The Caryatids - Bruce Sterling [98]
“I think that’s a space probe,” she said. “You generally hear a big thump from the coil gun whenever they launch a probe, but they make them so light these days—they’re like space chickens.”
“That is not a chicken or a satellite, because I eat chickens and I know satellites. That is an unmanned light aircraft. It is a precision antipersonnel bomb.” Lucky turned to face her. “It was God who blessed me to marry you just now, for that aircraft is flying here to kill me.”
Sonja blinked. “Are you entirely sure about that?”
“Yes I am sure. They have trapped me in here without my weapons. I know these aircraft, for I use them to kill. The Badaulet has many enemies. Soon I will die. And you, the bride of the Badaulet, you will die at my side. Heaven ordains all of this.”
“Okay, maybe Heaven does ordain it. Or maybe you will die at my side, Lucky. Because I am Red Sonja, I am the Angel of Harbin, and I have more enemies than you do. My enemies are more advanced and more cunning enemies than your enemies.”
“No, your enemies are only soft and womanly political enemies who live indoors. You don’t have my fierce, warlike enemies of the steppes.”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, my husband! Once a teenage girl came to see me, she said to me, ‘Are you Sonja Mihajlovic?’ and I said, ‘Yes I am, where does it hurt?’ and she exploded. That girl blew herself up with a belt bomb! Pieces of her body flew into my body. She almost killed me! Just because of some stupid little nowhere village massacre that happened many years ago! And I didn’t even burn those villages—my mother did all that! But I was inside a triage facility, so they slapped me right back together—wonderful work for a field hospital!”
The Badaulet hadn’t understood a single word of this blurted confession, but his black eyes were wet with tender marital sympathy. “Are you afraid to die, my bride?”
“Oh no. Not really. Not anymore.” Sonja had once felt tremendous fear about dying, but all that nonsense had left her years ago.
The airborne bomb took on visible dimensions. It might have been a child’s kite, or a dried leaf, or a bedraggled crow. It was none of these things, for it was death on the wing. It was a small, sneaking, radar-transparent aircraft, so it flew rather clumsily.
“My comrades will avenge me for this,” declared the Badaulet, “because I have faithfully avenged so many friends who perished in similar ways. Also, I have consummated my marriage before my wedding, which seemed a wicked thing to me—but now I know that part was surely divinely ordained. So I die happily!”
Sonja stood and spread her arms. She began to sing verse in Chinese.
“When will the full moon appear? I ask the sky with my wine cup in my hand
Wondering: What year might it be now, up in the lunar palace?
I meant to be riding high up there, but I feared I could not bear the cold of that beautiful sanctuary
Accompanied with my shadow I dance; don’t you agree that I am in heaven now?
Moonlight sweeps my red pavilion, moonlight floods my decorated windows and shines on my sleepless soul.
Oh Moon, without mortal sentiment: Why reveal your full face only when lovers part?
Happy unions and sad departures are as common as your changing phases
May my lover and I both be safe and well, and may we share the Moon, although we are parted by a thousand miles.”
“That was poetry,” said the Badaulet.
“Yes, that was my favorite poem in the whole world. It was written in the T’ang dynasty, when China ruled the world.”
“This system understands your sad poetry much better than it understands your funny jokes.”
The flying bomb slammed into the fabric surface of the airlock, and it bounded off. It flopped and yawed and wobbled and caught itself in midair, and gained height for a second effort.
“I always wanted to die while making love or speaking poetry,” Sonja explained.
“If this air smelled better, I would oblige you.”
The bomb returned for its second pass. Sonja threw herself to the airlock floor, curled into a fetal position, and clamped her hands over her ears.