Aftershocks (2 page)

The chair on which he sat was too small for him, and shaped for a backside proportioned differently from his. The sleeping mat on the floor was also too small, and too hard to boot. The Lizards fed him canned goods imported from the lands they ruled and from the USA, most of which were not to his taste.

It could have been worse. He’d tried to blow up this starship. Its anti-missiles had knocked out one of the warheads he’d launched from his upper stage, its close-in weapons system the other. The Race had still accepted his surrender afterwards. Few humans would have been so generous.

He got up and used the head. Every so often, Lizard technicians came in and fiddled with the plumbing. It wasn’t made for liquid waste; the Race, like real lizards, excreted only solids. From trying to blow the starship to a cloud of radioactive gas, he’d been reduced to causing problems in its pipes. That was funny, if you looked at it the right way.

Without warning, the door to his cubicle slid open. He was glad he’d finished pissing; getting caught in the act would have embarrassed him, even if it wouldn’t have flustered the Lizard who caught him. He’d seen this fellow before: he recognized the body paint. “I greet you, superior sir,” he said. Anyone who flew in space had to know the Lizards’ language.

“I greet you, Johannes Drucker,” the Lizard named Ttomalss answered. “I am here to inform you that you will soon be released.”

“That is good news. I thank you, superior sir,” Drucker said. But then his mouth twisted. “It would be better news if it did not mean my not-empire had been defeated.”

“I understand. I sympathize,” Ttomalss said. Perhaps he even did; he showed more knowledge of the way people worked that any other Lizard the German had met. Drucker wondered how he’d acquired it. Ttomalss continued, “But you will have the opportunity to help repair the damage.”

I’ll have the opportunity to see the damage,
Drucker thought. He could have done without that opportunity. He’d been a panzer driver, not a spaceman, when the
Reich
detonated an explosive-metal bomb to derail a Lizard attack on Breslau. He’d cheered then. He wouldn’t be cheering now.

“Can you drop me near Peenemünde land?” he asked. “That is where my . . . mate and my hatchlings live—if they live anywhere at all.”

But Ttomalss made the Race’s negative hand gesture. “Captives are being exchanged outside Nuremberg, nowhere else.”

“Very well,” Drucker said, since he couldn’t say anything else. From Bavaria to Pomerania through a war-ravaged landscape? Not a journey to look forward to, but one he would have to make.

“Eventually, a shuttlecraft will take you back to the surface of Tosev 3,” the Lizard told him. “In the meantime, now that hostilities have concluded, I have gained permission to inform you that you are not the only Tosevite presently aboard this starship. Are you interested in meeting another member of your species?”

After weeks with nobody but Lizards to talk to? What do you think?
Aloud, Drucker said, “Yes, superior sir, I would very interested be.” He used an emphatic cough, then added, “I thank you.” Did the Lizards have a beautiful spy waiting to try to charm secrets out of him? Not likely—not that he’d be much interested anyhow, not when he hadn’t the faintest idea whether Käthe was alive or dead. Had he watched too many bad films and read too many trashy novels? That struck him as very likely indeed.

Ttomalss said, “The other male is from the not-empire of the United States. He is here on a . . . research mission, I suppose you would describe it.”

Something in the way he hesitated didn’t quite ring true to Drucker, but the German was hardly in a position to call him on it. And the Lizard had used the masculine pronoun.
So much for beautiful spies.
Drucker laughed at himself. “All right,” he said. “No matter who he is or where he is from, I look forward to meeting him.”

“Wait here,” Ttomalss told him, as if he were liable to wait somewhere else. The Lizard left the cubicle. Ttomalss could leave. Drucker couldn’t.

After about forty-five minutes—his captors had let him keep his watch—the door slid open. In came a young man with a shaved head and with body paint on his chest. He nodded to Drucker, ignoring his nakedness (he wore only denim shorts himself), and stuck out his hand. “Hello. Do you speak English?” he said in that language.

“Some,” Drucker answered in English. Then he shifted: “I must tell you, though, I am better in the language of the Race.”

“That suits me fine,” the American said, also in the Lizards’ tongue.
He’s very young,
Drucker realized—the shaved head had disguised his age. He went on, “My name is Jonathan Yeager. I greet you.”

“And I greet you.” Drucker shook the proffered hand and gave his own name. Then he eyed the American. “Yeager? It is a German name. It means ‘hunter.’ ” The last word was in English.

“Yes, my father’s father’s father came from Germany,” Jonathan Yeager said.

In musing tones, Drucker said, “I knew an officer named Jäger, Heinrich Jäger. He was a landcruiser commander. One of the best officers I ever served under—I named my oldest hatchling for him. I wonder if there is a relationship. From what part of Germany did your ancestor come?”

“I am sorry, but I do not know,” the young American answered. “Maybe my father does, but I am not sure of that. Many, when they came to America, tried to forget where they came from so they could become Americans.”

“I have this heard,” Drucker said. “It strikes me as strange.” Maybe that made him a reactionary European. Even if it did, though, he was a wild-eyed radical when measured against the Lizards. He asked, “What sort of research are you engaged in here?” The unspoken question behind that one was,
Why would the Americans send a puppy instead of a seasoned man?

To Drucker’s surprise, Jonathan Yeager blushed all the way to the top of his shaved crown. He coughed and spluttered a couple of times before answering, “I guess you could call it a sociological project.”

“That sounds interesting,” Drucker said, hoping Yeager would go on and tell him more about it.

Instead, the American pointed an accusing finger his way and said, “And I know why you are here.”

“I have no doubt that you do,” Drucker said. “If my attack had been a little more fortunate, we would not be having this talk now.”

“That is a truth.” Jonathan Yeager sounded surprisingly calm. Maybe he was too young to take seriously the possibility of his own demise. Or maybe not; he went on, “My father is an officer in the U.S. Army. He would talk that way, too, I think.”

“Professionals do.” Drucker started to say something else, but checked himself. “Is your father by any chance the male who understands the Race so well? If he is, I have some of his work in translation read. I should have of him thought when I heard the name.”

“Yes, that is my father,” Jonathan Yeager said with what sounded like pardonable pride.

“He does good work,” Drucker said. “He is the only Tosevite who ever made me believe he could think like a male of the Race. Why are you here instead of him?”

“He has been here,” the younger Yeager answered. “I first came here with him, as his assistant—I still wear the body paint of an assistant psychological researcher. But I am . . . better suited to the research for this part of the project than he is.”

“Can you tell me why?” Drucker asked. Jonathan Yeager shook his head. Seeing that gesture instead of one from a scaly hand made Drucker feel at home, even though the American had told him no.

Yeager said, “I am told you will be able to go home soon.”

“Yes, if I have any home left,” Drucker answered. “I do not know whether my kin are alive or dead.”

“I hope they are well,” Jonathan Yeager said. “I look forward to going home myself. I have been up here since the war began. The Race judged it was not safe for me to leave.”

“I would say that was likely to be true,” Drucker agreed. “We fought hard.”

“I know,” Yeager said. “But did you really think you could win?”

“Did I think so?” Drucker shook his head. “I did not think we had a chance. But what could I do? When your leaders tell you to go to war, you go to war. They must have thought we could win, or they would not have started fighting.”

“They were—” Jonathan Yeager broke off, shaking his head.

He’d been about to say something like,
They were pretty stupid if they did.
Drucker would have argued with him if he hadn’t felt the same way. The crisis had started while Himmler was
Führer,
and Kaltenbrunner hadn’t done anything to make it go away. On the contrary—he’d charged right ahead.
Fools rush in,
Drucker thought. He wondered how General Dornberger would shape up as the new leader of the
Reich.
He also wondered how much trouble the SS would give the new
Führer.
Dornberger hadn’t come up through the ranks of the blackshirts; he’d been soldiering since the First World War. The secret policemen might not like him very well.

Drucker had no sympathy for the SS, not after they’d tried to get rid of his wife on the grounds that she had a Jewish grandmother. If all the black-shirts suffered unfortunate accidents, he wouldn’t shed a tear. With SS men in charge of things, his country had suffered an unfortunate accident—except it hadn’t been an accident. Kaltenbrunner had started the war on purpose.

Something else occurred to him: “Is it true what some males of the Race have told me? That France is to be made independent again, I mean?”

“Yes, that is true,” Jonathan Yeager told him. “From the news reports I have seen, the French are happy about it, too.” He sounded pretty happy himself. He was, after all, an American, and the USA and Germany had been at war when the Lizards came. They still didn’t get along very well, and gloating at a rival’s misfortune was a constant all over the world, and probably among the Race as well.

“I do not care whether they are happy or not,” Drucker said. “It will mean a weaker Germany, and a weaker Germany means a stronger Race.” He was sure the Lizards were recording every word he said. He didn’t much care. They’d captured him. They’d beaten his country. If they thought he loved them because of it, they were crazy.

Back in the cubicle Jonathan Yeager shared with Kassquit, he said, “Strange to think I was just talking with a male who could have killed both of us.”

When Kassquit made the affirmative gesture, she almost poked him in the nose. As far as Jonathan was concerned, the cubicle would have been cramped for her alone; being smaller than people, Lizards built smaller, too. But she was used to it. She’d lived in a cubicle like this her whole life. She said, “You can take off those foolish wrappings now. You do not need them any more.”

“No, I suppose not. I certainly do not need them to keep me warm.” Jonathan used an emphatic cough as he kicked off the shorts. The Lizards kept the starship at a temperature comfortable for them, one that matched a hot summer’s day in Los Angeles. Even shorts made him sweat more than he would have without them.

Kassquit was naked, too. She’d never worn clothes, not after she’d got out of diapers. The Lizards—Ttomalss in particular—had raised her ever since she was a newborn. They’d wanted to see how close they could come to turning a human into a female of the Race.

Jonathan shaved his head. Plenty of kids of his generation—girls as well as boys, though not so many—did that, aping the Lizards and incidentally annoying their parents. Kassquit shaved not only her head—including her eyebrows—but all the hair on her body in an effort to make herself as much like a Lizard as she could. She’d told him once that she’d thought about having her ears removed to make her head look more like a Lizard’s, and had decided against it only because she didn’t think it would help enough.

She said, “I wonder if I will be allowed to meet him before he returns to the surface of Tosev 3. I should learn more about wild Tosevites.”

With a chuckle, Jonathan said, “I think he would be glad to meet you, especially without wrappings.” The Lizards’ language had no specific term for clothes, which the Race didn’t use, but could and did go into enormous detail about body paint.

“What do you mean?” By Earthly standards, Kassquit had a remorselessly literal mind. “Do you mean he might want to mate with me? Would he find me attractive enough to want to mate with?”

“Of course he would. I certainly do.” Jonathan used another emphatic cough. He always praised Kassquit as extravagantly as he could. She unfolded like a flower when he did. He got the idea the Lizards hadn’t bothered—or maybe they just hadn’t known people needed such things. Whenever he thought Kassquit acted strangely, he had to step back and remind himself it was a wonder she got even to within shouting distance of sanity.

And he hadn’t been lying. She was of Oriental descent; living in Gardena, California, which had a large Japanese-American population, he’d got used to Asian standards of beauty. And by them she was more than pretty enough. Her shaved head didn’t put him off, either; he knew plenty of girls at UCLA who shaved theirs. The only thing truly odd about her was her expression, or lack of expression. Her face was almost masklike. She hadn’t learned to smile when she was a baby—Lizards could hardly smile back at her—and it was evidently too late after that.

She asked, “Would you be upset if I decided to mate with him?” She didn’t have much in the way of tact, either.

To keep from examining his own feelings right away, Jonathan answered, “Even if he finds you attractive, I am not sure he would want to mate with you. He is concerned with his own mate down in the
Reich,
and does not know her fate.”

“I see,” Kassquit said slowly.

Jonathan wondered if she really did. She hadn’t known anything about the emotional attachments men and women could form . . .
till she started making love with me,
he thought. He hadn’t wanted to explain to the German spaceman the sort of sociological research project in which he was engaged. It was really more the Lizards’ project, not his. He was just along for the ride.

He chuckled.
They brought me up here and put me out to stud.
He wondered how much they’d learned. He’d certainly learned a lot.