Aftershocks (49 page)

All that made Stargard a perfect place for holdouts. Drucker wondered how many other smashed-up towns throughout the
Reich
held company- to battalion-sized units of
Wehrmacht
men or brigands—sometimes the line between them wasn’t easy to draw—who would sometimes sneak out and do what they could against the occupiers of the
Reich.

He doubted he’d ever find out the answer to that. He did know Stargard held such a unit. And, at the moment, the holdouts were holding him. The Lizard who’d been driving him down to Neu Strelitz was no longer among the living. Had a couple of bullets from the machine-gun burst that wrecked the motorcar and killed the driver gone a few centimeters to the left or right of their actual courses, Drucker wouldn’t have been among the living any more, either.

As things were, he remained unsure how long he’d stay among the living. The holdouts kept him in the cellar whose second story had taken a couple of direct hits from a landcruiser’s cannon. It hadn’t burned, but nobody would want to live up there, either.

With a screech of rusty hinges, the cellar door opened. Two guards came down the stairs. One carried a kerosene lamp to shed more light than the candles the holdouts gave Drucker. The other had an assault rifle. He pointed it at Drucker’s midriff. “Come with us,” he said.

“All right.” Drucker got off the cot where he’d been lying. The alternative, plainly, was being shot on the spot. “Where are we going?” he asked. They’d taken him out for questioning a couple of times, which had let him see a little of Stargard, not that there was much worth seeing.

But the fellow with the lamp had a different answer today: “To the People’s Court, that’s where. They’ll give you what you deserve, you lousy traitor.”

“I’m not a traitor.” Drucker had been saying the same thing ever since they captured him. Had the holdouts believed him, they would have let him go. Had they thoroughly disbelieved him, they would have shot him when they killed his driver. They almost had. “What do you mean, People’s Court?” he asked as he approached the stairs.

The guards both backed up. They weren’t about to let him get close enough to grab either the rifle or the lantern. The one holding the rifle said, “The People’s Court, to give out justice for the
Volk.”

“To give collaborators what they deserve,” the other fellow added.

Wearily, Drucker said, “I’m not a collaborator, either.” He’d been saying that over and over, too. Had he just been saying it, it would have done him no good. But he’d also had in his wallet the telegram from Walter Dornberger. A personal message from the
Führer
had given even the holdouts pause.

When Drucker came out onto the street, he was surprised to see it was early morning. Down in the windowless cellar, he’d lost track of day and night. He’d lost track of which day it was, too. He thought he’d been a prisoner for a couple of weeks, but he could have been off by several days either way.

Only a few people were out and about so early. None of them seemed to find the sight of a man marched along at gunpoint in any way remarkable. Drucker wondered what would happen if he shouted for help. Actually, he didn’t wonder; he had a pretty good idea. Nobody would do anything for him, and the youngster with the assault rifle would fill him full of holes. He kept quiet.

“In here,” said the fellow with the lantern. In daylight, even the murky, cloudy daylight of Stargard, it was useless.

Here
had been a tobacconist’s. The plate-glass window at the front of the shop had been smashed. Drucker was morally certain not a gram of tobacco remained inside. He’d lost the craving up on the Lizards’ starship, and had never had it too strongly—smoking in the upper stage of an A-45 while in Earth orbit was severely impractical. But for the shattered window, though, the tobacconist’s looked pretty much intact.

The back room had probably kept the stock that wasn’t on display. Now it held a table and eight or ten chairs that didn’t match one another. Three men sat along one side of the table. Drucker had seen two of them before. They’d interrogated him. The third, who sat in the middle, wore a
Wehrmacht
major’s tunic. He was young, but had a face like a steel trap: all sharp edges and angles, without humor, without mercy. Drucker wondered why he hadn’t served in the SS rather than the Army. Whatever the reason, he feared he wouldn’t get much of a fair trial here.

“We, the
Volk
of the
Reich,
bring the accused traitor, Johannes Drucker, before the bar of justice here,” the major said.

Drucker wasn’t invited to sit down. He sat anyway. The guards growled. The major glowered, but didn’t say anything. Drucker did: “All I’ve ever wanted to do was find my family. That’s not treason. I haven’t done anything that is treason, either.”

One of his interrogators said, “A Lizard was doing you a favor. Why would the Lizards do you a favor if you weren’t a traitor?”

“We’ve been over this before,” Drucker said, as patiently as he could. “They knew who I am because I flew the upper stage of an A-45. They captured me in space, and held me till the fighting was over. I suppose they were helping me because the
Führer
was my old commandant at Peenemünde. He was generous enough to send me that wire. I heard some of my family might be down in Neu Strelitz, so I asked the Lizards for a lift. I’d walked from Nuremberg to Greifswald. If I didn’t have to walk again, I didn’t want to. That’s all. It’s simple, really.”

It wasn’t so simple. He said not a word about Mordechai Anielewicz. If the holdouts learned he’d consorted with a Jew, he
was
a dead man.

By the hard-faced young major’s eyes, he was liable to be a dead man any which way. The officer—evidently the leader of this band of holdouts—said, “You were consorting with the enemy. No proper citizen of the
Reich
should have anything to do with the Lizards under any circumstances.”

Drucker glared at him. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said, not so patiently any more. Maybe losing his temper was a mistake, but he couldn’t help it. “I started out in the
Wehrmacht
when you were in short pants. I was a panzer driver. If I hadn’t been shooting up Lizard landcruisers then, you wouldn’t be here to call me a traitor now.”

“What you did in the past is gone.” The major snapped his fingers. “Gone like that. What you do now, with the
Reich
in peril—that is what matters. And you have not denied that you were captured in the company of a Lizard.”

“How could I deny it?” Drucker said. “I was sitting next to him when your men shot him. What I do deny is that my sitting next to him makes me disloyal to the
Reich.
I’m as loyal to the
Führer
as any man here. Where’s
your
telegram from General Dornberger,
Herr
Major?”

That should have been a corker. Unfortunately, Drucker saw that it didn’t do as much corking as he’d hoped it would. Sure enough, the young major’s eyes might have come off an SS recruiting poster: they were gray-blue like ice, and every bit as cold. He said, “It is by no means certain that the
Führer
is not a traitor to the
Reich.
He yielded to the Race too soon, and he yielded far too much in the terms for what he calls peace but is in fact only appeasement.”

More royal than the king,
Drucker thought. Aloud, he said, “If he hadn’t yielded, every square millimeter of Germany would be covered with radioactive glass right now. You wouldn’t be alive to tell me this nonsense. I might still be alive, because I was out in space. But I wouldn’t have gone for a ride with that Lizard, because I would have known everybody in my family was dead.”

“If you support the
Führer’s
spinelessness, you condemn yourself out of your own mouth,” the holdouts’ leader replied in a voice as frigid as his eyes.

Drucker felt like pounding his head against the table. “If you don’t follow the policies of your own
Führer,
of the
Reich’s Führer,
how can you call yourself soldiers of the
Reich
any more? You’re not soldiers. You’re just bandits.”

“We are soldiers of the true
Reich,
the pure
Reich,
the
Reich
we struggle to bring back into being, the
Reich
that will have a
Führer
worthy of it, not a collaborationist.” By a slight change in tone, the major suggested the
Reich
might not have to look too far to find such a
Führer.
And, by the faces of the two men who’d grilled Drucker before, they agreed with him.

As far as Drucker was concerned, they were all out of their minds. Of course, nine hundred ninety-nine people out of a thousand in Munich in 1921 would have said the same thing about Hitler and his handful of followers, too. But how many would-be Hitlers had there been in Germany then? Hundreds, surely. Thousands, more likely. What were the odds this fellow was the genuine article? Slim. Very, very slim.

Genuine article or not, he had the whip hand here. And he plainly intended to use it. “By the power vested in me as an officer of the
Reich—
the true
Reich,
the uncorrupted
Reich—
I now pass sentence on you for treason against that
Reich,”
he said. “The sentence will be—”

Before he could tell Drucker what it would be, one of his young bully-boys strode into the tobacconist’s back room with a package in his hand. The major paused. Drucker wondered why he bothered. He wondered why the major bothered with the whole rigmarole in the first place, when he’d plainly decided to execute Drucker in the name of what he called people’s justice.

His bully-boy sent Drucker a curious glance. The fellow was seventeen or eighteen, with the fuzzy beginnings of a beard. Drucker’s hand started to go to his own chin; in however long he’d been in captivity, he’d raised a thicker growth than that kid owned.

The hand froze halfway to his face. The kid was staring at him, too. “Heinrich?” Drucker whispered, at the same time as the bully-boy was saying, “Father?” Drucker sprang out of his chair, the hard-faced major and his own impending death sentence utterly forgotten. He and his son jumped into each other’s arms.

“What’s going on here?” the major demanded.

“What’s going on here, sir?” Heinrich Drucker demanded in return. “I knew we’d taken a prisoner, but I didn’t know who.” By the look on
his
face, he was ready to fight his commander and everyone else in the world. Drucker had been the same way at the same age. Danger in his voice, Heinrich went on, “Was this a treason trial?”

“Now that you mention it, yes,” Drucker said. He had to grab his son to keep him from going for the major’s throat.

“Perhaps,” the holdout leader said, “in the light of this new evidence—”

“Evidence, am I?” Heinrich growled.

“In the light of this new evidence,” the major repeated, “perhaps we can justify suspending sentence for the time being. Perhaps.” Considering what had been about to happen to him, Drucker didn’t even mind the qualifier.

Felless was glad to escape Cairo and return to Marseille. She’d never imagined she would think such a thing, but it remained a truth nonetheless. She’d seen for herself that she couldn’t get rid of her ginger habit. Creating another scandal right under the eye turrets of the fleetlord of the conquest fleet would undoubtedly have got her sent to a worse place than Marseille. That not-empire called Finland, newly under the Race’s influence, was supposed to have weather abominable even by Tosevite standards.

She let out a hiss of relief that she’d touched off only one small mating frenzy in Cairo, and that word of it hadn’t got back to Atvar. She had Ttomalss to thank for that. She didn’t like being indebted to the other psychological researcher, but knew full well that she was. If he wanted something from her one of these days, she didn’t see how she could keep from giving it to him.

At least she wasn’t gravid—or she didn’t think she was. That took away one worry pertaining to ginger-induced sexuality, anyhow. And so she peered out of the small windows of her aircraft at the blue water below—such a lot of water on this world—and waited to land at the field outside Marseille.

Once the aircraft had rolled to a halt, she got out and arranged transportation to the new consulate building. Formalities were minimal; the Français, unlike the Deutsche, didn’t go out of their way to make things difficult for the Race.

They had better not,
she thought.
They owe us a great deal more than I owe Ttomalss.
Of course, by all indications, the Big Uglies worried a great deal less than the Race did about their debts.

All the motorcars outside the terminal building were of Tosevite manufacture and had Big Uglies driving them. She got into one and said, “To the consulate.” She spoke in her language, since she knew no other.

“It shall be done,” the driver said. He opened and closed his hands four times. “Twenty francs.” Francs, she knew, were what the local Big Uglies used for money. She had some of the little metal disks. They differed in value, depending on their size and design. Somewhere on them, no doubt, were Tosevite numerals. Felless had never bothered learning those, but she did know which size was worth ten francs. She gave the driver two of those. He made the Race’s affirmative gesture. “I thank you.”

By the time he got her to the consulate, Felless was by no means sure she thanked him. She had seen that many Tosevites drove as if they did not care whether they lived or died. This Français male seemed to be actively courting death. He drove as if his motorcar were a missile, and guided it into tiny openings, even into imaginary openings, defying everyone around him. Back on Home, males of some animal species used such challenges to establish territories during the mating season. What purpose they served here was beyond Felless’ comprehension.

She escaped from the motorcar as if escaping prison—though she had trouble imagining a prison as dangerous as the trip from the airfield—and fled into the consulate. After exchanging greetings with some of the males and females there, she went back to her own room. The chamber she’d had at Shepheard’s Hotel had been adequate, but this was home.