Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (11 page)

"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."

"No. You're
wrong. The Seven are weak now. 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, ten
minutes later, as 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 deep
regard,

John Douglas.

DeVore stared at
it a moment longer, 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
chi
overhead the hexagonal
paneling 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 behavior 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. 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 the other day, 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. Afterward, 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 fuck 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 fulfill 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 toward 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?"

Kao Chen
stopped, then turned and faced the man, keeping his feelings in tight
check. The man was within his rights, after all. He gave a terse bow
and took his permit card from the top pocket of his tunic, then
handed it to the officer. As the man studied the card intently, Kao
Chen was aware that other, non-Han officers went through unhindered,
even guests from other Security forces. But he had half-expected
this. The color of his skin, the fold of his eyes—both were
wrong here. The officer class of Security was almost totally made up
of
Hung Mao,
descendants of the mercenary armies who had
fought for the Seven against the tyrant Tsao Ch'un. Here Han were
secondary; servants, not rulers. But he was an officer and he was
thirsty. He had a right to sit and have a beer. And so he would.

The officer
handed him back his pass, then gave a brief, almost slovenly salute.
In terms of rank, Chen was his superior, but he was not Hung Moo, and
so the rank meant little.

"Thank you,
Lieutenant," he said tightly, then made his way through, down
the plushly carpeted steps and out into the main body of the club.

He was halfway
across the floor before he realized who he was walking toward. He saw
Ebert's eyes widen in recognition and decided to walk past quickly,
but he was not to be so fortunate. Three paces past the table he was
called back. "Hey, you! Han! Come here!"

Chen turned
slowly, then came back and stood in front of Ebert, his head bowed.
"Major Ebert."

Ebert leaned
back arrogantly in his chair,
a
sneering smile on his face.
"What in fuck's name do you think you're doing, Han?"

Chen felt
himself go cold with anger, then remembered he was
kwai.
These
were but words. And words could not hurt him. Only a knife could hurt
a kiwi. He answered Ebert calmly, civilly.

"I've just
come off duty. I was hot and thirsty. I thought I would have a beer
or two at the bar."

"Then you
can think again. There are rules in this place. No women and no Han."

"No Han?"

He realized as
soon as he said it that he had made a mistake. He should have bowed,
turned around, and left. Now it was a question of face. His
words, correct enough, innocuous enough in themselves, had challenged
what Ebert had asserted. It did not matter that he, Kao Chen, had the
right to use the club. That was no longer the issue.

Ebert leaned
forward slightly, his voice hardening. "Did you hear me, Han?"

Chen hesitated,
then lowered his head slightly, afraid to let the anger in his eyes
show. "Excuse me, Major, but I am an officer in the service of
the T'ang. Surely . . ."

Ebert leaned
forward and threw his drink into Chen's face.

"Are you
stupid? Don't you understand me?"

Chen was silent
a moment, then bowed again. "I apologize, Major. It was my
fault. Might I buy you another drink before I leave?"

Ebert gave him a
look of profound disgust. "Just go, little Han. Now. Before I
beat you senseless."

Chen bowed low
and backed away, mastering the pain, the fierce stinging in his eyes,
his face perfectly controlled. Inside, however, he seethed; and at
the doorway he looked back, hearing their laughter drift outward from
the table, following him.

Laugh now, he
thought; laugh good and long, Hans Ebert, for I'll not rest until my
pride's restored and you lie humbled at my feet.

At the table all
eyes were once again on Ebert.

"The nerve
of some of them," he said, filling his glass again. "Anyway.
Where were we? Ah yes. . ." He stood up, then raised his glass.
"To Li Yuan and his bride! May this evening bring them clouds
and rain!"

The answering
roar was deafening. "To Li Yuan!" they yelled. "Clouds
and rain!"

* *
*

THE CEREMONY was
over; the last of the guests had departed; the doors of the inner
palace were locked and guarded. Only the two of them remained.

Li Yuan turned
from the doorway and looked across. Fei Yen sat in the tall-backed
chair at the far side of the room, on the dais, as if enthroned. A
chi poo
of brilliant red was draped about her small and
slender figure, while her dark hair was braided with fine strands of
jewels. A thin cloth of red and gold veiled her features, an ancient
kai t'ou,
as worn by the brides of the Ching Emperors for
almost three centuries. Now that they were alone, she lifted the
veil, letting him see her face. She was beautiful. More beautiful
than ever. His breath caught as he looked at her, knowing she was
his. He knew now how his brother, Han Ch'in, must have felt in his
final moments, and grieved less for him. It would be fine to die now,
knowing no more than this.