Victor
Durkheim came to visit Victor in the hospital. As always, the head of State Security’s detachment at the Havenite embassy on Terra was curt and abrupt.
“Nothing really serious,” he muttered. “Spectacular set of cuts and bruises, but nothing worse. You’re lucky.”
Durkheim was thin to the point of emaciation. His bony, sunken-cheeked face was perched on the end of a long and scrawny neck. Standing at the foot of the quick-heal tank and staring down at him, the SS citizen general reminded Victor of nothing so much as holographs he had seen of a Terran vulture perched on a tree limb.
“So what happened?” he demanded.
Victor’s answer came without hesitation. “I was just trying to get Usher to cut down on the drinking. Looks bad for our image here. I never imagined—”
Durkheim snorted. “Talk about foolish apprentices!” There was no heat in his voice, however. “Leave Usher alone, youngster. Frankly, the best thing for everybody would be if he’d just drink himself to death.”
He placed a clawlike hand on the rim of the tank and leaned over. Now, he really looked like a carrion-eater.
“Usher’s still alive for the sole reason that he’s a Hero of the Revolution—never mind the details—and Rob Pierre is sometimes prone to sentimentalism. That’s it.” Hissing: “You understand?”
Victor swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Durkheim straightened up. “Fortunately, Usher keeps his mouth shut, so there’s no reason to do anything about the situation. I don’t expect he’ll live more than another year or so—not the way he guzzles whiskey. So just stay away from him, henceforth. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” But Durkheim was already through the door. As always, watching him, Victor was a bit amazed. For all Durkheim’s cadaverous appearance and the angular awkwardness of his stride, the SS official managed to move very quickly.
Victor almost laughed. The way Durkheim jogged out his elbows as he walked resembled a vulture flapping his wings. But Victor managed to keep the humor under control. He was not that naive.
Like any predator, Durkheim would eat carrion. But he was still a predator, and a very dangerous one. Of that, Victor had no doubt at all.
He was released from the hospital three hours later. It was too late in the day for Victor to go to the embassy, so he decided he might as well return to his apartment. His apartment was buried in the enormous, towering complex in which the People’s Republic of Haven leased a number of apartments for its embassy staff. Unfortunately, the complex was located in the city’s easternmost district, on the landfill which, over the centuries, had slowly extended kilometers into Lake Michigan. A prestigious address, to be sure, but it meant a long trip on Chicago’s labyrinthine public transport system. The hospital was located on the edge of the Old Quarter, not far from the tavern which was Usher’s favorite watering hole.
Victor sighed. And that meant—
It was not that Victor had any prejudice against the hordes of poor immigrants who thronged in the Old Quarter and mobbed public transport in its vicinity. In truth, he felt more comfortable in their midst than he did among the Solarian elite that he hobnobbed with in the embassy’s frequent social functions. The Old Quarter’s residents reminded him of the people he had grown up with, in the Dolist projects of Nouveau Paris.
But there was a reason, after all, that Victor had fought so hard to get out of those projects. So it was with no great enthusiasm that he resigned himself to spending an hour crammed into the transport network. The Solarian League’s capital city liked to boast of its public transportation system. Yet Victor had noticed that none of Chicago’s elite ever used it.
So what else is new? He consoled himself with thoughts of the inevitable coming revolution in the Solarian League. He had been on Terra long enough to see the rot beneath the glittering surface.
Not more than five minutes after he forced himself into the mob packing one of the transport capsules—a good name for the things, he thought ruefully—he felt someone pressing against him.
Like everyone else, Victor was standing. He had been told once that the capsules had originally been built with seats, but those had long since been removed from the capsules used in the Old Quarter due to the pressure of overcapacity. Victor had the relatively short stature common to Havenites raised on a Dolist diet, but he was still taller than most of the immigrants in the Old Quarter.
He glanced down. The person pressed so closely against him—too closely, even by capsule standards—was a young woman. From her dusky skin tone and facial features, she shared the south Asian genetic background which was common to a large number of Chicago’s immigrant population. Even if it hadn’t been for the lascivious smile on her face, beaming up at him, he would have known from her costume that she was a prostitute. Somewhere back in the mists of time, her outfit traced its lineage to a sari. But this version of the garment was designed to emphasize the woman’s supple limbs and sensuous belly.
Nothing unusual, in the Old Quarter. Victor had lost track of the number of times he had been propositioned since he arrived on Terra, less than a year ago. As always, he shook his head and murmured a refusal. As a matter of class solidarity, if nothing else, Victor was never rude to prostitutes. So the refusal was polite. But it was still firm, for all that.
He was surprised, therefore, when she persisted. The woman was now practically embracing him. She extended her tongue, wagging it in his face. When he saw the tongue’s upper surface, Victor stiffened.
Speak of the devil. Mesa’s genetic engineers always marked their slaves in that manner. The markings served the same purpose as the brands or tattoos used by slavers in the past, but these were completely ineradicable, short of removing the tongue entirely. The marks were actually part of the flesh itself, grown there as the genengineered embryo developed. For technical reasons which Victor did not understand, taste buds lent themselves easily to that purpose.
The stiffness in his posture was partly due to revulsion, but mostly to sheer anger. If there was any foulness in the universe as great as Mesa and Manpower Inc., Victor did not know what it was. But this woman, he reminded himself, was herself a victim of that monstrosity. So Victor used his anger to drive the revulsion under. He repeated the refusal—even more firmly—but this time with a very friendly smile.
No use. Now the woman had her mouth against the side of his head, as if kissing him.
“Shut up, wonderboy,” she whispered. “He’ll talk to you. Get off at the Jackson transfer and follow me.”
Victor was stiff as a board. “My, my,” she whispered. “He was right. You are a babe in the woods.”