Drakon Page 14

  She turned, and Alice felt the full impact of the green-eyed stare. In private, with the inner circle, she didn't bother to tone it down.

  "It's going to be hell, isn't it?" Alice said quietly, hearing her own Australian accent grow stronger. Images ran through her mind: Nagasaki, the newsreels of Buchenwald, history classes. "Like us and the abos, only worse."

  "Concentration camps, you mean? Plagues?" She shook her head indulgently. "No, you can't hurt us, so we won't use extreme measures. We'll conquer you, then domesticate you."

  It'll be a long time and the Project may not work. And maybe it won't be so bad.

  "You said that the molehole might not work," Alice said. "What then?"

  "Then I'll take the planet myself," Gwen said coolly, looking out the window and resting her chin on a palm. "That'd be more difficult, but an interesting challenge, in a way."

  And there's only one of her here, Alice thought. And . . . it's too late for second thoughts, anyway. Even if they all come through, they couldn't be worse than Hitler or Stalin or that awful thing in Cambodia.

  "We'll only kill the ones who resist," Gwen confirmed. "I expect to be put in charge here, and the sky will be the limit for my administrative Household. It really will be a Utopia, of sorts, for the rest. No more wars or terrorism, no more sickness or poverty or famine, no more environmental problems. A highly evolved parasite sees that the host body stays fit; and we're nothing if not highly evolved."

  "People will still fight," Alice said. "Some will."

  Gwen nodded. "That's humans for you. Of course, they'll only be humans in the first generation or so, and we drakensis are immortal. We're good at waiting."

  Alice paused with the fork halfway to her mouth. Gwen poured more of the chilled white wine from the carafe.

  "Not human?" Alice said. The fear welled up a little, then sank.

  "No, Homo sapiens sapiens is far too risky to have around in large numbers. We'll use a tailored paravirus to alter your heredity to Homo servus. Don't worry, it's not a big change, much closer to human than I am. Some neurological alterations, the endocrine system, hormones, the vomeronasal organ. Clean up all the hereditary defects at the same time, cancer, obesity, Alzheimer's disease, and so forth. Servus are still people, they've got personalities and thoughts, they just aren't aggressive or rebellious—or not much. It's not like the old days before the change to the New Race, whips and torture and that sort of thing. Not necessary. Why, these days a lot of the servus aren't even personally owned, they can even have property, to a certain extent."

  She smiled nostalgically. "Very sweet people, actually, and I miss them."

  Alice relaxed again. Odd. I never get as worried when she's around, even though she scares the shit out of me. If Gwendolyn was typical, they didn't seem cruel, at least. Beautiful, terrifying, awesome, but not sadistic.

  "You can tell if I'm lying," Alice said. "What am I supposed to do?"

  Gwen moved; so swiftly that Alice had no time to jerk away. Suddenly her face was inches from the Australian's.

  "Trust me," she said. Alice swallowed and nodded, shuddering slightly as the others eyes gripped hers and held them.

  After a moment Gwen returned to her seat: "What's on the agenda?"

  "Primary Belway Securities. They're the logical choice for a public offering—did I say something?"

  Gwen was grinning to herself. "No, no," she said. "I've had a . . . previous contact with the firm. Go ahead."

  "We should sound them out, and set up a preliminary meeting in a few months. Shall I go ahead with it? And where would you like it set up, in New York or Nassau or . . . ?"

  "I think we'll have them over here," Gwen said. "A more controlled environment; it'll put us at an advantage—and with investment bankers, you need it. We'll get the hierarchies squared away before we transfer the proceedings to New York." She wrinkled her nose. "Race Spirit, but that place stinks. How you humans manage to breathe in a fog of burnt hydrocarbons and sewage is beyond me."

  The servant came and removed the tray, leaving a plate of pastries and a coffee service. Alice looked on in frank envy as Gwen ate; she knew it took six or seven thousand calories a day to maintain the Draka's supercharged metabolism, but it was still aggravating.

  Gwen saw her glance. "There's a pill we had, back in our late 1990s," she said. "Metaboline. It adjusted the basal metabolism to allow humans any level of calorie intake. I'll have some run up."

  Alice was smiling as she left.

  ***

  "She seems to be working out well," Tom said. He picked a wedge of tomato out of the salad and ate it.

  Gwen nodded. "You caught all that?"

  "The monitor system is working fine." He glanced out the door after the Australian. "Have you, ah . . . ?" He raised an eyebrow.

  "Not yet, I don't want to stress her too heavily. In a day or two."

  He shook his head, grinning in admiration. "How do you do it? I'd have sworn she was straight, and I'm not—or not very."

  Gwen was paging through the report again. She spoke without looking up:

  "Ah, well, both behaviors are latent in any individual human; there's a whole complex of genes that determine which is dominant and to what degree, and they interact with environmental factors at triggering stages in the development process. It's a spectrum, not a binary opposition, even in humans; both are always active in a drakensis. Anyway, my pheromones are panspecific—they fill all the receptors in your vomeronasal organ. Think of it as fooling your hypothalamus and limbic system. It doesn't work on all humans, but it will on most. On Alice, certainly; I can scent it, although she doesn't know it yet."

  "I won't quarrel with the results," he said. "It seems to take more than one of us to keep up with you."

  Her glance lingered on him, and she saw him flush and a light sweat break out across his brow.

  "True," she said. "That's a byproduct of the aggression reflex, hormonal. I don't produce much estrogen unless I decide to ovulate; there's another set of hormones—they're somewhat similar in structure to the androgens in your human system—that controls secondary sexual functions in drakensis, with only minor differences between the genders . . . . It's complex."

  He swallowed and shifted. Gwen listened to his heartbeat increase and inhaled to take his scent.

  "The bankers are coming?" he said, changing the subject.

  "Yes, in a few months. It's the only way to raise the operating capital we'll need. There shouldn't be any basic difficulties; from their point of view we're a very good prospect for a public stock offering, so we should be ready to get down to serious negotiations by the winter. I want everything very tight by then, Tom. No mistakes, nothing to disturb them. We'll be moving the main locus of our operations to New York, and there'll be far less margin for errors and coverups."

  She rose and began to undress. "As for right now . . . take your clothes off, Tom." He smiled and obeyed.

  "Your wish is my command." Gwen nodded.

  "And kneel to me," she said, putting her palms behind her on the table and leaning her weight on them.

  Chapter Eight

  Jennifer Feinberg opened the door of her apartment and put an automatic foot out to block the cat.

  "You wouldn't like it out there," she said, swinging it closed and snicking home the multiple locks. "I wish I could stay home."

  She dumped her attache case on the table, walked into the kitchen to put the water on for tea, and hit the play button on the answering machine.

  "Jennifer, this is your mother—"

  "Oh, puh-leez," she groaned, fast-forwarding.

  "Miss Feinberg, I have to speak with you. Could you—"

  She hit the stop button with a small scream of fear, closing her eyes as the machine rattled on the sofa-side table. Control your breathing, she told herself. Her hands were still shaking as she punched the number the policeman had given her into the phone.

  "Carmaggio," a voice said.

  "This is Feinberg,"
she managed to say, looking around her apartment.

  The heavy December rain was streaking down the windows, and she hadn't had time to turn on the lights. She was sweating under her outdoor coat. The studio smelled of sachet and tea and, very faintly, of cat. It was home, but right then it felt very lonely.

  "Yes, Ms. Feinberg?" Trained patience on the other end of the line.

  "I'm, ah, sorry for calling you so late." God, that's inane. It was seven-thirty, and neither of them worked regular hours. "But the same man called me here at home."

  "What did he say?"

  "The same thing, that he has to talk to me about Steven! Look, if he has my home number, he has my address. He knows where I live."

  "We're pretty sure this isn't the perpetrator in the Fischer case, Ms. Feinberg," the detective said soothingly. "But it might be an important lead."

  "So find him!" she said, and hung up.

  Thank God I'm leaving the country, she thought. Three years and she'd nearly forgotten the murder. Then someone had to start phoning and reminding her of it, God.

  For a few minutes she slumped, then sighed and got up to take off her coat and pour milk in the cat's bowl. She drew the curtains and turned on the CD player: La Traviata.

  "I should put on an exercise tape," she told herself.

  She put her fingers on her stomach and looked at herself in the window. That's not fat for a woman my age. Damn all models, anyway. They were mutants, and they unloaded a whole bargeload of guilt on normal people. She was only thirty-four.

  The tea was soothing. She touched the answering machine again: "Jennifer, this is your—"

  A little of the hot liquid spilled on her fingers as she zipped past the second message from her mother. Still trying to set me up with accountants. Marrying her mother had been the only really big mistake of her father's life. The next message was from the office—they must have sent it while she was in the middle of her commute. So much for office hours.

  "This is Marlene, Jennifer." The managing director's executive assistant. She should be calling her Ms. Feinberg, but Jennifer didn't like to make a fuss about it. "The boss wants the last stuff on IngolfTech ready by Friday morning."

  Oh, and why not forty days of rain while he's at it? There went her evenings for the week.

  "Jenny, it's Louisa. Are we still on for lunch Wednesday?"

  Do I really want to listen to my best friend's man troubles? Then again, it would be a chance to complain about the sexist pig of a managing director, the crank calls, and the fact that she didn't have any man problems right now.

  "Okay, lunch with Louisa," she mumbled to herself.

  "Ms. Feinberg, you're in danger and the police can't—"

  "SHUT UP!" she screamed. The cat took off across the apartment in a tawny blur, and she hit the answering machine hard enough to make her hand hurt. "Leave me alone!"

  The trip to the Bahamas couldn't come soon enough for her.

  Her fingers shook as she punched the detective's number again.

  ***

  Government House in Nassau reminded Gwen a little of old buildings in out-of-the-way corners of the Domination: a large square building of pink-stuccoed stone, with a portico on the front supported by four tall pillars. Steps of black and white stone ran down between cast-iron lampstands, ending in a marble statue of Christopher Columbus. Palm and cypress trees gave inadequate shade, and police in white colonial-looking uniforms were directing a heavy foot-traffic of tourists, bureaucrats, and visitors. Gwen stood quietly, scanning the crowds with a steady back-and-forth motion that automatically eliminated those outside the search parameters.

  "Ah," she said. "There they are." Upwind, and she could scent the metal and gun oil of the weapons under their coats. A tang of apprehension from the men, wary but determined. "Punctual."

  "What do they want, really?" Dolores asked nervously.

  "What we've got, essentially," Gwen replied.

  Tom looked at his watch. "At least they didn't keep insisting on having the meeting on American territory."

  Gwen nodded. "They're hungry. If we give them some of what they want—and dangle the rest—they'll jump through hoops. Just remember your briefings, and keep calm."

  She led her party down the stairs to the statue. The two American agents stood to meet her. Tom looked them over rapidly.

  "Strongarm specialists," he said subvocally. "Bad sign."

  "Not necessarily," she replied. "They do have that little affray in the warehouse to worry about. It's natural to take precautions."

  "John Andrews," the human said, when they stood face to face. "For the United States government."

  "Gwendolyn Ingolfsson," she replied. "For IngolfTech." And the Domination of the Draka.

  He had quite good control, for a human, Gwen decided. He probably used that smile as part of it, immobilizing the small muscles around the mouth and eyes. She took his scent: fear, slight but definite. Not directed at her, so much, as at . . . ah. He must be afraid of what he thinks I represent. Gwen was dressed to throw the two Americans off-balance; Italian white-cotton tropical dress with a narrow gold belt, high-strap sandals, sunglasses, a broad straw hat tied with a silken handkerchief dangling in one hand.

  "Well, shall we do that lunch thing?" she asked.

  Tom strangled a chuckle, and Alice didn't bother. Andrews's answering expression looked painted-on for an instant, then puzzled.

  Good, Gwen thought. If the human didn't know what was going on, he'd fall back on pre-scripted versions of what must be happening.

  The entrance to Greycliff was bustling, well-dressed parties arriving under the pillars of the veranda. She'd chosen it with malice aforethought; it was just across West Hill Street from Government House, and she knew the two American agents would spot the plainclothesmen from the Nassau police hovering in the background. That would probably keep them from trying anything drastic; the great powers of this world were absurdly solicitous of the little fish, by the standards of the history she'd learned and lived. She smiled graciously as they went through the wrought-iron gate in the whitewashed stone wall.

  "My associate, Thomas Cairstens," she introduced. "My executive assistant, Alice Wayne; and Dolores Pastrana, personal secretary to the board."

  Handshakes all around, and what the computer probe she'd launched told her were the agent's real names. Oddly incomplete files, but possibly the humans were keeping the important bits on hardcopy.

  "Shall we go in?"

  The maître d'hotel and his assistants were all attention; she and the rest of the IngolfTech staff from the Nassau headquarters were regulars, and exceedingly generous tippers, and she'd sent gifts around at Christmas and Easter. All part of the process.

  Bright sunlight leaked through the louvered shutters; there was a pleasant hum of conversation and the scent of food. Gwen left the conversation to her humans for the first few minutes, judging and analyzing. Andrews was the dominant of the pair, that was plain. He was looking at her more frequently, puzzled, trying to sense the hierarchy of her group. Cairstens's type he recognized. Respect, combined with underlying dislike, she decided. And he's realizing I really am in charge. He's surprised at that. She finished her soup and began demolishing the seventeen-ounce pepper steak that followed it; his eyes widened slightly as she ate, and at the side orders of pommes frites. Then flicked down to her body and back again. He was having a salad.

  Right, he's off-balance enough, she decided, sipping at her wine.

  "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting," she said. "I'm most anxious for a cooperative relationship with the American government."

  Andrews nodded tightly. "You'll understand we're a bit anxious," he said. "With the current world situation . . ."

  She smiled. "You can be fairly certain I'm not working for Jihad al-Moghrebi," she pointed out gently. "And besides, isn't that mostly the Europeans' worry?"

  Her human ancestors had mostly ground Islam out of existence, back in first century B.F.S. That it w
as allowed to flourish here was another sign of anarchic disorder. It was a wonder this bunch hadn't wiped themselves out long ago.

  "Damned little they're doing about it, except turning back boatloads of refugees," he said. "Shall I be frank?"

  "By all means." And I can believe just as much as I please, she added to herself.

  "We don't know who and what you are, and who you're associated with," he said. "We do know that you have valuable information which shouldn't be allowed to fall into the wrong hands."

  Gwen chuckled, a flash of white teeth against the olive tan of her face. "Well, that's all a matter of definition, now isn't it?"

  The Americans' bodies tensed unconsciously, their pupils dilating. A fight-or-flight response; they expected bargaining.

  "I'll lay my cards on the table," Gwen said. And you can believe as much as you please. "I'm not going to tell you my own identity. There are interests who'd be very glad to see me . . . out of the picture."

  A fractional nod from Andrews, a subliminal grunt from Debrowski. Ah. Interesting. That confirmed something they already thought they knew. I must look into that.

  "However, you know my group has international participation."

  "Mueller. And Singh. Not a recommendation, considering their records."

  "The good doctors aren't in a political mode anymore," she said.

  Quite true. They were her serfs, her slaves, albeit favored ones.

  "And in any case, this goes well beyond them. We—my group and I—have decided to tap the world of . . . nonconventional science. Outside the orthodox hierarchies, with their fixed ideas of what's possible and what isn't. There's an enormous amount of dross, but every now and then there's a pearl . . . and the pearls have been going to waste for want of a systematic search. With modern information-processing methods and some imagination, such a search is possible."

  Andrews ate a forkful of his salad. "Which leaves the question of motivations. Secret international associations interested in cutting-edge technologies, with members associated with dubious regimes and groups"—he glanced aside at Cairstens, who smiled back toothily—"or with no visible pasts at all, well . . ."