The Stone Dogs Read online

  " Phffth," Myfwany said, spitting blood to one side. The matted lashes fluttered open. "It's—pfhth—not my blood, an' get this thing off me!" She kicked and shoved, freeing herself, then sat up and caught at Yolande's shoulders. "And I love yo', too." Suddenly they were laughing, embracing, with kisses that tasted of rank blood and fear and joy.

  "Touchin'," John said, dryly and a trifle breathlessly. The girls broke apart and rose, leaning on each other. Yolande's brother heaved the animal over on its back. "Female, nursin'." The teats along its belly were enlarged. "In through the lung, an' a perfect heart-shot," he continued. "Dead in the air."

  Myfwany gripped Yolande harder, and gave way to a single deep shudder. "Felt like someone fired it at me like a cannonball, an' it was sprayin' blood."

  Yolande felt her stomach knot with fear-nausea, and pushed it down; there had been no time before, and now it would be foolish. She slipped her arm down to rest around Myfwany's waist, unwilling to break contact, unwilling to let go the concrete feeling of life.

  "Bet there's kits in that-there cave," she said.

  The leopard cub mewled, and Machiavelli danced back from the box that held his fascinated regard, hissed, then turned tail and bolted up the tower stairs. Yolande heard Myfwany laugh, and gripped harder at the stone of the balustrade, biting at her lip and choking back a sob.

  "Sweet, what is it?" Myfwany asked.

  Yolande turned, to see her framed by the opened French doors of the lounging room; behind her the servants were scurrying out. The afternoon wind blew up from the gardens, cuffing with warm soft hands at red hair still damp and dark from the baths, plastering the thin cloth of the robe to her body.

  "I—" she breathed deeply, winning back control. Her head felt light, only vaguely connected to the rest of her. "I just realized again, yo' might have died, Myfwany. Yo' might be gone, right now."

  "So." The other smiled, warm and fond; then her expression grew serious, and she stretched out her hands toward the other, palms up. "Come to me. I'm here."

  The cub was looking doubtfully at the bottle. Yolande looked up from fastening her eardrops as it hissed.

  "Come on, eat, yo' little moron!" Myfwany said, pushing the bottle toward the spotted form. It tumbled backward in the blankets, crowding toward the back of the improvised cage the plantation carpenter had knocked together for them. The huge amber eyes were opened wide, and it made a pathetic gesture of menace with the too-large paws.

  "Oh, the poor thing!" That was Sofia, Myfwany's maid. She reached toward the leopard and yanked her hand back, sucking at the scratches and spitting curses in Sicilian.

  "Here," Yolande said, laughing. She picked up the comforter from the rumpled sheets of her bed and threw it over the cub, then clamped the wriggling form through the thick fabric while the others tucked it into a bundle.

  "Now, let's get the head free… right. Give me the bottle darlin'…" The cub was glaring and hissing again; she waited until it quieted a little, then dribbled milk on its muzzle. It squalled, but licked its fur as well, and she could almost see it pause mentally at the warm almost-familiar taste. "There, little tiger, that's bettah, isn't it?" Yolande moved the rubber teat closer, then gently brushed it against the cub's lips. It hesitated, then began to suck strongly; she let it feed for a moment, then brought the fingers of her other hand close enough for it to smell, rubbing along its jaw.

  "Lele, Sofia, that's how y'all does it," she said. "Ready to go down to dinner, darlin'?"

  "Sholy, love," Myfwany replied. The word was still new enough to send a stab of pleasure. "How do I look?" She stood and turned, holding out her arms.

  They were both dressed in evening wear, the neogrecian gowns that had been standard formal dress for Citizen women since the Classic Revival a century and more ago. The draped and folded chiton still felt a little strange; children did not wear such. The right shoulder was bare, and the end-fold hung over the left elbow. Myfwany's was a warm bronze color, edged in a turquoise that matched her eyes. Yolande had decided to stick with ivory-cream; ash-blonds tended to look washed-out in anything lighter.

  "Yo' look wonderful," Yolande said, running her fingers gently down the other's neck. "Ready to face the music?"

  "I didn't know yo' meant it literally," Myfwany said.

  Dinner was indoors today, it being still a little cold for dining on the terrace after sunset. The two girls had halted in the corridor outside the lounge where the family gathered before the evening meal, and they could hear the sound of harp and flute through the tall carved-ebony doors.

  "Oh, yo'," Yolande said. Then: "Oh, yo'." She made a few last-minute adjustments to the hairpin in the psyche-knot above her left ear. "I'm nervous. I mean, I feel, yo' know, different."

  "Love, yo' didn't have a big 'V fo' 'virgin' stamped on y' forehead, anyhows." Myfwany smiled heavy-lidded, and leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on the skin between Yolande's breasts, above the drape of her gown. "Besides, it's only fifty percent deflowerin'."

  "No fair, I cain't grab when we're all dressed up!" Yolande whispered, then chuckled.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Well… It wasn't like I expected. I mean, I knew it was a pleasure, everyone's always goin' on about it, but I didn't expect it to be so much, oh, fun. Like a tickle-fight, hey? An' I feel so much bettah."

  Myfwany joined in her laughter. "I think that depends on who, sweet," she said, and held out a hand. "Shall we go in?" Yolande took the hand in both of hers. "Myfwany, I want yo' to know something. As long as our names are spoken together, I'll never do anythin' to make yo' ashamed of me."

  "Nor will I," Myfwany said, equally grave. They linked arms and turned.

  The door swung open easily with a hand-push against one of the silver lion's heads that studded the night-black Calamander wood, into a space more dimly lit than the corridor. The room within was a long L-shape; the inner wall held bookshelves and a huge fireplace, the outer Flemish tapestries between tall windows. Cedar logs burned with an aromatic crackle, their light ruddy on the couches, settees, and low tables. The serf musicians were gathered unobtrusively in a corner, the Draka grouped around the hearth: her father and mother and brother, of course, and Aunt Alicia; her friends from school; the three overseers. This was a semi-formal occasion, to celebrate the successful hunt.

  "Greetin's," her father said with a slight bow, raising his brandy-snifter. "Honor to our leopard-killers." He was smiling, but there was real pride in the gesture.

  Yolande nodded back to the stocky figure in the dark velvet jacket and lace cravat, feeling a rush of love. The others raised a polite murmur and joined the toast before resuming their conversations. A housegirl brought round a tray of aperitifs, and the girls accepted glasses of chilled white wine with their free hands as they joined the loose grouping around the fire. She sipped, marveling at the tart refreshing taste, the sensual pleasure of fire-warmth on her skin; everything seemed new, everyone sharing her joy.

  "Congratulations again," John said, taking a wafer dabbed with beluga from a passing servant. He looked at their linked hands. "On all counts."

  Her mother looked up from a lounger; she had been talking to Rahksan, who sat beside her on a stool working listlessly at her inevitable embroidery.

  "Well, here's a cat that's found its way into the dairy," she said dryly. "Took long enough."

  "Mother," Yolande said, with a sound halfway between affection and exasperation.

  Veronica had been leaning against the mantelpiece. "An' about time," she added, grinning.

  Myfwany leaned closer to give Yolande a loss on the cheek. "My sentiments exactly," she said aloud. In a whisper: "They just teasin', sweet."

  "Don't I know it," Yolande replied, and realized that this time at least she did not mind; her heart knew as well as her head did that the words were without intent to hurt. Today nothing could diminish happiness, except the knowledge that today must end.

  She looked down at Rahksan; the serfs face was drawn tight
around the eyes and mouth, a look of suffering. Poor Tantie. She gave her friend's arm a squeeze.

  Just a second, love," she murmured, then crossed to sit on the lounger. "Y'all right, Tantie?" she asked softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. The official story was that Rahksan had been attacked, which would account for her being shaken. The Draka girl grimaced mentally at the memory of the scene in the stable, then put it aside with adolescent ruthlessness; nothing seemed strong enough to cast a shadow on the changing of her life. "Anythin' I can do fo yo'?"

  "No, thank y' kindly, Mistis 'Landa," Rahksan said. Some life returned to her face, and she reached up to pat the girl's hand. "I jes' need a little time, is all."

  "Which reminds me, time fo' an announcement," Johanna said casually. "In recognition of his quick and decisive action, Rahksan's son Ah' is bein' recommended as a candidate fo' State service, an' will be leaving in two months fo' preliminary testin' at the Janissary base in Nova Cartago."

  There were raised eyebrows among some of the Draka. The number of recruits needed was limited in these days of peace, and there was fierce competition for the available slots among the one and a half billion of the serf population. Recommendation was a privilege usually only given to exceptionally deserving cases, and Ali had been notorious as a troublemaker, aside from this latest incident. Of course, the Janissaries were not house serfs or field-hands, and qualities which made a man unsatisfactory on a plantation could be valuable in the armed services…

  Rahksan nodded deferentially to the congratulations, murmuring thanks. "I jes' hope he do well, Mistis," she said to Johanna. "He never goin' be happy here, that sure. Maybeso this the makin' of him." She blinked, her lashes wet. "But I don' see much of him now, that sure too."

  "Hey, don' be sad, Tantie," Yolande said, concerned. "He get leave now an' then, yo' sees him as often as Ma sees me or Edwina or Dionysia or John."

  A sigh. "That true." The Afghan smiled, wearily but with genuine warmth. "Congratulations fo' yaz an' y' friend, Mistis 'Landa. Good to see m'other chile's growin' strong an' happy."

  "Thank yo', Tantie," Yolande said, touched.

  Her mother reached out a finger and touched Rahksan's cheek, taking up a teardrop. "Speakin'of children, why don't yo' go an' talk to y' boy some, Rahksi?" Johanna looked up to meet her husband's eye; he nodded slightly, smiling. "See yo' later this evenin'."

  The Landholders and their guests walked through into the dining room—one of the smaller ones; there would be no point in eight people losing themselves in the halls meant for entertainment. This was spacious enough but cozy, a round rosewood table and sideboards; the white linen and burnished silverware shone beneath the chandelier, and the housegirls were laying out the appetizers: smoked salmon and foie gras and oysters nestling in beds of crushed ice. Yolande found herself and Myfwany seated to the right of her parents, the senior positions. The smells suddenly made her mouth water; it had been a long day, and she had skipped lunch.

  "My, that looks good," she said, as the serf laid salmon and capers on her plate. Another poured the first wine, a Valpolicella the color of straw. She sniffed, sipped.

  "Fifteen an' hollow legs," Johanna said. "Children… Oh, speakin' of which, Tom an' I have anothah announcement." She reached across and took her husband's hand. "We're havin' some mo'."

  Yolande choked on her wine. Myfwany thumped her back, but she could still hear John's glass hit the table with a heavy chunk as she coughed.

  "Yo' what, ma?" she gasped. She was the youngest of the four, and had had fifteen years of hearing Johanna's fervid relief that that particular duty to the Race was complete.

  "Loki yo' say!" her brother added, with a snort. "That's a surprise."

  Her father laughed, deep and rich. "Soul of the White Christ, everyone's Methuselah to their offspring," he said leaning back and grinning at their discomfiture. "Frig and Freya, boy, yo' goin' so slow on the grandchildren, we thought we'd show yo' how."

  "An' we're not exactly too old yet," Johanna said, raising a brow. Then, relenting: "Yo' youngsters do tease easy. Oh, we not doin' it personal; that would be too risky at my age, certain-sure. Not to mention barbaric an' uncomfortable. We had a couple dozen frozen ova stored by the Eugenics people, just goin' have them warmed up and borne by host-mothers, brooders. Finally they figured a way of havin' the unpleasant part done by the serfs." A bland look at Yolande. "Provided yo' approves, of course."

  "Certai— Oh, mother," Yolande said, casting an appealing eye at her friends. It was bad enough being teased by your contemporaries, but parents were much worse. She saw suppressed laughter, as her schoolmates examined their plates or the ceiling.

  "It'll be nice to have babies around again," she said. That was true enough; babies were even more fun than kittens. "An' they're no bother, after all."

  "Sho'ly will be nice," Johanna agreed, nodding. "The Eugenics people talkin' about improvements, as well. Now, about the party next week—"

  Chapter Five

  DATE: 07/06/67

  FROM: Techspec IV Camot Alden, Virunga Biocontrol Institute, Project (Classified), West Rift Province

  TO: Techspec VIII Carmen Fougard, Archona University, Biocontrol Department, Archona Province

  RE: Project (Classified), Viral Coding Subsection, Ituri Retro-66b6-03

  [Technical data deleted by order of Security Directorate.]

  … and I tell you, Cammie, when I saw the specs on that virus I nearly fainted, and then I nearly heaved my breakfast Damnedest retro-virus complex you ever saw—even managed to work its way into the lymphatic matter. Dormancy period—you won't believe this—up to ten years! The wild version would just rip the shit out of a human immune system; anyone who got it would be wide open for opportunistic infections. From the anthro evidence and the analysis of cognate primate carriers (green monkeys, mainly) I'd say it crossed over into the Ituri population Just about eighty to a hundred years ago. I'll be fucked if I know how, you'd need some sort of blood exchange, or body fluids at least. Human-human transmission would be easier, not pneumatic or contact but sex would do it. Possibly even an insect vector. The thing that gives me nightmares is the thought that it might have broken out into the general population when we swept the blacks there out into the compounds. They were just starting to do blood transfusions In the 1880s, so we might have got it and back then they'd have had no earthly prayer of beating it they couldn't even have identified it. Could have been the Black Death all over again. The gods' own luck most of those went into destructive-labor camps.

  Of course, it's lucky some survived in the Ituri pygmies, too. Anyway, its given us a ten-year jump on the SD project This is the perfect source of our basic viral carrier—particularly since there are direct neurological effects. Once you finish tweaking this, it'll be like a ripe fig stuffed with botulism.

  Biopsych Warfare:

  An Interdisciplinary Approach

  By Professor

  Colin Demoreaux von Sternheim

  Archona University Press, Archona

  2004

  PROVINCE OF SARMATIADOMINATION OF THE DRAKACRIMEAN MILITARY RESERVEAIR TRAINING SECTION15,000 METERSMARCH 10, 1973

  "Beep. Beep. Beep." The missile lock-on warning repeated itself with idiot persistence, a drone in the silenced cave-world of the pilot's helmet, sharper than the subliminal moan of the engines.

  "Shit," Yolande muttered to herself, throwing the aircraft into a series of wild jinks and swerves, just enough to keep the beeps from merging into the continuous drone of launch.

  She was half-reclining in the narrow cockpit of the Falcon VI turboram fighter, immobile in a hydraulic suit that cushioned her against acceleration and a clamshell couch that left nothing mobile but fingers and head. The sky above her was blue-black through the near-invisible canopy, here on the fringes of space; ahead was the smooth semicircle of crystal-sandwich screen, the virtual control panel with its multiple information displays. Mach 3.5 and climbing, and nothing on the fucking screens, nothing at al
l.

  It was a testing exercise, another name for sadistic mental torture. They might have programmed an error into her machine. Or simply cut the input from its electrodetectors; it was resentfully acknowledged that the Alliance was ahead in ECM and sensor-technology, and this could be a test of how she would deal with that in combat. Her lips curled away from her teeth behind the facemask. The Domination was not behind in engines and materiels, so use that…

  Her hands moved on the pressure-sensitive pads inside the restrainers. The Falcon pitched forward and power-dove, straight down. Something soft and heavy and strong gripped her and pushed, pushed until she could feel the soft tissues trying to spread away from her bones and gray crept in at the corners of her eyes. The suit squeezed, fighting the G's and pressing the blood back toward her brain, but nothing could make it easier to breathe or stop the feeling that her ribs were about to break back into her chest. Mach 4, and the altimeter unreeled; 15,000 meters was not far at these speeds. The indicator hesitated in its maddening beep, then resumed.

  "Now!" she yelled to herself, and yanked at the pads, pulling the Falcon up in a wrenching curve that stressed it to ten tenths of capacity. The pressure grew worse, crushing, vision fading, hands immobile but the AI would continue the curve, hold Wotandammit hold don't grayout not now you stupid cow— The red telltales blinked back to amber; Mach 3.8, 6,000 meters, half the altitude gone in seconds. The orthodox maneuver, and not good enough, the lock-on was still sounding and altitude was so much easier to lose than regain. Airbrakes. Dump velocity, emergency mode, cycle the vent. The high-pitched roar of the ramjet faltered, stopped.

  The airplane shuddered, thrumming, rattling her teeth, ramming her body forward against the clamshell as it slowed; not as good a fit as a body-tailored squadron unit would be. Might be, if she passed. Her mind drew a picture of how it would look from outside: the long oval of the fighter's fuselage, the stubby forward-swept wings, edges flexing and thuttering as the spoilers popped open along the trailing edge.