The Stone Dogs

  "Oh, chile," she sighed. "How can she and I be friends? It ain't easy, is how. I a serf, Ali; I cain' change that, neither can she. She own me; law say she can sell me, whup me, kill me. Forty years in't' same house, same room mostly, how often yo' thinks we gets riled with each othah? How often she work to hold her hand? How often I make myself not use that to hurt her? She still a Draka, chile, an' that mean arrogant as a cat an' near as cruel, sometime, 'thout even' knowin' it."

  She paused, made a sound halfway between laughter and pain. "As to touchin'… Ali, I knows it shockin' to every boy't learn this, but mothers don' stop wantin' and needin' when they has their sons. Fo' the rest—look at me, Ali. No, look at me."

  He obeyed. "I is forty an' four, Ali. Still right comely, but there dozens, mebbeso hundreds, younger an' better-lookin would dearly like to get on right-side with the mastahs be lyin' down with them. Why yo' think Mistis still want me An' I her, Ali. 'Cause we has likin fo' each other; knows each other to the bone. The pleasurin' nice, but it comfort, too and bein' with someones yo' shares memories with."

  Rahksan crossed her arms on her chest and continued calmly. "Love yo', son. Give my life fo' yaz, but I won't lie about what I is, o' pretend to bein' ashamed of it. Nevah did find a man I wanted full-time; wish I had, might have been bettah fo' yo' to have a Pa. But I didn't, an' there nothin' wrong with takin' what's available along the way."

  "Now, Ali," she continued. "It's time, son. Fo' my sake… an' fo' yo'rn… give this up. Please. It madness. I wants to see yo' happy, see yo' give me grandchildren. Iff'n yo' cain' be happy here, there other places; we can work somethin' out, but I can't let yo' kill yo'self, Ali."

  Marco stiffened in suspicion. "She's betrayed us, turned informer!" he snapped. "Quick, get the ropes! We can get her to the car, it's two hours until that black bastard Nyami is back, I've got the keys, hurry!"

  Rahksan hurled herself forward, gripped her son in a fierce embrace. "Allah, be merciful—Ali, Ali, I'd die fo' yo'; I'd give yo' up an' never see yo' again iffn yo' had a chance to do this crazy thing. Ah, god, yo' crackin' my heart in two!" The last was a wail, and tears were running down the face she raised to her son. "Even kill yo' love fo' me, my chile. Even that I'll do fo' yo'. "

  Marco grabbed for her. Ali's arms were around his mother, uncertain whether to comfort or confine. Rahksan struggled against both of them, or shuddered in her weeping. Above them the two Draka girls tensed as one, ready for movement, but Yolande's hand pressed her friend back. There was someone at the door of the stable.

  "Well." The serfs froze, the footsteps halted by the stable doors, and a hand flicked on the lights. The horses stirred, whickering and stamping in their stalls. Yolande slitted her eyes to make out the figure in the entranceway: her mother, still in the black riding leathers. The silver rondelles on her gunbelt shone like stars against night, and her face seemed to float detached as she skimmed the broad-brimmed hat aside. The boots went tk-tk across the brown tile as she walked to within arm's reach of the serfs. There was a cigarette in her left hand; the other stayed near her gunbelt, the fingers working slightly.

  The Draka spoke again, in a tone of flat deadliness. "Take— those—hands—off-—her."

  The two young men released Rahksan and stepped back reflexively; Ali's eyes followed his mother as she moved to the side, tears running down a face that might have been carved in olivewood. Then back to the Landholder, standing stock-still with explosive movement packed ready beneath her skin.

  Johanna spoke to Rahksan, with infinite gentleness. "Yo' don't have to watch this, Rahksi."

  "Yes, I do, Jo. It my fault. This my punishment."

  Johanna nodded. Even then, Yolande felt shocked at Rahksan's use of the first name without honorific; a privilege that could only be exercised in strict privacy. Her eyes turned back toward the two serf males. Evidently they were no longer considered witnesses.

  The Landholder blew meditative smoke from her nostrils as she stared at Marco. When she spoke, the tone was almost conversational.

  "Buck, yo' are just too stupid to live. Plannin' to take that lumberin' cow of an aircar to England? Yes?" Marco gave a frozen nod. "Across the heaviest air defenses in the world? Boy, they can see a bird movin'. England? Yo'd be lucky to make it halfway to Florence. Lucky to be blown out of the air, mo' likely forced down. Free out of Ingolfsson hands then, into Security's."

  The serfs flinched at the mention of the secret police, and Johanna nodded. "Try convincin' them yo' don't know anythin' political. Talk to the scalpels, an' the wires, an' the drugs. Three weeks, maybe they'd believe yo' and send yo' to the Turk." They flinched again at the obscene nickname for the impaling stake. Marco was shaking now, white showing around the rims of his eyes.

  The Draka sighed. "Haven't had to have a killin' on Claestum since befo' yo' birth, boy. I really regret this." Her voice became more formal. "One choice that can never be taken away, an' that's to die rathah than live beneath the Yoke Marco, as yo' owner an' an arm of the State, I hereby judgt yo' a threat to the welfare of the Race and so, unfit to live," she said. The serf made the beginnings of a motion, perhap: an attack, perhaps only an attempt to flee.

  Even to the Draka watching from the loft what followed was a blur, a dull smack of impact and Marco was sinking to the floor clutching his groin, face working soundlessly.

  She pulled it, some reflexive corner of Yolande's mind thought. Otherwise there was no room for thought, for movement, scarcely even for breath. Heartbeat hammered in her ears.

  "Yo' should listen to yo' momma, boy," she said quietly to Ali with voice full of calm, considered anger." 'Stead of to Marco, who can't even commit suicide on his ownsome without takin' his friends with him. Gods preserve me from friendship like that-there. Understand me, boy? Louder, I cain't hear yo'."

  "Yes, Mistis." A breathy whisper.

  "Are yo' listenin to me, boy?"

  "Yes, Mistis."

  "Nineteen years old, Freya… Forty years yo' mothah and I've been together, Lord, forty years. Youth an' age, night an' day, war an' peace…" She touched the scars around her left eye where the ridges stood out under the overhead floodlights. "She helped put me togethah again aftah this. Helped midwife my children, an' I was there when yo' were born. Incidental, I was there when yo' were conceived, too." A shake of her head. "Yo' momma worth ten of yo', buck. Mo' guts, mo' brains, mo' heart." Very softly: "Times was, when she was the only thing kept me from freezin' solid."

  She leaned forward, and her index finger tapped him on the nose; from above, Yolande could see him jerk at the touch, and the sheen of sweat on his skin. Her mother's voice became calmer still:

  "So she's what's kept Old Snake off yo' back, many a time. She's why I'm bendin' strict law, accordin' to which the Order Police should be here now. Bendin' it enough that I'd be in some considerable shit myself if it came out. But we comin' to the hard place, boy, between wish and will and duty, the place where I got no choices left. Rahksan dear to my heart, but I live here; my children do, my husband, my kin. I can't keep a mad dog in my household, or sell it into someone else's. Are yo' an Ingolfsson serf, or a wild bush-man? No, don't look at her, or him. This is the narrow passage; here there's no brothah, no friend. Decide."

  A long pause.

  "Yes, Mistis."

  "Louder, boy."

  His voice cracked. "I am yours, Mistis. Mercy, please!"

  Johanna nodded, and her mouth twisted as at the taste of some old bitterness. "Gods damn yo', Ali, why couldn't you have thought on that befo' things come to this? We nevah asked fo' yo' likin', just obedience. Now I have to kill part of yo' to save the rest." Almost kindly: "I know yo' sorry now, Ali. I know yo' frightened. It's not enough, now; yo' a brave boy, an' stubborn. Fear isn't enough, because it don't last. Yo' has to show me, and show yo'self, right down where yo' soul lives, who an' what you are," Her face nodded toward the wall. "Pick up that shovel, an' come back here."

  Ali's face had gone gray-pale with understanding;
he stumbled to the wall, took the long-handled shovel from the rack. Marco had risen to his feet, still clutching at himself. His breath whooped between clenched teeth. Johanna moved again, kicking twice with delicate precision. The point of her boot drove into Marco's solar plexus and straightened his body up in paralytic shock. The edge flicked up into his throat, and he dropped to the floor bulge-eyed, jerking and twitching.

  "Kill him, Ali." The Draka drew her pistol; the chunky shape of crackle-finished steel glittered blue-black. "If not, I'll make it quick."

  Rahksan turned her back, hands over her face. The shovel went up, hesitated. Ali was shaking almost as much as his friend, who strained to draw air through a half-crushed windpipe and made noises that were part pleading, part choking. Strengthless hands rose from the floor to ward off the iron.

  "No!" Ali screamed. The shovel swung down and struck, clanged. Marco's body jerked across the floor like a broken-backed snake. Rahksan twitched where she stood, as if the impact had been in her. "No! No! No!" Another blow, and another; it took six until the other man stopped moving and Ali was able to drop to his knees in the blood and vomit himself empty.

  "Serf." Johanna's voice cut through the spasms, and Ali looked up, wiping at tears and blood and vomit on his chin. Horses moved and whinnied in the stalls, frightened by the scent of death. There were voices in the distance, and other lights coming on. The Draka's face might have been carved from some pale wood; she gripped the side of his head, hair and ear, and jerked him close.

  "Yo' bright enough to understand that yo've found the way to compel me, to hurt me; by makin' me hurt yo' mothah through you. Look." She jerked his head around, forcing him to face Rahksan. "Is it worth it? That's yo' doin'." Another twist, toward Marco. "So is that," Back eye-to-eye.

  "Now. This is what happened. Marco went crazy, and attacked yo' momma. Yo' had to hit him, an' it was all ovah by the time I got here. Nobody will say otherwise; go get Deng, an' the priest. They'll fetch the Mastah and do what's needful. Get out of here, boy. Remember, and don't yo' ever make me do this again."

  He stumbled out into the awakening night. Johanna's calm evaporated; she threw the cigarette down with a gesture of savage frustration and ground it out beneath her heel as she slammed the pistol back into its holster.

  "Shit, shit, shit!" she swore venomously. Then, gently: "Rahksan."

  The other woman turned from the wall and let her hands fall. Her face had crumpled, and there were fresh lines beside her mouth. "Did we have to?" she asked, in a thin small voice. "Oh, Allah, Jo, did we have to?"

  "Rahksi—" Johanna held up her hands, a helpless motion. "There wasn't time… another hour, an' too many would have known. I'm sorry, I'm truly, truly sorry. There was nothin'—He had to learn, Rahksi, it was that or kill him."

  Rahksan nodded as the tears spilled quietly down her cheeks. "I know, Jo. I should've taught—" Then she was moving, stumbling forward into the outstretched arms.

  "Oh, Jo!" They clung fiercely, and Rahksan's gray-shot head was pressed against Johanna's throat. She was sobbing, a harsh raw sound of grief that shook her like a marionette in the puppeteer's fist.

  "It'll be all right, Rahksi, my pretty, shhh, shhh," Johanna said, stroking her hair. A moment. "Cry fo' him, Rahksi. Cry fo' all of us. I wish I could. "

  "My baby, Jo, my baby!"

  "I won't let anyone hurt him, I promise. Shhh, shhh."

  Yolande felt an overwhelming guilt and grief, sensed Myfwany stirring likewise beside her. Her skin crawled; this was something they were never meant to see, something that was wrong to see, something that could never be forgotten. They shared a single appalled glance and began cat-crawling backward, using the growing clamor to fade into the welcoming night. Behind and below them the two figures remained locked together, the Landholder's cheek resting atop the serfs head as she crooned wordless comfort.

  Chapter Four

  Contrary to hoary myth, the Domination is not antitechnological; after all, it began its industrialization at about the same time as the United States. The lower "social visibility" of its cities and factories was partly due to the sheer size of its inhabited area, and more to the fact that they developed under the sponsorship and control of the landed gentry, rather than as alien incursions in a rural world. Nor is the more recent myth of an anti-scientific bias in Draka culture wholly accurate. The autosteamer, the dirigible airship, the turbocompound engine and—characteristically—the machine-gun are all Draka inventions, after all. It is true that until the Eurasian War the Domination imported many of its research and development personnel; also true that in certain areas of pure research, particularly physics and electronics, they still depend on pirated American research to a substantial degree. However, we should remember that in some fields—biotechnology above all— the Domination remains a world leader. Its process and heavy industry, capital goods production and basic transportation are all highly efficient. Draka engineers and technologists are second to none, if not their pure researchers.

  Why then the widespread belief in a ruralist anti-urban Domination? The most obvious reason is the lower per-capita output and productivity of the Domination's economy. But "productivity" is anything but a neutral, objective term; instead, it is culturally determined. The Draka maintain a huge unmechanized farming sector because it is, in their terms, highly rational. Shifting to mechanized agriculture would simply transfer serfs from field labor to making and servicing farm machinery, or into supplying and servicing the resulting industrial workers. The net result from the viewpoint of the Landholders, would be to transfer income from landed to industrial capital Increase the drain on the planet's non-renewable resources, and decrease the gentry's quality of life. That it would also greatly increase the overall standard of living is, from a Draka point of view, utterly irrelevant; to a Draka, the reason for having industry is to meet the military and security needs of the State, and that the Domination's economy does very well. Here we meet another cause of misunderstanding: the aesthetic and conservationist. Many Alliance citizens assume the importance the Domination attaches to environmental controls implies an antitech attitude similar to our "deep ecologists."

  The social roots of Draka environmentalism are wildly different from ours. First this is an aristocrat's conservationism; a collective projection of the Landholder's desire to preserve and improve the family estate. Second, the Draka are long-term thinkers by tradition and inclination. Third and most important they can afford it An economy where industrial productivity is high but even skilled labor very cheap has a greater disposable surplus for sewage-plants and underground transmission lines. It is significant that the one area where the Domination is grossly inferior to the Alliance is in the production of modest consumer durables—our dominant sector, and the driving motor of our economy. There is very little environmental impact to a lavish standard of living when it is confined to a fly-speck of aristocracy; it would never have occurred to a Draka to invent the dishwasher. Here the fundamental truth of the myth we have been demolishing becomes apparent The Draka are perfectly capable of research and innovation, but a few specialists aside, they do not like it. The Draka elite would have been perfectly satisfied if all technological progress had come to a halt in, say, 1910; they have continued to fund research heavily for power-political reasons, not any dynamic internal to their own society. The Draka innovate in response to a perceived need; when the need is satisfied, they stop. Our restless worship of change for its own sake is alien to them alien and repugnant. In a Domination-ruled world, progress would probably gradually taper off and cease within a few generations.

  Only the Alliance can take humankind to the stars.

  The Mind of the Draka; a Military-Cultural Analysis

  Monograph delivered by Commodore Aguilar Ernaldo

  U.S. Naval War College, Manila

  11th Alliance Strategic Studies Conference

  Subic Bay, 1972

  CLAESTUM PLANTATION

  DISTRICT OF TUSCANY
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  PROVENCE OF ITALYDOMINATION OF THE DRAKAAPRIL, 1969

  "Mistis."

  Yolande stirred and blinked her eyes; Lele was at the foot of her bed, touching the mattress to wake her. Machiavelli was there, too. The cat rolled, flexed its feet in the air and tucked itself into a circle on the other side, tail over nose.

  I wish I could do that, Yolande thought, swinging her feet out and taking the juice, yawning and stretching.

  "Momin', Lele," she said, rising and walking over to the eastern window and leaning through the thickness of the stone wall. There was just a touch of light over the trees, and the last stars were fading above. The air was cool enough to raise bumps on her skin, but there were no clouds. It would be a warm day, and sunny.

  "Terrible about Marco, Mistis," Lele said. News spread fast on a plantation. "Whatevah could he want to hurt Rahksan fo'?" She began laying out Yolande's hunting clothes. There was indignation in her voice; violent crime was very rare in the countryside. And Rahksan was very much a mother-figure to the younger housegirls, which said a good deal. Favorites were not always so popular.

  "Who knows?" Yolande said, forcing the memory out of her mind and starting her stretching exercises; she felt sluggish this morning, and sleep had come hard in the dark loneliness. She lay down on the padded massage table, and felt the blood begin to flow under the serfs impersonally skillful hands.

  "Ali quite the hero, Mistis," Lele continued in a dreamy tone, pausing to rub a little scented oil into her palms. Rahksan's son was popular with the younger wenches, too, for entirely different reasons.

  "Lele, be quiet," Yolande snapped. The serf subsided, quelled as much by the sudden tension in the young Draka's muscles as by the tone. "Is Mistis Venders up yet?"

  "Yes, Mistis," the serf replied. "She—" There were foot-steps, and Yolande turned her head to watch as her friend climbed the stairs. She was already dressed in hunting clothes, boots and chamois pants, pocketed jacket of cotton duck with leather pads at the elbows, wrist-guards and a curl-brimmed hat.