Under the Yoke

  "How so?" he said, as they reached the headquarters bunker. "Welcome to our humble home." The Strategos looked around, nodded.

  "Good to see the real thing, after spendin' so much time in the Castle… well, it's the blessin' and curse of atomics, for starters." The maps had been cleared from the rough plank table in the center of the bunker and pinned to a board framework on one wall; Sannie van Reenan absently returned the salutes of the H.Q. staff and poured coffee in a thick chipped mug.

  "Gods, I'd forgotten how vile the Field Force brew is… Where was I?"

  Andrew nodded as they seated themselves at the map table. "Atomic stalemate," he said. "An' a good thing, too, in my opinion."

  "Good in the short term; without we had 'em, the Yankees could beat us now. Muscle us out of Europe an' eastern China, at the least." She sighed and rubbed her eyes again, grateful for the cool gloom of the bunker. "Trouble is, the atomics'll still be theah, ten, twenty, forty years from now. Unless the TechSec people pull somethin' completely unexpected, traditional mass warfare is goin' to be, hmmmm, completely out of th' question. Not to mention there's considerable ocean 'tween us and them."

  Andrew pulled a cheroot from a box on the table, snipped the end and puffed it alight. "See your point. On the one hand, we get time to consolidate; on the othah, when we're ready we can't attack them. An' it's destabilizin' to have a non-Draka society too close to our borders; these days, the whole planet is close.' '

  "Perceptive, younglin', but it's worse than that. We're bein' forced into a new type of competition, an' it's one we're not really suited for." She frowned. "Look at it this way. We started off by conquerin' southern Africa, usin' weapons and techniques developed here in Europe; enslaved the natives, applied European organization to their labor, an' used the crops and minerals we sweated out of 'em to buy more weapons and machinery. Well, that wasn't a stable arrangement, so we industrialized to supply our own military, buyin' machine-tools and hirin' technicians instead of importing finished goods.

  "But all propaganda aside, it's always been a spatchcock modernization, pasted on the surface. Exemplia gratia, right up till the Eurasian war, most of our exports were agricultural, an' minerals; still are, fo' that matter, oil an' chrome and rubber and so on. Mostly we used the resultin' war potential against really backward societies, the rest of Africa, then the Middle East and Asia."

  "We beat the Europeans," Andrew protested mildly, drawing on the dark mouth-biting smoke. It must be nice to have the leisure to think strategy, he thought wryly. So much more interesting than tactics, also safer.

  "Hmmmm,'s much by luck as anythin', they wrecked each other first." A shrug. "Oh, we've got advantages; sheer size, fo' one thing, substitutin' quantity fo' quality. We do some things very well indeed, bulk-production agriculture, mining, mass-production industry: the sort of thing that organization an' routine labor can handle. Our great weakness is the size of the Citizen population, of course—an aristocracy has to be small in relation to the total population—but we compensate by concentratin' it where it counts and by specializin'. In war, primarily."

  "So yo' might say the Domination's like a lower-order animal, a reptile, that's learned to do some mammal tricks, mimicry. Or a big shamblin' zombie with a smart little bastard sittin' on its shoulder whisperin' orders into its ear."

  Andrew raised a brow; of course, there was nobody from Security around… that he knew of.

  "Fear not, nephew. As I was sayin'… we're goin' to be fightin' the Yankees and their Alliance fo' a long time. We can't count on them cuttin' their own throats, the way Western Europe did. I mean, if there's one thing the Eurasian War showed so's even a Yankee couldn't miss it, it was exactly what the Domination is an' what we intend. The Alliance will hold; we may be able to convince a few useful idiots of our peaceful intent, but not enough to matter. Pity. Likewise buyin' outright traitors with promises of Citizen status; that worked well enough with a few score thousand Europeans, but it's a limited tactic. Our traditional tools of brute force, terror an' violence are out of the question. System as centralized as ours is more vulnerable to atomics than theirs".

  "Which moves the competition onto other grounds. Production, technology, science, not our strong points." Another frown. "This is a little speculative, but what the hell, the Strategic Planning Board is supposed to be… Apart from the fundamental fact that they're a society oriented to dynamism while we're committed to stasis, we an' TechSec are gettin' a very nasty feelin' that development is movin' into areas where we're at a structural disadvantage. The Domination couldn't have been built without machine technology, but it was the nineteenth-century version. Coal an' iron an' steam; rifle-muskets, railways and hand-cranked gatlings. Then steel an' petroleum, no problem; we're the perfect Industrial Age empire."

  "Only, it looks like the balance is shiftin' toward things based on nuclear physics an' quantum mechanics. Rare alloys, ultra-precision engineerin', electronics. Electronics especially, an' they're already ahead; we can steal their research, but bein' able to apply it's a different matter. At least we don't have to try an' compete in general living standards; this isn't a popularity contest, thank the nonexistent gods."

  "Bleak picture, Tantie," Andrew said, with a frown of his own. A bit vague, but the Draka had always tried to plan for the unlikely. Living on the edge, being conscious of having no margin for error, at least made you less likely to fall into complacency.

  "Not as bleak as all that. We do have some serious advantages. For one, the Alliance is a strong coalition but it's still a coalition, an' a coalition of democracies, at that. Which means it'll only make outright war if we push it into a corner, which we'll carefully avoid—unless an' until we can win quick an' final." She unwrapped another candy, began absently folding the paper into a tiny animal shape. "Very democratic democracies; accordin'ly, they have trouble plannin' as much as a year ahead. Some of their agencies can, surely; the OSS are just as smart an' nearly as nasty as our Security Directorate. But the most of 'em are short-term thinkers; we can use that any number of ways. Example, by gettin' them to sell us their technology for profit. Yankee civilization as a whole may be smarter than ours, but we're better right at the top)—leadership's a scarce resource fo' us, so we make better use of it."

  "No, it's their society in gen'ral we've got to be wary of. Their dynamism, flexibility, the way they can bend with the wave of change. Army fo' army, bureaucracy fo' bureaucracy, we can beat 'em every time. Accordin'ly, what we've decided to do is to keep the military tension ratcheted up as tight as possible, indefinitely." A wolf's grin. "If we can't fight 'em, we can at least force 'em to tax, to regulate, make 'em security-conscious an' secretive… force them onto ground where we've got the advantage, waste resources."

  Andrew grinned in his turn. "Lovely double-bind, Tantie, but… not that I don't appreciate yore takin' the trouble to fill me in on high strategy. I'm commandin' a Merarchy of Janissaries; what's the relevance to me?"

  She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palms. "Well, twofold, nephew. Firstly, I'm afraid our 'armed peace' policy is goin' to make your pacification work even more of a nightmare than 'tis now. Provokes the Alliance to strike back in covert style, an' we can't hardly object too hard, seein's we're stompin' on their toes every chance we get, plus makin' big bad Draka faces at them all the time. Fo' example, we think that alarm a few nights ago was an attempt to get somethin' —agents, weapons, who knows—into Finland." Andrew winced. "It gets worse. Yo've been havin' troubles enough with the Finns here; we've got evidence they've been infiltratin' small parties across the pre-War border, equipped for long-term wilderness survival."

  "And there's a lot of wilderness east of here," he said.

  '"Zactly, nephew. More joy… y'know that scare we had, few days back? Security's sources in the U.S. say that wasn't just a probe at our Northern Lights chain; they were puttin' in an agent, possible-like with advanced weapons. Might be tryin' to link up with them, set up a long-term supply effor
t."

  "Submarines? No earthly way we could guard the whole northern flank of Eurasia in detail."

  '"Specially not with all our othah commitments, and seein' as they're ahead in submarine-warfare technique. Hell with it, light me up one of those…" She paused to inhale the smoke. "Now, this is confidential, younglin." She looked around; there was nobody within earshot. "Besides the operational problems all this creates, we're a little worried 'bout the way this prolonged pacification situation is reboundin' on the Army-Security balance."

  Andrew leaned back, puffed at his own cigarillo and grimaced. The Directorates of War and Security were the two armed brances of the State, and their rivalry went back generations; more emphatic the higher you went in the command-structure, as well.

  "If we're goin' to be spendin' the next two generations sittin' tight and makin' faces at the Yankees, I can see how it would sort of rebound to the headhunters' benefit," he said carefully.

  "Hmmm-hm. Like, they're agitatin' to have more of the Janissary Corps put under their direction."

  That brought the younger Draka sitting bolt upright. "The hell yo' say, Tantie—Strategos," he amended himself hastily. "Fuck the bureaucratic bunfights, those ghouls spoil good fightin' men, I won't have any of us put—"

  He stopped at the quizzical lift of her eyebrow. "Us?" she murmured. There was a certain detached sympathy in her face as she leaned forward to pat the clenched fist of his hand where it rested on the pine board. "Andy, it's inevitable there should be some degree of identification, when yo' lead men into battle. Inevitable, desirable even, fo' maximum performance. But never, never forget what the Janissary corps was established for."

  She lifted the cigarillo, considered the glowing ember on the end and flicked away ash with a judicious finger. '"Sides, we in Castle Tarleton basically agree with yo' position. The headhun—ah, Security Directorate are gettin' as many recruits fo' their Order Police as they can handle, in our opinion. Janissary units are useful fo' both open-field warfare an' pacification, whereas the Order Police are a militarized gendarmerie, not combat soldiers. Limited usefulness, even in guerrilla warfare, not that the Security people look at it that way."

  Sannie shrugged. "On the othah hand, we do have to coordinate more closely; the Archon's made it clear, an' the sentiment in the Assembly's likewise gettin' pretty intolerant of jurisdictional squabbles. Remembah, most Citizens just do their three-to-six military service an' leave; they're primarily interested in gettin' the pacification completed in the quickest possible time. Quite rightly, too. 'Service to the State,' hey? Which we have to remember, and not confusin' our own particular institution with the State itself—which a certain Directorate I could name but won't is prone to do. We all got spoiled by the Eurasian War an' the run-up to it, bein' free to concentrate on conventional warfare."

  "Which brings me to what we have in mind fo' you. Now, yo' made it to Tetrarch in the Citizen Force originally; transferred to the Janissary Corps as per SOP, excellent record since…"

  Andrew tensed. "Now wait a minute, I've been with this unit since '42, I know them an' they me, they need—"

  "Policy, Andy, and yo' know it. Next step up fo' you is a Chiliarchy or Legion command, and yo' do not get it without rotation back to the Citizen Force." She held up a hand. "Unless yo' were thinkin' of cominandin' the 2nd Merarchy, of the XIX Janissary fo' the rest of your career? Which could happen, yo' know."

  Andrew von Shrakenberg opened his mouth to speak, hesitated. The calm eyes resting on his were affectionate but implacable; loyal to the tradition that put State and Race above any personal tie. Like Pa's, or Uncle Karl's. How can I leave them? he thought; braced himself and—

  —the radio squawked frantically. "Mayday, Mayday, convoy one niner, undah attack! Come in, Firebase , Alpha, come in!"

  Sannie van Reenan stepped back to one wall and crossed her arms, withdrawing person and presence; it I never paid to hinder experts at their work. An alarm claxon was wailing across the base; officers and senior NCO's piled into the command bunker, moving with disciplined haste.

  One flipped the map back onto the table, smashing the crockery aside. Andrew took the microphone, forcling calm down the transmission by an act of will. It was obviously a Janissary NCO on the other end, and a young one from the voice. Not the commander of the convoy due in today.

  "This is the Merarch. Quiet now, son, an' give me the facts."

  "Ah, Sarn't Dickson, suh; 4th Ersatz Cohort, reportin'."

  "The recruit shipment, by God," somebody in the room murmured. "Where's the escort CO?"

  As if to answer, the static-laden voice continued, stumbling over itself in haste: "Tetrarch Galdman. he

  up front, the car jus' blow up, mines suh, front an' rear, we pinned. All thaz warcars done be knocked out, suh. Mast' Sergeant Ngolu take't' Dragon an' his Tetrarchy 'n try goin' up't' support, lotsa firin'; jus' me an' the replacements lef here back a' the column, suh. Allah, they close suh, mus' be near two hundred, I kin hear 'em talkin' bushtalk to each othah in thaz woods, we runnin' short on ammo."

  "Report yo' position, soldier."

  "Ahhh—" he could hear the Janissary taking a deep breath. "We 'bout thirty kilometers out from yo', suh. Jus' past't' long thin lake, an' turnin' west."

  "Right, now listen to me, son. Dig in, an' hold your position, understand? Help is on the way, and soon. Keep broadcastin' on this frequency, the operator will relay. When yo' hears us, fire flare—yo've still got a flare gun?"

  "Yazsuh."

  "Good. Recognition Code." Red this week, but no need to advertise it to anybody who might be listening; the Finnish guerrillas still had pretty good Elint. "An' stay put, a world of hurt goin' to be comin' down round there."

  He handed the microphone back to the operator, turned, orders snapping out as he walked to the map table.

  "Sten, get the gridref to the flyboys and they're to boot it, blockin' force behind the ambush, the bushmen will have to retreat through that bottleneck between the lake and the marsh. The gunboats are to give immediate support, and they will not cause friendly casualties this time, or I personally blow their pilots new assholes. Same to the Air Force base, max scramble. See to it."

  "Vicki, got the position?"

  "Sho do. Here, the dogleg." Her close-chewed fingernail tapped down on a turn in the road, just east of the firebase.

  "Joy, joy, just out of automortar range, even with rocket-assist. Damn, they haven't gotten this close since spring. Corey, ready?"

  "Reaction-cohort scrambled an' ready to roll at gate 2, suh," he said; that would be his unit, they were on call today.

  "Right. Jimbob, detach two of yo' SP automortars to follow." 100mm weapons mounted in armored personnel carriers, they would thicken up his firepower nicely. "Tom, get the mineproofe rollin', two of them, to lead off. Vicki, my personal car an' a communications vehicle. Yo're in charge while I'm gone; maximum alert, it may be a diversion fo' an attack on the base. Appropriate messages to Legion HQ an' the III Airborne, this is a chance to do some long cullin', let's move, people, let's go."

  Andrew took the stairs two at a time, with the other reaction-force officers at his heels. Sannie van Reenan turned to follow, pausing for a moment as the Special Tasks Section bodyguard put a hand on her shoulder.

  "I know," she said, to his silent inquiry. "But I wouldn't miss this for the world; nor is any individual immortal or irreplacable."

  "Ma'am, it's our responsibility—"

  "—To keep me alive, yes. Now yo'll just have to earn your pay, hey? Let's go find a lift."

  "Twenty minutes," Kustaa said, glancing at his wrist.

  "Always seems longer, doesn't it?" the Finn beside him said, running through a last quick check of the missile-controls. The American had been a good teacher, but there had been no possibility of a test-firing. "They'll be here soon."

  "Oh?"

  "Well, it's only a half-hour drive from here to the snake base," he said, running a finger approvingly along one o
f the control boxes beside the bicycle-style gunner's seat. "Such fine workmanship, so precise and light… yes, only half an hour, at high speed. Of course, they can't come barreling down here, that's the oldest trick there is, a relief-column lured into another ambush. They'll have to stop short of here, deploy and come in on foot with their armor hacking them up. It's roadbound, you see; a lot of small timber just west of here, there was a forest fire a few years ago. More brush, once the tall timber is down."

  Sort of fire-prone around here, Kustaa thought sardonically. The wind was from the south, moving the forest fire north along the road in the direction from which the supply convoy had come; even moving away from them the heat and smoke were punishing, backdrafts of ash and tarry-scented breathless air. By now it had spread out into a C-shaped band a mile wide, moving before the wind as fast as a galloping horse, with outliers leaping ahead a thousand yards at a time as burning branches tossed free and whirled aloft.

  "Smokey the Badger will hate me," he muttered, and shook his head at the Finn's incomprehending look. Only YOU can prevent forest fires.

  The remains of the Draka column smoldered, guttering oily flames still bringing the scorch-stink of hot metal to their position beneath the unburnt fringe of trees. A pop-popping of small-arms fire came from the north where the last survivors were holed up, punctuated by bursts of machine-gun fire and the occasional grenade. Three trucks came back toward them, singed and bullet-holed but still mobile, jouncing as they left the edge of the road and moved across to the missile position. Arvid Kyosti stood on the running board of the first; it stopped near enough for Kustaa to see the neat row of bullet-holes across the door on the driver's side, and the sticky red-brown stain beneath it.

  The guerrilla commander waved the other two trucks on, and they disappeared to the southwest as he hopped down; there was blood caked in his moustache, where a near-miss with a blast-grenade had started his nose bleeding. The truck he had been riding slid ten yards into the cover of the trees and halted; half a dozen guerrillas emerged from the bed, and began rigging planks into a ramp up which equipment could be dragged in a hurry.