like a dangerously unwarranted assumption. “You are making a mistake. If you will but wait a moment—”
“Shut up, you fat tub of goo,” the leader of the purification squad said coldly. “I tell you this only once. After that . . .” Now the muzzle of the pistol pointed right at the bridge of Pierre’s nose. Monique’s brother sat silent as a stone. “Good,” the other man said. “Come along with me, whore.”
“I’m not a whore,” Monique insisted, trying to fight down a nasty stab of fear. How could she make these hard-eyed purifiers understand? How could she make them believe?
“You are to be interrogated,” their leader said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “After the interrogation, your punishment will be set.” He sounded as if there weren’t the slightest doubt she would be punished. In his mind, there probably wasn’t.
“The Nazis interrogated me, too, at the Palais de Justice,” Monique said. “I hope you will be gentler than they were.” Terror at the thought of another such interrogation was what had made her let Dieter Kuhn do what he wanted with her.
But the leader of the purification squad said, “We shall do everything that is necessary.” The fire of righteousness burned in his eyes, as it had burned in the eyes of the Germans who’d questioned and tormented her.
She’d had no choice with the Germans. She had no choice now. With such dignity as she could muster, she said, “Be it noted that I come with you under protest.”
“Be it noted that no one cares,” the zealot answered. “Get moving.” Under the cover of his comrades’ automatics, Monique left the tent and stepped out into the warm night. Somewhere close by, a cricket chirped. You can afford to make noise, Monique thought bitterly. No one is going to interrogate you. The purification squad hustled her through the camp toward a waiting motorcar.
As she had on her previous tour of duty in Marseille, Felless found that she liked the place better than Nuremberg. Since she’d hated Nuremberg with a deep and abiding loathing, that wasn’t saying much, but it was something. The weather here, though not up to the standards of Home or even of the new town in the Arabian Peninsula where she’d been a refugee, was certainly an improvement on Nuremberg’s. At this season of the year, it was more than tolerable.
She soon discovered she liked Marseille better now than she had on her first visit, too, even though the Race’s explosive-metal bomb had torn out its liver. Then the Deutsche had been in charge of the city, and their arrogance, their automatic assumption that they were not just equal but superior to the Race, had gone a long way toward making her despise them and the place both.
The Français, now, the Français were easier to deal with. Technically, this subregion called France still wasn’t part of the territory the Race ruled from Cairo. It functioned as an independent not-empire. But the Français Big Uglies listened to what the Race had to say to them. The alternative was listening to the Deutsche, and the Français had done that for too many years to want to do it any more.
Felless did wish Ambassador Veffani wouldn’t keep turning an eye turret her way, but she couldn’t do anything about that. “I greet you, superior sir,” she said, polite as always when he telephoned.
“And I greet you, Senior Researcher,” Veffani said, sounding more friendly than he usually did. “I seek your opinion in an area that falls within your field of professional expertise.”
“Go ahead, superior sir.” Felless vastly preferred a technical question to his hectoring her over her ginger habit, the reason he usually called.
“I shall,” he said. “Here is my question: do you believe that, by leaving Tosevite not-empires formally independent but in fact dependent on the Race, we can lay the foundations for fully incorporating them into the Empire?”
It was an interesting question. Felless had no doubt she was far from the only one contemplating it. At last, she said, “On the two other planets the Race conquered, half measures were unnecessary. Here, they may well be expedient. We have the chance to experiment, both with France and with the Reich.”
“Ruling Big Uglies should not be a matter for experiment.” Veffani laughed a wry laugh. “Too often, though, it is.”
“You would know better than I, superior sir.” Felless didn’t like flattering him, especially not in view of all the grief he’d caused her, but his question might prove important for the Race, and so she was willing to put aside her own feelings. And it wasn’t as if she were speaking an untruth; as a male from the conquest fleet, Veffani did have more experience with Tosevites than she. She went on, “Perhaps such an approach could aid in the ultimate assimilation of Tosev 3.”
“Perhaps it could,” Veffani said. “Perhaps we should find out. If you can draft a memorandum outlining your views, I will forward it to Cairo with a recommendation for serious consideration—and with your name noted, of course.”
“I thank you, superior sir,” Felless said. “It shall be done.”
“Excellent,” Veffani answered. “I have long known you are capable of excellent work. I am glad to see you realizing your potential. Good-bye.” His image vanished from her monitor.
He hadn’t even taken her to task for her ginger habit, not directly. Maybe he thought she’d given up tasting. If so, he was wrong. She still used the Tosevite herb whenever she got the chance. But she did try to be careful about giving her pheromones a chance to subside before appearing in public; she didn’t want to lay yet another clutch of eggs. She’d mated once since coming to France, but, to her relief, hadn’t become gravid as a result.
She’d got involved in the memorandum when the speaker by the door hissed for attention. Felless hissed, too, in annoyance. “Who is it?” she asked.
“I: Business Administrator Keffesh,” came the reply. “I would like to ask your assistance on a matter of some delicacy.”
Now what is that supposed to mean? Felless wondered irritably. She realized she’d have to find out. She could open the door without fear of embarrassment; she hadn’t tasted in several days. With a sigh, she rose from her desk and poked a fingerclaw into the door’s control panel. As it slid open, she said, “I greet you, Business Administrator.”
“And I greet you, superior female.” Keffesh assumed the posture of respect. That was polite, but not altogether necessary, not with his rank close to hers. It likely meant he wanted something from her, and so wanted her in a good mood. Well, he’d already come out and said he was after something.
“What is this delicate matter?” Felless asked.
Keffesh approached it obliquely. “Do I correctly understand that, in a psychological experiment before this latest round of fighting with the Deutsche, you awarded a Tosevite female named Monique Dutourd a large sum of money?”
“Before I answer, let me consult my records.” Felless did, then made the affirmative gesture. “Yes, that appears to be correct. Is it germane?”
“It is, superior femal
e,” Keffesh answered. “You see, Monique Dutourd has the same mother and father as Pierre Dutourd, a Big Ugly with whom I have done a substantial amount of business. You surely know how, among the Tosevites, these connections count for a good deal.”
“Indeed I do.” Felless made the affirmative gesture again. “You do well to note their importance, I might add. But I do not quite see . . .”
“Let me explain,” Keffesh said. “Monique Dutourd is at the moment in a certain amount of difficulty with the Français authorities, for she is accused of having had a sexual relationship with a Deutsch officer while the Deutsche occupied this subregion. The Français, as you must also know, are seeking to destroy memories of the Deutsch occupation and to punish those who aided and comforted the occupiers.”
“Yes, I know that, too,” Felless said. “The Race encourages it, as it makes the Français more likely to be dependent on us.”
“In principle, I approve of this,” Keffesh said. “In practice, Monique Dutourd’s difficulties make it harder for Pierre Dutourd to carry on his business.”
“That is unfortunate, perhaps, but . . .” Felless shrugged. “Why should it matter to me, or to the Race as a whole?” Before Keffesh could answer, she swung both eye turrets toward him. “Wait. What sort of business is this Big Ugly in?”
Now Keffesh hesitated. “Superior female, I told you this was a matter of some delicacy. I hope I may rely on your discretion.” He brought his hand up near his mouth and shot out his tongue, as if he were tasting ginger.
Had Felless not been in the habit of tasting, too, she probably wouldn’t have known what that meant. As things were, she said, “I believe I understand.”
“Ahh.” Relief filled Keffesh’s hiss. “I hoped you would. I had been given to understand that you would.” By that he no doubt meant he’d heard of Felless’ ginger-induced disgrace. He went on, “If you could arrange leniency from the Français, superior female, you would not find me ungrateful. You would not find Pierre Dutourd ungrateful, either.”
Aftershocks Page 17
