The girl was dead. Haavikko sat there, distraught, staring at her, at the blood that covered his hands and chest and thighs, and knew he had killed her.
He turned his head slightly and saw the knife, there on the floor where he remembered dropping it, then shuddered, a wave of sickness, of sheer self-disgust washing over him. What depths, what further degradations, lay ahead of him? Nothing. He had done it all. And now this.
There was no more. This was the end of that path he had set out upon ten years ago.
He turned back, looking at her. The girl’s face was white, drained of blood. Such a pretty face it had been in life: full of laughter and smiles, her eyes undulled by experience. He gritted his teeth against the sudden pain he felt and bowed his head, overcome. She could not have been more than fourteen.
He looked about the room. There, draped carelessly over the back of the chair, was his uniform. And there, on the floor beside it, the tray with the empty bottles and the glasses they had been drinking from before it happened.
He closed his eyes, then shivered violently, seeing it all again – the images forming with an almost hallucinatory clarity that took his breath. He uttered a small moan of pain, seeing himself holding her down with one hand, while he struck at her frenziedly with the knife, once, twice, a third time, slashing at her breasts, her stomach, while she cried out piteously and struggled to get up.
He jumped to his feet and turned away, putting his hands up to his face. ‘Kuan Yin preserve you, Axel Haavikko, for what you’ve done!’
Yes, he saw it all now. It all led to this. The drinking and debauchery, the insubordination and the gambling. This was its natural end. This grossness. He had observed his own fall, from that moment in General Tolonen’s office to this... this finality. There was no more. Nothing for him but to take the knife and end himself.
He stared at the knife. Stared long and hard at it. Saw how the blood was crusted on its shaft and handle, remembering the feel of it in his hand. His knife.
Slowly he went across, then knelt down, next to it, his hands placed either side of it. End it now, he told himself. Cleanly, quickly, and with more dignity than you’ve shown in all these last ten years.
He picked the knife up, taking its handle in both hands, then turned the blade towards his stomach. His hands shook and, for the briefest moment, he wondered if he had the courage left to carry the thing through. Then, determined, he closed his eyes.
‘Lieutenant Haavikko, I’ve come...’
Haavikko turned abruptly, dropping the knife. The pimp, Liu Chang, had come three paces into the room and stopped, taking in the scene.
‘Gods!’ the Han said, his face a mask of horror. He glanced at Haavikko fearfully, backing away, then turned and rushed from the room.
Haavikko shuddered, then turned back, facing the knife. He could not stand up. All the strength had gone from his legs. Neither could he reach out and take the knife again. His courage was spent. Nothing remained now but his shame. He let his head fall forward, tears coming to his eyes.
‘Forgive me, Vesa, I didn’t mean...’
Vesa. It was his beloved sister’s name. But the dead girl had no name. Not one he knew, anyway.
He heard the door swing open again and footsteps in the room, but he did not lift his head. Let them kill me now, he thought. Let them take their revenge on me. It would be no less than I deserve.
He waited, resigned, but nothing happened. He heard them lift the girl and carry her away, then sensed someone standing over him.
Haavikko raised his head slowly and looked up. It was Liu Chang.
‘You disgust me.’ He spat the words out venomously, his eyes boring into Haavikko. ‘She was a good girl. A lovely girl. Like a daughter to me.’
‘I’m sorry...’ Haavikko began, his throat constricting. He dropped his head, beginning to sob. ‘Do what you will to me. I’m finished now. I haven’t even the money to pay you for last night.’
The pimp laughed, his disgust marked. ‘I realize that, soldier boy. But, then, you’ve not paid your weight since you started coming here.’
Haavikko looked up, surprised.
‘No. It’s a good job you’ve friends, neh? Good friends who’ll bail you out when trouble comes. That’s what disgusts me most about your sort. You never pay. It’s all settled for you, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I...’
But Liu Chang’s angry bark of laughter silenced him. ‘This. It’s all paid for. Don’t you understand that? Your friends have settled everything for you.’
Haavikko’s voice was a bemused whisper. ‘Everything... ?’
‘Everything.’ Liu Chang studied him a moment, his look of disgust unwavering, then leaned forward and spat in Haavikko’s face.
Haavikko knelt there long after Liu Chang had gone, the spittle on his cheek a badge of shame that seemed to burn right through to the bone. It was less than he deserved. But he was thinking about what Liu Chang had said. Friends... What friends? He had no friends, only partners in his debauchery, and they would have settled nothing for him.
He dressed and went outside, looking for Liu Chang.
‘Liu Chang. Where is he?’
The girl at the reception desk stared at him a moment, as if he were something foul and unclean that had crawled up out of the Net, then handed him an envelope.
Haavikko turned his back on the girl, then opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper. It was from Liu Chang.
Lieutenant Haavikko,
Words cannot express the disgust I feel. If I had my way you would be made to pay fully for what you have done. As it is, I must ask you never to frequent my House again. If you so much as come near, I shall pass on my record of events to the authorities, ‘friends’ or no. Be warned.
Liu Chang
He stuffed the paper into his tunic pocket then staggered out, more mystified than ever. Outside, in the corridor, he looked about him, then lurched over to the public drinking fountain, inset into the wall at the intersection. He splashed his face then straightened up.
Friends. What friends? Or were they friends at all?
Liu Chang knew, but he could not go near Liu Chang. Who, then?
Haavikko shivered, then looked about him. Someone knew. Someone had made it their business to know. But who?
He thought of the girl again and groaned. ‘I don’t deserve this chance,’ he told himself softly. And yet he was here, free, all debts settled. Why? He gritted his teeth and reached up to touch the spittle that had dried on his cheek. Friends. It gave him a reason to go on. To find out who. And why.
DeVore took off his gloves and threw them down on the desk, then turned and faced his lieutenant, Wiegand, lowering his head to dislodge the lenses from his eyes.
‘Here.’ He handed the lenses to Wiegand, who placed them carefully into a tiny plastic case he had ready. ‘Get these processed. I want to know who those other four are.’
Wiegand bowed and left.
DeVore turned, meeting the eyes of the other man in the room. ‘It went perfectly. We attack Helmstadt in two days.’
The albino nodded, but was quiet.
‘What is it, Stefan?’
‘Bad news. Soren Berdichev is dead.’
DeVore looked at the young man a moment, then went and sat behind his desk, busying himself with the reports that had amassed while he was away. He spoke without looking up.
‘I know. I heard before I went in. A bad business, by all accounts, but useful. It may well have alienated the Mars settlers. They’ll have little love for the Seven now, after the destruction of the pipeline.’
‘Maybe...’ Lehmann was silent a moment, then came and stood at the edge of the desk looking down at DeVore. ‘I liked him, you know. Admired him.’
DeVore looked up, masking his surprise. He found it hard to believe that Stefan Lehmann was capable of liking anyone. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘he’s dead now. And life goes on. We’ve got to plan for the future. For the next stage of the War.’
‘Is that why you went to see those scum?’
DeVore stared past Lehmann a moment, studying the map on the wall behind him. Then he met his eyes again.
‘I have news for you, Stefan.’
The pink eyes hardened, the mouth tightened. ‘I know already.’
‘I see.’ DeVore considered a moment. ‘Who told you?’
‘Wiegand.’
DeVore narrowed his eyes. Wiegand. He was privy to all incoming messages, of course, but he had strict instructions not to pass on what he knew until he, DeVore, authorized it. It was a serious breach.
‘I’m sorry, Stefan. It makes it harder for us all.’
The Notice of Confiscation had come in only an hour before he had gone off to meet the Ping Tiao, hot on the heels of the news of Berdichev’s death. In theory it stripped Lehmann of all he had inherited from his father, making him a pauper, but DeVore had pre-empted the Notice some years back by getting Berdichev to switch vast sums from the estate in the form of loans to fictitious beneficiaries. Those ‘loans’ had long been spent – and more besides – on constructing further fortresses, but Lehmann knew nothing of that. As far as he was concerned, the whole sum was lost.
Lehmann was studying him intently. ‘How will it change things?’
DeVore set down the paper and sat back. ‘As far as I’m concerned it changes nothing, Stefan. All our lives are forfeit anyway. What difference does a piece of paper bearing the seals of the Seven make to that?’
There was the slightest movement in the young man’s ice-pale face. ‘I can be useful. You know that.’
‘I know.’
Good, thought DeVore. He understands. He’s learned his lessons well. There’s no room for sentimentality in what we’re doing here. What’s past is past. I owe him nothing for the use of his money.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, leaning forward and picking up the paper again.’You’re on the payroll now, Stefan. I’m appointing you lieutenant, as from this moment. Ranking equal with Wiegand.’
Yes, he thought. That should take the smile from Wiegand’s face.
When Lehmann had gone he stood and went across to the map again. In the bottom left-hand corner the carp-shaped area that denoted the Swiss Wilds was criss-crossed with lines, some broken, some solid. Where they met or ended were tiny squares, representing fortresses. There were twenty-two in all, but only fourteen of them – boxed in between Zagreb in the south-east and Zurich in the north-west – were filled in. These alone were finished. The eight fortresses of the western arm remained incomplete. In four cases they had yet to be begun.
Money. That was his greatest problem. Money for wages, food and weaponry. Money for repairs and bribes and all manner of small expenses. Most of all, money to complete the building programme: to finish the network of tunnels and fortresses that alone could guarantee a successful campaign against the Seven. The Confiscations had robbed him of many of his big investors. In less than three hours the remainder were due to meet him, supposedly to renew their commitments, though in reality, he knew, to tell him they had had enough. That was why Helmstadt was so important now.
Helmstadt. He had wooed the Ping Tiao with promises of weapons and publicity, but the truth was otherwise. There would be weapons, and publicity enough to satisfy the most egotistical of terrorist leaders, but the real fruit of the raid on the Helmstadt Armoury would be the two billion yuan DeVore would lift from the strongroom. Money that had been allocated to pay the expenses of more than one hundred and forty thousand troops in the eight garrisons surrounding the Wilds.
But the Ping Tiao would know nothing of that.
He turned away from the map and looked across at his desk again. The Notice of Confiscation lay where he had left it. He went across and picked it up, studying it again. It seemed simple on the face of it: an open acknowledgment of a situation that had long existed in reality – for Lehmann’s funds had been frozen from the moment Berdichev had fled to Mars, three years ago. But there were hidden depths in the document. It meant that the Seven had discovered evidence to link Stefan’s father to the death of the Minister Lwo Kang, and that, in its turn, would legitimize Tolonen’s action in the House in killing Lehmann Senior.
It was an insight into how the Seven were thinking. For them the War was over. They had won.
But DeVore knew otherwise. The War had not even begun. Not properly. The Confiscations and the death of T’angs notwithstanding, it had been a game until now; a diversion for the rich and bored; an entertainment to fill their idle hours. But now it would change. He would harness the forces stirring in the lowest levels. Would take them and mould them. And then?
He laughed and crumpled the copy of the Notice in his hand. Then Change would come. Like a hurricane, blowing through the levels, razing the City to the ground.
Major Hans Ebert set the drinks carefully on the tray, then turned and, making his way through the edge of the crowd that packed the great hall, went through the curtained doorway into the room beyond.
Behind him the reception was in full swing, but here, in the T’ang’s private quarters, it was peaceful. Li Shai Tung sat in the big chair to the left, his feet resting on a stool carved like a giant turtle shell. He seemed older and more careworn these days, his hair, once grey, a pure white now, like fine threads of ice, tied tightly in a queue behind his head. The yellow cloak of state seemed loose now on his thin, old man’s frame and the delicate perfection of the gold chain about his neck served merely to emphasize the frail imperfection of his flesh. Even so, there was still strength in his eyes, power enough in his words and gestures to dispel any thought that he was spent as a man. If the flesh had grown weaker, the spirit seemed unchanged.
Across from him, seated to the right of the ceremonial kang, was Tsu Ma, T’ang of West Asia. He sat back in his chair, a long, pencil-thin cheroot held absently in one hand. He was known to his acquaintances as ‘The Horse’, and the name suited him. He was a stallion, a thoroughbred in his late thirties, broad-chested and heavily muscled, his dark hair curled in elegant long pigtails, braided with silver and pearls. His enemies still considered him a dandy, but they were wrong. He was a capable, intelligent man for all his outward style, and since his father’s death he had shown himself to be a fine administrator; a credit to the Council of the Seven.
The third and last man in the anteroom was Hal Shepherd. He sat to Tsu Ma’s right, a stack of pillows holding him upright in his chair, his face drawn and pale from illness. He had been sick two weeks now, the cause as yet undiagnosed. His eyes, normally so bright and full of life, now seemed to protrude from their sockets, as if staring out from some deep inner darkness. Beside him, her head bowed, her whole manner demure, stood a young Han nurse from the T’ang’s household, there to do the sick man’s least bidding.
Ebert bowed, then crossed to the T’ang and stood there, the tray held out before him. Li Shai Tung took his drink without pausing from what he was saying, seeming not to notice the young major as he moved across to offer Tsu Ma his glass.
‘But the question is still what we should do with the Companies. Should we close them down completely? Wind them up and distribute their assets among our friends? Should we allow bids for them? Offer them on the Index as if we were floating them? Or should we run them ourselves, appointing stewards to do our bidding until we feel things have improved?’
Tsu Ma took his peach brandy, giving Ebert a brief smile, then turned back to face his fellow T’ang.
‘You know my feelings on the matter, Shai Tung. Things are still uncertain. We have given our friends considerable rewards already. To break up the one hundred and eighteen Companies and offer them as spoils to them might cause resentment amongst those not party to the share-out. It would simply create a new generation of malcontents. No. My vote will be to appoint stewards. To run the companies for ten, maybe fifteen years, and then offer them on the market to the highest bidder. That way we prevent resentment and, at the same time, through keeping a tight rein on what is, after all, nearly a fifth of the market, help consolidate the Edict of Technological Control.’
Ebert, holding the tray out before Hal Shepherd, tried to feign indifference to the matter being discussed, but as heir to GenSyn, the second largest Company on the Hang Seng Index, it was difficult not to feel crucially involved in the question of the confiscated Companies.
‘What is this?’
Ebert raised his head and looked at Shepherd. ‘It is Yang Sen’s Spring Wine Tonic, Shih Shepherd. Li Shai Tung asked me to bring you a glass of it. It has good restorative powers.’
Shepherd sniffed at the glass, then looked past Ebert at the old T’ang. ‘This smells rich, Shai Tung. What’s in it?’
‘Brandy, kao liang, vodka, honey, gingseng, japonica seeds, oh, and many more things that are good for you, Hal.’
‘Such as?’
Tsu Ma laughed and turned in his seat to look at Shepherd. ‘Such as red-spotted lizard and sea-horse and dried human placenta. All terribly good for you, my friend.’
Shepherd looked at Tsu Ma a moment, then looked back at Li Shai Tung. ‘Is that true, Shai Tung?’
The old T’ang nodded. ‘It’s true. Why, does it put you off, Hal?’
Shepherd laughed, the laugh lines etched deep now in his pallid face. ‘Not at all.’ He tipped the glass back and drank heavily, then shuddered and handed the half-empty glass to the nurse.
Tsu Ma gave a laugh of surprise. ‘One should sip Yang Sen, friend Hal. It’s strong stuff. Matured for eighteen months before it’s even fit to drink. And this is Shai Tung’s best. A twelve-year brew.’
‘Yes...’ said Shepherd hoarsely, laughing, his rounded eyes watering. ‘I see that now.’
Tsu Ma watched the ill man a moment longer then turned and faced Ebert. ‘Well, Major, and how is your father?’
Ebert bowed deeply. ‘He is fine, Chieh Hsia.’
Li Shai Tung leaned forward. ‘I must thank him for all he has done these last few months. And for the generous wedding gift he has given my son today.’
Ebert turned and bowed again. ‘He would be honoured, Chieh Hsia.’
‘Good. Now tell me, before you leave us. Candidly now. What do you think we should do about the confiscated companies?’
Ebert kept his head lowered, not presuming to meet the T’ang’s eyes, even when asked so direct a question. Neither was he fooled by the request for candour. He answered as he knew the T’ang would want him to answer.
‘I believe his Excellency, Tsu Ma, is right, Chieh Hsia. It is necessary to placate the Above. To let wounds heal and bitterness evaporate. In appointing stewards the markets will remain stable. Things will continue much as normal, and there will be none of the hectic movements on the Index that a selling-off of such vast holdings would undoubtedly bring. As for rewards, the health and safety of the Seven is reward enough, surely? It would be a little man who would ask for more.’
The old T’ang’s eyes smiled. ‘Thank you, Hans. I am grateful for your words.’
Ebert bowed and backed away, knowing he had been dismissed.
‘A fine young man,’ said Li Shai Tung, when Ebert had gone. ‘He reminds me more of his father every day. The same bluff honesty. Tolonen’s right. He should be general when he’s of age. He’d make my son a splendid general, don’t you think?’
‘An excellent general,’ Tsu Ma answered him, concealing any small qualms he had about Major Hans Ebert. His own Security reports on Ebert revealed a slightly different picture.
‘Now that we’re alone,’ Li Shai Tung continued, ‘I’ve other news.’
‘What’s that?’ Tsu Ma asked, stubbing out his cheroot in the porcelain tray on the kang beside him.
‘I’ve heard from Karr. Berdichev is dead.’
Tsu Ma laughed, his eyes wide. ‘You’re certain?’
‘I’ve seen it with these eyes. Karr was wired up to transmit all he saw and heard.’
‘Then it’s over.’
Li Shai Tung was silent a moment, looking down. When he looked up again his eyes seemed troubled. ‘I don’t think so.’ He looked across at Shepherd. ‘Ben was right after all, Hal. We’ve killed the men, and yet the symptoms remain.’
Shepherd smiled bleakly. ‘Not all the men. There’s still DeVore.’
The old T’ang lowered his head slightly. ‘Yes. But Karr will get him. As he got Berdichev.’
Tsu Ma leaned forward. ‘A useful man, Karr. Maybe we ought to mass-produce the fellow. Give Old Man Ebert a patent for the job.’
Li Shai Tung laughed and lifted his feet one at a time from the turtle stool. ‘Maybe.’ He pulled himself up and stretched. ‘First, however, I have another idea I want you to consider. Something Li Yuan has been working on these last few months. I’m going to introduce it in Council tomorrow, but I wanted to sound you out first.’
Tsu Ma nodded and settled back with his drink, watching the old T’ang as he walked slowly up and down the room.
‘It was an idea Li Yuan had years ago, when he was eight. He was out hawking with Han Ch’in when one of the hawks flew high up in a tree and refused to come down to the lure. Han Ch’in, impatient with the hawk, took the control box from the servant and destroyed the bird.’
‘Using the homing-wire in the bird’s head?’
‘Exactly.’
Tsu Ma took a sip, then tilted his head slightly. ‘I’ve never had to do that, myself.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed Li Shai Tung. ‘And it was the first I had heard of the matter when Li Yuan told me of it six months back. However, until then Li Yuan had not realized that the birds were wired up in that way. It made him wonder why we didn’t have such a thing for men.’
Tsu Ma laughed. ‘Men are not hawks. They would not let themselves be bound so easily.’
‘No. And that is exactly what Li Yuan told himself. Yet the idea was still a good one. He argued it thus. If the man was a good man he had no fear of having such a wire put into his head. It would make no difference. And if the man was a bad man, then he ought to have the wire.’
‘I like that. Even so, the fact remains, men are not hawks. They like the illusion of freedom.’
Li Shai Tung stopped before Hal Shepherd and leaned forward a moment, placing his hand on the shoulder of his old friend, a sad smile on his face, then turned back, facing Tsu Ma.
‘And if we gave them that illusion? If we could make them think they wanted the wires in their heads?’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘But not impossible. And Li Yuan has come up with a scheme by which the majority of men might do just that.’
Tsu Ma sat back, considering. ‘And the technicalities of this?’
Li Shai Tung smiled. ‘As ever, Tsu Ma, you anticipate me. There are, indeed, problems with creating such a control system. Men’s brains are far more complex than a hawk’s, and the logistics of tracking forty billion separate individuals through the three hundred levels of the City are far greater than the problems involved in tracing a few hawks on an estate. It is fair to say that Li Yuan has made little progress in this regard. Which is why there is a need to invest time and money in research.’
‘I see. And that’s what you want from the Council tomorrow? Permission to pursue this line of enquiry?’
Li Shai Tung inclined his head slightly. ‘It would not do for a T’ang to break the Edict.’
Tsu Ma smiled. ‘Quite so. But rest assured, Shai Tung, in this as in other things, you have my full support in Council.’ He drained his glass and set it down. ‘And the rest of your scheme?’
Li Shai Tung smiled. ‘For now, enough. But if you would honour me by being my guest at Tongjiang this autumn, we might talk some more. Things will be more advanced by then and Li Yuan, I know, would be delighted to tell you about his scheme.’
Tsu Ma smiled. ‘It would be my great honour and delight. But come, talking of Li Yuan, we have neglected your son and his new wife far too much already. I have yet to congratulate him on his choice.’
Both men pretended not to see the flicker of doubt that crossed the old T’ang’s face.
‘And you, Hal?’ Li Shai Tung turned to face his old friend. ‘Will you come through?’
Shepherd smiled. ‘Later, perhaps. Just now I feel a little tired. Too much Yang Sen, I guess.’
‘Ah. Maybe so.’ And, turning sadly away, Li Shai Tung took Tsu Ma’s arm and led him out into the gathering in the Great Hall.
Karr leaned across the desk and, with one hand, pulled the man up out of his seat, the front of the man’s powder blue silk tunic bunched tightly in his fist.
‘What do you mean, “Can’t”? I’m leaving today. By the first craft available. And I’m taking those files with me.’
For a moment the man’s left hand struggled to reach the summons pad on his desk, then desisted. He had heard what a maniac Karr was, but he’d never believed the man would storm into his office and physically attack him.
‘Don’t you know who I am?’ he screeched, his voice half-strangled. ‘I’m Governor of Mars. You can’t do this to me!’
Karr dragged the man across the desk until he was eye to eye with him. ‘You’re a fine one to lecture me on what can and can’t be done, Governor Schenck. You were ordered to give me full assistance, but you’ve been nothing but obstructive since I came back to Tian Men K’ou City.’
The Governor swallowed painfully. ‘But... the investigation... Feng Shou Station’s destroyed, the pipeline badly damaged.’
‘That’s your concern. Mine is to report back to my T’ang at the earliest opportunity, and to take back with me all relevant information. You knew that. You had your orders.’
‘But...’
Karr leaned back across the desk and threw Schenck down into his chair, then slammed his fist down on the summons pad.
‘Do you want war with the Seven?’
‘What?’ Schenck’s face blanched.
‘Because that’s what you’ll get if you take any further measures to keep me here. By a special Edict of the Seven I was authorized to do as I saw fit to bring the traitor Berdichev to justice and to reclaim any files or documents relating to that same person. That I have done. Now, tell me, Shih Schenck, what has your investigation to do with me?’
‘I...’ he began, then saw the door open behind Karr.
Karr turned at once. ‘Bring the Berdichev files. At once.’
The underling looked past Karr at Governor Schenck. ‘Excellency?’
Karr turned back to Schenck. ‘Well? Will you defy the Seven and sign your own death warrant, or will you do as I request?’
Schenck swallowed again, then bowed his head. ‘Do as he says. And while you’re at it, prepare Major Karr’s clearance for the Tientsin. He leaves us this afternoon.’
‘At once, Excellency.’
‘Good,’ said Karr, settling his huge frame into the tiny chair, facing Schenck. ‘Now tell me, Governor, who ordered you to keep me here?’
Back on Chung Kuo, DeVore looked up from the files and stared hard at his lieutenant. ‘Is this all?’
Wiegand bowed his head. ‘For now, Excellency. But our contacts have promised us more. You’ll know all you need to know about these scum before you meet with them again.’
‘Good. Because I want to know who’s good at what, and who’s responsible for what. I want to know where they came from and what they ultimately want. And I want no guesses. I want facts.’
‘Of course, Excellency. I’ll see to it at once.’
Wiegand bowed low, then turned and went. A good man, thought DeVore, watching him go. Intelligent and reliable, despite that business with Lehmann and the Notice.
He got up and came round his desk, then stood there, studying the huge, blown-up photograph of the five Ping Tiao leaders that Wiegand had pinned to the wall.
The simple black and white image was clear and sharp, the life-size faces of the five terrorists standing out perfectly, Gesell in their centre. It had been taken ten or fifteen seconds into the meeting, the tiny lens cameras activated when he’d nodded to indicate the half-map on the table in front of Gesell. His intention had been merely to get images of the other four Ping Tiao leaders so they could be traced through his contacts in Security, yet what the picture captured most clearly was the intense, almost insane suspicion. DeVore smiled. He had sensed something of it at the time, but had been too engrossed in his own scheme to make anything of it. Now, seeing it so vividly – so physically – expressed, he realized he had missed something of real importance.
They were scared, yes, but it was more than that. They were on the run. Their cockiness was merely a front. Gesell’s bluster masked a general fear that someone would come along and simply wipe them out. They and everything they stood for. They had suffered too many setbacks, too many betrayals by their own kind. They were paranoid, afraid of their own shadows.
But that was good. He could use that. It would give him the whip hand when they met in two days’ time.
He went through what he knew. The Han male to the far left of the picture was Shen Lu Chua, a computer systems expert, trained as a mathematician. He was in his mid-thirties, his clean-shaven face long and drawn. Beside him was a rather pretty-looking woman with finely chiselled features – a Hung Mao, though her dark, fine hair was cut like a Han’s. Her name was Emily Ascher and she was an economist, though of more interest to DeVore was the fact that she was Gesell’s lover. On the other side of Gesell – second from the right in the photo – was the Han female, Mao Liang. She was an interesting one. The fourth daughter of a quite prominent Minor Family, she had been raised and educated at First Level, but had rebelled against her upbringing in her late teens and, after a year of arguments at home, had vanished into the lower levels, surfacing only now, five years on, amongst the Ping Tiao.
Last of the five – on the far right of the photo – was Jan Mach. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of thirty-three with dark, shoulder-length braided hair and a thick growth of beard. He worked for the Ministry of Waste Recycling as a maintenance official. It was a good job for a Ping Tiao member, allowing him quick and legitimate passage between the levels, but Mach had the further advantage of being a volunteer in the Security Reserve Corps, licensed to carry a firearm. In the circles in which he operated it provided the perfect cover for his ko ming activities.
Mach, alone of the five, was looking away from DeVore in the picture, his eyes lowered to a writing pad on the desk before him. On the pad – in neatly formed pictograms that could be read quite clearly – was written, ‘Jen to chiu luan lung to chiu han.’ Too many people bring chaos; too many dragons bring drought.
The detail was interesting. If Gesell was the leader, Mach was the power behind the throne. He was the one to watch, to influence, the ideologue of the group.
There was a sharp knock on the door.
‘Come in!’
Lehmann stood there in the doorway. ‘Our guests are here, sir.’
DeVore hesitated, noting how well the albino looked in uniform, then nodded. ‘Good. I’ll be down in a short while. Take them to the dining room, and make sure they’re well looked after.’
Lehmann bowed and left.
DeVore turned and had one last brief look at the life-size picture of the five terrorists. ‘As one door closes, so another opens.’
He laughed softly, then went across to his desk and pressed out the code to link him to the landing dome. His man there, Kubinyi, answered at once.
‘Is everything in hand?’
‘As you ordered, Excellency.’
‘Good. I want no foul-ups. Understand me?’
He cut contact before Kubinyi could answer, then reached across and took the file from the drawer. He paused, looking about his office, conscious of the significance of the moment. Then, with a sharp laugh of enjoyment, he slammed the drawer shut and went out.
New directions, he told himself as he marched briskly down the corridor towards the lift. The wise man always follows new directions.
They turned as he entered the room. Seven of them. First Level businessmen, dressed in light-coloured silk pau.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, deliberately – ironically – avoiding the normal Han term, ch’un tzu. ‘How good to see you all again.’
He saw at once how tense they were; how they looked at each other for support. They were afraid of him. Afraid of how he might react to the news they brought. News they thought he was unaware of. But he saw also how resigned they were. A spent force. The Seven had routed them thoroughly. The Confiscations, the arrests and executions – these had shaken them badly. They saw now the true cost of their involvement.
So it is, he thought. And now your time has passed.
He went amongst them, shaking hands, making small talk, his style and manner putting them at ease. He left Douglas until last, taking the old man’s hand firmly, warmly, and holding his shoulder a moment, as if greeting the best of friends. Douglas was leader of the Dispersionists now that Berdichev was dead. Leader of a broken party, unwilling even to whisper its own name in public.
The news of Berdichev’s death had been broken publicly only two hours back. While they were meeting, no doubt, finalizing what they would say to him this afternoon. The shock of that lay on them too. He could see it in Douglas’s eyes.
‘It’s a sad business,’ he said, pre-empting Douglas. ‘I had nothing but respect for Soren Berdichev. He was a great man.’
Douglas lowered his head slightly. The news had affected him badly. His voice was bitter and angry, but also broken. ‘They killed him,’ he said. ‘Like a common criminal. One of their animal-men – some GenSyn brute – did it, I’m told. Snapped his back like a twig. No trial. Nothing.’ He met DeVore’s eyes. ‘I never imagined...’
‘Nor I,’ said DeVore sympathetically, placing an arm about his shoulder. ‘Anyway... Come. Let’s have something to eat. I’m sure you’re all hungry after your flight here. Then we’ll sit and talk.’
Douglas bowed his head slightly, a wistful smile on his lips softening the hurt and anger in his eyes. ‘You’re a good man, Howard.’
Little was said during the meal, but afterwards, with the plates cleared and fresh drinks poured all round, Douglas came to the point.
‘The War is over, Howard. The Seven have won. We must plan for the long peace.’
The outer blast shutters had been drawn back and through the thick, clear glass of the wall-length window could be seen the sunlit valley and the cloud-wreathed mountains beyond. The late afternoon light gave the room a strangely melancholy atmosphere. DeVore sat at the head of the table, his back to the window, facing them, his face in partial shadow.
‘Ai mo ta yu hsin ssu.’
Douglas gave a slow nod of agreement. ‘So it is. Nothing is more sorrowful than the death of the heart. And that is how we feel, Howard. Weary. Heartbroken. More so now that Soren is not with us.’
‘And?’ DeVore looked from one to another, noting how hard they found it to look at him at this moment of surrender. They were ashamed. Deeply, bitterly ashamed. But of what? Of their failure to dislodge the Seven? Or was it because of their betrayal of him? Only Douglas was looking at him.
When no one spoke DeVore stood and turned his back on them, staring out at the mountains. ‘I’m disappointed,’ he said. ‘I can’t help it, but I am. I thought better of you than this. I thought you had more…’ He turned, looking at them. ‘More guts.’
‘We’ve lost,’ Douglas said, sitting back, suddenly defensive. ‘It’s an unpleasant fact to face, but it’s true. Things have changed drastically, even in the last few months. It would be suicide to carry on.’
‘I see.’ DeVore seemed surprised. He turned slightly aside, as if considering something unexpected.
‘Surely you must have thought about it, Howard? You must have seen how things are. The arrests. The Confiscations. The Seven are riding high. Anyone who shows even the slightest sign of opposing them is crushed. And no half-measures.’ He paused, looking about him for support. ‘That’s how it is. I can’t change that, Howard. None of us can. We failed. Now it’s time to call it a day.’
‘And that’s how you all feel?’
There was a murmur of agreement from around the table.
DeVore sighed heavily. ‘I thought as we’d come so far…’
They were watching him now. Wondering what he would do.
DeVore tapped the file, suddenly more animated, his voice holding the slightest trace of anger. ‘I had plans. Schemes for new campaigns. Ways to finish what we had so successfully begun.’
‘Successfully?’ Douglas laughed sharply. ‘I’m sorry, Howard, but in that you’re wrong. We lost. And we lost heavily. Berdichev, Lehmann and Wyatt. Duchek, Weis and Barrow. They’re all dead. Along with more than two thousand other, lesser members of our “revolution”. One hundred and eighteen Companies have ceased trading – their assets and holdings confiscated by the Seven. And the Seven are still there, stronger than ever, more dominant than ever.’
‘You’re wrong. The Seven are weak. Weaker than they’ve been in their entire history. The Council has lost four of its most experienced members in the last six years. The new T’ang are young and inexperienced. Not only that, but the older T’ang have lost the confidence, the certainty, they once possessed. Once it was considered inconceivable to challenge the Seven. But now…’
‘Now we understand why.’
DeVore shook his head, then, resignedly, sat again.
Douglas watched him a moment, then looked down. ‘I’m sorry, Howard. I know how you must feel. You were closer to it all than we were. The fortresses. The campaigns. These were your projects – your children, if you like. It must be hard to give them up. But it’s over. We would just be throwing good money after bad if we continued to support it all.’
DeVore lifted his head, then smiled and shrugged. His voice was softer, more reconciled. ‘Well, as you say, old friend. But you’re still wrong. We shook the tree. Can’t you see that? It almost fell.’
Douglas looked away, his disagreement implicit in that gesture. ‘What will you do?’
DeVore stared down at the two files, as if undecided. ‘I don’t know. Wind it all down here, I guess.’
‘And after that?’
DeVore was still staring at the folders, his hunched shoulders and lowered head indicative of his disappointment. ‘Go to Mars, maybe.’
‘Mars?’
He looked up. ‘They say it’s where the future lies. The Seven have a weaker hold out there.’
‘Ah…’ Douglas hesitated a moment, then looked about him once more. ‘Well, Howard. I think we’ve said all we came to say. We’d best be getting back.’
DeVore stood up. ‘Of course. It was good seeing you all a last time. I wish you luck in all your ventures. And thank you, gentlemen. For all you did. It was good of you.’
He embraced each one as they left, then went to the window, staring out at the jagged landscape of rock and ice and snow. He was still there, watching, as, ten minutes later, their craft lifted from the hangar and slowly banked away to the right. For a moment its shadow flitted across the escarpment opposite, then, with a sudden, shocking brightness, it exploded. The shock of the explosion struck a moment later, rattling the empty glasses on the table.
He saw the fireball climb the sky, rolling over and over upon itself; heard the roar of the explosion roll like a giant clap of thunder down the valley and return a moment later. A million tiny incandescent fragments showered the mountainside, melting the snow where they fell, hissing and bubbling against the glass only a hand’s width from his face. Then there was silence.
DeVore turned. Lehmann was standing in the doorway.
‘What is it, Stefan?’
Lehmann looked past him a moment, as if recollecting what he had just seen. Then he came forward, handing DeVore a note. It was from Douglas. Handwritten. DeVore unfolded it and read.
Dear Howard,
I’m sorry it didn’t work out. We tried. We really did try, didn’t we? But life goes on. This is just to say that if ever you need anything – anything at all – just say.
With deepest regards,
John Douglas
DeVore stared at it a moment, then screwed it into a ball and threw it down. Anything… The words were meaningless. The man had given up. He and all the rest like him. Well, it was time now to go deeper, lower, to cultivate a different class of rebel. To shake the tree of State again. And shake and shake and shake. Until it fell.
The Officers’ Club at Bremen was a spacious, opulently decorated place. Dark-suited Han servants, their shaven heads constantly bowed, moved silently between the huge, round-topped tables that lay like islands in an ocean of green-blue carpet. Tall pillars edged the great central hexagon, forming a walkway about the tables, like the cloisters of an ancient monastery, while, fifty ch’i overhead, the hexagonal panelling of the ceiling was a mosaic of famous battles, the Han victorious in all.
It was late afternoon and most of the tables were empty, but off to the right, halfway between the great double doorway and the bar, a group of eight officers was gathered about a table, talking loudly. Their speech, and the clutter of empty bottles on the table, betrayed that they were somewhat the worse for drink. However, as none of them was less than captain in rank, the duty officers smiled and turned away, allowing behaviour they would not have tolerated from lesser-ranking officers.
The focus of this group was the young major, Hans Ebert, the ‘Hero of Hammerfest’, who had been regaling them with stories about the reception he had attended that afternoon. Now, however, the conversation had moved on into other channels, and the low, appreciative laughter held a suggestion of dark enjoyments.
Auden, seeing how things were drifting, directed the conversation back to his superior. That was his role – to keep his master central at all times. Unlike the others, he had barely touched his drink all afternoon, yet it was not evident, for he seemed to lift his drink as often to his lips and refill his glass as often from the bottle. But his speech, unlike the others’, was clear, precise.
‘And you, Hans? How is that lady you were seeing?’
Ebert looked aside, smiling rakishly. ‘Which of my ladies would that be, Will?’
Auden leaned forward to tap the end of his cigar against the tray, then sat back again in his chair. ‘You know the one. The minister’s wife.’
There was a gasp of surprise and admiration. A minister’s wife! That smelled of danger. And danger was an aphrodisiac they all understood.
‘Yes, tell us, Hans,’ said Scott, his eyes bright with interest.
Ebert sipped at his glass relaxedly, then looked about the circle of eager, watching faces.
‘She’s my slave,’ he said calmly. ‘I can make her do anything I want. Anything at all. Take today, for instance. I had her two maids strip her and hold her down while I beat her with my cane. Then, while she watched, I had her maids. Afterwards, she was begging for it. But I shook my head. “You have to earn it,” I said. “I want you to show me how much you love your maids.”’
‘No!’ said Panshin, a rather portly colonel. ‘And did she?’
Ebert sipped again. ‘Didn’t I say she was my slave?’ He smiled. ‘Right in front of me she got down on the floor with her maids and rolled about for more than twenty minutes, until all three of them were delirious, begging me to join them.’
Fest’s eyes were bulging. ‘And then you gave her one?’
Ebert set his glass down and slowly shook his head. ‘Nothing so simple. You see, I have this ritual.’
‘Ritual?’ Scott swigged down his brandy with a quick tilt of his head, then set his glass down hard on the table. ‘What kind of ritual?’
‘I had all three of them kneel before me, naked, their heads bowed. Then I called them forward, one at a time, to kneel before the god and kiss the god’s head. As each did so they had to repeat a few words. You know the sort of thing. “I promise to be faithful and obedient to the god and do whatever the god wishes.” That sort of thing.’
‘Kuan Yin!’ said another of the captains, a man named Russ. ‘Don’t tell me, and then you had all three at once.’
Ebert laughed and finished his drink. ‘I’m afraid not. The old girl was just about to take her turn when I noticed what time it was. “Sorry,” I told her, “I didn’t realize the time. I have to go. The T’ang awaits me.”’
‘Gods!’ Scott spluttered, then shook his head. ‘You’re not kidding us, Hans. That really happened?’
‘Less than six hours back.’
‘And what did she say?’
Ebert laughed. ‘What could she say? You don’t keep a T’ang waiting.’
‘And your promise?’ said Russ. ‘You promised you’d f*ck her if she showed she loved her maids.’
Ebert reached out and tipped more wine into his glass. ‘I’m a man of my word, Captain Russ. As you all know. When we’ve finished here I’ll be returning to fulfil my promise.’
‘And her husband?’ Scott asked. ‘Where was he while all of this was going on?’
‘In his study. Reading the Analects.’
There was a great guffaw of laughter at that, which made heads turn at nearby tables.
‘Power. That’s what it’s really all about,’ said Ebert, his eyes half-closed, a faintly sybaritic smile on his lips. ‘That’s the key to sex. Power. It’s something young Li Yuan will learn this very night. Master your sexuality and the world is yours. Succumb to it and…’ He shrugged. ‘Well… look at Fest here!’
The laughter rolled out again, dark, suggestive.
At that moment, on the threshold of the great doorway to the club, a rather dour-looking, almost ugly man, a Han, paused, looking in, his eyes drawn momentarily towards the laughter at the table to his right. He was different from the other Han inside the club in that he wore the powder-blue uniform of a Security officer, his chest patch showing him to be a captain. But he was a Han, all the same, and when he took a step across that threshold, a duty officer stepped forward, intercepting him.
‘Excuse me, sir, but might I see your pass?’