The Stone Dogs (60 page)

And it would be too easy, too easy to make yourself comfortable with little compromises until there was nothing left.

Better not to start, just as it was better not to talk too much.

When every word could loll, talk meant fear. Fear until you censored the words, then the dangerous thoughts to make that easier, then stopped
having
the thoughts. Better to talk to yourself, in the safety of your head.

Marya walked inward from the hub, up steps that gradually flattened into floor as the centrifugal force weakened and lunar gravity took over. She ignored the faint ferris-wheel feeling of disorientation from her inner ears and halted before the gate; it slid open, and she stepped into the narrow chamber and pressed her back against the antispinward wall. There was a brief pressure as the inner ring of the wheel slowed and stopped; the inner door opened, and she walked through into the hub.

Showers and sauna were crowded, too, but at least they were not open-plan. She stripped off the exercise shorts and threw the disposable fabric into a hamper, nodding to a few persons she knew as she waited in line for a cubicle, studying herself in the mirrored walls.
Not bad,
she decided. Especially for fifty; not much sagging, although of course the light gravity helped, and the daily exercise she had kept up as a silent gesture of self-respect… and the fact that Strategos Yolande Ingolfsson bought her personal servants top-flight Citizen Level medical care, which meant the best in the solar system. Viral DNA repair, cellular waste removal, synthormone implants, calcium boost, the works. There were strands of silver in her long black hair, crow's-feet beside her eyes, but for the rest she could have passed for mid-thirties.

A woman in her mid-thirties who had borne a child and breast-fed it. Her fingers traced lightly over the cracked-eggshell pattern on the taut muscle of her stomach.

"Not now," she murmured to herself, her eyelids drooping down as she turned attention within, finding the pattern of calm.

Her gaze was cool as she raised it back to the mirror.
Yes, not
bad. That could be
important
, she thought with cold realism.

Things are moving to a crisis; you've got to know.

Clandestine-ops mode.
Think of yourself as a sleeper
. She grinned sardonically at the joke as she stepped into the vacated cubicle.

"Sector three, level two," the transporter capsule said.

The lid hissed up, and Yolande stepped out into the station, past the unmoving guards. Probably unnecessary; the machinery would simply not obey unauthorized personnel. On the other hand, there were ways to fool machinery, and it was not in the Oraka nature to trust too completely to cybernetics. The Orpos were the regular pair, and saluted briskly; she blinked back to awareness of her surroundings and returned it. Downside there might have been actual physical checks.

Lucky we're not
quite
settled enough to start importing
surplus bureaucrats,
she thought wearily. Sector Three was command residence country, Civil, War Directorate, Security and Combines both; status was being close to the main transport station. Yolande sighed slightly as she palmed the lock of her outer door; the inner slid open as the corridor portal cycled shut, another emergency airlock system. It might have been more efficient to pack everything close together in one spot, but this was supposed to be a fortress. Carving rock was no problem either, not when the original function of Aresopolis had been to throw material into Earth-orbit to armor battlestations. So the city-beneath was a series of redundantly-linked modules, any of which could function independently for a long, long time.

"Hiyo, Mistis," Jolene said, waiting with a hot lemonade. The entranceway was a circular room ten meters in diameter, with a domed roof over a central pool and fountain. The walls were holopanels between half-columns, right now set to show a steppe landscape: rolling green hills fading into a huge sky, wind rippling the grass, distant antelope.

" 'Lo, Jo," Yolande said, accepting the glass.

Machiavelli IV came bounding into the room and raced around the wall to reach her, running with innocent unconcern across what looked to be empty space and soaring to land on the foamlava floor by her feet. Two housegirls followed more sedately with her lounging robe and slippers; Yolande sipped moodily at the hot sweet-tart liquid while they removed her uniform and redressed her, moving only to transfer the glass from hand to hand.

"We're leavin' tomorrow," she said abruptly. Then, to the apartment: "Walls, blank." The holo panels dimmed to a neutral pearl-gray color. Yolande spared them a moment's irritation; she would have preferred mosaic, but the necessary skills were still scarce on Luna, and anyway this was the Commandant's quarters. Furnished rooms, in a sense.

"Tomorrow, Mistis?" Jolene asked, puzzled. It was a month before leave was scheduled.

"I said so, didn't I?" Yolande snapped, then sighed and drew a hand across her face. "Sorry, Jo. Somethin' came up. Down to Archona, stayin' with Uncle Eric, then a quick trip up to Claestum to drop off Tina with John an' Mandy, then back here.

Call it fo' days; just pack an overnight bag an' Tina's things."

She looked down at the housegirls, kneeling with hands folded in their laps and eyes downcast; both rather new, and still a little shy, especially at hearing the Archon referred to as "Uncle."

"Run along, there's good wenches… I'll take Lele, none of the other staff." No point in carting a dozen servants along for a visit, and Jolene hated space travel. "Light supper, an'…"

The inner door sighed open and shut. Yolande looked over her shoulder; it was Marya. "… An' set up the chess game fo' after, Marya."

King's pawn to knight four,
Yolande decided. She moved the carved-ebony Janissary and leaned back in the lounger, sipping at the white wine; it was Vernaccia.
Checkmate in, hmmmm,
seven moves.
She was not doing as well as usual tonight, and it was getting a little late.
Damn, I'm not sleepy, either
, she thought.

The lounging room was arch-roofed, a relic of excavating techniques in the early days, back in the mid-1960s; the Commandant's quarters had been enlarged but not moved as the city grew. There were a few pictures, some hangings, but she had had most of the walls left in the natural white-streaked black rock interspersed with hand-painted
azulejos
tile; the furniture was modern and local, spindly shapes of lacquered bamboo and puff-pillows. The room seemed cavernous and dim now, yet somehow cramped despite space enough to guest a hundred.

Perhaps it was subliminal knowledge of all those kilometers of rock above. Yolande stirred restlessly.

What was it Michelangelo said about Vernaccia?
she thought, sipping again.
It "kisses, licks, bites,
thrusts, and
stings." There's my subconscious telling me what I want
. That was a little awkward; she had told Tina no… She was not in the mood for Jolene's friendly complaisance, and the rest of the staff were unsuitable or too new, too much in awe, to be very interesting.
Maybe a man?
That was nice occasionally; unfortunately, no Citizen she knew well enough was available, probably. Well, she could have a nightspot send a buck around—perfectly legal nowadays; the Race Purity laws had been updated back in the '70s.

No, maybe I'm old-fashioned, but no. Ah well, there's always
the headset.
That brought sleep without chemical hangovers.

"Mistis." Yolande blinked out of her reverie and saw the serfs next move.

"Thought so. Yo' shouldn't be so… schematic about yo' pieces.

See." She took the other's last bishop and indicated the alternatives. "Neither of us's up to scratch tonight."

"Ah, Mistis." There was an unusual note in the serfs voice.

Yolande looked up, saw that she was studying a piece held in one hand. A pawn in ivory, in the shape of a German soldier of the Eurasian War. "Ah, can I ask you a question?" The fall of her hair hid most of her face, and the tops of her ears were pink.

The Draka blinked puzzlement. "Certainly."

"Were, ah, were you planning on going to bed alone tonight.

Mistis?"

Yolande's eyebrows rose, and she spoke with a chuckle in her voice. "Is that an invitation, Marya?"
I
hope so.
Have for years;
wonder what changed her mind?

A nod. "Well, well, that is a surprise." She cleared her mind and looked.
Rather nice. Not young, but
then, neither am I
anymore.
It was getting to be a little embarrassing, bedding teenagers. Granted they were only serfs, still…
And I've wanted
you for a while.

She rose and extended a hand. "Shall we?"

"Ah!"

Yolande went rigid as the orgasm flowed over her like waves of warmth, felt the world swim blue before her eyes. She was straddled kneeling across the other's shoulders, arched back on her heels with her shoulders resting on the serfs upraised knees.

Now she leaned forward and sank lower, linking her hands behind her neck and smiling down at the face between her thighs. "One mo' time, pretty pony," she said softly, moving her hips in languid rhythm to the sweet wet friction of tongue and lips. The serfs eyes were closed below a frown of concentration; her head moved with the arching of Yolande's pelvis, and she gripped the Draka's hips with a clench that whitened her fingernails.

"Ah. Mmmm
mmm
." Yolande moved more quickly, shuddered, locked immobile with a long hiss between clenched teeth. This time the color went beyond blue to indigo, shot through with veins of red. She nearly collapsed forward— would have in normal gravity.

"Wonderful," she sighed as she eased herself down beside the other and reached up for the wineglass. Blood pounded in her ears like retreating drums, and the dreamy relaxation was like flying in dreams. Marya's eyes fluttered open, dark and unreadable. Yolande poured the last of the wine on her lips and kissed her, savoring the pleasant mixture of tastes. The room was dark except for a wall set to show a landscape of lunar mountains jagged across the three-quarters Earth; that cast a pale silver glow over the circular bed. The air was lightly warm, and she could smell the roses in planters around the walls, musk, a slight tang of sweat and warm flesh.

Marya turned on her side and laid her head on her owner's shoulder; Yolande stroked her back.
At
least the third-arm
problem is less up here
, she thought drowsily.
Gods, I haven't felt
this relaxed in months.

"I'm glad you liked it, Mistis," the serf said, yawning into the curve where neck met deltoid.

"Freya, yes. I's so tense without knowin' it, I went off like a sunbomb. That damn stingfighter's got me tied in knots… can't figure out how the damyanks did it." She was muttering, half thinking aloud; absently, she set the glass down on the fused stone of the headboard and began stroking down Marya's flank.

"And on
top
of that, those fuckin' prisoners."

"Why is
Biocontrol
gettin' into the decision-makin' loop?

They're just a research institute, even if they're so almighty impo'tant these days.…"

She paused, hand lingering on the firmness of the other's hip.

"lift yo' knee… Did
yo
' like it, Marya?" Her fingers trailed down the inside of the serfs leg and lightly cupped her groin.

"Couldn't you tell, Mistis?" the other said. She smiled and rolled onto her back, raising and spreading her legs.

"Hmmm, I could tell when yo' came; that isn't the same thing." Yolande slipped her free hand under the serfs neck while she kneaded softly with the other, rising on one elbow and bending her head to Marya's breasts. The nipples were dark and taut, the large aureoles around them crinkled, ridged smoothness under her tongue.

"I…" Marya caught her breath as Yolande bit gently. "I volunteered. This time."

There was quiet for a few minutes, broken only by the increasing sound of the serfs panting. Yolande leaned closer, studying the other's face. The dark eyes were wide, iris swallowed in the pupil.
Ah, nearly,
she thought, laughing and increasing the featherlight pressure of her fingers. Marya's arms went back, gripping the headboard, as her knees pulled up and wide; the cords in her neck stood out as she gave a series of gasps and then a sharp cry.

"I think maybe yo' do like it," Yolande said. "Pity yo' don't like me; it increases the pleasure." She wiped her hand on the sheet.

Marya sighed. "You've been… You haven't been as… strict with me these last few years, Mistis."

Embarrassed, Yolande lay back. "Oh… Well, I wasn't thinkin'

straight, fo' a while after Myfwany was killed. Yo' sort of stood fo'

the Yankees, in my mind. But that isn't fair, of course; yo' aren't a Yankee anymore, yo' my serf. Not fittin' to abuse yo'.

Besides,"—she patted the other's stomach for a second, then took her hand—"yo' bore Gwen. Not willingly, of course, but yo' still carried an' nursed Myfwany's clonechild; I couldn't keep up the hatin' after I saw her at yo' breast, could I?"

She was silent for a moment, letting drowsy thoughts sift through her mind. "Still… playin' chess, yo' get to know a person somewhats." She yawned. "Yo' strange to me. As different as two bain's of the same species can be. Draka I understand, an' serfs.

Yankees I meet in structured situations, like battle; logic of objective conditions forces a certain amount of similarity to they behavior. Most of my serfs like me well enough; I'm a good owner. Yo'…" She shrugged. "Yo' wasn't raised to think that way."
I think I'm still the
enemy, in your heart,
she thought.

What do they taste of, the kisses of an enemy?

"Mistis; take me with you, on this visit?"

"Why fo?"

"I…" Marya turned her head away from the one on the pillow beside her. "You're right, everyone here is still strange to me, even after all these years; but you less than the born-serfs."