This evening . . .
“You bit me, Mistis,” Marya said.
Yolande bent and kissed the U-shaped bruise on the inside of the serf’s thigh. The bedroom was dark, and she had set the wall for a winter landscape in Tuscany.
“I was excited,” she said, lying back. True, by Loki, lord of lies. I didn’t expect that. It was odd, she felt no hatred. I suppose I burned all that out long ago, for her.
“It usually doesn’t take you like that, Mistis.”
“It’s the news,” Yolande said. “Here, rub my back.” She rolled on her stomach, felt the serf’s breath warm on the damp skin of her neck as her fingers kneaded at the muscles along her spine.
“What news, Mistis?”
Yolande made herself hesitate. “Well, it can’t hurt now. No point in bein’ overcorrect. Remember the good news I got back when, in Archona?”
“I thought it must be important,” Marya said calmly, with a hint of a wink. “Certainly set you at me, Mistis.”
Are her fingers trembling? Yolande thought. Good. Sweat a little. Don’t stop to think.
The Draka laughed. “It’s our secret weapon,” she said. “There really is one. I always knew they must have somethin’ planned . . . A biological, to disable the Yankee crews in near-orbit. Really nice piece of work; code name Stone Dogs. It’s a stone killer, too! Delicate trigger, modulated microwave emission. We go to War-Condition Alpha tomorrow.”
The serf’s hands were shaking now. Yolande put a raised eyebrow into her voice. “What’s the matter, Marya? Don’t worry, yo aren’t in any danger. Should be a cakewalk, and anyways, this is the best-defended place on Luna.” She pulled the other close and kissed her. “Think I’ll get a land grant in California, after,” she continued. “Anyways, stay close to the quarters, the tubeways’ll be closed down.” The lights dimmed toward sleepset.
“On second thought, I’ve got a few things fo’ you to do. There may be some surface damage, worst-case. That crate of Constantia ’87 Uncle Eric sent, fo’ that cruise on the Mamba.” She felt the serf jerk slightly at the mention of the yacht. “Be a shame to lose it, even if that damned toy’s not here when Gwen gets back fo’ the victory party. Go on out tomorrow, and supervise strippin’ all the personal effects out, bring them back to quarters. No droppin’ hints, now!”
* * *
“What?” Yolande looked up from her desk at the holo image of Transportation Central, the traffic control nexus for Aresopolis.
“The Mamba, Commandant, we would have appreciated notification of a lift!”
Yolande felt a cold pride at the expression of mild surprise on her face. Of course, it’s a good thing they don’t have a medical sensor going on me, she thought stonily. The face in the screen was New Race; they could control their heartbeats. She wondered how it felt . . .
“So would I,” she replied drily. “Since I am here, and have authorized no such mission. Where is the pilot?”
“I . . . ” The hawk-featured young face took on an imperceptible air of desperation. She knew the feeling; the sinking sensation of bearing very bad news to someone far up the chain of command. “You pilot is in his quarters, Arch-Strategos. That was why we assumed, ah—”
“Don’t assume, Tetrarch, do. I presume you’ve hailed?”
“Of cou—Yes, ma’am. No response.”
There wouldn’t be, Yolande thought. She had very carefully had all the com systems decommissioned for preventative maintenance. An investigation would find that significant, but far too late.
“Well, we’ll have to assume an unauthorized lift,” she said, frowning with the expression of a high-ranking officer forced to intervene in trivial matters. “Issue a warnin’ to the Mamba and whoever’s aboard, to surrender or be fired upon. Alert the orbital platforms.”
“Ma’am, it’s, ah, the trajectory indicates a boost for translunar space. Mars is, well—”
“I’m familiar with orbital mechanics, Tetrarch,” she said. Stop tormenting the poor boy. Her fingers touched the desktop. “On that burn, the Belt would be the logical destination. Hmmm. The Mamba’s fairly valuable, but there’s nothin’ on board we’d be all that embarrassed fo’ the Yankees to get . . . Worth a chance on not scrubbin’ it. Dependin’ on who’s aboard. Get Merarch Tomlins on the screen, we’ll see if we can set up an intercept.”
“You what? You pillow-talked a bedwench that, and then let her escape?”
The Archon’s image was alone before her. For a moment Yolande felt a sensation she had not known for many years: raw, physical fear.
He looked down at the copy of her report, and the fury on his face went cold and blank. “This had to be deliberate on you part. Usurpation of command prerogative as well as treasonous incompetence.”
“She was an agent, Excellence,” Yolande continued expressionlessly. “If you’ll examine the appendix to that report, you’ll see we found clear evidence of dataplague sabotage. No way of knowin’ how long this has been goin’ on, either.” A skull grin split her face, below eyes that were edged in red. “We went aftah the Yankee personnel. They planted a, a virus in our comps. Typical, isn’t it?” Her hand twitched slightly as she reached for the glass of water. “The fact remains, Excellence, that we no longer have an intercept or strike option on the Mamba. Inside of three days, the Alliance craft will intercept, and shortly thereafter they’ll know about the Stone Dogs.”
She waited the seconds it took for light to reach Earth and return, on this most secure of links.
Eric von Shrakenberg rose behind his desk, and she felt his will beating on her like waves on a granite headland. “I will have you shot. I will have you fuckin’ shot!”
“That is you prerogative, Excellence,” Yolande said. And I don’t care nearly as much as I thought I would, she realized. Yes, the body reacted: sweat rolling down from her armpits, muscles tensing in millennial fight-flight reflex. But somewhere deep in her soul, she would accept it. “If you wishes to relieve the Commandant of this installation just befo’ the . . . outbreak of hostilities.”
She saw that ram home. “Use it, or lose it,” she continued.
Silence, for long minutes. At last he looked up again, older than she remembered. “Why?”
“I—” A pause, while she considered how it could be said. “I disagreed with you hesitation, but I would have accepted that. On a professional level. But you gave me a weapon, Uncle Eric. And I decided to use it. Fo’ . . . personal reasons. Love and hate.” Another pause. “And afterward—if there is an afterward”—she laid her sidearm on the desk, in range of the receptor—“I’ll save you the trouble, iff’n it’s still important.”
The ancient, weary eyes stared into hers. “The fate of worlds, fo’ personal reasons?” he said wonderingly.
“Are there any other kind?” she answered.