Worldwar: Upsetting the Balance Page 7

  Sighing, Liu Han pulled off her black cotton tunic, let her baggy trousers and linen drawers fall to the dirt floor of the hut in the refugee camp west of Shanghai. Outside, people chattered and argued and scolded children and chased chickens and ducks. The marketplace lay not far away; the racket that came from there was never-ending, like the plashing of a stream. She had to make a deliberate effort to hear it.

  Ttomalss’ weird eyes swiveled independently as they examined her. She stood still and let him look all he cared to; one thing more than a year’s association with the little scaly devils had taught her was that they had no prurient interest in mankind . . . not that she would have aroused prurient interest in many men, not with a belly that looked as if she’d swallowed a great melon whole. Her best guess was that the baby would come in less than a month.

  Ttomalss walked up to her and set the palm of his hand on her belly. His skin was dry and scaly, like a snake’s, but warm, almost feverish, against hers. The little devils were hotter than people. The few Christians in the camp said that proved they came from the Christian hell. Wherever they came from, Liu Han wished they’d go back there and leave her—leave everyone—alone.

  The baby kicked inside her. Ttomalss jerked his hand away, skittering back a couple of paces with a startled hiss. “That is disgusting,” he exclaimed in Chinese, and added the emphatic cough.

  Liu Han bowed her head. “Yes, superior sir,” she said. What point to arguing with the scaly devil? His kind came from eggs, like poultry or songbirds.

  Cautiously, Ttomalss returned He reached out again and touched her in a very private place. “We have seen, in your kind, that the hatchlings come forth from this small opening. We must examine and study the process most carefully when the event occurs. It seems all but impossible.”

  “It is true, superior sir.” Liu Han still stood quiet, enduring his hand, hating him. Hate filled her, but she had no way to let it out. After the Japanese overran her village and killed her husband and little son, the little scaly devils had overrun the Japanese—and kidnapped her.

  The little devils had mating seasons like farm animals. Finding out that people didn’t had repelled and fascinated them at the same time. She was one of the unlucky people they’d picked to learn more about such—again, as people might explore the mating habits of pigs. In essence, though they didn’t seem to think of it in those terms, they’d turned her into a whore.

  In a way, she’d been lucky. One of the men they’d forced on her, an American named Bobby Fiore, had been decent enough, and she’d partnered with him and not had to endure any more strangers. The baby kicked again. He’d put it in her belly.

  But Bobby Fiore was dead now, too. He’d escaped from the camp with Chinese Communist guerrillas. Somehow, he’d got to Shanghai. The scaly devils had killed him there—and brought back color photos of his corpse for her to identify.

  Ttomalss opened a folder and took out one of the astonishing photographs the little scaly devils made. Liu Han had seen photographs in magazines before the little devils came from wherever they came from. She’d seen moving pictures at the cinema a few times. But never had she seen photographs with such perfect colors, and never had she seen photographs that showed depth.

  This one was in color, too, but not in colors that seemed connected to anything in the world Liu Han knew: bright blues, reds, and yellows were splashed, seemingly at random, over an image of a curled-up infant. “This is a picture developed by the machine-that-thinks from scans of the hatchling growing inside you,” Ttomalss said.

  “The machine-that-thinks is stupid, superior sir,” Liu Han said scornfully. “The baby will be born with skin the color of mine, except pinker, and it will have a purplish patch above its buttocks that will fade in time. It will not look like it rolled through a painter’s shop.”

  Ttomalss’ mouth dropped open. Liu Han couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her or he thought the joke was funny. He said, “These are not real colors. The machine-that-thinks uses them to show which parts of the hatchling are warmer and which cooler.”

  “The machine-that-thinks is stupid,” Liu Han repeated. She didn’t understand everything Ttomalss meant by the phrase; she knew that. The scaly devils were pretty stupid themselves, even if they were strong—maybe they needed machines to do their thinking for them. “Thank you for showing me I will have a son before it is born,” she said, and bowed to Ttomalss. “How could the machine-that-thinks see inside me?”

  “With a kind of light you cannot see and a kind of sound you cannot hear,” the little devil said, which left Liu Han no wiser than before. He held out other pictures to her. “Here are earlier pictures of the hatchling. You see it looks more like you now.”

  He was right about that. Foolish colors aside, some of the pictures hardly looked like anything human. But Liu Han had talked with women who’d miscarried, and remembered them speaking of the oddly shaped lumps of flesh they’d expelled. She was willing to believe Ttomalss wasn’t lying to her.

  “Will you take more pictures now, superior sir, or may I dress?” she asked.

  “Not of the hatchling, but of you, that we may study how your body changes as the hatchling grows inside.” Ttomalss took out what had to be a camera, although Liu Han had never seen one so small in a human’s hands. He walked all around her, photographing from front, back, and sides. Then he said, “Now you dress. I see you again soon.” He skittered out the door. He did remember to close it after himself, for which Liu Han was duly grateful.

  Sighing, she got back into her clothes. Other cameras hidden in the hut probably recorded that. She’d given up worrying about it. The little scaly devils had had her under close surveillance ever since she fell into their clutches, and that had grown closer yet after Bobby Fiore somehow managed to get out of the camp.

  Yet no matter how tight it was, there were ways around it. Ttomalss had told her something worth knowing. She took a couple of silver Mex dollars from a hiding place among her pots and pans, then left the hut herself.

  A lot of people gave her a wide berth as she walked slowly down the dirt road that ran in front of the house—anyone who was so obviously involved with the little devils was not to be trusted. But children didn’t skip alongside her chanting “Running dog!” as they once had.

  The market square brawled with life, merchants selling pork and chicken and ducks and puppies and vegetables of every sort, jade and silk and cotton, baskets and pots and braziers—anything they could raise or find or trade for (or steal) in the refugee camp. Women in clinging dresses with slits pasted alluring smiles on their faces and offered to show men their bodies, a euphemism for prostituting themselves. They didn’t lack for customers. Liu Han pitied them; she knew what they had to endure.

  She dodged a mountebank juggling knives and bowls as he strolled through the market. Her sidestep almost made her upset the ivory tiles of a mahjong player who made his living by matching wits against all comers (and maybe by unduly clever fingers as well). “Watch where you’re going, stupid woman!” he shouted at her.

  Bobby Fiore had used a one-fingered gesture to answer shouts like that; he knew what it meant and the Chinese didn’t, so he could vent his feelings without getting them angry. Liu Han just kept walking. She paused in front of a cart full of straw hats. As she tried one on, she said to the man behind the cart, “Did you know the little scaly devils have a camera that can see how hot things are? Isn’t that amazing?”

  “If I cared, it would be,” the hat seller answered in a dialect she could hardly follow; the camp held people from all over China. “Do you want to buy that hat or not?”

  After haggling for a while, she walked on. She talked about the camera at several other stalls and carts, and bought some bok choi and a small brass pot. She’d wandered through half the market before she came to a poultry seller whose stand was next to that of a pig butcher. She told him about the camera, too, while she bought some chicken feet and some necks. “Isn’t that amazing?” s
he finished.

  “A camera that can see how hot things are? That is amazing,” he said. “You think I give you that much for thirty cents Mex? Woman, you are crazy!”

  She ended up paying forty-five cents Mex for the chicken parts, which was too much, but she kept her temper about it. With the poultry seller, “Isn’t it amazing?” was a code phrase that meant she had information to pass, and his “That is amazing” said he’d understood. Somehow—she had no idea how, and didn’t want to know—he’d get word to the Chinese Communists outside the camp.

  She knew the little scaly devils watched her closely, not only because they were interested in her pregnancy but also because of what Bobby Fiore had done. But if she spread gossip all through the marketplace, how could they figure out which person who heard it was the one who mattered? She just seemed like a foolish woman chattering at random.

  What she seemed and what she was were not one and the same. As best she could, she was getting her revenge.

  Having a rifle in his hands again made Mordechai Anielewicz feel he was doing something worth doing once more. The months he’d spent in the little Polish town of Leczna had been the most pleasant he’d passed since the Germans invaded in 1939—especially the romance he’d had with Zofia Klopotowski, who lived next door to the people who had taken him in—but that memory made him feel guilty, not glad. With a war raging all around, what right did he have to take pleasure in anything?

  Back in the Warsaw ghetto, he’d been readying an uprising against the Germans when the Lizards came. The Jews of the ghetto had risen, all right, against the Nazis and for the Lizards—and he’d become head of all the Jewish fighters in Lizard-held Poland, one of the most powerful humans in all the land.

  But the Lizards, while they weren’t interested in exterminating the Jews the way the Nazis had been, were intent on enslaving them—and the Poles and the Germans and the Russians and everybody else. Joining them for the short term had helped save his people. Joining them for the long term would have been ruinous for all peoples.

  So, quietly, he’d begun working against them. He’d let the Germans smuggle explosive metal west, though he had diverted some for the British and Americans. He’d smuggled his friend Moishe Russie out of the country after Moishe couldn’t stomach telling any more lies for the Lizards on the wireless. But the Lizards had grown suspicious of Mordechai, and so . . .

  Here he was in the forest in dead of night with a rifle in his hands. Some of the partisans with him were Jews, some were Poles, a few were Germans. The Germans still alive and fighting in Poland a year after the Lizards came were some very tough customers indeed.

  Somewhere up ahead, an owl hooted. He didn’t mind that. A few nights before, he’d heard wolves howling. That had sent the hair on his arms and at the back of his neck prickling up in atavistic terror.

  Also up ahead, but closer, the point man for the partisan band let out a hiss. Everybody froze. A whisper came back down the line: “Jerzy’s found the highway.”

  The road from Lublin up to Biala Podlaska was paved, which by the standards of Polish country roads made it worthy of that handle. One of the Germans in the band, a hulking blonde named Friedrich, thumped Anielewicz on the shoulder and said, “All right, Shmuel, let’s see how this works.”

  “It worked once, or something like it,” Mordechai answered in German cleaner than the Wehrmacht man’s. First names were plenty in the partisan band. His was false—anybody who figured out who he really was might be tempted to betray him to the Lizards—but had to be Jewish in spite of his unaccented German and Polish. Languages were all very well, but some things they couldn’t disguise.

  “All right,” Friedrich said. “We see if it works again.” His voice carried an implied threat, but Anielewicz didn’t think that had anything to do with his own Judaism. Friedrich just didn’t want things to go wrong. That much he still kept from his army days. Otherwise he didn’t look much like the spit-and-polish soldiers who’d made life hell for the Jews in Warsaw and Lodz and everywhere in Poland. A floppy hat had replaced his coalscuttle helmet, he wore a fuzzy yellow beard, and the bandoliers crossed over the chest of his peasant blouse gave him a fine piratical air.

  With a grunt of relief, Anielewicz unstrapped the crate he’d been carrying along with his knapsack. Some enterprising soul had stolen it from the Lizards’ base at Lublin. It wasn’t anything special, just an ordinary Lizard supply container. As he carried it toward the road, other partisans put in cans and jars of food, some from purloined Lizard stock, others of human make.

  Up by the highway, Jerzy had the pièce de résistance: a jar full of ground ginger. “Stick it in my pocket,” Mordechai whispered to him. “I’m not going to put it in there yet.”

  “This is your play,” the point man whispered back as he obeyed. He grinned, his teeth for a moment startlingly visible. “You sneaky Jew bastard.”

  “Fuck you, Jerzy,” Anielewicz said, but he grinned, too. He stepped out onto the asphalt and tipped the supply crate over sideways. Cans and jars rolled out of it along the surface of the road. He decided that wasn’t good enough. He stomped on a couple of cans, smashed two or three jars.

  He stepped back, considered the artistic effect, and found it good. The crate looked as if it had fallen off a supply lorry. He took the jar of ginger from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and spilled half the contents over the cans and jars still inside. Then he set the jar and the lid by the crate and retreated back into the woods.

  “Now we set up the ambush and we wait,” he told Jerzy.

  The point man nodded. “They’re fools for not cutting the brush farther back from the sides of the road,” he remarked.

  “Fools?” Anielewicz said. “Well, maybe. You ask me, though, they just don’t have the manpower to do everything they need. Good thing, too. If they did, they’d beat us. But trying to take on the whole world spreads them thin.”

  He found a good hidey-hole behind a shrub—as a city boy, he couldn’t identify it any more closely than that. He detached the bayonet from his Mauser and used it to dig himself a little deeper into the soft, rich-smelling dirt. He was too aware of how much better he could have done with a proper entrenching tool.

  Then it was lie and wait. A mosquito bit him in the hand. He swatted at it. It or one just like it bit him on the ear. Somebody warned he was making too much noise. Another mosquito bit him. He lay still.

  Lizard vehicles weren’t as noisy as the grunting, flatulent machines the Nazis used. Sometimes the racket from the German tanks and troop carriers was intimidating, but it always told you right where they were. The Lizards could sneak up on you if you weren’t careful.

  Mordechai was careful. So were the rest of the partisans; the ones who hadn’t been careful—and some of the ones who had—were dead now. When the faint rumble of northbound vehicles came to his ears, he flattened himself against the earth, to be as nearly invisible as he could. The Lizards had gadgets that could see in the dark like cats.

  A personnel carrier whizzed by the artistically arranged crate without stopping. So did three lorries in quick succession. Anielewicz’s heart sank. If his ambush went for nothing, he’d lose prestige in the band. He might have been the leader of Poland’s Jewish fighters, but the partisans here didn’t know that. As far as they were concerned, he was just a new fish showing what he could do.

  The last lorry in the convoy pulled to a stop. So did the troop carrier riding shotgun for it. Mordechai didn’t raise his head. He strained to catch the noises from the highway. A door on the lorry slammed. His heart thumped. One of the Lizards was going over to investigate the crate.

  His biggest worry was that the Lizards wouldn’t touch it because they were afraid it was rigged to a land mine or a grenade. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea, but Mordechai was ambitious. He wanted to bag more Lizards than he could with such a ploy.

  He knew the exact instant when the Lizard realized the ginger was there: the excited, disbelieving hiss needed no tr
anslation. He wanted to hiss himself, with relief. Not all Lizards were ginger tasters, by any means, but a lot of them were. He’d counted on there being at least one taster among those who investigated the spilled crate.

  That hiss brought another male out of the lorry. Maybe the Lizard who’d made it had a radio with him, for a moment later hatches on the troop carrier came down, too. Anielewicz’s lips skinned back from his teeth in a savage grin. Just what he’d hoped for!

  Easy, easy . . . patient. He willed his comrades to hold their fire until they could do the most damage. With a whole lot of luck, the fighting vehicle’s crew would get down along with the infantry they transported. If they were smart, they wouldn’t, but ginger tasters were more apt to be greedy than smart. Would they be foolish enough to forget about the heavy weapons the troop carrier bore?

  One of the partisans couldn’t stand to wait any more. As soon as one man opened up, everybody started shooting, intent on doing the most damage to the Lizards in the shortest time possible.

  Anielewicz threw his rifle to his shoulder and, still prone, started squeezing off shots in the direction of the crate. You couldn’t use aimed fire at night, not unless you had gadgets like those of the Lizards, but if you had put enough bullets in the air, that didn’t matter too much.

  Hisses turned to screeches on the roadway. A couple of Lizards started firing back at the partisans. Their muzzle flashes gave the humans hidden in the woods better targets at which to aim. But then the turret-mounted machine gun and light cannon in the troop carrier opened up. Anielewicz swore, first in Polish, then in Yiddish. The Lizards hadn’t been altogether asleep at the switch after all.