“That’d be electoral suicide.” Fo’ now, she continued to herself with a tight smile of hatred.
Eric nodded. “Which is why that program has solid backin’ among the independents,” he said. “Not much of a concession t’ you faction to drop their opposition. Brings us to the court reforms.”
“An’ that’s a matter of principle,” she said. “That proposal isn’t popular. Citizens have rights, serfs do not—at most, privileges revocable at will. If administrative changes are necessary, let the owners an’ Combines make them.”
“Well,” Eric said softly. “Nobody’s proposin’ to let the serfs have access to our courts, or to limit the power of owners. Or to limit the rights of Citizens in general.” The Code of 1797 had given the free Draka as a body power of life and death over every individual of the subject races; the privilege was jealously guarded. “All that we’re askin’ fo’ is a set of tribunals to regulate ordinary administrative punishments by serf supervisors. Not fo’ convicts or labor-camp inmates; just fo’ the labor force in general.”
“Why?”
“Because as it stands every little strawboss can do as they fuckin’ please!” He gathered control of himself. “An’ if you thinks that don’t impact on productivity and worker morale, talk to somebody in any of the industrial branches.” Eric’s finger brushed at his mustache in a quick left-right gesture. “Harsh regulations can be lived with, harsh enforcement, but there has to be some regularity to it.”
“It still sounds like rights to me,” Gayner said with soft stubbornness, watching him closely. “An’ it sets up mo’ classes within the serf caste; we’ve got too many as it is. I can see why Janissaries an’ Orpos need special treatment, but extendin’ it beyond that is bad policy, whatevah the payoff.” She waited, still as a coiled mamba, before proceeding silken-voiced. “That’s what I believe . . . an’ on this issue, I’ve got the independents behind me, I’m thinkin’.”
Her paired thumbs tapped together. “It’s quid pro quo time, von Shrakenberg. What’re you givin’ me, to take back to my people when they ask why we’re not fightin’ you in caucus?” Silence stretched. “I want the Stone Dogs, an’ I want the trial run on the psychoconditionin’.”
“No.” His voice was quiet, a calm that matched his face and the relaxed stillness of his body. “I’m willin’ to have you new toy used as an alternative to the traditional drugs-an’-lobotomy fo’ incorrigibles, but no mass application an’ no accelerated research.”
Her palm cracked down on the teakwood. “Gods damn, von Shrakenberg, you the one always goin’ on about catchin’ up technologically; biochemicals an’ genetics are ouah strengths, an’ you fight every time we try to apply them!”
“Incorrect. I pushed as hard as you fo’ eugenic improvement of the Race, and fo’ the reproductive techniques. I’d’ve thought that would count fo’ something especially fo’ those not inclined to the traditional methods.”
Eric watched with satisfaction as Gayner flushed. She had never married, or borne children herself—which was odd, since according to his reports she was heterosexual to the point of eccentricity for a Draka woman . . . As little as a decade ago voluntary childlessness would have ruled out a serious political career, but now one’s duty to the Race could be done by proxy, via a deposit of frozen ova with the Eugenics Board.
“An’ as far as the long-term genetics projects fo’ the serfs are concerned, I’m all fo’ them as long as they’re selectin’ from within the normal range. Wotan knows we’ve been scatterin’ Draka genes among the wenches fo’ generations; breedin’ the serfs for bidability might make . . . harsher measures . . . less necessary. But I say no to lowerin’ general intelligence, an’ no to direct intervention to remove the will.”
“Why?” she asked; he thought he heard genuine curiosity in her voice, beside the hard suspicion.
“Well.” He inclined his head toward the obligatory bust of Elvira Naldorssen, the Domination’s philosophical synthesist, and the copy of her Meditations that rested beside it. “What did she say? That it was the mark of humanity to domesticate subsapient animals, and of the Race to domesticate humanity? We rule our human cattle—though they outnumber us forty to one, though even most of our soldiers an’ police are serf Janissaries—by dominatin’ their wills with ours. Where’s the pride of the Race, if they’re not human beings, with potential wills of their own?”
Gayner rose and walked to the opposite wall, looking at the pictures hanging there. Portraits of Eric’s parents, of his wife and children. One of a serf wench, a Circassian in a long white dress.
“You know,” she said slowly, without turning, “that argument goes ovah well with the dinosaurs in you group; even with some of my people . . . Tickles their vanity. You and I both know it’s bullshit. Which leaves me with the question, why do you use it? I think you soft, von Shrakenberg. Weak-stomached. The serfs are organic machinery, no mo’, and runnin’ them all through a conditionin’ process would eliminate major problems an’ costs. I know, I know”—she waved an unstated objection aside—“there’s still unacceptable side effects on ability. But those are just technical problems. Genetic manipulation to remove the personality is even mo’ promising. Y’ real objection is squeamishness. Soft, I say.”
Eric rose, too. “You not the first to think that, Gayner,” he said flatly. “Those that did, mostly found I could be as hard as was necessary.”
“P’haps so,” Gayner said. Her gaze had gone to a battle scene beyond the portraits. It showed the ruined mountain-pass village Eric’s Century of paratroops had held against two days of German counterattacks, back in the opening stages of the Eurasian War. “This-heah certainly covered up you earlier peccadilloes.” She jerked a thumb at the picture of the Circassian. Eric winced inwardly; she had been his boyhood concubine, and he had sent the child she died bearing out of the Domination. To America, to freedom . . . to the hereditary foe of the Race.
It hasn’t helped that little Anna grew up to be a prominent novelist, he thought between irritation and pride. He had had works of his own win prizes; it seemed to run in the blood.
“I hope you not threatenin’ to bringin’ that up again,” he said dryly. The Archon of the time had publicly said his action in the pass had saved the Domination ten thousand Citizen lives; and the Draka were a practical people.
“Oh, no, I’m makin’ no threats,” she said. She turned, and her eyes slid over him from head to toe. “There’s an old rumor, that the Security Directorate tried to have you arrested by administrative procedure right after that there battle. Befo’ yo’ became the untouchable hero with the corna aurea, of course. Even sent an officer to do it.”
“His mission was classified,” Eric said with the ease of long practice. There were very few left who knew the truth of what had happened . . . By the White Christ, was it really twenty-six years ago? “In any case, moot; he shouldn’t have wandered about an unsecured combat zone.”
“Two Walther 9mm slugs,” Gayner agreed. Another pause. “I used to wonder about how my brother died,” she continued, approaching with steps that were soundless, leaning on the table until her face was inches from his. “But yo’ know, fo’ the last fifteen years I haven’t wondered who fired that pistol, at all.”