The Stone Dogs (32 page)

Boot will hold it,
he thought with savage concentration, as his hands slapped another cassette into the weapon.

Marya was running down the line of cars; the blond Draka lay on the ground, her hands to her belly. Lefarge hobbled forward, felt a stab of concern at the spreading red stain on the side of his sister's jacket.

"Just a graze, first car in the row, go, go,
go
," she shouted. At each car she paused just long enough to pump three rounds into the communicator; even so, she was in time to help him into the first as he hop-stepped to safety.

"Let's
go
," he snarled, wrenching at the controls as she tumbled through the entrance on the other side. The turbines shrieked and the aircar rose on fan-thrust, just high enough to clear the treetops before he rammed the throttles forward. The SD would not shoot down a planter's car, not until they got confirmation, and Marya had delayed that a vital fifteen minutes. At worst, a clean death when a heatseeker blew their craft out of the sky; at best, they would make it.

"We did it," he breathed. Something slackened in the center of his body, and pain shot up the leg from the savaged ankle.

"We—did," Marya replied. She was fumbling in the first-aid box. "We…
did
."

"I didn't know that," Yolande said, looking down at the body of her cousin.

The eyes stared empty upwards into the rain, and the steady silver fall washed the blood pale-pink out of the sodden cloth.

The ambulance took off with a scream of fans; Mandy would be in that, and John riding beside her. Myfwany put an arm about her shoulders.

"Yo' couldn't, sweet," she said. "Iff'n Alexandra couldn't tell, how could yo'? Y' hardly met them."

"Oh?" Yolande shook her head, and indicated the ghouloon; Wofor was not quite dead, though far beyond help. He had crawled the ten yards from the broken-backed horse with one good arm and one leg, trailing the shattered limbs and most of his blood. Now he lay with his head at Alexandra's feet, and Yolande crouched to shelter his head from the rain.

"Not that," she said softly, as the last trickle of sound escaped the fanged mouth and the labored breathing stopped. Her hand indicated the ghouloon, touched its muzzle. A bubble of blood burst at the back of its throat. "I didn't know these could cry, is all."

Draka serfdom is legally a rather severe form of chattel slavery, much like that of Classical times, except that there is no manumission. In terms of institutional history it descends from the plantation system of the Caribbean and the southern portions of the 13 Colonies, as absolute a system of bondage as any. However, there is slavery and slavery; slave status is a different thing in a society where the institution is rare and marginal than in one where it is nearly universal. In the Domination, over 93% of the total population are serfs; serfs labor in immense numbers as fieldhands, miners, factory workers, and domestic servants. But they also work as soldiers and police, foremen and boss-boys, machinists and clerks and bureaucrats. Existence in a mine compound can be very grim; plantation life depends on the whim of the owner, but is tied to the seasons and their demands as in any unmechanized farming system; domestic service is absolute personal subordination. The bulk of the urban working class have seen a slow improvement in their conditions since the Eurasian War—families now have rooms of their own, rather than bunks in a barracks, for example—but their work is long and their lives monotonous and closely disciplined, more by serf administrators than by the Citizens themselves. Their world is one of impersonal bureaucratic regulation.

For the ambitious or lucky there is the possibility of advancement in the military, the police, the technical and administrative services of the Combines or the State. Bright young men and women are picked out and educated, and those already at the top of the heap make strenuous efforts to see that their children do likewise. The rewards are great more interesting work and shorter hours, leisure, power. The top echelons enjoy a living standard comparable to the wealthy of the Alliance countries if not to the Citizens: large homes, privacy, even servants. Of course, the unsleeping gaze of the Security Directorate rests on them more closely than any others, and a single slip can mean death.

The Mind of the Draka: A Military Cultural Analysis
Monograph delivered by Commodore Aguilar Emaldo U.S. naval War College, Manila 11th Alliance

Strategic Studies Conference

Subic Bay, 1972

NEW YORK CITY

FEDERAL CAPITAL DISTRICT

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

DECEMBER 31, 1975

"Should auld acquaintance be forgoooot—"

"I hate that bloody song," Frederick Lefarge muttered, taking another sip of his drink. The room was hazy with smoke, and flickering light and music came through the door from the dance-floor; the room smelled of tobacco and beer. More and more of the patrons at the bar were linking arms and swaying, attempting a Scottish accent as they sang.

It reminds me of Andy. Forget that.

O'Grady's was supposed to be picturesque, a real Old New York hangout and Irish as all hell. The wainscotting was dark oak, and the walls of the booths were padded in dark leather as well; there were hunting prints on the walls, and landscapes. It was crowded as all hell tonight, and noisy, but Cindy had swung a private booth just for them; some noncom friend of her dad's ran the place. The food was better than passable, and the sides of the booth made conversation possible. There was a viewscreen on the opposite wall, showing the crowds outside in Jefferson Square, and the big display clock on the Hartmann Tower. Ten minutes to midnight, and the screen began flashing between views. Different cities all over the Alliance, Sao Paulo, London, Djakarta, Sydney. The Lunar colonies—they could almost be called cities themselves, now—and the cramped corridors of the asteroid settlements. A shot from low orbit, the great curve of Earth rolling blue and lovely.

"Don't be such a grouch, honey," Cindy said, and nibbled at his ear. Lefarge laughed and put an arm around her waist, always a pleasant experience. "You were happy enough after dinner."

"There were just the two of us then," he said.

"Grrr, tiger!" Another nibble on his ear. "And I've got some news for you, darling."

"What?" he asked, raising the glass to his lips.

Cindy Guzman had had only two glasses of white wine with seltzer, but there was a gleam in her eye he knew of old. She was sitting in a corner of the booth, looking cool and chic in the long black dress with the pearl-and-gold belt. Her legs were curled up under her; the glossy dark-red hair fell in waves over her shoulder, and the diamond-shaped cutout below the yoke neck showed the uppper curve of her breasts. The glass in his hand halted and he sat motionless, utterly contented just to look. She gave off an air of…
wholesomeness,
he thought. Which was strange, you expected that word to go along with some thick-ankled corn-fed maiden from the boonies, not the brightest and sexiest woman he had ever known. It was like a draught of cool water, like… coming home.

"Miss?" Lefarge started slightly. It was old Terrance Gilbert, the proprietor, a CPO on one of Cindy's dad's pigboats, back when. He gave the young woman a look of fond pride, and Lefarge one of grudging approval. "Will there be anything else, Miss?"

"Not right now, Chief," Cindy said. "Happy New Year."

"And to you, Miss. Sir." Lefarge was in uniform tonight, the Major's leaves on his shoulders; the owner nodded before he disappeared into the throng.

"Finish your drink, darling," Cindy said.

He sipped. "What was the news, honey?" he asked.

"I'm pregnant."

He coughed, sending a spray of brandy out his nose; Cindy thumped him on the back with one hand and offered a handkerchief with the other.

"The devil you say!"

"Dr. Elaine's sure," she said tranquilly. "Aren't you happy? We will have to move up the wedding, of course."

She flowed into his arms, and they kissed. Noise and smoke vanished; so did time, until someone blew a tin horn into his ear.

Cindy and he broke from their clinch and turned, he scowling and she laughing. It was Marya and her current boyfriend—

cursed if I can remember his name… yeah, Steve. Wish she'd
pick a steady
—in party hats and a dusting of confetti.

"It isn't 2400 yet," Marya said, sliding into the other side of the booth. Her face was flushed, but only he could have told she bad been drinking; there was no slur in her voice, and the movements were quick and graceful.

She's a damned attractive woman,
Lefarge thought. In a strong-featured athletic way, but there were plenty of men who liked that. Plenty who liked her intelligence and sardonic humor, as well, but she seemed to sheer off from anything lasting.
Hell,
this isn't the time to worry.

They all turned to watch the screen again; it was coming around to time for the countdown to midnight. It blanked, and there was a roar of protest from the crowd, redoubled when an NFS newscaster appeared. Sheila Gilbert, he remembered; something of a star of serious news analysis, a hook-nosed woman with a patented smile. She looked…
frightened out of her
wits,
he thought suddenly. And it took something fairly hairy to do that to a professional like Gilbert. There was a sudden feeling like a trickle of ice down his stomach to his crotch: fear. Lefarge and Marya glanced at each other and back at the screen.

"… President Gupta Rao of the Progressive Party has committed suicide."

"Shit!" Lefarge whispered.

"I repeat, the President of the Indian Republic has shot himself; the body was found in his office only two hours ago. The suicide note contains a confession, confirmed by other sources in the Indian capital…" More shouting from the customers, but less noisy; Lefarge strained to hear, and then the volume went up.

"…
Hindi Raj
militants have documentary proof that OSS agents were responsible for planting the information which led to the Hamburger Scandal and the disgrace of late Presidential candidate Rashidi. Riots have been reported in Allahabad and

—"

It was a full ten seconds before Lefarge felt Cindy's tugging on his arm. Gently, he laid a finger over her mouth and looked at his sister.

"We'd better —"

"Attention!"
The civil-defense signal came on the viewer, cutting into the newscast.
"Alliance Defense
Forces
announcement. All military personnel Category Seven and
above please report to your duty stations. I repeat—"

DRAKA FORCES BASE ANTINOOUS

PROVINCE OF BACTRIA

DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA

JANUARY 14, 1976

1500 HOURS

" Tent-
hut!
"

The briefing room was in the oldest section of the base; built fifty years before, when this had been part of newly-conquered northern Afghanistan. Built for biplanes, ground-support craft dropping fragmentation bombs and poisongas on the last
badmashi
rebels in the hills, when the Janissary riflemen had flushed them out. Yolande blinked at the thought: two generations… her own parents squalling infants, way down in the Old Territories. Her birthplace still outside the Domination… A few banners and trophies on the walls, otherwise plain whitewash and brown tile.

Fifty years from biplanes to the planets,
Yolande thought as she saluted.
Not bad
.

"Service to the State!"

"Glory to the Race."
A crisp chorus from every throat.

"At ease." The hundred-odd pilots sank back into their chairs.

The hooting of the wind came faintly through the thick concrete walls, and the air was crackling dry. There was very little outside that you would want to see. Pancake-flat irrigated farmland hereabouts, near the Amu Darya, and the climate was nearly Siberian in winter; even more of a backwater than Italy, unless you were interested in archaeology. The hunting was not bad, some tiger in the marshes along the river, and snow leopard in the mountains. Quite beautiful up there, in an awesome sort of way; the Hindu Kush made the Alps look like pimples.

Otherwise nothing to do but fly and study, almost like being back at the Academy. She and Myfwany had both passed their Astronautical Institute finals last month, and could expect transfer soon. Now that would be something…

"The balloon's going up day after tomorrow."

The squadron-commander grinned at them with genial savagery. Her nickname among the pilots was
Mother Kali
, and not without reason. There was a collective rustle of attention.

Yolande felt a lurch below the breastbone, and reached out to squeeze her lover's hand.

"Here's the basic situation." The wall behind her lit with a map of the Indian subcontinent; the Domination flanked it to the north and west, the Indian Ocean and the ancient Draka possession of Ceylon to the south.

"The Indians pulled out of the Alliance last week, aftah the headhunters revealed the little nasty the Alliance OSS pulled on they last election… but it's almighty confused. Burma—" an area in the lower right corner shaded from white to gray—"counterseceded back to the Alliance, and there was fightin' in Rangoon. Alliance seems to have won, worse luck.

We've stayed conspicuously peaceful,"—a snicker of laughter ran through the room—"which put the secessionists firmly in power in New Delhi. Just long enough fo' the ground an' air units the Indians were contributin' to the Alliance to transfer their allegiance to the new Indian Republic, but not long enough fo'

them to settle their share of the orbital assets. We've recognized the new government, an' they've reciprocated. Nice of them."

Another wave of chuckles. "Which means as of the present,
everybody
has recognized the new government as sovereign.

But," The squadron commander tapped her pointer into a gloved hand. "But, the Alliance hasn't yet signed a defense treaty with the Republic, which has no credible nuclear strike force or defenses. We've got a window of opportunity; now we're goin'