Under the Yoke

  "They tamed down?"

  "Contrary, sneaky-subtle. Good leadership… that's why I smell yo' Yankee. It's even worse than the Hamburg thing, which is goin' to delay launchin' that aircraft carrier six months to a year."

  "Blessin" in disguise." At the secret policeman's raised brow, Andrew continued: "We're never goin' to have a navy to beat the Alliance, not while we're forced to maintain a large army, too." More meditatively, " 'Sides, Strategos, look at the Alliance powers. Yankees, Britain, Japan too now. Island nations, history of naval war an' seaborne trade. We Draka, we could build the Domination because steam technology lowered transport costs and times enough to make it possible to unify and develop the continental interiors. We're a land beast. And finally, aircraft carriers are yesterday's weapons, in my opinion, like-so battleships thirty years ago.

  A big surface fleet would be a total waste of scarce personnel; should concentrate on subs and coastal defense. We're only launchin' that damned carrier on account the Fritz laid the keel."

  Vashon ground out his cigarette. "Maybe. Anyhow, Merarch, I do have one asset inside the local bushman net."

  "Ahhh, good. Impo'tant?"

  "They pretty tightly celled, but not bad. I've been usin' him fo' information only, makin' him look good. But this Le Puy thing is crucial, 'specially if the Alliance is involved."

  "How'd yo' turn him?"

  Vashon laughed. "Fritz technique; y'put the subject and maybe a close relative—we used his father—in opposin' chairs. Gag the passive subject. Active subject has a switch under his hand; every time he presses, the current goes through the passive one, an' every time he lets up, it goes through him. In increasin' increments, until the passive subject dies. Great fo' crushin' the will; the subject's convinced right down deep that he'll do anythin' to save his own skin. We've got this one's momma and sister, too; he's quite the family man, an' anxious to avoid their bein' the next passive subjects."

  "I can imagine," Andrew said dryly, lifting the goblet. Vashon shot him a quick glance.

  "Squeamish, Merarch von Shrakenberg?"

  Andrew pursed his lips as he rolled the apple brandy around his mouth. "Fastidious, Strategos, only fastidious. Still, to get the stable clean yo' has to step in horseshit, as the sayin' goes. To desire the end is to desire the means necessary to accomplish it,' " he amplified, quoting Naldorssen. He hesitated, then continued: "Had any subjects refuse to push the switch on they nearest and dearest?"

  "Some," Vashon admitted with a reminiscent smile. "Which provides us with one corpse an' the valuable datum that that serf would rather die than submit. Neat an' tidy…" He pressed a buzzer. "I'm controllin' this particular double myself. A man has to have a hobby, an' it's good to go hands-on sometimes, after spendin' all day readin reports."

  A serf stumbled through, pushed by two Order Police who saluted and left him kneeling on the carpet. He blinked about the darkened office, winced as a light speared down from the ceiling; the chain-and-bar restraints holding his arms behind him clanked. A young man with a thin stubbled olive face and an uncontrollable twitch beneath one eye, in a rough gray overall stained with oil and stenciled with the wheel-and-piston insignia of the Transportation Directorate.

  "Why, good evenin', Jean 55EF003," Vashon said in a voice of mellow friendliness. The serf would be effectively blinded, of course; that was the reason for having the focused spotlight in the ceiling. His hand nudged the control up slightly, to keep the two Draka looming shadows in a deeper darkness.

  "Master… Master, if they suspect I'm being held, please, I won't be trusted any more, I'll be no use—"

  "Do credit us with some intelligence, Jean," Vashon said, chuckling at his own pun. "But yo' haven't been much use to us, anyway. How old is yo' sister, Jean?"

  "Nine, Master." The Frenchman jerked as if struck. "Oh, Mary Mother of God, not the chair, not her, please, master, I'll do anything, anything!"

  Vashon considered him; the buck was transparently sincere, but also crumbling. A pity if he goes insane, the Security officer thought. I was hoping he'd make good in this little bushman network, before we activated him and snapped them up.

  "We know yo'll do anythin', Jean," he continued, in the same friendly tone. "Even kill yo' own father. Tsk, tsk." The Frenchman began to sob. "Pull yo'self together, serf, iff'n yo' don't want to add two more to the list!" A pause. "Nothin' from yo' but a few times an' places fo' courier drops, an' two names from yo' own cell."

  The ragged breathing slowed. "Master, I tell every-thing I know, everything! Henri is cell leader, he gets the orders, Ybarra and I just do as we're told, believe me," Jean said with desperate earnestness.

  "Yo' know, Jean," Vashon continued, "I'm goin' to do yo' a favor. Tell yo' something about me, personal. I don't like seein' little girls fucked by dogs. Have a friend who does, though." He slid a glossy color photograph the size of a placemat from a stack-rack on his desk and flipped it to land face up in the puddle of light by the serf. The young man looked down, then screwed his eyes tightly shut, so tightly that his face trembled, as if he sought to squeeze the information his optic nerves had absorbed back out through the lids. His throat worked convulsively.

  "Puke on my carpet an' yo'll regret it, skepsel," the secret policeman said with quiet deadliness, using the old word for two-legged beast. Then in the friendly tone once more: "That isn't yo' sister, of course, Jean. No, yo' momma an' sister are safe, workin' in a canteen. Jus' washin' dishes, buck, that's all."

  The serf was panting, eyes still closed. "Such altruism, from a creature who'd torture his own pa to death. Of course, yo' family could be better off. Maybe a trip to the sunny Western Hemisphere?"

  Jean's eyes snapped open. "You… you would let us go?"

  "Well, I'm not promisin' anythin', but… we do need people ovah there as well, yo' know. Send yo' an' yo' sister, maybe; nice cover story and a little nest-egg."

  "God, Master, thank you, thank you!" The serfs tears were like a dam bursting this time, of relief and gratitude; his face shone with it. Unseen in darkness, Vashon smiled like a shark.

  "But yo've got to earn it, Jean. Yo' understand that, don't you, Jean?" A frantic nod. "Now, we have othah sources in that pathetic little group yo' call the Resistance," Vashon continued. "So we know somethin'… of unusual size may be a-happenin', soon."

  He reached into the desk and tossed a cylinder the size of a single-cigar case toward the serf; it struck him in the chest and fell on the photograph.

  "Look at that, Jean." The buck obeyed, although Vashon could see him blurring the focus of his eyes to avoid looking at the picture beneath. "It's a fancy little gadget. Yankee components, actually. Radio, inside the case, with attachements so's yo' can wire it onto somethin'. If yo' was to take that along, next time there's a meetin' at higher than cell level, I'd be mighty pleased when it was switched on. Or if yo' could get me somethin' really useful, like-so a Yankee we feel may be comin' through, that would make me very happy. Yo' does want to make me very happy, Jean, don't yo'?"

  "Oh, yes. Master, of all things I want that most in the whole world, believe me, yes, certainly. Master… how shall I carry this?" His voice shook with a crawling eagerness to please.

  Vashon laughed again, as he flipped the switch on his desk. "They'll take you down to the clinic an' show yo' right now, Jean. I'd have thought it was obvious."

  The two Order Police troopers came back in, silent helmeted shadows; saluted, picked up the serf and radio with similar lack of effort, left. As the door soughed shut, Andrew rose and stooped to take the print between thumb and forefinger.

  "Feh," he said, studying it for a second with a grimace of disgust before sliding it back onto the Strategos's desk. "Strange friends yo' has, Vashon, no offense."

  "None taken," he said, keying the room lights and holding it out at arm's length. "It's a standard print from Gelight's Erotic Art Sampler. Minority interest, but de gustibus, eh? Actually, I think this is simulated."

  Andrew chuckled rel
uctantly. "Strategos, yo' are one evil son of a bitch," he said.

  "Goes with the job, Merarch. Taken as a compliment… Your hunters are here in Lyon, aren't they?"

  "Mmmm-hmmm. Ready fo' stand-down; experimental unit, aftah all. Castle Tarleton"—meaning my new aunt—"wants to do an evaluation, befo' they decide on the program as a whole. I'm goin' to lay-over at my sister's plantation; there's a namin'-feast fo' her new-borns comin' up in a few days." For courtesy's sake: "To which I've been asked to invite yo', of course."

  "Ah. Why, thanks kindly, I think I could find the time," Vashon replied blandly, hiding his amusement at the other's surprise; it might be interesting to mingle with the Landholders for an evening, and once the full consequences of the disaster at Le Puy avalanched down there would be little free time in the Lyon office. "Care fo' a little huntin', first?"

  "Huntin? I take it yo' don't mean wild boar?"

  "Another type of swine altogetha. If the local bush-men are involved—still mo' if it's yo' Yankee—we'll have somethin' from young Jean, and soon. Hell, maybe tonight!"

  "Agreed," Andrew said, finishing the Calvados. "Ill alert the watch officer at transit barracks, if yo' can get us transport fo' insertion in-city." The secret policeman nodded briskly. "We're supposed to be developin' closer liaison, anyhow, it'll be good practice."

  He stood, slipping on his gloves and smoothing the thin leather over his fingers. His eyes met the Security officer's, and Vashon felt a slight sudden impact along his nerves, like a cold brush over the face. "And I hope we meet my Yankee. I sho'ly do."

  The blindfold was snug, and Kustaa resisted the temptation to tug at it. It was sensible, simply the easiest way to make sure he could say nothing even if he broke under interrogation; the same reason he had torn up the slip of paper the serf stewardess hand handed him without looking at the number, and flushed it down the commode. With the address he had found under his souffle, during dinner. That he had to remember, of course, but it had simply been the point where whoever-they-were had met him. Since then he had moved on foot and in vehicles, indoors and out; presumably discreetly—an armed Draka Citizen being led blind-folded by serfs was a trifle unusual… Once through a sewer, he thought, but a dry one.

  "Arrête," the voice at his elbow said.

  Halt. He stopped obediently, obscurely glad of the knife and pistol at his belt, the battle-shotgun across his back. As irrational as the feeling of helplessness the blindfold engendered, but a useful counterweight. He could sense that he was inside a building from the movement of the air, from its smell. Factory smell; it reminded him of the summer he had worked at the National Harvester plant in St. Paul, machine-oil and steel and brass, rubber transmission belts and the lingering ozone of industrial-strength electric motors, underlain by a chalky scent like an old school's. Something else as well, sickly-sweet, a hint of decay.

  A hand turned him to his left; he could hear a faint sound from that direction, a tiny wheezing and shifting.

  "Take off the blindfold, American. But do not turn."

  A new voice, an educated man's French, sounding middle-aged. Kustaa obeyed, squinting his eyes against the prospect of light. Even after an hour of blindfold the interior of the great room was dim; he had been correct: a factory. Dim shapes of lathes and benchpresses around him, fading into distance and shadow, a little light from grimy glass shutters far above. Enough light to see what hung on the wall before him. A man, standing with his feet on an angle-iron brace bolted to the sooty brick. Slumped, rather; his weight rested on the steel hooks through ribs and armpits.

  Dead, Kustaa thought. That's the smell of rot. Then he saw the outstretched fingertips flutter, the whites of eyeballs move.

  "Hnng-hnng-hnng," the pinned man said, "hnng-hnnng-hnng."

  The quiet, cultured voice came again from somewhere in the room; there was a hint of movement, but Kustaa's eyes remained fixed forward.

  "You see this thing," the man said. "And you think, 'Monstrous, inhuman.' Do you not, Mr. American?"

  "Yes," Kustaa replied quietly. "At least that."

  "Ah, no, my American friend. I will explain why that is an error. To think of this as the act of inhuman monsters is a step toward thinking of it as the work of devils. Toward thinking of the Draka as not human, as devils: which is a step in turn toward thinking of them as gods. That, my old, is what they themselves think, in the madness of their own hearts, that they are gods or devils, perhaps they care little which. This… A Citizen supervisor noted that the output of this plant was too low, or more likely the spot-checks showed too many defective parts. He informed a born-serf manager, who passed it on down the line to a gangboss, probably a Frenchman like myself. Who picked perhaps the least popular or most insolent of his gang, and the plant's serf-drivers came and took him from his machine one shift, and put him on the hooks. Men did this; human men."

  Kustaa waited a few moments before replying, in a soft and careful voice. "Why have you brought me here, then, monsieur?"

  "Did you not wish to make contact with the Resistance of Lyon? Voilá., we are here." There were rustling noises around him in the darkness. "More of us than have gathered in one place in some time, Mr. American. Ah, to this spot? Because it is as safe as any… and for the same reason that our masters put this man on the steel, as an object-lesson."

  "Which is supposed to teach?" Kustaa continued. The pinned man's eyes might be open, but the OSS agent did not think there was much mind or consciousness left behind them.

  "A different lesson, my old. This man, perhaps he is my brother, perhaps my son, perhaps my closest friend. Here am I, one of the leaders of the best organized Resistance group in all France, perhaps all Europe… and what can I do for him? Nothing, not even to end his agony, not unless some means can be found utterly untraceable."

  "Why not?" Kustaa said.

  "Because then, there would be two men on this wall. You see, Mr. American, Mr. Secret Agent, I think you seek to make contact with us for certain reasons. To call us to valiant action, perhaps? This man here, he was active: now he is less so. There were other groups here, in the beginning, more daring than we. Some of them believed, for example, that we could deny the Draka the fruits of their conquest with the weapons of class struggle. Strikes." There was an ironic wonder in the man's next word: "Strikes. Can one believe it? Others thought of sabotage, assassination, very active measures. Now these other groups are corpses, or lobotomized in chain-gangs… and very much less 'active' than our network. Like the maquisards in the countryside, the last of whom are being hunted down like starving animals."

  "The Finns—" Kustaa began.

  "Ah yes, the heroic Finns. The extinct Finns, very shortly. Mr. American, there are always those who would rather die on their feet than live on their knees; if you seek to make contact with such, you had best hurry. If there is one thing under heaven at which our masters are experts, it is for arranging for such to have their wish, and die."

  "You are running a very considerable risk by having an organization," Kustaa said. "If you don't do anything with it, what is the point?"

  "Very true… Mr. American-whose-family-is-far-away, we do take this risk. Because we are not content to live as cattle, between our work and our stalls and our fodder, to be bred and sold as cattle, slaughtered when it suits our owners with as little thought as a chicken is killed and plucked. Why does this organization exist? For memory's sake. To preserve that discontent, not simply as sullen beast-hatred, but as knowledge. That once there was something different, that there may be again. That we are a nation… perhaps no longer the nation of France, but still a people.

  "Thus we organize, we recruit, we organize… in tiny groups, with cut-outs at every stage. We pass on information; occasionally we can help individuals who suffer more than the common lot. Simply to tell a kinsman where his family has been sent, that is victory. Very occasionally we take direct action, against a foreman perhaps; even the Draka cannot make massacres at every accident. And we wait.
We were conquered by an enemy more patient than we, more far-sighted, more ruthless; by conquering us they offer lessons, and we learn. Do you know how many Draka there are in Europe?"

  "We estimate no more than a million."

  "Too high, I would say… many times that many born-serfs, of course. The great strength of the Draka is that they are skilled at using others; thus they accomplish feats far beyond their own raw power. Their great weakness, exactly the same, that they must use others. These born-serfs, the Draka bring them to teach us obedience. They are just beginning to suspect, I think, that such learning can be a two-way process… Always before they have smashed the societies they conquered, killed their elites and reduced the survivors to isolated human atoms, to be refashioned as they wished. Here as well, to a certain extent, but not completely. And that is the central purpose of this organization. To exist, simply to exist. So long as we do, their victory is not complete.

  "What we have done—are trying to do—is build a brotherhood that they can wound but cannot loll. Strong and hard they are; if we try to match their strength, we will be smashed. Instead we must be as soft as water, and as patient. Enduring, that wears away the rock slowly, but, oh, so surely. Perhaps you Americans and your allies will come and liberate us; if that is so, we will welcome you with tears and flowers and as much gratitude as humans can find in their souls to give. But we are those to whom the worst has happened, and we must prepare for the worst, that they destroy you in the end as well. Then our quiet war must last, who knows, perhaps a thousand years, to ensure that their 'Final Society' joins so many lesser tyrannies in the grave."

  "That," Kustaa said with a slight chill in his voice, "sounds very much the sort of plan a Draka might conceive."

  "If they had the flexibility, my old, which they do not." A laugh. "Perhaps we become like that which we fight."

  Perhaps, Kustaa thought, looking at the man on the wall. Perhaps, if you have to fight an enemy too closely, too long, perhaps that is so. "You refuse to help me, then?"