“All right.” She asked herself, coldly realistic, “What can you do, Yolande?”
Very little. It was bitter knowledge. She knew of the Stone Dogs, now; perhaps two dozen others did. Could I get in touch . . . No. The only others she knew of for certain were Gayner and the two Militant leaders; they would not trust a niece of the Conservative bossman. And it would be like shooting Uncle Eric in the back. Morally unthinkable, and . . . you did not betray Eric von Shrakenberg and enjoy the consequences. Perhaps it would be worthwhile, if there was no alternative. Not until there was no alternative. She had a year until the Lionheart returned from the edge of the system. For that matter, Gwen would not thank her for being sheltered from danger. So she’s as stupid as anyone else that age. No more essential to the State than a hundred thousand other junior officers. A fine balance, duty to the Race and to family, but clear in this case.
“I’ll have to fuckin’ wait,” she hissed to herself, and then clamped down on her own mind. The Will is Master, she repeated. Breathe . . . Presently she won a degree of calm.
“Belinda,” she said to the air; the housecomp would relay it. “Lay out a fresh uniform in my changin’ room.”
“Marya!” she said, pushing open the door. It had no lock, of course. “Yo—”
The room was empty, and there was no sound from the others. Yolande stopped, blinking slightly in surprise. Could have sworn the comp said all servants present, she thought in puzzlement, looking around. It was a fairly standard upper-servant’s suite, bedroom, sitter opening off the corridor through a nook, and a bathroom at the rear. The lights had come on as she entered, but the air had the slightly dead feel of space not used for several hours. I wonder where she is? It was annoying; grabbing a quick nooner was not something she did all that often, and there was nobody else in the household right now she would feel that relaxed with; Jolene was down dirtside, visiting her daughter and Nikki back at Claestum.
Oh, well. It was no great matter; she turned to go, and then hesitated. I’ve never actually been in here, she thought.
No reason to visit the servants’ quarters, really, except a sudden impulse to surprise . . . Nothing in the bedroom but a bed with a quilt coverlet; there was a signed holo of Gwen by the bed, and a book open beside it. The sitter was a room about four meters by three, lit by a glowceiling, walls of foam rock and tile floor covered by throw rugs. A couch along one wall, a couple of spindly low-G chairs, cushions. The viewer screen, and a bookshelf with a dozen titles, mostly classics; a row of dataplaques beside it, with the garish covers of serf entertainment. The new perscomp on a table, with a chair still pushed back as if in haste; the screen was dark, but the indicator was on, something running.
“Careless,” Yolande chuckled, and walked over to it. There was a wrap-robe on the back of the chair. The Draka picked it up and brought the cloth to her face; there was a faint scent of Marya on it. Damn, I wish she was here, Yolande thought, sitting and picking up the dataplaque lying on the table.
“ ‘Serving Pleasure #15,’ ” she read, and laughed again. An erotic-instruction sequence. No wonder she’s getting so imaginative, she thought, flattered. Wonder what’s on it. Impulsively, she snapped it into the port and hit the DIVIDE command on the keyboard. The perscomp was a fairly capable one, the type midlevel serf bureaucrats were issued. Embedded accounting, datalink and display functions. A million-transistor logic deck, two hundred thousand bits of core storage besides, and a plaque receptor.
The screen blanked to light gray, then lit. Yolande watched in growing bewilderment. Sodomy? Basic Passive Sodomy? she thought, watching as the instructor showed the young buck how to brace his elbows on his knees before stepping behind. What in Freya’s name is Marya doing with—
The screen blanked again, the grunting figures replaced by a man’s face. In an Alliance uniform, with brigadier’s shoulderboards. American eagle, OSS flashes. Unremarkable face, square, rather dark, big-nosed; in his fifties, plenty of gray in the flat-topped black hair, eyes black too, so that the pupil didn’t show. Deep grooves, ridged forehead, the face of a man hagridden for many years. Yolande heard her own breath freeze in a strangled gasp, felt a sheet of ice lock her diaphragm.
Him.
“Marya, my sister, you must realize from this how desperate the situation is.”
Him. India. The cool Punjab night, and the missiles arching up from the trees. Psssft-thud, and Myfwany’s graceful stride turning to a tumbling fall.
“This plaque must be wiped as soon as you’ve read it. Likewise the others. Those most of all. Here are your instructions.”
Him. The face, under the upraised visor. That single glimpse.
“ . . . je t’aime, ma soeur,” the voice concluded. A moment of blank screen, and the instruction sequence cut back in. She touched the controls. Her own face reflected dimly in the darkened screen. Eyes gone enormous, lips peeled back until the gums showed. A trickle of hoarse sound escaped her throat.
“His sister. His sister. I’ve had his sister in my own household fo’ twenty-five years?” A bubble of laughter escaped her, and she ground her teeth closed on it, feeling something thin and hot stabbing between her eyes.
I’m dead. The thought was almost welcome. I’m a walking corpse. Nothing and nobody could save her from Security after this. The message had mentioned previous drops; even if nothing vital—there couldn’t be, I hardly talked to her for years until—“Until she volunteered to play pony, gods damn me for a fool, why else would she suddenly decide she wants to lie down with me,” she said. And now a sabotage operation.
I could kill her, Yolande thought. Just one quick bullet, and call disposal. Or apply for some drugs, get the information, then kill her. Perfectly legal—no, the headhunters would smell something immediately. The Directorate of Security was an unofficial arm of the Militants, or vice versa. They watched the von Shrakenberg connections like vultures around a dying camel. For an Ingolfsson to kill a houseserf was a break in the pattern, a red flag that something unusual was going on. They would ferret it out if it took them a decade.
No, it was her duty to report this. Put down everything she knew and suspected, write up a report, then one quick bullet of apology to the temple. The family will be involved, tolled through her with dreadful knowledge. A knot like the claws of something insectile hooked under her ribs. Gwen will be disgraced.
Duty—
“Oh,” she breathed. There was a way to use this. A spy you know about is an asset, not a liability, she reminded herself. A slow, calm smile touched her lips. It’s even personally fitting, she reflected. He’s known I had his sister as my serf. Used her for a brooder, probably knows she’s been serving pleasure. Torture, to a Yankee. Her hands touched the keys; she would have to find out what the perscomp was running. Carefully, Yolande, carefully. She can’t suspect, not for a moment.