Beneath the Tree of Heaven

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Land Without Ghosts

It was early morning in City North America, and at the Lever Mansion in Richmond servants hurried to and fro along the broad, high-ceilinged corridors, returning items to their rightful places or ticking off others against ancient, dusty ledgers, as the Mistress set about making an inventory of the great house.

Mary Lever had been up since four, organizing the venture, and now her attention had turned to the West Wing of the Mansion, unused since her father-in-law’s death some eighteen months before. She was up on the second floor, among the guest suites, checking for herself that what was actually there tallied with the book account of what ought to be there. So far she had been pleasantly surprised. Very little had gone missing. She walked from room to room, drawing curtains and throwing open windows as she went, Old Man Lever’s First Steward, Elliot, following her closely, like a shadow.

As if, she thought wryly, he doesn’t trust me with the family silver. She looked about the last of the guest rooms, wondering vaguely which of Old Man Lever’s powerful friends had last slept here . . . and with whom. If these walls could only speak . . .

She smiled, then, satisfied, pulled the door closed and locked it, returning the key to the bunch jangling at her waist. She swept a lock of her short blond hair from her eyes, then turned, looking toward the door at the far end of the corridor. A big twelve-paneled door painted a dreary cream.

“Okay. What’s down there?”

The elderly servant turned, glancing at the door, then looked back at her, his head bowed. “I don’t know, Mistress. The Master never used this wing of the Mansion much. We were not encouraged—“ “I see,” she said, interrupting, then moved past him. “I guess I’ll have to find out for myself.”

“Forgive me, Mistress ...”

She stopped. “Yes, Richard?”

As before, the use of his first name unsettled the old retainer. He was not used to such informality.

“Nothing, Mistress. Simply that I don’t think there’s a key to that door.” She stared at him, intrigued. Why is he so uncomfortable? and How does he know there is no key if he was never encouraged to come here? “Why not?” she asked, deciding to be direct.

“It. . . was never used.”

“Never?” She shrugged. “Well, we’ll see, neh?”

She turned, continued to the door.

As he caught up with her, she whirled about, the abruptness of her action surprising him. “You’re absolutely certain there’s no key?” He bowed his head, nodded.

“Then we’d best break it down, no?”

“Mistress?” He looked at her, alarmed.

“If there’s no key ...”

He stared back at her, nonplussed.

“Well?” she said, almost smiling now. “Will you do it, or shall I?”

His mouth opened slightly, closed.

There’s something in there, she thought. Something he’d rather I didn’t see.

She turned, took a step backward, kicked.

The door shuddered, held.

She kicked again. This time the wood surrounding the lock split and partly gave. A third kick shattered it.

The door swung slowly back.

She turned, smiling at him, enjoying the look of astonishment on his face.

And inside?

She stepped into the room. Into a dark mustiness.

“Lights,” she said, addressing the House Computer.

At once the room was brightly lit.

She looked about her. It was a big room—a storeroom of some kind. Crates were stacked up four high, two deep, all around the bare walls. She went across and examined one. It was sealed. She tried another and then a third. All sealed, untouched since they’d been placed here—when?—at least eighteen months back. She crouched, looking about her. The same label was on all the crates—the ornate blue-and-gold label of the Hythe-MacKay Auction House.

“What are these?” she asked, looking across to where the old servant was standing in the doorway.

He smiled politely. “The Old Master—“

“Oh, fuck the Old Master!” she said, finally losing her temper with him. “He’s been dead eighteen months now and still you act like he’s going to return at any moment! Well, he isn’t! And I’m Mistress here now. So cut all the ‘I don’t know’ shit and tell me what the hell all of this is!” He looked down, staring at his feet, shocked by her outburst. “I—I don’t know, Mistress. We were told not to come here. Master Lever. . . well...” She gave a sigh of exasperation. Was it always going to be like this? She counted to ten, then stood, facing the man. “Look, Steward Elliot, I’m sorry if I lost my temper just now, but I need to know what all of this is. How can I make a proper inventory of the Mansion unless I know what’s where?”

He made the smallest movement of his head, conceding the point. “Good. Then be helpful, neh, and bring me something I can use to open these crates.”

michael lever was in his office, taking briefings from his personal assistant, Dan Johnson, when his wife Mary’s voice came through on his desk comset.

“Michael? Come to the West Wing. Now. I need to see you.” He met Johnson’s eyes, making a grimace of exasperation. “Em . . . the meetings in ten minutes. Can’t it wait?”

“No. Now!”

The comset went dead. Michael ran a hand through his hair, frowning, clearly in two minds.

“When the Mistress of the House calls—“ Johnson said, grinning, showing perfect teeth. “You go. I’ll tell the board you’ve been delayed. Who knows, maybe it’ll do the old buggers good to be kept waiting.” “Dan . . . respect!” But Michael was smiling now. Besides, maybe Dan was right. Maybe he ought to keep them waiting, if only to let them know who was Head of this Company. Yet his instinct was against it. This was an important board meeting and he needed to get their agreement—if only tacitly—to the latest round of changes. If he didn’t. . . He huffed, half irritated by his wife’s summons, half intrigued, then, pulling himself up out of his seat, got the lightweight harness moving, making for the door. Johnson was there before him, holding the door open. “How’s it feel?”

Michael looked down at the support harness, which helped him walk and move about. Since the accident he had had a succession of them, but this was the lightest, the least uncomfortable, to wear. Why, it was almost possible sometimes to forget he had it on. In a year, the doctors said, he might even do without.

He smiled. “It’s great. The best yet. Doesn’t chafe like the last.” Johnson nodded his head, then touched Michael’s arm, for that brief moment more friend than assistant. “That’s good. And, look, don’t worry. I’ll fend them off, okay?”

“Fine.” Again he smiled, glad that Johnson was there, that he had such a good right-hand man. “I’ll not be long. I promise.”

HE FOUND HER in the West Wing, in a room which, for as long as he could remember, had been locked. She was sitting on an old wooden trunk, staring down at something she was holding between her hands. All about her were stacks of opened crates, their half-glimpsed contents nestling in blue-and-gold wrapping. Michael took two steps into the room, then stopped, looking about him.

“What’s going on?”

She looked up, a deep frown on her face, then held the object up for him to see.

“What is this, Michael?”

He took three ungainly steps toward her, then stopped, astonished. It was a head. A human head. And it was black.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

She looked about her. “It was here, in the trunk. And other things. Books and clothes, paintings and maps. Old stuff, from the time of the American Empire. But this . . .” She shuddered. “Well, it’s horrible. I mean, what was it? GenSyn? Were they operating back then?” He shrugged, staring at the hideous object with a mixture of fascination and repugnance. “Maybe. I don’t know. But this must be my father’s stuff. The stuff he bought from auction. Old Man Marley told me about it. Said he had plans to exhibit some of it before he died, so maybe there’s an inventory somewhere. Or purchase slips.”

Gingerly, he took the head from her, then turned it in his hands, studying it more closely. It looked wrong, somehow, the hair too curly, the nose too flat, the lips too broad. Lifting it slightly, he sniffed the black, leathery skin.

“Odd.” Again he shivered. Wrong, yes, but somehow it didn’t seem “made.” He looked back at Mary. “What do you think we should do with all this stuff?”

She leaned down, picking something up from beside her, then turned back and stood, holding something else out to him. It was a book. An old leather-bound book.

“I don’t know,” she said. “My first instinct is to burn it, but it might be important. Here, look at this. Where I’ve marked.” He set the head down, then opened the book where she’d set the marker. A musty smell drifted up at him, the very scent of age. The smell of Empire. He stared at the open page a moment, then looked back at Mary.

“Gods! It’s not possible, is it?”

“Sure it is. Look at that face. Who else could it be but a Kennedy?”

“And the man? The black man?”

“Look at the caption.”

He looked back at the old black-and-white print, studying it a moment, then turned the book, looking at the lettering on the spine. The book was old, two centuries old. But that face. He looked at it a third time, nodding to himself. A Kennedy and a black man. A king, so it said here. How strange that seemed. A black king.

“Do you think Joe knows about all this?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, to be honest. If he does, he’s kept it very close, neh?”

He nodded, then, struck by an idea, began to smile. “Hey. . . maybe we should give it to him. . . you know, at his birthday party on Friday. It’d be perfect, don’t you think?”

She took it back from him. “If you want. But not before I’ve had a chance to read it. There are things here . . .” She gave a little shiver. “Well, you’d best get back, neh? The old men are waiting, and you know how irritable they get.”

He laughed. “Don’t I just.”

immvac’s boardroom was 3 huge hall of a chamber, surrounded on three sides by a bslcony from which 3 dozen soft-wired scribes looked on, ready to take notes and provide their masters below with up-to-date information on whichever topic was the current subject of discussion. Below, about a massive octagonal oak table, sat seven elderly men, their gray hair combed back in a uniform style, their business silks a uniform midnight-blue. On the table in front of each was a long, low screen, on which figures and briefing information would appear as needed. At the head of the table, beneath the Com-p3ny logo, which dominated the back wall, the high-backed chair was empty. To one side of it stood Dan Johnson, his hands out in front of him as he fielded the old men’s brusque inquiries about Michael Levers whereabouts.

“Gentlemen. I’m sure Mr. Lever will be here at any moment. If you would just be patient.”

“Twenty minutes!” the old man directly opposite Johnson said in a loud, disgruntled voice. “His father would never have kept us wsiting twenty seconds! We have our own Companies to run, you know!” Johnson lowered his head as if in respect to the old man, but in truth he was simply trying to keep his temper. The speaker was Johannes Kemp 3nd he wss an abrasive old bastard. Even at the best of times he was difficult, but today, it seemed, he wss going out of his wsy to be unpleasant. “I’ll give him another five minutes, and then I’m off. It’s intolerable.

Absolutely intolerable!”

Johnson stared at Kemp, astonished. Did he mean that? Would he just get up and go? And what if he did? What if all the others followed him? Then therell be no quorum, a voice in his head answered him— and thus no board meeting, and no changes. And what will young Michael do then? He took a breath, about to speak to Kemp, to be his most persuasive, but at that moment the doors at the far end of the room swung back snd Michael swept in, his prosthetic clicking on the marble floor. “Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said, coming around the table, 3n apologetic smile lighting his young, handsome features. “Something very important just came up. Something I had to deal with at once.” Dismissing Johnson he took his seat 3t the head of the table..

“Well,” he said, looking about him. “Let’s get down to business 3t once. You’ve seen my proposals for the reorganizstion of the Company’s management structure and, I hope, have had time now to consider them. Put simply the problem is this: the Compsny is top-heavy with management. There are far too many people on the payroll who are drawing a salary for doing nothing.”

“With respect, Shih Lever, I disagree.”

The voice came from Michael’s right, from a long-faced man named Leckie. He leaned forward, his deep voice resonant with the accent of the Old South. “I’ve had my people look into this and they find little evidence of overstaffing in the management levels. Indeed, were we to trim back, as you suggest in your document, well, my findings show a likely drop in efficiency of anything between ten and fifteen percent.” Michael stared at him, then sat back, lacing his fingers together in a manner reminiscent of his father. “Forgive me, Andrew, but your findings . . . surprise me. Since my father’s death I’ve commissioned a number of reports on this Company’s financial strengths and weaknesses, with the aim of making ImmVac not merely a stronger Company but also a more equitable one. Now, there are three things which these reports agree upon: one, that our borrowings are much too high; two, that our pricing strategy was close to scandalous; and three, that there are simply too many managers. As you know, I’ve already taken steps to deal with the second of these by reducing the wholesale price of our goods and services, but if ImmVac is to maintain its position as City North America’s leading Company then we’re going to have to deal with the other problems—problems which are, I feel, indissolubly linked.”

“So you say,” Kemp said, taking his chance to interrupt, “but I, too, have had my people look at things, and they have come up with a completely different set of findings. You identify three problems. However. . . there is a fourth area of concern, and that’s the question of the Institute and the Immortality Project.”

Michael looked down. “As I’ve said before, that is a matter I shall deal with personally. As soon as new sponsors are found—“ “Forgive me, Michael,” Kemp said, insistent now, “but surely the problem is very much within our remit. After all, the eight billion yuan loan to the Cutler Institute is secured on the assets of (his Company, which makes it very much a matter for this board. Besides, if my information is correct, no new sponsors have been forthcoming—nor are there likely to be any while you continue to run the business down.” Michael glared at the old man. “That’s my decision, and while I hold eighty percent of the shares in this Company, I’ll not have the matter discussed in this boardroom, understand me?” There was a moment’s silence; then, with a faint bob of his head, Kemp stood. “If that’s how you feel, Michael, you can have my resignation straightaway.”

“Johannes. . .” Michael took a long, exasperated breath. “Look, please try to understand. The Institute ... it was an aberration of my fathers. A dream that went wrong. It should never have been tied in to the fortunes of this great Company, nor shall it be in future.” Kemp laughed sourly. “You know, Michael, I opposed your father when he took the Institute on. I warned him against committing so much of this Company to something so ... high risk. But now . . . well, I’m astonished that you can’t see it, boy. Eight billion yuan. Where will we find that? And find it we must if you’re to pursue this idiot idea you have of ridding us of the damned thing. No. Think clearly, Michael. You’ve no option. Cut and trim all you like, but while the Institute’s on our back, and while you’re determined to run it down, then you can say farewell to any schemes you have for revivifying ImmVac’s fortunes.” “So what do you suggest?”

Kemp hesitated a moment, then sat again. He took a printout from the case at his side and slid it across the table to Michael. “There,” he said. “That’s what I suggest. We reorganize, sure, but not the parent Company. The Institute, that’s where we concentrate our efforts. We introduce new money, new thinking. We make it work. And from the profits we pay off the loan.”

Michael stared at the document in his hands, shaking his head. “No,” he said softly. “We can’t do this. It’s against all I’ve stood for.” Kemp’s voice was firm, authoritative. “We either do this or we go under.” “No,” Michael said again, his voice pained. But he was thinking, What if Kemp’s right? How would he explain that to Mary? How would he make her understand?

“Well?” she asked, looking up from the sofa as he came into the big, open-plan living room. “How did it go? Did they approve the changes?” He nodded, not wanting to tell her about the rest of the deal just yet.

“You want a drink?” he asked, going across to the cabinet.

She laughed. “Was it that bad?”

He looked back at her and smiled. “You know how it is. Leckie had brought his own figures along and Old Man Kemp was being a total pain in the ass. But what’s new? It’s probably the only fun they get out of life!” Her eyes were suddenly serious. “You want to watch those two. Leckie’s not as dumb as he seems, and Kemp ...”

He poured himself a whiskey, then turned, raising an eyebrow. “What about Kemp?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Just a feeling.” He came across and sat beside her. There was a stack of books on the low table next to her, one in her lap.

“What’s that you’re reading?”

She picked it up and showed him. “It was in one of the crates. Look, there’s more of them.”

Michael stared, fascinated. Black men. More black men, but this time in American army uniforms, standing there posing for the camera, leaning on their long rifles.

He frowned, disturbed by the ancient image. If they’d been GenSyn there’d have been something standardized about them: a certain uniformity about the faces, a conformity of size and shape. Not only that, but they’d have been bigger, better muscled, than they were. Besides, why go to the trouble to make such a range of men and then use them as simple foot-soldiers? Unless . . .

“Hei”, he said. “Perhaps they were an early model of the Hei.” She shook her head. “There was a war,” she said quietly. “A great war between the North and South. Look—look at all the photographs.” He turned the pages, then caught his breath, horrified by the scenes of carnage.

“A war,” she said again. “It says here that it lasted the best part of five years and that over six hundred thousand men died, and we know nothing about it. I checked. There’s nothing in the official records. Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

She shook her head. “What’s been going on, Michael? Why don’t we know about this?”

He looked back at her, dumbfounded. “I don’t know.”

She leaned toward him, touching his arm. “I want to find out. Hythe-MacKay

will know. I’ve arranged to see them tomorrow morning for a viewing. If

I—“

There was an urgent beeping from the wall screen in the corner. She sat back, letting a long breath escape her.

“Who is it?” Michael asked, facing the wall screen. “It’s Representative Kennedy, Master,” the House Computer answered, “calling from Weimar.”

“What time is it out there?”

“Ten minutes after eight, Master.”

Michael turned, smiling at her, as if he’d already forgotten what she’d been saying. “Then he’ll have made his speech.” He turned back. “Put him on. Full vision.”

At once the image of Kennedy filled the screen. “Michael. . . Mary . . . how are the two of you?”

“We’re fine,” Michael answered for them both. “How did it go? Did you have them eating out of your hand?”

Kennedy laughed. “Not quite. Even so, I think it went down rather well. The media are hailing it as a great success. That’s why I rang. I’m told that MedFac are going to show excerpts on their evening ‘cast. Maybe you’d spread the word—let a few of our friends know it’s going out. If we can get pickup from a few of the other channels—“ “Leave it with me,” Michael said, grinning back at him. “And Joe . . . you’re still okay for Friday?”

Kennedy beamed back at him. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. But look, I’ve got to dash, okay? I’ll catch up with you later. Bye!” The screen went dark.

Michael turned, looking to Emily, then frowned. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing,” she said, putting the book on the top of the pile. “I’d best be getting on with diings.”

He huffed, exasperated by her. “Look. You don’t have to like him, Em, but you could be a bit more civil. It’s not easy what he’s trying to do.” Her answer was unexpectedly sharp. “And just what is that? Do we really know anymore?”

“Hey . . . ease off. . . .” He raised his hands, smiling at her. “I thought we’d talked this one through. The new population measures will help everyone, from First Level to the Net.” “Some more than others.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that the top fifty will be exempt.”

“So? The top fifty isn’t where the problem is.”

“No . . .” She looked away, her face tight. “It never is, is it?” “Hey . . .” He laughed, trying hard to be conciliatory. “Look, I agree with him, Em. I think it’s the right step to take. So what am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” she said coldly. Then, relenting, she came across and pressed his head against her side. “Nothing, my love.”

kennedy leaned in to the intercom, speaking to his secretary in the next room. “Make sure he gets that, right? Oh, and send copies to Hudson and Keeler. I want them fully briefed when they meet Hastings tomorrow. Oh, and no more calls just now. I’m in conference, right?” Breaking the connection he sat back, looking at the man seated across from him.

“Well, Fen Cho-hsien, how can I help you?” Wu Shih’s Chancellor looked about him a moment; then, smoothing his silks out with one hand, he smiled. Behind him his two body servants stood like statues—big, apelike Han, their faces bereft of expression. “It was a good speech, Shih Kennedy,” Fen answered, drawing his silks tighter about him, “and I am certain that, when it comes to the vote tomorrow, you will win a substantial majority.” He paused. “My Master is very pleased with you.”

Kennedy shrugged. “And what does your Master want of me now?” Fen’s smile never wavered. “Wu Shih wants nothing. Nothing, that is, except what is best for everyone. You have brought your party a long way this past year. Your policies . . . well”—he laughed—“it is hard to believe that the NREP of a year ago could have held such views, neh?” Kennedy made no comment, yet it was clear from a hardening in his face that Fen Cho-hsien’s constant insults were getting to him. “Anyway,” Fen said, aware of the effect his words were having, “I have a meeting within the hour, so I must go.”

He raised his right hand and clicked his fingers. At once one of the body servants handed him a sealed envelope. Fen stared at it, then leaned toward Kennedy, handing it to him, the smile gone suddenly, his eyes hard. “You will find my Master keeps his promises, Mister Kennedy. There is enough there to pay off all New Republican debts and enough left over to purchase tai if you so wish. In return all you need do is agree to a single amendment to your proposal introducing new levels of food subsidies for below Level Two fifty.”

Kennedy stared at him. “What new levels?” Fen Cho-hsien stood, smiling once more. “It is all there in the Tang’s letter. As I said, my Master keeps his promises . . . make sure you keep yours.”

With that he turned and left.

Kennedy sat there a moment, staring at the empty doorway, then looked down at the letter in his hand. Tearing it open he read it through, then sat back, whistling.

“Shit,” he said softly. If he agreed to this . . . But what option had he? If he didn’t the whole package would be lost, and whatever Fen Cho-hsien might think, he really did believe in the current set of population proposals. They weren’t equitable, true, but they were a start. And once the principle was established—

But to reduce food subsidies to the Lowers was against stated New Republican policy. To agree to this was something else. He looked down at the check. It was made out in Wu Shih’s own hand—a bill drawn on his private bankers for twenty million yuan. Kennedy nodded to himself, considering. Ten would clear all debts, the rest. . . He huffed loudly, angry that it had come to this. Until now he’d played things straight, avoiding the use of pockets—tai—to win a vote, but this once it seemed he’d need it.

Ten million. From what he’d heard he could buy a whole stack of votes for that. A quarter of the House.

“So you want amendments, do you?” he said softly, pulling his writing pad across and beginning to scribble with the stylus. “Well, I’ll give you amendments, Wu Shih, more amendments than you ever looked for.”

wu shih, T’ang of North America, looked sternly into the news camera, the detailed model of the newly commissioned orbital farm on his desk beside him. Then, with a flourish of the brush, he signed the special Edict and, taking the great seal from the cushion, inked it and pressed it down firmly onto the foot of the document.

“There,” he said quietly as the arc lights cut out and servants hurried to take the document away, “it is done.”

He stood, then crossed the book-lined study to where his cousin, Tsu Ma, stood by the open garden door, watching him. “It is an expensive business, cousin,” Tsu Ma said, smiling sympathetically. “Let us pray it works.”

Wu Shih sighed. “I wish now I had never commissioned that report. I shall be lucky if it does not bankrupt me!”

Tsu Ma laughed. “Oh, 1 doubt it cousin. Besides, it is better to be forewarned than sorry. You should not ask yourself how much it will cost, but what it might have cost you had you not acted.” Wu Shih turned, watching his servants dismantle the trivee rig. “I’d hoped we could make do, but the orbitals are ancient and are constantly undergoing repairs. We ought to bring them down and totally refit them, but we simply cannot afford to. We are at full stretch as it is, and to take even one out of service”—he shrugged—“well, there was no option when it came down to it. We must build new orbitals or see the old ones fall apart. Still, there are some pluses. The new population controls are a very touchy matter and the vote in the House tomorrow is likely to be close. This might sway one or two members to support Shih Kennedy’s proposals.”

Tsu Ma laughed. “You can always hope! Myself, I’d have trusted more to simple bribery!”

“Oh, I have done all I can in that regard! Even so, this worries me, Tsu Ma. Bad news . . . there seems nothing but bad news these days.” “Well, then, the timing of this could not be better, neh? If you must give the people bad news—and the reduction of the subsidies is certainly that—then it’s always best to sweeten it with something brighter. People don’t mind suffering if there’s the prospect of better times ahead.” “Maybe so. And yet I fear we must tread carefully. What happened on Mars ...” He shuddered, then shook his head. “Besides, Li Yuan’s is not the only City where there is unrest these days. My Security forces are busier than they ever were.”

“And mine,” Tsu Ma confessed. “But what can we do? I have doubled the size of my forces, but still they barely cope. It is the times, cousin. We are fated to ride the tiger.”

Wu Shih nodded, as if resigned, but his eyes, which had always been so clear, so determined, seemed bewildered by events. Tsu Ma watched him a moment longer, his own eyes narrowed, then he turned away, looking out across the sunlit garden.

“Listen to this,” Mary said, looking up from the page and meeting Michael’s eyes across the room. “When the Chinese—the Han, that is—first came to North America in the 1840s, they called it Amo Li Jia . . . the Land Without Ghosts.”

He stared at her distractedly. “Pardon?”

“America, they—“ She closed the book. “You’ve not been listening to a word, have you?”

He smiled apologetically.

“Okay. What’s on your mind?”

He shrugged. “I was thinking about the deal . . . you know, with Kemp and the others. And all this stuff that’s going on at Weimar. I should have been there, Em.”

“Joe has your proxy, hasn’t he?”

He nodded.

“Well, then, what’s the worry? I thought you trusted Joe.”

The irony in her voice was hard to miss.

“And you don’t? Come on, Em, tell me the truth. Don’t you trust him?”

“You know how I feel.”

“Do I?” He looked away. “Sometimes I think I don’t know you. Sometimes it’s . . . well, it’s like you’re a stranger to me.” She looked down, then, setting the book aside, she went across. Sitting next to him she took his hands, forcing him to look at her. “I’m sorry. It’s hard sometimes, that’s all. Living like this—I’m not used to it. You were born to it. It’s natural for you. But for me . . .” She squeezed his hands. “As far as Joe’s concerned, I’ll try a little harder, okay?” She smiled, coaxing an answering smile from him. “Now tell me honestly—what’s bothering you?”

“The deal,” he said, looking directly into her eyes, his boyish innocence troubled. “I’ve agreed to keep the Institute open.” “You’ve what?”

“I had to. I. . .” He freed his hands, then reached across and took a file from the table nearby, handing it to her. “Kemp’s report,” he said, watching her open it suspiciously. “I’ve had Dan check the figures and Kemp’s right. We’ve no option. We have to make it work or ImmVac sinks without a trace. And if ImmVac goes we’ve got nothing, Em. Nothing whatsoever.”

“It’s evil,” she said, her eyes scanning the figures. “Old men wanting to live forever . . . it’s just plain evil.” She looked up at him again. “No option, huh?”

He stared at her, silent, waiting.

“Okay,” she said, relenting, her voice softening. “But make sure they keep their part of the bargain. We get those changes through, right?” “Okay,” he said, a relieved smile lighting his features.

“Good. Now put the screen on. Our good friend Joe’s on any minute.” He laughed, then turned, addressing the air. “House . . . let’s have the MedFac news channel. Mr. Kennedy’s address. Copy and store.” As the screen lit up, he sat back, putting his arm about her shoulders.

“Next time he should do it live. More impact that way.”

“Shhh . . .” she whispered, pointing at the screen. “I want to hear this.” On the screen was a view of an imposing First Level Mansion not so different from their own. Guards clustered about the gate to the grounds, looking up at the floater camera and smiling. On the gravel path nearby three bodies lay facedown. As the camera closed in, it could be seen that they were dead. Bullet holes riddled their backs and legs. Congealed blood was pooled beneath them. The commentary ran on.

“... is only the latest attempt by the Black Hand to infiltrate First

Level and cause maximum damage to life and property. Asked today what

steps he was taking to eradicate this problem, Security General Lowe said

...”

“They’re scum,” Michael said, speaking over the commentary. “They got what they deserved.”

She stared at him, surprised, then moved back, pushing his arm away. “You know that, do you? I mean . . . you knew those three personally?” He shook his head. “Hey, what are you getting so upset about? Those are terrorists lying there dead, not charity workers. They knew the risks. Besides, what did the guy who owns the Mansion do to them? It could have been him lying there dead. Or us, come to think of it!” “Maybe,” she said quietly, “but they’re not scum. They just want a better life, that’s all.”

“Sure, and a funny way they have of getting it.” He raised his hand, as if about to lecture her, then, realizing what he was doing, he sat back, shaking his head. “My father . . . my damn father! Sometimes I think his ghost’s in me.”

She was still staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Look. Maybe they’re not scum. Maybe they do have their reasons, but I can’t see how murdering and robbing innocent people furthers their cause. It’s all so ... destructive. Why can’t they do something positive?”

“Maybe they do, but you never get to hear about it. It’s all—“ “Hey, listen...” he said, interrupting her, as Wu Shih’s face appeared on the screen. “What the hell is this?”

She turned, listening, her mind still on what he’d said, only half attending to the announcement.

“Kuan Yin preserve us!” Michael said, then whistled. “Three new orbitals.

That’ll set him back . . . what, sixty billion?” “It’s good news,” she said, as the commentator began to introduce the next item, Kennedy’s speech at Weimar. But she couldn’t get the earlier image from her mind—that close-up on the last of the fallen terrorists. It had been a woman, a Hung Mao, her blond hair caked with her own blood, a gold ring prominent on the second finger of her left hand. Scum . . . and he’d called her scum. She shivered and sat back, trying to push the image from her mind as Kennedy’s face filled the screen, his powerful voice echoing out across the packed tiers of the House and into their room.

kemp turned in his chair, looking away from the frozen image on the screen, then raised his brandy glass in a toast. “Now, there’s one bastard I’d celebrate the death of!” There were yells of approval from all around—from the old men who were seated at the big table to either side of Kemp and from the younger men who sat at tables in the shadows beyond.

Kemp stood and turned to face the dinner-suited crowd, waiting for the noise to subside before he spoke again.

“However, it’s his paymaster, Lever, we need to see off first. And that’s why I’ve asked you all here tonight. To talk tactics.” His knowing smile brought a roar of laughter from all sides. Kemp let it roll on a moment, then raised his hands again. “We all know what’s at stake. If Kennedy and Lever get their way we’ll all pay for it. They’ll strip our Mansions bare to pay for health care for some jughead’s scrawny litter. Why, we’d be feeding every damn loin-jerk in the Lowers!”

Again there were fierce cries of approval and the stamping of feet. “So . . .” he said, more quietly, more ominously, “we have to act. To stop this thing from happening. We have to ... prevent it.” He turned his head slightly and snapped his fingers. At once a dozen servants issued from a door at the side and started going among the tables, handing out envelopes.

“In there you’ll find a payment for fifty thousand yuan. Good-faith money, we’ll call it. You serve us well, however, and there’ll be more. Much more.”

Kemp looked about him, seeing the nods of satisfaction from all around, and smiled inwardly.

“Okay, then let’s begin. Let’s see what we can do to make things difficult for our friends. ...”