The Domination

Chapter Sixteen

CENTRAL OFFICE, ARCHONAL PALACE

ARCHONA

DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA

NOVEMBER 10, 1991

“That will be all,” Eric von Shrakenberg said.

“Excellence,” his aide replied, bowing and leaving.

Damned insolence of office, he thought with amusement. The Domination’s chief executive was selected for a seven-year term, with no limits on reelection. Hence the Archonate staff tended to become used to an incumbent, set in their ways; he was still running into problems with that, except with the people he had brought in himself last year. The serf cadre were even worse . . .

“Five minutes,” the desk said.

He sighed and seated himself, feeling a little out of place. This shape of carved yellowwood and Zambezi teak . . . how many Occupation Day addresses had he seen it in, from the other side? On film back during the Eurasian War, on screens of gradually increasing clarity since. Wotan, fifty years! he thought, looking around the big room. Not overwhelming, although the view was spectacular, when the curtains were open; the dome of the House of Assembly was about half a kilometer away. History-drenched enough for anybody, he supposed, thinking of the decisions made here.

And now I sit here and hold the fate of the human race in my hands, he thought. If anyone’s listening at the other end of these communicators. Having people obey when he spoke was the difference between being a leader and an old man in a room. A fact not commonly known, and it’s better so.

“Incoming signal,” the speaker said.

“Receive.”

A spot of light appeared at head-height beyond the desk. A line framed it, expanding outward until it outlined a rectangle three meters by three; the central spot faded, and then the rectangle blinked out of existence. Replacing it was a holographic window into the interior of Donovan House. Eric knew it was an arrangement of photons, as insubstantial as moonbeams, but still wondered at the sheer solidity of it. Genuine progress, for a change, he thought. You could get the true measure of an opponent this way, the total-sensory gestalt read from every minute clue of stance, expression, movement. The same applied in reverse.

“Madam President,” he said, inclining his head.

“Excellence,” she replied, with meticulous courtesy.

She may have been added to balance the ticket, but I don’t think the Yankees lost when Liedermann slipped on the soap, Eric decided. President Carmen Hiero was the second Hispanic and the first woman to sit in the same chair as Jefferson and Douglas; before that she had been a Republican jefe politico in Sonora, still very unusual for a woman in the States carved out of Old Mexico. Fiftyish, graying, criolla blueblood by descent, mixed with Irish from a line of silver-mine magnates: that much he knew from the briefing papers. Old haciendado family, but not a shellback by Yankee standards; degrees in classics, history, and some odd American specialty known as political science, whatever that was. A contradiction in terms, from the title.

“I regret that I can’t offer hospitality,” he continued.

She shrugged. “Debatable whether it would be appropriate, under the circumstances. I hope you realize how much trouble with my OSS people I had to go through to allow Domination equipment here.”

“And the political capital I must expend to let Yankee electronics in here,” he added dryly. “Our Security people are still more paranoid than yours, not least because it is a field in which your nation excels us. Still, we can now be reasonably sure nobody is recording or tapping these conversations.” He paused. “Why did you agree, Senora?”

The black eyes met his calmly. Almost as much body-language control as a Draka, he thought with interest. Better than some of us do, actually. I wonder how deep it runs.

“I suspect my reasoning was much like yours, von Shrakenberg. The convenience of dealing with essential issues without the circumlocutions essential where things are said in public, without the necessary lies of party politics. In addition, the chance of gaining personal insight into my enemy, set against the risk of him doing likewise. Well worth that risk. Always it is better to act from knowledge than ignorance.” Eric nodded, spread his hands in silent acknowledgment as she continued. “Although, por favor, why did you not request such a link with the Alliance Chairman?”

Eric chuckled. “For much the same reason that you would not have agreed, had Representative Gayner’s nominee been sittin’ in this chair.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “I would not compare Chairman Allsworthy to your Militants,” she said.

“Not in terms of policy . . . a certain structural similarity in position on our relative political spectra. Perhaps a similarity in believin’ too strongly in our respective national mythologies. Besides, the American President is still rather mo’ than first among equals.”

It was Hiero’s turn to spread her hands silently. Certain necessary fictions must be maintained even here, he read the gesture.

“Turnin’ to business,” Eric continued, “was it really necessary to tow those-there gold-rich asteroids into Earth orbit? I admit it’s industrially convenient havin’ gold fall to the same value as tin, but the financial problems!”

A thin smile; the Alliance currency was fiat money, while the Domination’s auric had always been gold-backed. “You could refuse to trade for gold, and maintain an arbitrary value,” she said in a tone of sweet reason.

He snorted. “Thus sacrificin’ the industrial advantages, and endin’ up with all the disadvantages of a metallic standard, all the problems of a paper-money system, and none of the compensatin’ flexibility,” he said. “Between me and thee, we’re movin’ to a basket of commodities, although with the general fall in prices—”

An hour later, Hiero leaned back. “Well,” she said, “all this indicates several areas of potential agreement.” They both nodded; technical discussions were easy, once the top-echelon political decisions had been made. “Perhaps we can move on to others, at later meetings. Certainly we have more of a meeting of minds than I could with your Militants.”

Or I with Allsworthy, Eric inferred. Quite true; the Chairman had what amounted to a physical phobia toward Draka, taking the nickname “Snake” quite literally,

“Please, don’t misinterpret,” he said softly. “On some issues of purely . . . pragmatic impo’tance, perhaps. On mo’ fundamental issues of foreign policy, my Conservatives will follow an essentially Militant line.”

“Why? If I may ask.”

“Because . . . Madam President, the internal politics of the Domination can no way be interpreted in terms of what you familiar with; a word to the wise, to prevent misunderstandin’. The universe of discourse is too different. To call my faction paternalistic conservatives an’ Gayner’s biotechnocrats is a very crude approximation. Our real differences are on issues of domestic policy—very long-term domestic policy at that, arisin’ after we dispose of you. Or you dispose of us, in which case it all becomes moot, eh? It’s extremely impo’tant that we try to understand the parameters of each other’s operations, otherwise things could get completely irrational.”

“I see your point.” A hesitation. “May I ask you a personal question, Excellence?” At his nod, she proceeded: “I’ve got the usual Intelligence summaries on you . . . and I’ve read your novels. Within limits, I received the impression of an intelligent and empathetic man. Which leads to certain questions.”

Eric turned in his swivel chair and poured a measure of brandy into a balloon snifter, turned back, paused to swirl the liquid and sniff, sip.

“I assure you, they’ve occurred to me as well,” he said meditatively. “Why, in essence, don’t I retire to my estate and let the world rave as it will?” He felt his lips twist into the semblance of a smile. “Well, in all honesty, Madam President, why don’t you? It’s in the nature of an ambitious politician to imagine all alternatives to himself are disaster. I flatter mahself I’m right.”

“Duty,” she said. “I’m . . . not indispensable, but there are worse people to occupy this chair. For my children, my nation, and for the cause of freedom, if that doesn’t sound too pompous.”

Eric laughed harshly. “You Americans have been a lucky people, on the whole . . . what convenience, to have national interest an’ high-soundin’ ideals so congruent.” He made a gesture with the glass. “Forgive a slight bitterness. Leavin’ aside the question of whether morals are objective reality or cultural artifacts, I’m left with some similar motivations. I have children, grandchildren. And my people. As my fathah once said to me, you nation is like you children; loved because they are yours, not necessarily because they deserve it. Moral judgment—that has to be made in the context of political and historical reality, not some imaginary situation where we start with a tabula rasa.”

“Even in polities, surely moral choices are an individual’s responsibility?”

“A true difference of national temperament, I think. If’n a Draka thinks of choice at all, it’s as constrained within narrow bonds; human beings make history, but they don’t make it just as they choose.” He laughed again, this time with more genuine humor. “Interestin’ question, whether perception is the result or cause of social reality . . . ” He set the snifter down and leaned forward. “One thing is sure. Either of us would start the Final War if we thought it was the right choice. And neither of us wants to be forced into that decision prematurely. Which leaves us with certain common difficulties.”

“Bueno, I am glad you realize this. This conflict—it has gone on so long, both sides, they have accumulated serious vested interests with a stake in waging it. Organizations, bureaucracies, careers are invested in it; power, vast profits. Always these push toward its intensification. We have a common interest then, in not allowing the instruments of policy to set our policy.”

“True.” He nodded decisively. “Very true. Although, hmmm.” He rubbed his chin meditatively, then decided to speak. It was no secret, after all. “Madam President, remember always that there is no true symmetry between our positions, here. There is an element in the Alliance which seeks to simply grow around and beyond us, reduce us to an irrelevance.” She nodded. “This is precisely what much of our strategy has been designed to prevent. The border tensions, the convention we have allowed to grow up that there is no peace beyond Luna . . . It is you dynamism we fear. The tension inhibits it, forces you into military an’ security measures where we can compete mo’ easily.”

Hiero’s mouth clamped in a grim line. “Sí. So my analysts tell me. Let me warn you then, Excellence. This policy has its own dangers. Firstly, it makes the task you have, of restraining your military, more difficult. Secondly, both our societies are becoming dependent on resources and manufactures from space; this entails massive activities and investments beyond the Earth-Moon system. In turn, these create interests whose voices cannot be ignored. Also . . . when only explorers and pioneers were at risk, nothing vital was threatened by clashes in deep space. Now we are approaching the point where vital matters of national security are endangered in the heavens. We would not tolerate an invasion of Burma or England. Should we then regard Ceres as less?”

“Correct,” Eric said, with soft precision. “As you point out, my task of control is mo’ than yours; nor would I modify our tradition of decentralized decision making even if I could.” He sighed. “A world bound in chains of adamant, that’s our legacy. The stalemate becomes ever less stable. If nothin’ else, inaction would give my opponents too much opportunity. The fact that I’m presented with an insoluble dilemma, and they know it, will not restrain them from takin’ political advantage of it.”

Hiero tapped a finger to her lip in polite skepticism. “I am to endure provocation from you, because if I do not, another even less restrained would take your place?” She continued with heavy irony: “ ‘The whip is not so bad; fear instead, my brother, who will use scorpions?’ ”

“I see you point. So both of us looks for a means to break the stalemate; I don’t suppose it’s much consolation that I would use it with regret, while anothah in my shoes might do it with Naldorssenian glee and invocations of the Will to Power. But be careful, be very careful, Madam President. Neither of us wishes to destroy the planet. Don’t rely too much on secrets—such as you New America project, out there in the asteroids. Conveniently on the opposite side of the sun from Earth, most of the time, eh?”

She was shaken for a moment, he was sure of it: a thousand tiny signs said so. Then she rallied. “Or your Stone Dogs, sí?”

It was his turn to feel a hand squeezing at the arteries in his chest. Control yourself, you fool, he said behind a smiling mask. Ah . . . she didn’t match my disclosure of her project’s location. Only a half-dozen knew the full to most of those charged with implementation. And don’t start flailing about to discover her source. The effort itself could tell them too much. Overwhelmingly probable they have discovered only that it is a secret, and important.

He glanced polite inquiry. “Stone Dogs . . . an old nickname fo’ our Janissary infantrymen. Perhaps a code name? I can’t very well follow every project, of course.” Their eyes met in perfect understanding of the game of bluff and double-bluff. “Well, we all have our little surprises,” he said. “Tell me, do you ever suspect what you subordinates aren’t tellin’ you?”

She gave him a glance that was half ironic, half a reflection of shared fear. He remembered times when he had lain awake sweating with that particular horror, the worst of which was that there was no way to disprove it. A successful deception ploy was invisible by definition, and thinking of it too much—that was the road to paranoia and madness.

“It has been, ah, interesting,” the president said at last.

“At least that. Perhaps in another few months.”

“Of a certainty. Excellence.”

“Madam President.”

The holo vanished, and Eric waited a long moment with the heels of his palms to his eyes before he touched a control on the desk. “Shirley,” he said. “Send in the estimates, would you?”

His eyes sought the curtains. The sun had fallen . . . Perhaps next week there would be time for a visit home. Stop reaching for the carrot, donkey, he told himself brutally. Bend your neck to the traces and pull.

President Carmen Hiero shook her head thoughtfully as the aides bustled about, rearranging the room.

“The poor man,” she murmured, in her mother’s language.

“Ma’am?” the Secret Service agent said.

“Nothing, Lindholm,” she said, standing. It had been a long day, and there was a dull pain in her lower back. And more dull pains to be endured at dinner, she thought wryly. For a moment she looked again at the air the transmission had occupied. “Nothing that matters . . . in the end.”

NOVA VIRCONIUM

COMMAND CENTRAL

HELLAS PLANTITIA, MARS

DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA

NOVEMBER 17, 1991

“Here she comes!”

The Martian orbital shuttle was like nothing else in the solar system. Delta-shaped, but with huge slender wings that could only have flown under this light gravity and tenuous wisp of atmosphere. It swelled from the east, out of sky already gone purple and starlit, its riding lights bright against the dark ceramic of the heatshield. Just then the outline lights of the pathways blinked on, like a great glowing circuit diagram across the plain, stretching out to the horizon. Daggers of brighter light appeared beneath and about the shuttle: steering jets and final braking. The flat belly and underwing surface drifted down to maglev distance, fields meshing with those of the runway, and it slid frictionless at half a meter until the gentle magnetic tugging brought it to a halt.

Yolande rose, straightened her uniform. The others in the party bustled likewise as the windowless arrowhead slid its nose into the terminal docking collar. The band made a few preliminary tootles . . .

“Marya,” Yolande said. The serf had been standing at the railing; she turned silently and faded into the background of the welcoming party. The doors below cycled open, and the passengers came through. A big clot of children, which dissolved like sugar under hot water as they scattered to the waiting families. A small group that hung uncertainly near the doors. Yolande recognized Jolene’s blond mane first, then Gwen. Another girl next to her, and a smaller form next to Jolene . . . Nikki.

“Let’s do it,” she said.

The Martian Rangers decurion saluted with a grin, and called to his guard party. They were ghouloons, of course; in surface suits and armor, but with faceguards swung back. Their muzzles dipped in unison as they wheeled, split into two lines of fifteen, and trotted down to take station in four-footed parade rest up the broad stairway that ran from the upper lounge to the lower. Yolande moved to the head of the stairs; the band struck up the Warrior’s Saraband, and the decurion turned to the double line of inhuman fighters.

“Commandant-Governors . . . salute!” he barked, as Yolande walked down the stairs. The ghouloon troopers threw back their heads and gave a short barking howl.

She was close enough to see her daughter’s face now, flushed with a combination of delight and terminal embarrassment, as the crowd in the main terminal parted. There were cheers and claps; Yolande had come to the Commandant-Governor’s post with a good reputation, and was popular enough . . .

“Ma. Ah, Service to the State.”

“Glory to the Race.” Oh, Freya, she looks so much like her, Yolande thought, with a brief twisting pain inside her chest. For a moment the years and light-minutes slipped away, and she was a rumpled teenager alone and lonely on her first evening at Baiae School. Like that first time I saw her. Gwen was fourteen now—a little taller than Myfwany had been, a little slimmer. Perhaps more relaxed about the eyes. My own Gwendolyn, Yolande thought.

“Hello, daughter,” she said and opened her arms.

The hug was brief but bruising-strong, the New Race muscles squeezing her ribs. Yolande released the girl and held her at arm’s length. “You lookin’ good, child of my heart.” Nikki had been jittering at Jolene’s side; now he tore free and threw his arms around Yolande’s waist, smiling up gap-toothed. She ruffled the sandy hair and closed her own eyes for a moment: they were rare, these instants of true happiness. Best to seize them while you could.

Nikki was looking sideways at the Rangers. “Decurion Kang,” Yolande said, “I think my son might like to review you guard party.”

“You bet, Ma!” the seven-year-old said enthusiastically.

Yolande nodded to her aide, saluted. “I think we can carry on from here, Tetrarch,” she said, and turned back to her daughter.

“Ah, Ma?” Gwen was pulling her companion forward. “This is my friend Winnifred Makers, I told you about?”

Wide blue eyes, a sharp-featured New Race face, dark-blond hair. Swallowing a little, but bearing up under the stress of meeting the planetary-governor mother of her schoolfriend. Good, thought Yolande, sizing her up. All in order. I don’t care what the younger generation says, it’s unnatural to get involved with boys before you’re eighteen. More than good. They exchanged formal wrist grips.

“Don’t be too intimidated, Miz Makers,” Yolande said kindly. “It isn’t a very big planet, and there aren’t many people on it yet.” The girl gave a charming smile.

They turned to walk up the stairs. The ghouloons were keeping eyes front, but their pointed ears had swivelled toward the officer and the boy with his earnest questions.

“Imp,” his mother said fondly. “Ah, Gwen, here’s you Tantie-ma.” Yolande watched, was gratified to see her daughter give the serf an affectionate peck on the cheek.

“Glad to see you again, Tantie-ma,” she said.

“I’m . . . glad to see you, too, Missy Gwen,” Marya said. There was a smile on her face, slight but genuine.

Gwen slapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh, here, I brought you somethin’. Those books you wanted, from that store in Archona? Here’s the plaque.”

SPIN HABITAT SEVEN

CENTRAL BELT

BETWEEN THE ORBITS OF MARS AND JUPITER

DECEMBER 28, 1991

“Aw, Dad!”

Frederick Lefarge looked over at his wife. She was mixing them martinis, at the cabinet on the other side of the living room. Dinner was a pleasant memory and a lingering smell of guinea-chile and avocado salad—God, what did I do to deserve a good cook, on top of looks and brains?—and he wanted that drink, and his feet up, and more quiet than two teenaged daughters promised. On the other hand . . .

He glanced sternly at Janet and Iris. “Homework done?” he said. Gods, they’re getting to be young women, he thought. Halter tops, yet. And those fashionable hip-huggers . . . the damned things looked as if they had been sprayed on.

“Yeah,” Janet said. Well, her marks had been excellent, particularly the math. It looked as if there was going to be at least one spacer in the family, if this kept up. Iris nodded. Her current fancy was composing. Well, at least she was still working at that, not like the other fads.

“It’s a nice group,” Cindy said. She finished shaking the cocktail pitcher, broke it open deftly and filled the chilled martini glasses. “From school, and a bunch over from Habitat Three. You know, the Martins and the Merkowitz kids?”

Lefarge pushed his chair back. “All right,” he said, glancing at the viewer; it was set on landscape, with a time readout down near the lower righthand corner. “But be back by 0100, latest, or I’ll shut the airlock on you for a week, understand?”

“Thanks, Dad!” Janet gave him a quick hug.

“We’ll be back on time, Daddy.” Iris kissed his cheek. “And they’re playing one of my dance tunes,” she whispered into his ear, giggling.

He sighed as he watched them fling themselves down the hall with an effortless feet-off-the-ground twist; they adjusted to the varying gravity of the habitat’s shell decks the way he and Marya had to the streets of New York.

“Next thing you know, I’ll be beating off boyfriends with a club,” he grumbled, accepting the drink. “Ah, nice and dry.”

Cindy put hers on the table and went behind the chair. Her fingers probed at his neck. “Rock. Don’t worry, they’re sensible girls, and we’ve got a nice family town here.” He closed his eyes and rolled his head slightly as she kneaded the taut muscles. “At least we don’t have to worry about juviegroups and trashing or having them go into orbit over Ironbelly Bootstomper bands,” she continued.

Lefarge shuddered. “No, thank God. Sometimes I think the spirit that made America great hasn’t died—just emigrated.”

Cindy laughed and leaned over him; he felt a sudden sharp pain at the base of his cropped hair.

“Hey, cut that out!”

She held an almost-invisible something close to his eye on the tip of one finger: a gray hair. “You don’t have enough of these to be an old fogey yet, honey,” she said, and kissed him upside-down. Her face sobered. “Something’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”

He reached up to run his hand through her hair, streaked with silver against the mahogany color, shining and resilient. “You’re too old to be so indecently beautiful,” he murmured. Then: “I have to take a trip back dirtside,” he said.

“Oh. That chair big enough for two?”

She picked up her drink and settled in against him, curving into the arm he laid about her shoulders. The silk of her blouse and skirt rustled, and he smelled a pleasant clean odor of shampoo and perfume and Cindy. “Uncle Nate?”

“He’s sharp as ever, but not getting any younger,” Lefarge said grudgingly. “You know how it is, anyone in his position so long makes enemies.” The executive positions two or three steps down from the top in an agency like the OSS were coveted prizes. Not high enough to be political appointments, but they set policy. “Those who want his job, if nothing else; the problem is they’re all disasters waiting to happen.”

He paused to take another sip of the martini. “I have to blather to a couple of select committees. On top of that, Nate’s afraid the new people in charge over in Archona are foxy enough to let up the pressure. That von Shrakenberg’s a cunning devil; he knows how quickly some of us will go to sleep if they’re not prodded.” A frown. “I don’t like it, when the Snakes get quiet. They’re planning something. Maybe not now, maybe in a decade; something big.”

Cindy shivered against him, and he held her closer. “No more raids, at least,” she said. “Oh God, honey, I was so frightened.”

And when the raid sirens turned on, went straight from your office to your emergency station and had the rest of them singsonging and playing bridge, he thought with a rush of warmth. Jesus H. Christ, I’m a lucky man. Grimly: And we took out a major warship, too. They may be pulling back their fingers because we singed them.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” she went on.

“Witch.” He sighed. “In the latest courier package from Uncle Nate.” The Project was on the AI-3 distribution list; this was as secure an OSS station as anywhere in the Alliance, if only because so little went out. “They’re in contact with Marya again.”

“Bad?” Cindy said softly.

“No worse than before. That Ingolfsson creature’s spawn . . . ”He turned his head aside for a moment, then continued. “Anyway, Marya’s been taken to their main Martian settlement. Working in household accounts, but even better, she’s made some social contacts with the HQ office workers . . . just rumor, gossip, but priceless stuff. Contact’s a priest; Christ, it’s dangerous, though!” More softly: “And I miss her, sweet, I really do.”

“So do I. She was always like a big sister to me . . . ”

The disk player came on, with a quiet Baroque piece that Cindy must have selected beforehand. The lights dimmed, turning the homey familiarity of the living room into romantic gloom, and a new scene played on the viewer. He recognized that beach with the full moon over the Pacific and the swaying palms. Surf hissed gently . . .

“Why, Mrs. Lefarge,” he said, looking down at her face. She grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that a respectable matron was trying to seduce her husband again.”

She wiggled into his lap. “Why, Mr. Lefarge,” she whispered, twining her arms around his neck. “Why do you think I was so eager to get the girls out of the house?” She nibbled at his ear. “And if you are too young to be a fogey, I’m too young to be a matron. So there.”