Under the Yoke

  Figures, looking at her, jumping aside. House servants, common ones, asking questions. She ignored them, they could not help her, nobody but Tanya could help her. The door, the dear familiar bedroom, her pallet and nook, nobody there. It isn't fair, it isn't fair, where is she, she must be here, she said she had to get to bed, the hunt tomorrow—For a full minute Solange could only stand and stare, willing the empty bed full, seeing Tanya rising with concern and comfort, making the whole nightmare go away.

  The Master. She must be with the Master. Panting through her mouth, Solange turned and plunged back into the corridor. She must be.

  "Keep up, damn you!" Ybarra hissed. That damned Jean, falls on his ass without a pavement under his feet, she thought. There was ample moonlight for running, here with nice clear tracks between the vine-trellises. Easy compared with darkness in the hills above the Ebro, waiting to ambush the Fascist supply convoys. Her hand gripped the knife-hilt more tightly. It had been amazing how soft, how cooperative, how eager to please the toughest Fascist prisoner had become, when she showed him what she could do with the knife.

  Jean got to his feet, brushing at the machine-pistol across his chest, clearing the sandy dirt from the action; he was still panting from the run down the long slope. Ybarra jerked him down into a crouch.

  "The car-park is just beyond those trees," she said. It was actually a pasture, pressed into service for the celebration. "We'll go down to the end of the vineyard, low and quick. Through together to the first vehicle, they're parked in rows. You cover me, three cars behind, and I'll plant the little bomblets." A thumb-sized piece of plastique and a chemical detonator for each, not precision timers but reliable and good enough for this work. She sniffed the air; nothing but the rich damp earth-smell of this place, so different from the hard dry odors of her native Asturias, the bleak arid hills and the mining towns. A moment's fierce nostalgia siezed her, fueled her rage again. Asturias was no more, all the blood spilled in the uprisings against the mine-owners and the victorious war against the Fascist generals, wasted.

  No sounds, except for night-birds and those accursed rasping crickets. No lights, except from the manor and the tents in its immediate grounds.

  "Forward, Jean," she said.

  "Why not you?" he replied. There was an unpleasant note in his voice, and her eyes narrowed. Perhaps his nerve had broken, that happened sometimes, men just ran out of whatever it was that kept them going. As well to remind him that there was no retirement from the Resistance.

  "Because I have an uneasy feeling you might drop too far behind, maricón," she said, letting the honed edge of the knife show for a second; it was not blackened, like the rest of the metal. She could see his adam's-apple bob up and down. "And if this behind you makes you uneasy, Jean, comrade, remember I've never yet cut a man's throat unless I intended to."

  Kill her now? Jean thought, fingering the trigger of the machine-pistol. No, she's too close. He shuddered, remembering again the sound the overseer had made. This one had eyes like a master, hard and flat and you were nothing, not even a cockroach… no, among the cars would be better.

  Tanya sighed, and squeezed her husband's hand. How nice just to lie here and talk over the day, she thought drowsily. Just the two of us, no distractions—

  The door to Edward von Shrakenberg's bedroom burst open, and Solange stumbled through. Tanya shot bolt upright; the serfs face was a mask of blood and bruise all down the left side, one eye a slit in the blue-shining swelling, and she was clutching at an arm whose fingers were limp. A low moaning trickled from her lips, turning to a sob of relief as she wavered toward the bed.

  "Shit," Edward said with quiet anger and rolled out of bed and onto his feet, reaching for clothes and gunbelt. A flick turned the lights from dim to bright, and the serf looked even more ghastly then; Tanya was by her side immediately, an arm supporting-guiding her to a chair.

  "Who did this?" she said, with low deadliness. Somebody's going to die for this, ran through her with cold conviction. Her fingers probed gently but irresistibly. No broken bones, the arm was just badly bruised; painful, but it looked worse than it was. Solange's arms shot up with an anaconda grip around the Draka's shoulders, and she began to cry hysterically.

  "Who did this?" Tanya asked more firmly, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood and fear-sweat, overpowering the familiar cologne and musk of Edward's room. Solange gave a muffled cry, raised her head, jerked back a little in involuntary terror at the expression on the face of the Draka who held her.

  "I'm not angry at yo', sweetlin'. Now, tell me." Firm but not loud… Wotan's spear, if it's that swine Vashon, I'll call him out and gut-shoot the serfborn bastard. Solange was far too well trained to have offered any provocation that would remotely justify this; even if somebody had the gall to ignore courtesy and take her, she would have submitted and complained later. This was wanton brutality for its own sake. "I don't let anybody treat my own like this, Solange. Was it Vashon?"

  "No!" The serf shook her head, winced, continued. "It was that Kenston, the mute."

  Tanya felt her face go slack with surprise. Kenston, she thought incredulously. You could tell a serf-abuser, they showed it by a thousand mannerisms; Kenston she would have pegged; is the type to spoil with sentimentality.

  "He… he tried to kill me. Mistress, I went up to say good night to Poppa, to tell him how beautiful it was when I sang, and… and Raoul, they had him tied up, Chantal and… and Master Kenston, I screamed and… and Master Kenston tried to take his gun and, and shoot me and, and—"

  "Chantal?" Edward bellowed, halting in the middle of stamping his foot into a boot.

  Solange flinched, closed her good eye and continued in a breathless gabble. "Oh, it was horrible, there were Chantal and Marya and Poppa and the German and Master Kenston and they had Raoul tied up and they were talking—" She stopped, took a deep shuddering breath, visibly forced control. The eye came open again, and when she spoke her voice was shaking but coherent.

  "Master Kenston was talking. Really talking. Like… like an American."

  "Shit." This time it was Tanya who spoke. Edward's hand was flashing to the glass-covered alarm plate above the bed; there was a crunch, but not the expected shrilling of bells. Tanya lowered the bedside telephone in the same instant. "Out," she said. "Not even a tone." Which meant the lines were cut.

  "Uprisin'?" Edward said bleakly.

  "No. Smells wrong. Somethin' we weren't even meant to know about fo' a while." Aside: "Solange, yo' did well. Very well. Now, shut up." To her husband. "All right, twenty adults here overnight. Fifteen arms-bearers." That was not counting the crippled, very aged or severely pregnant. "Personal arms only." A hard mutual grin: the armory was just below the radio room, presumably in enemy hands. "It's night." Edward nodded; that made her commander, a one-eyed man was at a serious disadvantage without light.

  Tanya had been pulling on trousers and shirt from a wardrobe as she spoke; several of her outfits were always here. "Edward, yo' collect the guests. We've got to collect an' guard the youngsters." Too much of the future of the Race was at stake, their own blood not least. "Once that's done, able-bodied an' any licensed armed servants assemble inside the main gates." Sheltered from possible snipers in upper windows. 'Tom was in the armory, right? I'll scout there first, try an' make contact." The ex-janissary's loyalty also went without saying. "Let's do it, love, let's go."

  Tanya hit the door running, ignoring the man behind her; she would not have married one she did not trust. A break-roll, looking both ways, painfully conscious of the light weight of the little 9mm Togren in her hand; it was the sort of token gun a citydweller in the Police Zone kept… down the corridor, vision hopping in a methodical skitter, another bubble of rage at having to go combat-mode in her own home, suppress it, count doors, this was Issac's.

  She wrenched it open and slapped the light-plaque without ceremony. The narrow cubicle lit, and Issac rolled off his wife, reaching automatically with his good arm for the pistol h
e had been issued after the ambush this spring crippled a shoulder.

  "Bushman trouble," she said.

  "Scheisse!" he said, reaching for his clothes, throwing a rapid stream of Yiddish over his shoulder to the girl who sat with growing alarm on her face, pulling the sheet up around her as if that was a defense.

  " 'Zactly. Main entranceway, fast."

  Back into the hall, swift cautious zigzag from cover to cover. Tom was in the armory; a good man, but he'd've been drinking tonight, it was traditional… Freya, I hope he's all right, she thought, then ground the words out of her brain. No time for words, hope, fear, anything but the automatic reflexes of war. She had a household to defend.

  Behind her, unseen, Solange hesitated in the doorway, staggered, put her hand to her head. It hurt; somewhere she was conscious that she must have a concussion, things were showing double. She wavered again; she could shut the door, back there in the room. Shut it and wait for it to swing open again, the gun, like before, smashing glass and laughter and pain… No. The mistress, I must follow her. There is safety.

  "Fuck it!" Kustaa hissed in frustration. The radio room had turned from a fortress into a killing box in a few seconds. His hands were on the levers of the junction-box, slamming them down into the "off" positions, insurance, a few extra seconds. "Come on, let's go-"

  "No," Jules Lebrun said. "I will stay, and disable the equipment." A smile. "There is no time to argue, and I am a dying man anyway. Cancer will give me pain even the Security Directorate cannot rival, and I will not be taken alive. Go!"

  "… an' then we pulled back to th' mosque," Tom rumbled, pleasantly aware of the glow of admiration on the face of Yasmin as she sat at his feet, arms wrapped around her knees. His wife Annette was a good wench, but she didn't appreciate a good story the way his daughter did. "Jus" five a' us lef", no officers, rag-heads a' yellin' an' screamin', hundreds of 'em. They din' know we wuz five devil dogs, 'n pissed as hell."

  The armory about him was dim, the racked weapons and boxes of ammunition shadowy backdrops to his memory; the honest smell of his own sweat staining the thin cotton undershirt across his chest, beer and gun-oil and steel. Memories of warm nights in barracks and the casern, all his old friends, strong young men, laughter and dice, drink and the laughing friendly whores. He took another pull at the beer and belched, feeling a familiar humming in his ears. How many? Twenty, or only ten? Fuck it. 'Muff storytellin', time to get back home and give Annette another youngun. He wasn't that old.

  He dropped his hand to Yasmin's curls, opened his mouth to speak. A scream interrupted him, loud even through the steel door, and close.

  "Wha'?" he said, his chin rising from his chest. "Wha' that?"

  Yasmin was on her feet. "Poppa!" she said urgently. "That Solange, it came from that-there radio room." Puzzlement fought with alarm on her slender features.

  Tom lurched to his fleet, waving her vaguely back. "Y' pretty fren'?" he said with bewilderment. "Wha' she doin' here?"

  He walked to the door and pushed it open, glancing around. A slight hint of light and voices from upstairs, but nothing out of the ordinary. Tom shook his head, rubbed his hard-callused palms across his face. There was something wet on the step, at chest level, too dark to see color, only a blackness that glistened. He touched, raised his fingers to nose, lips. Utterly familiar, in a way that began to wash the fumes of alcohol out of his brain.

  "Blood," he said wonderingly. "Gotsta' see whut happenin,' " he muttered, and began to climb.

  This place is turning into a shitty railroad station, Kustaa thought disgustedly as the door swung open again. A conscious effort kept his trigger-finger loose. The last thing they needed was the sound of a firefight breaking out. Worth the time to gag and tie whoever it was.

  A black. Big man, bigger than Kustaa, fifties, balding. Heavy muscle well padded with fat, beer belly and a bottle of beer clutched like a miniature in one ham-sized fist. Stained white T-shirt and baggy olive-green pants, splayed bare feet… eyes bloodshot and puzzled and mild in the heavy-featured African face.

  "Silence," Kustaa barked. "Come in, lie down, put your hands behind your head."

  The other great hand slowly squeezed shut into a fist, and the eyes were still bloodshot but anything but mild, thick lips drawn back from strong yellow teeth.

  "Yaz no mastah!" he said in wonderment, glance darting to the bound form of Raoul.

  "Janissary, kill him!" Chantal shouted, but Kustaa had seen too many fighting-men to need the warning; his finger was tightening even before the man finished speaking. The 10mm bucked in his hand, three shots merging into one, echoes in the small stone room, three soft-nosed slugs blasting into the black's solar plexus no more than a hand's width apart. The last so close the thin fabric of his shirt was crisped and singed, and that was the one that stopped him, stopped the bull bellow and huge hands reaching to kill.

  Yasmin followed, and stood looking with utter disbelief at the heavy body lying jerking at her feet, blood pouring from overlapping exit wounds in the small of his back, a raw cavity bigger than her paired fists full of shattered bone splinters and things that glistened and moved. The dark girl's hands came up one on either side of her face, pressing palm-in as if to drive the knowledge out of her skull.

  "Poppa?" she said, in a tiny voice, sinking down by his side. "Poppa?" A small shriek, and she was tearing at her clothing, shoving the scraps into the impossible gaping wound.

  "Poppa, doan' die, doan' die, poppa, please, I love yo', poppa, doan' die, please—" She abandoned the hopeless effort and threw herself on his chest, clutching at his shoulders. "No, poppa, no!"

  Kustaa turned his head; one of the others would know how to quiet her. That shift saved his life, Yasmin's clumsy thrust with her father's belt-knife scoring along the American's ribs down to the bone rather than sinking into his belly. Then she was a blur of white cloth and brown arms and heavy razor-edged steel, hacking with a berserker frenzy that lacked only knowledge to make it instantly deadly. Kustaa shouted, again as the edge jammed into his shoulder, clubbing frantically with the pistol as he tried to bring it round close enough to bear at pointblank.

  "Yo' killed my poppa! Yo' killed my poppa!" Intolerably shrill, almost a squeal.

  Christ, she's going to kill me! ran through him as he blocked and struck with elbows, knees, bone-shattering strikes but she would not stop, it's my own bloody fault shitshitshit—

  The muzzle of his battle-shotgun reached around him and shoved itself into Yasmin's stomach. Chantal pulled the trigger, and the explosion was muffled by flesh and cloth. The result was not; the slender body of the serf girl catapulted back over the swivel-chair and struck the ground already limp. The Frenchwoman stepped over to the dead serf, looked down into the blood-spattered face frozen in eternal surprise.

  "Bitch," she said in a voice that cracked, and retched dryly. The floor was running-wet, like a bathroom where the sink has overflowed. Or the toilet, for it stank, of salt, shit, the raw chemical smell of burnt propellant.

  The scent of glory, Kustaa thought as he forced himself straight, vision returning after the grayness of shock; he felt the same brief irrational disbelief that always came after being wounded, compounded of so fast! and I was all right just a second ago! Neither ever helped… a long cut on the ribs, stab in the shoulder, superficial slashes, bleeding but no arteries cut, he could keep going for a little longer, he had to keep going.

  "Come on," he said, and plunged down the stairwell. The others followed, all but Lebrun stone-faced before the radio and the bound and unconscious Raoul. Into the armory, across to the window that latched from the inside, only three feet down onto the low-pitched slate roof. He and Ernst helped the women through, and he gave the Austrian a tight smile.

  "Not doing badly," he said.

  "I fought on the Italian front in the Great War," he said. "It is nothing I have not seen before." He helped Kustaa through in turn.

  Whore, filthy whore, Jean thought, frantically. There had
been no opportunity, not down all the dozen cars and vans, not until now. The fuel tanks of the last two autosteamers were underslung, and Ybarra had to drop to her back and crawl beneath. Now! His finger began to close on the trigger, he could feel the cool metal against his skin and the tiny slack and the muscle would not close. It was very surprising, the way his head and body did not work the way they should, why couldn't he pull the trigger he hated her, she was going to put him back in the chair with his father screaming around the gag, pleading and— whttenoigenothoughtnothought

  Kill her, kill her, the Master will reward you. But the finger would not close, and if he did not then it would be Marie-Claire, bending over the block while the giant—

  whitenoisenothoughtnothought and he could feel his arms and legs start to shake, and tears were running down his face. The clicking started again behind his eyes, but this time there was no sharp clarity of thought, nothing but the noise inside his head growing louder and louder, hissing like the sea. It reached a peak and he thought he would have to scream, to cry out to God for pity, for relief, but he knew that was nonsense, there was no pity and no mercy and pain was the only thing that was forever.

  Jean turned, the machine-pistol dangling in his hand, turned and walked south. Not running until he was too far away for even Ybarra to catch, then at a shambling pounding trot; whitenoise was almost continuous now, but that was good, it kept the visions from his eyes, memories and fears, all too terrible to be borne. Vision came in glimpses, and thought; the Schmeisser dropping nerveless from his fingers in a field, they would shoot him down on sight, a strange serf with a forbidden weapon. The gardens at last, he was too far east, east of the house; everything was quiet, and he almost ran into the man standing fifty meters from the great tents.

  "Halt," the man said, in bad French. "No serfs past here. I'm the bossboy; give me your name."

  Jean leaned against him, hands pawing weakly for support as the knowledge of his own exhaustion came through the whitenoise. He made gobbling noises as his mouth tried to speak while his lungs could spare no wind for it, none, they were dry and tight and aching, and the gasping breathes did him no good.