Gestapo Mars (16 page)

“We of the Dragon Society arranged a revolution and plunged the Reich into disarray,” Mueller explained. “A fat and happy population will always find something to complain about—food prices are too high, the press isn’t free enough, too much red tape for abortion vouchers. The slightest inconvenience can be made to seem like the greatest injustice.

“But tell people the problems are the fault of some villain, and you’ll win them over every time.”

I drained the tumbler, filled it again. It might have been the best scotch I’d ever had. I was vaguely aware that Mueller was still talking.

“These same people will come running for the government to save them when the chips are down,” Mueller continued. “That’s where the Coriandon come in. When confronted with godless aliens, the populace will demand protection, and a panicked and ineffectual Reich will have little choice but to accept new leadership. Leadership provided by me, and my compatriots. The failed, gutless, sluggish bureaucrats will make way for a new Reich, reborn in fire and blood. A Reich that will sweep aside the alien scum of the galaxy in favor of human rule.”

Scotch. If I kept drinking the scotch, Mueller’s voice would fade to smug background noise. The chattering squirrel who meant to take over the galaxy with speeches and propaganda. It was ridiculous.

Then again, maybe it was working. The planet
had
fallen, and I was light years out of the loop. For all I knew, planets were falling the same way all over the Reich. Armand was dead. There was trouble even back on Mars.

I turned back to the scotch for answers. It was worth a try.

Mueller continued as if I were hanging on his every word.

“The people need only one thing more,” he said. “A symbol. A focus for their hopes.”

“The daughter of the Brass Dragon.” I guess I was listening after all.

“Just so,” Mueller said. “From the lost line of the original men who tamed Mars. The hardest of them, the most fearsome. A man who spilled oceans of blood to keep the Reich strong and pure. The daughter is a direct descendant.”

I gulped scotch, sighed.

“What’s all this naturalist stuff anyway?”

“That’s what they call us on the mainland.” Mueller said
mainland
as if it were a place where the tribal savages lived. “The galaxy is meant for humans. The Reich has let far too many alien species settle within our borders. They bring corrupt ideas.”

I had no idea what he was worried about. It wasn’t as if we could mate with them and produce bug-eyed half breeds.

“And there’s more,” Mueller said. “A kind of purity that’s far more important. For nearly two centuries, men have been augmenting themselves. Adding metal to their arms and legs to make them stronger and faster. Computers in their heads to make them think better. Humanity is turning itself into one big connected machine, all plugged into the central computer. So what does that mean?

“I’ll tell you. It means men and women don’t have to try anymore. If they want to be better, they don’t have to work for it, don’t have to
achieve
. They can just buy a little trinket and plug it in. If a man wants to learn Italian or Chinese or Martian trader dialect, they can just download it right into their brain. Everyone can be equally superior, which means nobody can be anybody, really. Soon there will be no such thing as failure, and that renders success meaningless.

“We’re going to give humans back their humanity.”

“That’s a nice speech and a pretty philosophy.” I finished the last of the scotch in my tumbler. It had gone weak with the melted ice. “But you’re out of scotch, and now I’m bored.”

Mueller chuckled. “So you won’t join us?”

“I didn’t say that. As you pointed out, the current iteration of the Reich left me to rot in stasis. If you hadn’t manipulated the rebels into rousing me, I’d still be there. And I’m flesh and blood, so that should make you happy.” Never mind I’d been programmed just as well as any computer. “Let’s say I find that my loyalties at the moment are… in flux.”

I had to assume the room was equipped with heart scanners and other sensors to monitor blood pressure and pupil dilation, but I was pretty sure I’d had enough scotch to foul the readings. They’d have to do better if they wanted to catch me in a lie. Probably I was just being paranoid, but the scotch really was excellent, so I didn’t mind taking the precaution.

“Perhaps we can convince you to remain as our guest,” Mueller said. “If you see what we do here, it might nudge you favorably in our direction.”

“By all means,” I said. “Put me down for the full tour.”

T
he central hub of the installation was a great domed crossroad. Two-dozen broad corridors emptied into a central atrium, the glass dome rising multiple stories overhead, blue sky and sunshine pouring in from above. The atrium seemed also to serve as some kind of central meeting place, and men and women hung about in twos and threes, conversing. All wore expensive clothing and eyed us with mild curiosity as we passed.

“Where are we exactly?” I asked Mueller. “I mean, on an island, yes, but what sort of place is this?”

“I’ll show you.”

He escorted me down a long side hall and we stepped into an elevator. He tapped some kind of code into a keypad and we went up quite a long way, then stepped out onto a long observation platform at the top of a tall tower. The tower was the pinnacle of the main dome, which was surrounded by five smaller domes. It was a big place, bigger still if it extended very far underground.

I looked out past the installation. The island in every direction was made of impassible mangrove swamp, all the way to the sea.

“We like our privacy,” Mueller said. “The only way in is through the secret underwater path to the submarine pens. The swamps are far too thick for a landing.”

I looked up. “They could come from above.”

“And where would they land? Anyway, there’s a laser matrix five hundred feet over our heads. Anything that tried to fly in, hoverbots or glider squadrons, they’d be cut to ribbons. And any Reich agent who attempts to infiltrate will be detected because all of the modern agents are corrupted with enhancements.” Mueller shook his head. “Not that I’m worried. The rebels are crawling over the remains of the cities, scavenging for food, and the Reich is light years away scrambling to defend itself against the Coriandon.”

“Who lives under these domes?”

“The best and the brightest,” Mueller said. “Those with resources, and also vision. It’s an achievement, this place.”

“But it’s not enough.”

His face very slowly darkened. “No.”

“What now?”

“You need to pay a visit to Doctor Turner.”

“I thought I’d already been checked, head to foot,” I said.

Mueller shook his head. “Not that kind of doctor.”

* * *

“I’m Doctor Turner.” She stood aside and gestured into her office. “Call me Paige. Please come in.”

She wore a gray skirt tight over wide hips. Gray jacket. High-end synthetic cream blouse, clasped at the throat by a mother-of-pearl brooch. Short, only coming up to my chin, wavy auburn hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her eye makeup and lipstick were a matching slate blue, a style I’d seen a few times back in St. Armstrong. She had a sharp angular face which was as severe as it was pretty.

Turner indicated that I should sit on a low, furry couch along the far wall of her office. She sat primly in a swivel chair facing me, ankles crossed, back straight.

“Mr. Mueller told you what I do?” she asked.

“You’re a psychiatrist.”

“Does that disturb you?”

“No,” I said. “Does it disturb you?”

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Turner said. “But this is a closed community, living in accordance with certain guidelines. We can’t risk a new person introducing a psychosis to the population.”

“People here all have their minds right, do they?”

“I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” she said. “Just relax and answer naturally.”

If you’ve seen any of the old holovids, you know how this goes. The psychiatrist asks questions—mother, childhood, fears, dreams. Did I hate my father? Did I masturbate? She pecked notes into a compu-tablet until I was beginning to think the real test was to see how much tedium I could tolerate. I answered the questions on autopilot, wondering how long we planned to go on like this.

Dr. Turner set aside her compu-tablet and stood. She pulled a pin from her hair bun and her wavy locks fell down past her shoulder.

“You don’t mind some music, do you?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Computer,” Turner said. “Play ambient jazz.”

Music seeped from hidden speakers. It had the flow of improvisation jazz, but sounded more like random musicians standing in a loose group each waiting for the other to discover what song they were playing. The volume seemed too high to facilitate meaningful conversation.

Turner sat on the edge of the couch, next to me. “Some of my patients recline. Feel free if it will put you more at ease.”

“I’m good,” I said. “Not my first time sitting up.”

She put a hand on my thigh. “Seriously. I want you to feel as if this is a relaxed environment. A
very
relaxed environment.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“As I said before,” Turner said, moving her hand farther up my thigh, “we’re a closed community here. We see a lot of the same faces, over and over again. It’s new and exciting when we have a chance at fresh blood.”

Then she removed all possible doubt where her hand was going.

She squeezed.

My pants grew tight.

“Is this some new form of psychiatry?” I asked.

“Let’s just say it’s therapeutic for both parties.” She leaned in and kissed me hard on the lips.

I kissed back. She still had a firm grip on me with one hand, her other one going behind my head to hold me in place, her tongue darting in and out of my mouth. My hands went inside her jacket to cup both breasts through the sheer material. A flimsy, lacy bra underneath. Material too thin to hide her rapidly hardening nipples.

She kissed her way across my face, nibbled my earlobe. I felt her hot breath on my ear as she whispered, “Shatterstorm.”

I went stiff when I heard the word.

The other kind of stiff.

Shit.

“I’ve been waiting and waiting for somebody to come,” she whispered. “I think I’ve removed all of the electronic spy devices, but I can’t be sure. I’ve turned the music up to cover our conversation.”

Her hands worked my zipper and pulled me out. She stood, hiked up her skirt and wriggled out of black lace panties, kicked them away. She positioned herself over me, grabbed me again, and put me inside. I bucked my hips and she gasped as I went to the hilt. She quickly found a rhythm, rocking back and forth.

“If there are spying devices,” I whispered, “won’t this seem suspicious?”

“No.” She picked up the pace, her round ass slapping my thighs, a little grunt squeezing out of her on every down thrust. “I’m supposed to examine you, make sure you weren’t programmed with subconscious assassination commands, but I’m also supposed to get close to you. Make sure you see things our way, and want to join us.

“I… can be… very… convincing.”

She threw her head back and shivered, mouth open, eyes shut tight.

“That’s a little one,” she said. “I always have one or two little ones before the big one.”

I grabbed two big handfuls of her plump ass and thrust as hard as I could. I was heading for the big one myself.

She bent over to whisper in my ear again.

“What are the orders from Mars?”

“Kill her,” I whispered back.

“Good,” she said. “I’ve been planning. I’ve hid away weapons. They have something in mind for you, but I don’t know what it is. You need to kill her before they implement whatever that plan is.” She increased her speed, humping and humping and humping. “Yes… kill her… yes… kill… kill…

“YES!”

“
T
ell me again what all this is about?” I asked.

“A reception. To welcome you,” Paige Turner said.

“I like how you’re dressed.”

She smiled. Her dress was of some fabric that might as well have been mist clinging to her body, red but transparent, her curves plain underneath.

“Typical for this sort of affair,” she said. “As is your garb.”

I wore loose silk trousers and shirt, a garish pattern of gaudy colors. Pajamas really. Slippers so light I could have been walking on a cloud.

“Come.” She took my arm. “Everyone is waiting.”

We walked into the reception.

It was a large domed area, not as big as the domed crossroad, and there was no blue sky above, but a slow swirl of festive colored lights. The place had been fashioned to resemble some kind of garden area with grottos and fountains and thick grape vines climbing up trellises. There was something vaguely Roman about the whole setup.

Mueller approached me wearing a similar set of pajamas. He held a silver goblet in one fist and smiled crookedly at me.

“Ah, the guest of honor.” He turned to the rest of the throng, lifting his goblet high and gesturing grandly at me with his other hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the newest addition to our elite community. Carter Sloan.”

Polite applause rippled through the throng. Smiles and nods in my direction.

“They all have questions and want to meet you, but don’t worry, they won’t crowd you all at once,” Mueller assured me. “Some of the more important council members might circulate past sooner or later, to welcome you, but there’s no pressure. It’s a purely social event.”

“I’m sure I’ll have a good time.”

“I guarantee it,” Mueller said. “We’re a very intimate community, and rather free with each other at parties like this. You should consider it a completely safe environment, and please remember that there’s no judgment here. Doctor Turner will be more than happy to show you the ropes, I’m sure.” Mueller smiled at us again and drifted back into the depths of the crowd.

Turner took me by the arm and steered me toward a table laden with food and drink. It was strange not to feel hungry, after my time fleeing from the scavengers, but none of the food tempted me. I did happily accept a goblet of wine. A single sip told me it was an excellent vintage.
Score one for the Dragon Nazis.
They knew how to live well.