“Fuck it,” she said, and pulled the trigger.
* * *
“Mistis—” the Janissary decurion began, as the canopy of Yolande’s fighter slid back and she rose from the opening clamshell restraints. The cool air of the Indian night poured in, lit by a swollen moon and the lingering fires. Then eye-drying warmth as the inflow crackled across the fuselage of her aircraft. The Draka picked up her ground kit, machine pistol, and helmet. There were a half-dozen figures in infantry armor, with a flat cart of some sort.
Then the serf soldier’s voice altered. “Mistis Yolande!” He saluted and flipped up the faceplate of his helmet.
Yolande stared for a moment; it was an unremarkable face, heavy beak nose and olive complexion . . . then memory awoke.
“Ali?” she said. “Rahksan’s Ali?”
His grin showed white as she stepped up onto the rim of the cockpit and jumped down, careful to avoid the savage residual heat of the leading edges.
“The same, Mistis. Swears it like home leave to see you.”
“Freya bless, small world,” she continued, and gave him a light punch on one shoulder. Her gloved fist rang on the lobster-tail plates of his armguard. The legion blazon on it showed a hyena’s skull biting down on a human thighbone; that was the Devil Dogs, one of the better subject-race units. “An’ you comin’ up in it, Ali. I tells yo ma, first thing.”
His fist rang on the breastplate as he saluted again, then noticed his squad glancing at each other. Myfwany’s Falcon lifted its canopy.
“Ah, Mistis, we got field shelters set up over to there.” He pointed, and she saw prefabricated revetments on an uncratered stretch of runway. Two big winged tilt-rotor transports, as well; one began revving for takeoff as she looked. “We’s gotta get y’ plane towed ovah there. You support team’s comin’ through, later tonight. We’s got perimeter guard.”
“Myfwany, you remembers Ali, from Claestum?” The redhead came up, with a bounce in her stride, despite the sweat that plastered the curls to her forehead. “Coincidence, hey?” The squad was hooking the cart’s towing hitch to the nose of her aircraft. “Carry on, Decurion; nice to know mah bird’s in good hands.”
“Eurrch,” Yolande said. “C’mon, love, why don’t we turn in?” Most of the squadron was there, but it would be a day or two before they had anything to do but stay out of the way. In the meantime, they had been assigned quarters. The original occupants certainly had no need of them . . .
The prisoners were being held in a mess hall; sorted in groups by rank and age, in squares marked off by colored rope. The guards were Security Directorate, Intervention Squad specialists, but there were a fair number of Draka making inspection; Citizen officers of the Janissary legion, pilots from their outfit, others. She looked at the captives with mild distaste; they had been stripped of their uniforms as a precautionary measure, and secured with the old-style restraints, chain and rod links that bound elbows and wrists together behind the back. Indians, mostly. Base techs, the sort of work that was done by unarmed Auxiliaries in the Domination’s armed forces. A few had the glazed look of shock, or docilizing drugs; most were openly terrified, even crying.
“You can turn in if’n you wants to, ’Landa,” Myfwany said. She was smiling, and there was a glitter to her eyes; Yolande swallowed past a hollow feeling. I love you dearly, but there are times when you make me angry enough to spit, sweetheart, she thought resignedly.
“Oh, all right,” Yolande said. “Let’s take a look.”
They walked down the edge of one of the green-rope enclosures. Green for lowest priority, younger specimens. She supposed they would be sold off, after the fighting, or sent to work camps, something of that sort. Her nose wrinkled from the pungency; they stank of fear, and some had pissed themselves. Across the room there was a high scream. Yolande looked up and saw the Security troopers dragging an older prisoner out of the red-corded pen for interrogation. A paunchy type in his fifties, already babbling. Glad they’re not doin’ it in public, she thought idly. Headhunters, eurgh. Necessary work, she supposed, but disgusting.
“This one looks interestin’,” Myfwany was saying. “On you feet, wench.”
Yolande looked back. The prisoner had risen easily despite the restraints. In her late twenties, she estimated; much lighter-skinned than most of the others. Good figure, very nice muscle tone for a serf; cropped black hair, expressionless dark eyes . . . The neck was number-bare, that looked unnatural. Sixty aurics basic, Yolande thought. Depending on where she’s sold, of course.
“Who’re you?” Myfwany asked the serf. Silence, and then the Draka struck. Crack. The open-handed blow rocked the prisoner’s head back; Yolande was surprised she kept her feet. Sighing, she glanced aside. Myfwany gets too rough with them, sometimes, she thought unhappily. Of course, this one was feral and had to be taught submission, but still . . .
“Marya Lenson.” Crack. A backhanded blow this time.
“That’s Marya Lenson, Mistis, serf.” The Security guard glanced up, came over idly twirling the rubber truncheon by the thong around his wrist.
“Mistis.” The serf’s voice stayed toneless, flat.
“Indian?” Myfwany put a finger under the serf’s chin, turned her head sideways. “Europoid, I’d swear.”
“My parents were from California, Mistis.”
Myfwany turned to Yolande. “A Yank! What say we sign this’n out and play with it, ’Landa?” she said.
Yolande sighed. “Oh, come on, sweet,” she said exasperatedly. I hope we’re not going to have a fight, like we did when you wanted Lele. It had taken two days of not speaking to each other before Myfwany realized she was serious about letting the servant say no. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“We can use aphrodizine,” Myfwany said impatiently.
“Eurg.” Not that the aphrodisiac didn’t work but . . . “Look, sweet, you just got after-fight jitters. You don’t really want to—”
Myfwany released the serf and spun to confront her friend. “Look youself,” she hissed. “I’m not you keeper, Ingolfsson, and you not mine.
“You’ve got somethin’ better to do, go do it.” The green eyes turned heavy-lidded. “Tim or someone be glad to help me out.”
Yolande felt shock close her throat. This was fear, not the hot sensation of life danger up in the clouds, but dread coiling at the pit of her stomach. She forced a smile.
“Oh, don’t get so heavy ’bout it, love!” A glance aside at the serf. Myfwany’ll probably get tired fairly soon. “If’n you’s set on it, certainly.” Not as if there was anything actually wrong with it, after all. You have to compromise on differing tastes. “Let’s . . . let’s take a walk an’ check on the birds, first, hey? Get some fresh air.”
“Sure, ’Landa-sweet,” Myfwany said. She smiled and took the other Draka’s hand. Yolande felt the knot in her stomach melt. Or most of it, she thought. Oh, well. “I’ve got a rotten temper. Don’t know why you puts up with me, sometimes.”
She called the guard over, palmed the identifier clipped to his belt. “Send this one ovah to our quarters, would you?”