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.