The Art of War (10 page)

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?’