"No." That from the man at the head of the line. He moved forward towards the table with the interrogators. Cindy looked at the Draka commander, who had been hanging relaxed, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the ceiling; the American saw a slight tension go out of the enemy commander's shoulders.
"Very well," the short blond woman said. "Hold it there, cut him if any of the rest make trouble." The Draka with the cutter bar lowered the weapon and waited, loose-alert as she faced the prisoners. Her other hand stayed on the teenager, stroking lightly. He began to weep.
"Name."
Yolande looked aside at the prisoner. A wench in her late twenties, with two picknins floating near; the children had been shot with dociline and were just coming to, still muzzy and vague. She was ruddy-olive, quite good looking in a slimmish sort of way, spirited from the calm tone she used, which was a relief. The sniveling from some of the others had been nauseating, even for feral serfs—especially when you considered that she had not done anything of note to them yet. Not that this whole business was very pleasant, at all; necessary, but distasteful. Find it easier to kill them from a distance, eh? she thought, mocking herself. To desire the end is to desire the means.
"Cynthia Guzman Lefarge," the wench was saying. She was the last of them. "My daughters Janet Mary and Iris Dawn. Master's degree in Applied Biosystems from the University of Anahuac in Mexico City. Going out to meet my husband on Ceres; that's his picture there."
Yolande looked at the timer display on the sleeve of her suit. Less than an hour from boarding, good time. A disappointment that the compcore had been slagged, but only to be expected. Still… She looked down at the picture in the booklet.
"Wait." Her hand slashed down.Impossible. She could feel herself start to shake as she looked at it. Impossible. With an effort greater than any she could recall, she took a deep breath. One. Another. The shaking receded to an almost imperceptible tremor in her fingers as she lifted the record book. Square face. Dark eyes. Dress uniform, not the mottled night-fatigues. Same face, the same face, the Indian night and its hot scents, the smell of Myfwany's blood. The broken body in her arms, jerking, mumbling the final words around a mouth filled with red. Gone. Gone forever, dead, not there, gone. The face in the night.
"Sttt—" She cleared her throat. "Stop." Her voice sounded strange in her ears. She leaned toward the wench, seeing with unnatural clarity every pore and feature and hair. There was a sensation behind her eyes, like a taut steel wire snapping.
"That's enough," she said. The tone of her voice had a high note in it, but it was steady. Somewhere, a part of her not involved in this was proud of it.
"Separate the prisoners," she said, without taking her eyes off the picture. "The aft section is cleared out? All the children, put them down there. Decurion, get a working party, transfer supplies from the foodstore; it's on this level. Enough, then weld the door shut, get the picknins down there and weld the hatch to this level shut. Wait, that wench and that wench,"—she pointed at two of the mothers, ones who had listed no occupation—"with the children. Move. No, not these two picknins, leave them with the wench here."
There was a shift, movement, kicks and thuds and shuffling, wailing. A bit of confusion, before the prisoners realized that to Draka serfs were only children up to puberty. Yolande turned to consider them, the booklet gripped tight in one hand. "Docilize the adults," she said. Breathe. In. Out. "Shift them across." She keyed her microphone. "Number Two, how's the mass transfer goin'?"
"Should have the last of it in our tanks in 'bout ten minutes," he said. "Back up to sixty percent. Everythin' all right?" That in a worried tone; he must be able to sense something. Later.
"Good," she replied. "I'm sendin' ovah the prisoners, docilized. Repressurize Hangar B, secure them to the floor. Make arrangements fo' minimal maintenance until we get back to the task fo'ce." There would be plenty of room there; inflatable habitats had been brought along. "Set up fo' a minimum-detection burn."
She turned to the Centurion. "Get those bodies," she said. "Transfer them to the cold-storage locker on this level. Strip everythin' else out, 'cept cookin' utensils, water an' salt, understand?" He nodded, impassive; she had a reputation for successful eccentricity.
Yolande reached back over her shoulder and drew the cutter bar, handling it with slow care. She walked toward the American woman, and held the booklet up beneath her face.
"I know yo' husband, wench," she said, almost whispering. "It's an hereditary trust to hate all Americans," she continued. "But he… took somethin'… that I valued very much. So much so that iff'n I had him in my hands, not a lifetime's pain could pay fo' it." She halted, and waited immobile until the sounds of movement had died away behind her. The last of the work party shoved the mass of cans and boxes through the main hatch and into the cabin area beneath, then welded the hatch with a sharp tack of arc-heaters. Then there were only she and the Yankee and the two drugged children. Forget them, they were his.
"So tell yo' husband, tell him my name. Yolande Ingolfsson, tell him that. Tell him to remember the red-haired Draka he killed in India; tell him hell curse that day as I've cursed it, and mo'. Because befo' I come fo' him, I'm goin' to take everythin' he values and loves, and destroy it befo' his eyes; his ideals, his cause, his nation, his family. And then I'm not goin' to kill him, because… Do yo' know what the problem is, with killin' people, slut? Do yo' know?"
Silence that rang and stretched, with her eyes locked to the honey-brown of the prisoners. "Answer me!" Yolande touched the cutter bar to the other's cheek. Skin and flesh parted, a long shallow cut; blood rilled out, misting across her eyes. Carefully, carefully. The other woman gasped, but did not move. "Answer me."
"I don't know."
Yolande moved the cutter to the other cheek, sliced the same controlled depth. "Because being dead doesn't hurt. It's in livin' that there's pain, wench." Another silence. "Do yo' understand? I'm leavin' yo' here. Lots of space. Plenty of water. Air system's good fo' two months, easy, an' they should be here fo' you in, oh, minimum three weeks, maximum seven. Yo' can even leave, iff'n walking buck-naked in vacuum dosen't bother yo'."
"But, but, how shall I feed my children?" the other asked.
Yolande forced herself not to look at the slight drifting forms, pushed the image of Owen's face aside. Instead she smiled, and saw the American flinch as she had not at the touch of the knife.
"Try the meat locker!" she shouted, and leapt for the exit.
Twenty-nine days later, Colonel Frederick Lefarge was the first of the boarding party from the Ethan Allen through the airlock of the Pathfinder. His eyes met those of his wife.
They screamed.
Chapter Fourteen
DRAKA OFFICER CONVICTED IN ABSENTIA [NPS] The Alliance Global Court today announced that Yolande Ingolfsson, an officer in the Domination's Aerospace Force, had been convicted in absentia of war crimes and crimes against humanity during the notorious Pathfinder incident. Testifying at the trial were…
San Francisco TribuneEditorial SectionJanuary 3, 1983
MERARCH YOLANDE INGOLFSSON RECEIVES SOUTHERN CROSS [CMS]
When asked her opinion of the laughably presumptuous sentence recently passed on her by a group of feral serfs styling themselves a "court" Merarch Ingolfsson responded with amusement. "They've already tried to kill me, and come off rather the worse for it." she said, on the steps of the Palace. "They're welcome to try again."
Our heartiest congratulations to Merarch Ingolfsson and her kindred, and our gratitude for showing that this frontier province has become a breeding-ground of the true Drakon spirit.
Leading Article
Nova Italia Magazine
Florence, District of TuscanyDomination of the DrakaJanuary 15, 1983
CERES BASESPACE FORCE MEDICAL CENTERJULY 20, 1982
"How are the children?"
Frederick Lefarge reached up and touched the handhold over the door. It was a pressure-door, and the wall around it was rock; the ho
spital was in the oldest section of the base, put in a decade ago when the Space Force had burrowed into the heart of the rock to put five hundred kilometers between their sick and an attack from space.
The specialist laid a hand on his shoulder. "We think… no permanent damage," he said. "It's a miracle. Your wife used the Dyleaze from the medical chest to keep them asleep most of the time; it's one of the more recent ones, genuine sleep, not unconsciousness. Just woke them up occasionally for fluids, and they… did get some protein, after all. A year of complete rest, with no stress, appropriate hormonal treatments, and there should be no physical ill effects except for a little growth lag. And children are resilient, Colonel."
Lefarge swallowed again. "And my wife?" he husked.
The doctor looked aside. "Much worse. We've taken her off the critical list, but—" He looked back at the officer. "We can correct most of the cosmetic damage, replace the teeth with buds eventually. I'll be honest with you: she came as close to terminal coma as you can get and not actually die. There's kidney and liver failure, loss of function from other internal organs, possible neurological damage. The medics on the Ethan Allen did their best, and believe me, you were right to risk high acceleration."
"Was I?" Lefarge said wearily.
"Your wife would have died if it had taken longer to get here," the doctor said bluntly.
"I have extraordinary authority," Lefarge said. "I used it —and because of that, the Allen may not be back in the inner system in time, if she's needed." The solitary non-disaster about all this is that Hayakawa managed to kill himself before they could question him in depth. So the Project isn't compromised. "They had shifts going around the clock on Washington and her sister when we left… What's the prognosis?"
"We're bringing her back up to full metabolism for a day," the doctor replied, tone clinical once more. "Then down to fifty percent for six months. That way we may be able to restore function, or failing that get her well enough for transplants. I warn you though, Colonel, she's never going to be very strong again. Certainly, you won't be able to have any more children. And there may be irreversible loss of brain function, aphasia, or, other complications. Not to mention psychological damage and trauma. Thank Cod that isn't my department."
"Let me see her," he said, waiting for the other's nod before ducking through.
Little of Cindy's body showed through the forest of tubes, wires and blinking screens. The room was silent save for minor noises of machinery, pumps and compressors. Most of the body functions had been taken over by the support mechanisms, to give the wounded organism a chance to recover. Her head was held in a padded brace, with only a nasal tube to hide what had happened. What he saw was nearer to a skull than a human face; the eyes were sunken, and wrinkled lips collapsed over an empty mouth. What hair was left was wispy and snow-white. He stood by her side and bent to kiss the brow with infinite tenderness.
Her eyes opened. Lefarge darted a glance at the doctor; the specialist checked the screens, exchanged a whispered word with the technician at the monitoring station and nodded, turning his back.
"Love… you." The words were feint and distorted, but the delirium was gone. "Girls?"
"I love you, too, honey," he said. "The doctor says they're going to be fine, you hear? Just fine."
The eyes closed again, the lids transparent and papery like an old, old woman's. "I… had… to," she said, a word with each fluttering breath. "Put… them… out… the… lock."
"Honey?" He wondered if her mind was wandering again.
"The… bodies… right… away," she said. "Didn' go… away." Her voice grew a little stronger, shriller. "They… floated outside… the ports… so hungry."
He swallowed. The Draka didn't put them out the airlock after they'd killed them. Oh, sweet Mother of God.
He looked down at the purpled bruises on his wife's arms, where she had tapped her own veins.
"Don't… tell them, ever." He nodded. "Told them… made soup." She sighed, and closed her eyes once more. He waited, was almost ready to leave.
"Message," she said at length. "You have to… hear." He bent his head to her lips.
"Sleep now," he said when she was finished. "Sleep now, honey. Get well."
The doctor sighed as he rose. "Well, no worse… six months minimum. Then we'll bring her up… Have to transfer to a spun habitat then, anyway; the costs of zero-G would start outweighing the benefits—"
He looked at the colonel's face and stopped, shocked.
BETWEEN THE ORBITS OF EARTH AMD MARS
ABOARD DASCS SUBOTAI
JUNE 30, 1982
"Makin' remarkable progress, Merarch-Professor," Yolande said. They were teleconferencing, and the astroengineer was suited up; she could see segments of construction material behind him.
He waved a dismissive hand. "These are the heat dispersers," he said. Composite honeycomb sandwich, laced with superconductor on the interior, the same system that pulsedrive ships used; superconductors had the additional useful property of maintaining a uniform temperature throughout. Of course, this was a pulsedrive, it just used fusion bombs instead of 10-gram pellets. "We should start assembling the thrust plate soon."
Yolande linked through a view of Hangar B; the near-motionless forms of the prisoners were arranged in neat rows around the shrouded equipment. Skinsuited Auxiliaries were hosing the area down and hauling off the inert bodies; it had gotten quite noisome, with sixty drugged humans and a week's worth of high-G boost.
"We got yo' some additional labor," she said. "I know they don't look like much, but most of them have trainin' in zero-G construction an' so forth. Well have to give a few to the headhunter to disassemble, of course."
"Good, perhaps it will keep him away from me," the scientist said, with an obscene gesture for any possible monitors.
"Well put controller cuffs on them, maybe minimal-dosage dociline," Yolande continued. "You'll have to supervise them closely, but it ought to come out positive."
"Certainly. Hmmm, what to do with them when the project is completed?"
"Oh… take them back to Luna, I suppose. Maybe the political people can trade them off fo' somethin, or we can just sell them." Alliance-born serfs had a substantial curiosity value, for their rarity. "Hand them out as souvenirs, whatevah."
"Not to mention hostage value," her executive officer said. "Too much Yankee heavy iron in the Belt, fo' my taste."
Yolande chuckled. "Well, there are enough of our units further out," she said.
"Long ways off."
"Not so far as yo' might think," she said, and laid a finger along her nose. "Between yo', me an' the Strategic Planning Board, there are a few surprises fo' the damnyanks in this. Fo' one, we've got high-impulse orbital boost lasers in the Jovian system, which we're pretty sure they don't know about. Multiple strap-ons, hey? Iff'n the damnyanks move, our cruisers can leave station around Himalia, boost on strap-ons with low mass." A pulsedrive ship could make much better acceleration with less reaction mass in her tanks—while the fuel lasted. "Do a quick-and-dirty burn to Mars orbit, arrivin' with dry tanks."
She called up a map of orbital positions. "An' notice, just right fo' a quick stopover at Phobos to fill up? So unless the damnyanks is willin' to get here empty, leavin' them between us and the outer fleet, with nothin' to maneuver with—in which case we'd wipe them, then proceed to mop up the Belt piece by piece—they just naturally have to keep their iron floatin' out there by Ceres and Pallas."
"Ahhh," the exec mused. "Nice. That still leaves them with three Hero-class here in the inner system, though."
"Update?"
"Ethan Allen still boostin' fo' the Pathfinder like there was no tomorrow." He frowned. "Faster than we could, unless they're burnin' out their thrust plates."
"Well, the Heros have the legs on a Great Khan, but we've got mo' firepower. Anyways, that'll put her out of the picture fo' a whiles. The two in Earth orbit, we may have to see off. Note we're floatin' next to a fuel depot, though.
Also, I've got a few ideas bout' usin' some of our industrial equipment. Reminds me, staff conference fo' 1200 tomorrow, we'll go ovah it. Three weeks to encounter, minimum. Wants yo' there, too, Professor."
"Service to the State," he said formally.
"Glory to the Race," the two officers answered.
Yolande yawned. "Time to turn in, Number Two," she said, rising from the crashcouch.
"Just one thing, ma'am," he murmured as she passed his station; the offwatch was handling the bridge, minimum staff.
"Yes?"
"Back there… when yo' saw those bodies come out the airlock, I was set up for a minimal-burn boost back to the flotilla. Yo' took us on a max speed trajectory, got us here dry. That was like hangin' up a big sign ovah the whole system pointin' to the Pathfinder. Why do it that way, ma'am?"
Yolande glanced at her fingernails. "Oh, better tactics. Impo'tant not to leave the Object unguarded." She thought again of the sleeping faces of the two children.Yankee children, she reminded herself again, but… "Or call it as close as I could get to changing my mind."
The commander's quarters of a Great Khan were luxurious, by Aerospace Command standards. Two cubicles, a tiny one for sleeping, a slightly larger one to serve as an office. A few pictures, the ones she took everywhere: her parents, siblings, three shots of Gwen, and her favorite of Myfwany. That showed them on the beach at Baiae, mugging and smooching for the camera… She sighed and finished stuffing her uniform into the cleaner slot; the black coveralls never got quite as ripe as the skinsuits, thank Baldur. Somebody keyed the door for admittance.
"Come in," she said.
The hatch swung out into the companionway. "As ordered, ma'am." It was a rating, with one of the prisoners.
"Oh. Oh, yes; just leave her here, thank yo'." The rating pushed the slight figure in through the hatch and dogged it.