Aftershocks (36 page)

She cared the following day. For one thing, the depression that followed her binge was the worst she’d ever known. For another, she
hadn’t
stopped pumping out pheromones. She mated in the hotel lobby, in the motorcar that took her to the airfield, and in the terminal waiting to board the aircraft.

“A good holiday,” the last male said, with an emphatic cough.

And Felless answered, “Truth.” The pleasure of mating was different from that of the herb, but it was enough to lift her partway out of the shadows in which she’d walked since taking her tongue out of the ginger vial.

She wondered if she would lay a clutch of eggs.
If I do, I do,
she thought, and then,
But if I do, Veffani had better not find out about it.
The ambassador would not be pleased. He might even be angry enough to send her back to the
Reich.

Fortunately, she was able to board the aircraft without stirring up a commotion. That could have been dangerous, especially if the flight crew had males in it. But her fellow passengers paid her no special heed. She settled down for the long, dull flight to Cairo, where she would board another aircraft for the return to Marseille.

Not so bad,
she thought. She wished the holiday had been longer. That would have let her taste more. But she’d made up for a lot of lost time even so. Maybe she really was ready to get back to work.

Liu Han and Liu Mei sat side by side in an insanely crowded second-class car as the train of which it was a part rattled north. Children squealed. Babies screamed. Chickens squawked. Ducks quacked. Dogs—likelier headed for the stew pot than for the easy life of a pet—yelped. Several young porkers made noises even more appalling than those that came from the human infants. The smells were as bad as the racket.

“Can we get any fresh air?” Liu Mei asked her mother.

“I don’t know,” Liu Han answered. “I’ll try.” She was sitting by the window. She had to use all her strength to get it to rise even a little. When it did, she wasn’t sure she was glad it had. The engine was an ancient coal-burner, and soot started pouring in as the stinks poured out.

Liu Mei got a cinder in the eye, and rubbed frantically. Once she’d managed to get rid of it, she said, “Maybe you ought to close that again.”

“I’ll try,” Liu Han repeated. She had no luck this time. What had gone up refused to come down. She sighed. “We knew this trip wouldn’t be any fun when we set out on it.”

“We were right, too.” Liu Mei coughed. Several people had lit up cigarettes and pipes so they wouldn’t have to pay quite so much attention to the pungent atmosphere they were breathing. Their smoke made the air that much thicker for everyone else.

One of the babies in the carn—or possibly one of the dogs—had an unfortunate accident. Liu Han sighed. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed walking back to Peking, but I’m not enjoying this, either. You, at least, you’re going home.”

Liu Mei leaned toward Liu Han so she could speak into her ear: “We’re going back to begin the revolutionary struggle again. The struggle is our home.”

“Well, so it is.” Liu Han glanced over at her daughter. Liu Mei could think of the struggle as home. She was young. Liu Han was getting close to fifty. Trapped in this hot, smelly, packed car, she felt every one of her years. There were times when she wished she could settle down somewhere quiet and forget about the revolution. She generally got over that once she’d had a chance to rest for a while, but she found it happening more and more often these days.

The dialectic said the proletarian revolution
would
succeed. For many years, that had kept Liu Han and her comrades working to overthrow the imperialist little scaly devils despite all the defeats they’d suffered. It had kept them confident of victory, too. But now the dialectic made Liu Han thoughtful in a different way. If the revolution would inevitably succeed, wouldn’t it succeed just as inevitably without her?

She didn’t say anything like that to Liu Mei. She knew it would have horrified her daughter. And she supposed that, once she got to Peking, the fire of revolutionary fervor would begin to burn in her own bosom once more. It always had. Still, there were times when she felt very tired.

I’m getting old,
she thought. Her skin was still firm and her hair had only a few threads of silver in it, but Chinese showed their age less readily than round-eyed devils did. She’d seen that on her visit to the United States. But whether she showed her age or not, she felt it. This miserable car made everyone feel her age, and twenty years older besides.

Brakes squealing, the train stopped in a small town. A few people left her car. More tried to crowd on. Nobody wanted to make room for anybody else. Men and women pushed and shouted and cursed. Liu Han had ridden enough trains to know things were always like that.

Hawkers elbowed their ways through the cars, selling rice and vegetables and fruit juice and tea. They didn’t do a whole lot of business; most people had the sense to bring their own supplies with them. Liu Han and Liu Mei certainly had. Only the naive few riding a train for the first time gave the hawkers any trade.

A conductor came through, too, screaming for the hawkers to get off or buy a ticket—they were going to get moving. The hawkers laughed and jeered; they knew to the second when the train would really set out, and they also knew the conductors always tried to get rid of them early. The last one leaped off just as the train started to roll. He stuck out his tongue in derision.

“That’ll cost him extra squeeze the next time this train crew comes through here,” Liu Han predicted.

“You’re probably right,” her daughter replied. “But he assented his freedom even so. In his small way, he is a revolutionary.”

He was more likely to be a bad-tempered fool, but Liu Han didn’t argue with Liu Mei. Instead, she wrestled with the window again. She had no luck; it was stuck, and looked as if it would stay stuck. The smoke that poured in was thick and black, because the train wasn’t going fast enough to dissipate it. Liu Han coughed and cursed. People nearby were coughing, too, and cursing her.

Things got better as the train picked up speed, but they never got very good. As far as Liu Han could tell,
not very good
was about as good as rail travel ever got in China.

And then, less then half an hour later, the train slowed to a stop again, not at a station but in the middle of the countryside. “Now what?” a woman behind Liu Han demanded indignantly.

“Have we broken down?” Three or four people asked the same question at the same time.

“Of course we’ve broken down,” Liu Han murmured to Liu Mei. “The little scaly devils don’t care whether trains work well, or even if they work at all, so they don’t bother keeping them up.”

But, for once, this wasn’t something she could blame on the scaly devils. A conductor poked his head into the car and shouted, “We can’t go on because bandits have blown up the tracks ahead of us. We are going to be here for a while. We may have to go back and find a way around the damage.”

That set people yelling and screaming at him and at one another. He just kept repeating what he’d said the first time. Most of the unhappy passengers cursed the bandits up one side and down the other. People would curse anything that made them late.

Liu Mei asked, “Do you suppose the People’s Liberation Army sabotaged the track?”

“It could be,” Liu Han said. “Not everyone will have known we were on this train. But it could have been the Kuomintang, too. No way to tell.”

The sun beat down on the car. Because it was standing still, it got hotter and hotter. People started opening more windows. Some wouldn’t open at all. People started breaking them. That brought in an angry conductor, but he had to flee in the face of the passengers’ wrath.

“Whoever it was probably wanted to make the train derail,” Liu Han said. “That would really have done damage.”

It would have done damage to us,
she thought. Derailing trains was a favorite game of the People’s Liberation Army, and of the Kuomintang as well. It taught people that the rule of the little scaly devils remained insecure. It also caused a lot of casualties. She and Liu Mei could have been among them as easily as not.

And, of course, a machine-gun crew might have been waiting to shoot up the train once it derailed,
Liu Han thought. That was another game both the People’s Liberation Army and the Kuomintang played. So did independent bandit outfits, who kept themselves in business by robbery. But no one started shooting here.

After what seemed like forever, the train began to inch backwards. Because it was going in reverse, the smoke from the engine’s stack blew away from the passenger cars, not into them. The breeze the slow motion stirred up wasn’t very strong, but it was ever so much better than nothing. Sweat began to dry on Liu Han’s face. She took off her conical straw hat and fanned herself with it. People all over the car were doing the same thing. They started smiling at one another. A couple of babies and a couple of dogs stopped howling. It was as pleasant a time on a train as Liu Han had ever known.

The train rolled back over a switch. Then it stopped, presumably so a couple of men from the engine could get down and use crowbars to shift the switch and let the train go down the other track. After that, the train started going forward again, and swung onto the route it hadn’t used before.

With the exhaust now blowing back once more, the car filled with coal smoke. Since the passengers had broken a good many windows, they couldn’t do anything about it. The conductor laughed at them. “You see, you stupid turtles? It’s your own fault,” he said. Somebody threw a squishy plum at him, and hit him right in the face. Juice dribbled down the brass-buttoned front of his uniform. He let out a horrified squawk and retreated in disorder. Everyone cheered.

But then somebody not far from Liu Han said, “Since we’re going up a track we’re not supposed to, I hope there’s no train coming down it toward us.”

That produced exclamations of horror.
“Eee!”
Liu Han said. “May ten thousand little demons dance in your drawers for even thinking such a thing.”

No train slammed head-on into theirs. No stretch of tracks on the new line had been blown up. Thoroughgoing guerrillas often did such things, which caused more than double the delay and aggravation of a single strike. On the receiving end for once, Liu Han was glad these raiders hadn’t been thorough.

Her train was scheduled to get into Peking in the early evening. Even at the best of times, even under the little devils, railroad schedules in China were more optimistic guesses than statements of fact. When things went wrong . . . Trying to sleep sitting up on a hard seat, with the air full of smoke and other stinks and noise, was a daunting prospect. Liu Han thought she dozed a little, but she wasn’t sure.

She was sure she watched the sun rise over the farmlands to the east a couple of hours before the train did at last roll into the railroad yard in the southwestern part of Peking. It took more time crawling up to the station itself. Liu Han minded that less. It let her look around the city.

Liu Mei was doing the same thing. “We fought them hard. We fought them with everything we had,” she said, and pride rang in her voice.

“So we did,” Liu Han agreed. Wrecked buildings outnumbered those still intact. Laborers carrying buckets on shoulder poles were everywhere, hauling away rubble. Liu Han sighed. “Fighting hard is important, but only up to a point. More important, even so much more important, is winning.”

The little scaly devils had won this fight, and taken Peking back for their own. Liu Han found fresh proof of that at the station. Along with the other passengers, she and her daughter had to walk through a machine that could tell if they were carrying weapons. They weren’t, and had no trouble. Someone else in the car was. Chinese police, running dogs to the imperialist scaly devils, hustled him away. Liu Han and Liu Mei walked out of the station and into the city. “Home,” Liu Mei said, and Liu Han had to nod.

 
10

Though Atvar had promised him his freedom, Straha found himself more nearly a prisoner in Cairo than he had been in Los Angeles. “Is this how you reward me?” he asked one of his interrogators, a female named Zeshpass. “I hoped to return to the society of the Race, not to be closed off from it forever.”

“And so you will, superior sir,” Zeshpass said soothingly. But Straha was not soothed. Back in the USA, even the Big Uglies who exploited him had called him
Shiplord.
Whatever he was here, he wasn’t a shiplord, and he never would be again. Zeshpass went on, “As soon as the crisis is resolved, a final disposition of your situation will be made.”

That sounded soothing, too—till Straha turned an eye turret toward it. “What did you just say?” he demanded. “Whatever it was, it did not mean anything.”

“Of course it did.” Zeshpass sounded irate. Like any interrogator, she took her own omniscience for granted, and resented it when others failed to do likewise.

“All right, then,” Straha said. “Suppose you explain to me why my case cannot be disposed of now.”

Most reluctantly, the female said, “I do not have that information.”

Straha laughed at her. “I do. Atvar has not yet figured out what to do with me because he has not yet decided whether I am a hero or a nuisance or both at once. My opinion is that I am both at once, which is bound to make me more annoying to the exalted fleetlord.” As he was in the habit of doing, he laced Atvar’s title with as much scorn as he could.

Her voice stiff with disapproval, Zeshpass said, “It is not for me to judge the exalted fleetlord’s reasons. It is not for you, either.”

“And if no one judges him, how will anyone know when he makes a mistake?” Straha inquired. “He has made enough of them already, in my not so humble opinion. How is he to be held accountable for them?”

“Held accountable? He is the fleetlord.” Zeshpass sounded as if Straha had suddenly started speaking English rather than the language of the Race.

Plainly, the idea that the fleetlord, like any other mortal, needed to be questioned and criticized when he made a mistake had never crossed her mind.

Do you know what has happened to you?
Straha asked himself. And he did know.
You have become a snoutcounter, at least in part. Living among the American Big Uglies for so long has rubbed off on you.

Of course, he’d had a low opinion of Atvar’s abilities even before fleeing to the United States. If he hadn’t had a low opinion of Atvar’s ability, if he hadn’t tried to take command himself, he wouldn’t have had to flee to the USA. But years spent in a land that institutionalized snoutcounting and made it work had left him even less respectful of the Race’s institutions than he’d expected.
We
are
a stodgy lot,
he thought discontentedly.

“He may be the fleetlord,” Straha said aloud, “but he is not the Emperor.”

“That is a truth,” Zeshpass admitted, casting down her eye turrets. Straha had to remind himself to do the same thing. He hadn’t realized how far his habits had slipped in exile till he returned to the society of the Race. Zeshpass continued, “In fact, Reffet, the fleetlord of the colonization fleet, has had frequent disagreements with Fleetlord Atvar.”

“I believe that.” Straha’s voice was dry. As far as he was concerned, anyone who didn’t disagree with Atvar had to have something wrong with him. “What sort of things have they disagreed about? Do you happen to know?”

Given the chance to gossip, Zeshpass didn’t notice she’d gone from interrogator to interrogated. “I certainly do,” she said. “If you can imagine it, Atvar has proposed to levy soldiers from among the males and females of the colonization fleet, to create what would be in effect a permanent Soldiers’ Time on Tosev 3.”

“Has he?” Straha said. That struck him as only common sense. Even Atvar, however much the returned renegade hated to admit it, wasn’t stupid all the time. He sounded even more thoughtful as he asked, “And Reffet disapproves of this?”

“Of course he does,” Zeshpass answered. “We came here to colonize this world, not to fight over it.”

“I understand that,” Straha said. “But if the Big Uglies continue to be ready to fight against us, what shall we do once the males of the conquest fleet begin to grow old and die?”

That plainly hadn’t occurred to Zeshpass. After some thought, she said, “I suppose we shall have to finish the conquest before that happens. This hatching conflict with the United States gives us the opportunity to take a long stride in that direction.”

“Truth—but only to a point,” Straha said. “Even in lands we have supposedly conquered, rebellion continues. That must be one of the reasons you refuse to allow me to go out into Cairo and see for myself what sort of society the Race is building.”

“You have also spoken truth, superior sir—but only to a point,” Zeshpass replied. “The Big Uglies under our rule get arms and encouragement from the independent Tosevite not-empires. If there were no more independent not-empires, how could they continue the struggle against us?”

It was a good question. Straha could not answer it, not at once. After some thought of his own, he replied, “That is a possibility, I suppose. But, given what we of the conquest fleet have seen of Tosevite stubbornness and perversity, I believe it is folly to assume all resistance will die within a generation.”

“We shall consider your opinions, of course,” Zeshpass said. “But we are under no obligation to do anything more than consider them.”

“I understand that.” Straha sighed. “By my own actions, I made certain I would never again help form the Race’s policy here on Tosev 3.” He sounded resigned, even humble. He didn’t feel humble, or anything close to it. He remained convinced he could have done a better job with the conquest fleet than Atvar had. And if Reffet couldn’t see the need for soldiers from the colonization fleet, he was just another male with fancy body paint and with sand between his eye turrets.

Straha crossed the first and second fingers of his right hand, a gesture American Big Uglies sometimes used when they said something they didn’t mean. That gesture meant nothing to Zeshpass, of course. To Zeshpass, Big Uglies were nuisances, annoyances, no more. Despite the war with the Deutsche, she didn’t fully seem to grasp how dangerous they could be and, therefore, how important they were to study.

That gesture also summarized Straha’s feelings about his return to the Race. The meeker and milder he seemed, the sooner his interrogators and those who did lead the Race these days would let him get on with his life. So he hoped, anyhow.

But Zeshpass, though naive about Tosevites, was by no means foolish about matters that had to do with the Race. She said, “When you delivered your information, superior sir, that act helped form our policy.”

“I suppose it did,” Straha admitted, “but that was not why I did it. As I have said before, I did it because my friend, Sam Yeager, had asked me to do it.”

“Friendship with a Big Ugly counting for more than policy concerns of the Race?” Zeshpass said. “Surely your priorities became distorted during your long years of exile.”

“I disagree.” Straha used the negative gesture and added an emphatic cough. “Sam Yeager did a great deal for me while I was in exile. The actions of the leadership of the Race were what drove me into exile. Naturally, Yeager’s wishes and his wellbeing were and are important to me.”

“I shall make a note of that,” Zeshpass said, with the air of a magistrate passing sentence on a criminal. Straha realized he’d been too vehement, too outspoken, too opinionated.
So much for meek and mild,
he thought. Now more like a hunting beast than a confidante, Zeshpass returned to the questioning: “So you believe it was legitimate for you to hatch friendships among the Big Uglies?”

“Yes, I do,” Straha answered.
Of course I do, you addled egg.
“After all, I believed I would live among them the rest of my life.” Maybe he could steer his way back toward meek and mild after all.

Zeshpass wasn’t about to make things easy for him. Voice sharp as filed fingerclaws, she demanded, “It was for this reason, then, that you put your individual concerns and the concerns of this Big Ugly friend of yours above those of the Race as a whole?”

“The species of my friend is not relevant,” Straha said, pushing her away from the major accusation and toward something smaller. “Rabotevs and Hallessi are citizens of the Empire, no less than males and females of the Race. If the conquest here succeeds in the end, the same will be true of Big Uglies.”

“That may well be a truth.” Zeshpass admitted what she plainly would sooner have denied. She had to admit it; equality of species under the law and in the afterlife was a cornerstone of the Empire. She tried to rally: “You said nothing, I notice, about your rampant and unwarranted individualism.”

There was the dangerous charge, especially from the viewpoint of members of the colonization fleet. Straha said, “Have you noticed that the males of the conquest fleet show more individualism than would have been common back on Home?”

“I have,” Zeshpass answered. “Everyone from the colonization fleet has noticed this. No one from the colonization fleet approves. Our view is that the males of the colonization fleet have been contaminated by the bizarre ideologies of the Tosevites.”

“We have done what we needed to do to survive and flourish on a world of individualism run wild,” Straha said. “That is the Race’s view, of course. To the Big Uglies, we are hopeless reactionaries.”

“I do not see why the views of the local barbarians should carry any special weight,” Zeshpass said primly.

“Do you not?” Straha said. “I would think the answer fairly obvious, and shown by the recent war with the Deutsche if it was not adequately obvious without that demonstration. What the Big Uglies think about us matters because they can hurt us. They can hurt us badly. Why do you have so much trouble believing that?”

Zeshpass said, “This is not the way things were to be when we got to Tosev 3. This is not the way we were told things would be when we got to Tosev 3.”

“But this is the way things are,” Straha said. “If you cannot see that, if you cannot adapt to that, the colonization effort will face severe difficulties.”

“We are the Race,” Zeshpass said. “We shall prevail. We have always prevailed. We can do it again.”

“We can, certainly,” Straha agreed. “Whether or not we shall . . . that is a different question. If we act as if our triumph is guaranteed, that only makes it more difficult. The Tosevites present the most severe challenge we have ever faced. Turning our eye turrets away from that challenge, acting as if it does not exist, will make things worse, not better. You may be sure the American Big Uglies, whom I know best, do not believe their triumph is guaranteed. As a result, they work unceasingly to subvert us.”

“Working is one thing. Succeeding is another,” Zeshpass said. “I submit to you, superior sir, that your view of these matters is colored by your having lived among the American Tosevites for so long.”

“And I submit to you that your view is colored by not having lived among any Big Uglies, and by your ignorance of them,” Straha retorted.

They glared at each other in perfect mutual loathing. “Time will tell which of us is correct,” Zeshpass said, and Straha made the affirmative gesture.

It was some time after midnight when the guard named Fred shook Sam Yeager awake. “Come on, pal,” he said when Yeager showed signs of returning to the real world. “You sleep like a rock. Shows you’ve got a clean conscience. I wish to God I did, believe me.”

Sam yawned and rubbed his eyes. Around the yawn, he asked, “What’s going on that won’t keep till morning?” He sounded mushy without his false teeth.

“Somebody wants to see you,” Fred answered. “Come on.”

“Yeah?” Yeager tensed, wishing he hadn’t made that sound quite so dubious. Who’d want to see him in the middle of the night? Were the guards waking him up so they could dispose of him more conveniently?

Fred might have read his mind. “Don’t do anything stupid, Yeager,” he said, and his .45 appeared as if by magic in his right hand. “If I wanted to ice you, I could blow your brains out without bothering to wake you up, right? No fuss, no muss, no bother. But I wasn’t blowing smoke up your ass. Somebody wants to see you, and he’s waiting in the living room.”