Upsetting the Balance (76 page)

She’d told Nieh she didn’t want to lie with him. That hadn’t been long ago, either. Neither of them mentioned it now. Liu Han opened the door to her room. A lamp still flickered in there. She used the flame to light the little brazier that gave the place such heat as it had—not much.

Even after she’d shut the door behind them, Nieh Ho-T’ing still hesitated. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s better than all right, in fact.”

That made him smile. He didn’t smile often. When he did, his whole face changed. It wasn’t hard and watchful—committed—any more. Not only did he seem happy, he seemed surprised at being happy, as if he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react.

“No
k’ang
to lie on up here,” Liu Han said sadly. “Even with blankets”—she pointed to the mound under which she burrowed—“it won’t be warm.”

“We’ll have to make it warm, then,” he said, and smiled that uncertain smile once more. It grew broader when she smiled back at him. He glanced toward the little brass lamp. “Shall I blow that out?”

“I don’t think it matters,” she answered. “We’re going to be covered up anyhow.”

“True.” But Nieh did blow out the lamp, plunging the room into blackness. Liu Han got out of her layers of clothes as fast as she could and dove beneath the covers. Nieh almost stepped on the bedding—and her—when he walked over in the dark after undressing himself.

She shivered when he ran his hands up and down her body, partly from excitement and partly because they were cold. But he was warm elsewhere; his erection rubbed against her thigh. When she took him in her hand for a moment, he shivered, too, probably for both the reasons she had.

He kissed her. She stroked his cheek. It was almost as smooth as her own, not furry with beard or rough with the nubs of scraped-off whisker as Bobby Fiore’s had been. Nieh’s chest was smooth and hairless, too, with nothing like the black jungle the American had had growing there. When she’d first been forced to couple with Bobby Fiore, she’d thought that mat of hair disgusting. Then she’d got used to it. Now smoothness felt strange.

His mouth was warm, too. It came down on her left breast. His tongue teased her nipple. She sighed and rested a hand on the back of his head. But although the caresses felt good, they also reminded her of the baby—even if it was only a daughter—who should have been nursing there.

His mouth moved to her other breast. His hand took its place, squeezing her hard enough to be pleasurable and not quite enough to hurt. She sighed again. His other hand was busy between her legs, not yet stroking her most secret places but teasing all around them till she—almost—forgot how cold the room was. He understood patience in a way she’d had to teach to Bobby Fiore.

After a while, he grew too patient to suit her. She closed her fingers around him, gently tugging back his foreskin. He gasped and scrambled onto her. She spread her legs and arched her back to make his entry easy.

The darkness was so complete, she could not see his face above hers. It didn’t matter. She knew that, when their lips weren’t joined, it had to bear the same intent, inward, searching expression as her own. His hips bucked steadily, driving him in and out of her.

Her breath came in short gasps, as if she’d run a long way. Nieh grunted and shuddered, but kept moving inside her until, a moment later, she also quivered in release. Then, still thoughtful, he rolled off beside her so his weight, which suddenly seemed much heavier, wouldn’t flatten her.

He touched her cheek. “You are everything I thought you’d be, and more besides,” he said.

The words warmed her and left her wary at the same time. “I am not going to be your toy or your—what do you say?—your lackey, that’s it, because of what we just did,” she said. Her voice came out sharper than she’d intended, but that was all right, too. He needed to know he couldn’t take advantage of her, in bed or out, because she’d lain with him once. The Communists preached of better days for women. As she’d seen from Hsia Shou-Tao, not all of them meant what they said. She thought Nieh was different. Now she’d find out

“Fair enough,” he said. He sounded wintry, too, as he went on, “And just because you’ve lain down with me, don’t think I will press for your schemes unless they have merit.” Then he softened that by leaning up on an elbow and kissing her. “The one tonight certainly did.”

“I am glad you think so,” she said. Had she been wondering if she could use her body to influence Nieh and advance her own position among the revolutionaries who fought the scaly devils? She had to admit to herself that it had crossed her mind. In a man’s world, a woman’s body was sometimes the only weapon she had—and she did want to rise to where all her ideas were taken seriously, the better to avenge herself against the little devils. What Nieh said marked a better way, though. “Comrade, we have a bargain.”

As if by accident, his hands strayed along her body toward the joining of her legs. “How shall we seal it?” he asked slyly.

She hesitated, feeling him stir against her side and start to rise. She wouldn’t have minded another round, but—“
Not
like that,” she said, and took his hand away. “Didn’t you listen to what I told you?”

To her relief, he didn’t sound angry when he answered, “I listened, but sometimes—often—people do nothing but mouth empty phrases. The Kuomintang, for instance, calls itself a revolutionary party.” His contemptuous snort showed what he thought of that. “But you, Liu Han, you mean what you say. This is something I need to know.”

“Good enough,” Liu Han said after a moment “We seal it like this, then.” Now she kissed him. “It is enough for now.”

The Emperor’s holographic image beamed down on the shiplords’ celebration aboard the
127th Emperor Hetto.
On three worlds of the Empire, billions from the Race, the Rabotevs, and the Hallessi were celebrating their sovereign’s hatching day at just this moment. Knowing that made Atvar feel part of the great community the Race had built, not the embattled outsider into which he sometimes seemed transformed by the pestilential war on Tosev 3.

Some of the shiplords were behaving so boisterously, he wondered whether they’d illicitly tasted ginger before their shuttlecraft brought them here to the bannership. He didn’t like to think high-ranking commanders could fall victim to the insidious Tosevite herb, but on Tosev 3 what he liked and the truth were often—too often—far apart.

There over to one side floated Kirel, his usual standoffishness forgotten, talking animatedly with a couple of males who had been of Straha’s faction back in the days when Straha was around to have a faction. Atvar was glad to see his chief subordinate happier than usual, less glad to see the company with which he chose to enjoy himself. On the other fork of the tongue, a considerable majority of males had voted for Atvar’s ouster after the SSSR set off its nuclear bomb, so for Kirel to ignore all of them would have left him on good terms with only a few shiplords.

And there was poor, hardworking Pshing. He had in his hand a squeezebulb filled with the fermented juices of certain Tosevite fruits. The Big Uglies, being unable to enjoy the intoxicating effects of ginger, made do with ethanol and various flavorings. Males of the Race found some of those vile—why anyone, even a Big Ugly, would drink whiskey, was beyond Atvar—but others might be worth exporting to Home after the conquest was complete.

Atvar drifted over to Pshing, checked himself by snagging a grab ring with the claws of one toe. “How does it feel not to be waking me up to report some disaster?” he asked.

Pshing’s eyes didn’t quite track. He’d probably had several bulbs full of red wine already. “Exalted Fleetlord, it feels
wonderful
!” he exclaimed, tacking on an emphatic cough that threatened to become a coughing fit “Stinking Big Uglies are quiet for a change.”

“Indeed,” Atvar said. “Now if only they remain so.” He floated toward the console that dispensed bulbs of potations brought from Home, and toward the local drinks kept in bins with lids alongside it. He didn’t want to celebrate the Emperor’s hatching day with a product of Tosev 3. The Emperor represented Home and all it stood for. Far better to drink hudipar-berry brandy, then, than wine.

The male who came into the chamber was conspicuous not only for his subdued body paint but also for the purposeful way he went about looking for Atvar. The fleetlord’s momentary good spirits flickered and blew out Rokois was Pshing’s subordinate, taking the duty for the adjutant so he could enjoy himself. If Rokois was here, instead of waiting in front of a communicator, something had gone wrong—again.

Atvar had a strong impulse to hide himself inside a floating cluster of males so Rokois could not spot his body paint. Just for once, he, like Pshing, deserved a respite from bad news. But even if he escape that, he would not be able to evade the Emperor’s eyes. Some trick of the hologram made them follow you wherever you were in the chamber. And had that trick not been there, he knew his duty too well to flee from it.

But oh, the temptation!

Instead of fleeing the adjutant’s assistant, Atvar pushed off the console toward him (he did carry along the bulb of hudipar-berry brandy). Rokois folded into the posture of respectful obedience and began, “Exalted Fleetlord, I regret to report that—”

Although he had not spoken loudly, those words were plenty to bring near-silence to the festival chamber. Atvar was far from the only male to have noted his arrival and to wonder what news was urgent enough to disturb the fleetlord at the celebration. Had Britain or Nippon or some other, previously discounted, Tosevite empire or not-empire touched off an atomic bomb? Had Deutschland or the United States or even the SSSR touched off another one?

“Tell me, Rokois,” Atvar interrupted. “What do you regret to report now?”

“Exalted Fleetlord, the Big Uglies appear to have discovered our custom of honoring the Emperor’s hatching day,” the adjutant’s assistant answered. “Certain of them were invited to perform with their trained Tosevite beasts at observances of the day in cities on the eastern part of the main continental mass: this is in the large, populous not-empire known as China. Due to inadequate security, they were able to smuggle explosives in amongst our officers and administrators along with their beasts.”

“They died themselves, then?” Atvar said. Defending against males willing to do that was next to impossible. Fortunately, such fanatics were rare even among the fanatical Big Uglies.

“Exalted Fleetlord, in many instances they did,” Rokois answered. “We captured a couple of these males and disarmed their explosives before detonation. They insist they were duped, that they thought the bombs were, in fact, video equipment to allow us to record their performances.”

A rising mutter of anger and outrage came from the shiplords. Atvar understood that; he felt it himself. If you told lies, you didn’t need to recruit fanatics without fear of death. Any race, the Race included, had its share of dupes.

As he usually did in the face of misfortune, he tried to look on tin bright side of things. “If we have some of these beast exhibitors in custody, they may be able to lead us to the males who induced then to undertake their missions.”

“May events prove you correct, Exalted Fleetlord,” Rokois said. “The timing devices on the captured explosives are of Nipponese manufacture, although the males unanimously insist Chinese were the intermediaries who paid them and arranged for their performances.”

“More than one level of dupery may have been involved,” Atvar said. “Or, conversely, the timers may have been used merely to deceive us. Further investigation should shed more light on that. What else have you learned?”

“There is one other thing to support the view that this was a Chinese blow against us,” Rokois answered. “In the areas surrounding several of our administrative centers, we have found small handbills that, if translated correctly—the Chinese write with a peculiarly abominable script—demand the return of the hatchling taken from the Big Ugly female Liu Han for purposes of research.”

“The Big Uglies may not make demands of us,” Atvar said indignantly. Then he wondered why not. In matters military, they had earned wary attention if not full equality. “We shall have to evaluate this further.”

“Truth, Exalted Fleetlord.” Rokois held no responsibility there, and was blithely aware of it. He disseminated policy; he did not shape it. After a moment’s hesitation, he went on, “Exalted Fleetlord, reports indicate that casualties among senior administrators and officers in China may be especially heavy. They naturally had seats closest to the Big Uglies presenting the beast shows, and so took the full brunt of the blasts.”

“Yes, that does make sense.” Atvar sighed again. “No help for it. Some junior males will get new marks and colors for their body paint. Some of them won’t have the experience or the sense to do their jobs as well as they should. As they show that, we’ll cull them and put others in their place. We shall rule China. We shall rule Tosev 3.”
And I shall drink enough hudipar-berry brandy to forget I’m orbiting above this miserable, hateful world.

Despite that gloomy thought, his outward demeanor inspired Rokois, who exclaimed, “It
shall
be done, Exalted Fleetlord!”

“Yes, spirits of past Emperors aiding us, it shall.” Now Atvar paused before resuming, “When you came in here, I feared you were bringing me word the Big Uglies had touched off another nuclear device. The Emperor be praised, I was wrong.” Instead of lowering his eye turrets, he turned them toward the hologram of his ruler.

“May it not come to pass,” Rokois burst out, also gathering strength from the image of the Emperor.

“Indeed. May it not” The fleetlord squirted a long pull of brandy down his throat.

Teerts’ radar gave him a new target. He didn’t have it visually, not yet. All he saw through his windscreen were clouds and, through occasional rents in them, the wave-chopped surface of the ocean that stretched between the main and lesser continental masses.

He was just as glad not to be flying over Deutschland any more. Maybe München had deserved what the Race gave it; he was no targeting specialist or shiplord, to be able to judge such things from full knowledge. Flying over the glassy ruins of what had been a large city, though, left him glum. The sight made him think of Tokyo, which, but for him, might still be standing. To hate the Nipponese was one thing, to visit on them nuclear fire quite another.