Beneath the Tree of Heaven

CHAPTER NINE

Old Men

The main reception room of Hythe-MacKay was imposing and elegant. Life-size statues of ancient Greek gods and goddesses lined one wall, each finding its echo in one of the old masters hung upon the wall opposite. The ceiling, some twenty ch’i above the pure white marble floor, was alabaster and gilt, based on an ancient Italian design, while the center of the room was dominated by an ornamental pool in which a dozen jet-black carp swam indolently.

A beautiful young girl—American but dressed in traditional silks of gold and blue—waited, head bowed, beside the private lift, ready to greet each client of the great auction house, but the Senior Clerk—the “gatekeeper” of the great emporium—sat at the far end of the room behind an ornate, late Empire-style desk, stiff backed and self-important, the gold-on-blue H-M motif on the wall behind him repeated on the patch on his chest. Usually he was to be found seated there with an expression of profound boredom—modeled, perhaps, on that of the statues at which he had had to stare for so long—but right now he was busy. He smiled tightly and, with a politeness bred of contempt, leaned toward the young woman seated opposite him.

“Forgive me, Madam Lever, but it is unusual for us to deal with new customers without . . . well, without an introduction of some kind.” She stared coldly at the man, then took the folder from her bag and placed it on the desk in front of her. Inside were more than a hundred receipts from the Hythe-MacKay Auction House, dated over a three-year period. “I believe you dealt with my late father-in-law.”

“Forgive me, Madam, but I do not recollect. . .” She pushed the folder toward him. “I think these might refresh your memory.”

He stared at her a moment, then, reluctantly, flipped open the folder and fastidiously removed the top sheet. “Ah . . .” he said, seeing what it was, “this is a ... delicate matter.” He smiled at her again. “You see, none of these things exists officially. And these documents”—he smiled sadly, as if the matter were unfortunate—“well, they’re clearly fakes.” Cut the bullshit, she thought. Tell me what I want to know. He hesitated, then closed the folder decisively. “Okay. If you would come with me, Madam Lever.”

Good, she thought. At last!

He stood and bowed, waiting for her to stand, then put out an arm, all charm now, and ushered her out of a door to his right and down a long, dimly lit corridor.

“You understand how it is, Madam Lever,” he said fawningly. “We have to be absolutely certain of whom we deal with. One mistake and we’re all in trouble. The Ministry”—he stopped, opening the end door for her, then, much more softly—“the Ministry would have our balls!”

the knocking came again, louder, more insistent this time. Kemp swore and climbed up off the naked girl, frustration fueling his anger. Pulling on his robe, he tied the sash about his portly waist, then shooed the girl into the next room.

“Stay in there,” he hissed, giving her rump an impatient slap, “and don’t make a noise.”

He waited a moment, then went across, pulling the outer doors open with a flourish, a broad, artificial smile lighting his features. “Britton! You’re much earlier than I expected!” The man outside was in his fifties, smartly dressed in dark green business silks, with a broad, pugnacious-looking face and a closeshaven scalp. He bowed with the very minimum of respect, then stepped past Kemp into the room.

“You have it, I see,” Kemp said, his eyes indicating the thick folder under Britton’s arm.

“It wasn’t easy,” Britton answered, looking about him at the elegant apartment as if checking for assassins. Then, looking back at Kemp, he smiled tightly. “I had to trade upon a lot of old friendships to get this. There’s a lot more here than you’d find in the official Security file. A lot more.”

Kemp nodded, then gestured that Britton should take a seat, but Britton ignored him, walking across to the bathroom door. Opening it a fraction he looked inside, his eyes taking in the mammoth sunken bath, the gold rails, the marble tiling.

“They look after you well, Shih Kemp.”

None of your business, Kemp thought, smiling broadly. “Naturally,” he said. “They’re powerful men. They treat their friends well.”

There was a couched threat in that which Britton didn’t miss. He turned, looking sourly at Kemp.

“And how well do you treat your friends, Shih Kemp?” Kemp went to the drawer beside the bed and took out the envelope, then turned back, facing Britton.

“It’s all here. One hundred thousand, as agreed.” Britton’s face was hard. “I’ve had a lot of expenses. As I said, there’s a lot more here than you’d have thought.”

Kemp eyed him. “I can find an extra twenty-five. But that’s it.” Britton considered a moment, then nodded. He stepped across and handed Kemp the dossier.

Kemp flicked through it, then whistled. Eight hundred pages. And good stuff by the look of it. He looked up at Britton and smiled. “I’ll send your expenses over later.”

“That’s fine with me, Shih Kemp, but you might have a look at the passage I’ve marked on page three hundred seventy-four before I leave. There’s an interesting sideline you might want me to follow up on.” Kemp raised an eyebrow, then flicked through, finding the page. He read the passage through, then looked up again, interested. “So just what were our two friends investigating before they had their . .

. accident?”

Britton smiled. The smile of a shark. “Old Man Lever had hired them to look into the background of his son’s new wife. It seems they came up with a blank. Lever paid them off, but for some reason they kept looking. And then this. Suspicious, neh?”

“Very.” Kemp paused. “Do we know what they found?”

“No. It all got burned with them.”

“Interesting.” He considered, then nodded. “Okay. Look into it. But this time keep expenses to a minimum, huh?”

Britton stared at him, fish eyed. “It’ll cost what it costs.”

Kemp shrugged. Yes, he thought, but if it costs too much, you can whistle. At the door Britton stopped, looking back at Kemp, his face like a sculpted mask, cold and expressionless. “Oh, and say good-bye to your girlfriend for me!”

Kemp sat there a moment after he’d gone, staring at the door, his anger slowly subsiding. Britton was becoming a nuisance. More than that, he was an insolent son of a bitch. But he was useful, there was no denying that, and if he could find out something juicy about Mary Lever, then all the better. There’d be a big fat bonus in it for himself. He looked down at the dossier again, then laughed. The Old Men would pay him well for this. Very well indeed. He flicked through, stopping at a picture of an adolescent Michael Lever with his father, and nodded to himself. Then, calling for the girl to come and help him dress, he turned to the front of the file and began to read.

in the great hall of John Fairbank’s Mansion at the top of Denver central, the four old men were gathered about the life-size statue of the boy, casting admiring, acquisitive eyes over its perfect marble form. Egan, who had crouched to study the detail of the outstretched arm, looked up at Fairbank and smoothed a hand over his polished skull. “Where did you find it?”

“There’s a dealer in Europe I use,” Fairbank answered, looking to the other two as he did. “I’ll give you his address. It seems there’s a new man working the Clay in Central Europe. They say he’s unearthed a whole warehouse full of treasures!”

“If it’s like this, I’m interested,” Green said, nodding in his distinctive manner. “Could I be indelicate, John, and ask what this cost?” Fairbank’s smile widened a fraction. “Have a guess.” Chamberlain looked at the statue, considered a moment, then laughed. “I haven’t a clue! Statuary really isn’t my thing. But having said that, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one this well preserved. Why, there’s not a mark on it!”

“That’s true enough,” Egan said, straightening up. “So much of what I’ve seen in the auction houses is damaged. The little savages tend to smash anything they get their hands on. This must have been hidden away somewhere—in a cellar, perhaps, or under rubble. To find it. . .” He gazed at the statue again, clearly impressed. “Well, it’s rare, that’s all I know. So ... fifty million? A hundred?”

“Double that,” Green said, watching Fairbank’s face. “I bet you paid . . . oh, two twenty?”

“Two twenty-five,” Fairbank said, laughing, then shook his head. “Every time! I don’t know how you do it, Clive.” “It’s sixty years of watching that face of yours,” Green answered, laughing. “I’m sure I know every little tick and nervous gesture on it!” “Is that what it is?” Again Fairbank laughed. “Two two five, huh?” Egan said, and turned, looking at the statue with a new respect. “And you think he might have something else like this?” “He might”—Fairbank looked about him—“or you might make me an offer.” Egan looked up, frowning, then, seeing how the others were smiling, gave a bark of laughter. “Am I that transparent?” “Only to your friends!”

Egan looked about him. “And good friends you’ve been these past thirty years. Through thick and thin.”

“Which is one of the reasons why we’re here, neh?” Fairbank said, serious suddenly. It was true. For thirty years they had suffered at the hands of Old Man Lever. He had bought their best men, plundered their markets, stolen their secrets, undercut their products. No trick had been too low or too filthy for him, no method too devious or too immoral. But now that had changed. His death eighteen months back had opened a door of opportunity. His son was raw and inexperienced. Better than that, the boy was an idealist and wanted to implement a number of changes to his corporate structure: changes which would severely weaken ImmVac and—for the first time in three decades— make it vulnerable to a concerted effort by its trading rivals.

“I’ve had my man on ImmVac’s board prepare a special briefing for us,” Fairbank said, throwing the cloth back over the statue. “He’ll be here at four to present it. In the meantime I suggest we break for lunch. Besides, there’s another matter I’d like to raise with you.” “Another?” Egan asked, his eyes sparkling with interest.

“Over lunch,” Fairbank said, and smiled. “I’ll tell you while we eat.”

wu shih stood there, his palms damp, facing the ching, while in the room behind him the technicians whispered urgently among themselves, hurrying to prepare the tests.

It had been three weeks after his twenty-second birthday when he had first come here, sad eyed and dressed in mourning clothes, to meet his other self. Since then, once a year for the past thirty-five, he had returned, unannounced, to spend an hour or two with it. A servant brought a chair. He sat, looking about him at the tiny chamber. To his right an altar had been set up, and offerings of food and drink had been placed before its tiny bright red pillars. To the left was a matt black exercise walkway, the looped track motionless. The ching itself sat on a high-backed throne facing him, wearing a bright yellow exercise suit that left its arms and legs bare. It was perfectly, unnaturally still, its smooth, unlined face vacant, like an idiot’s. The ching was his age exactly, a perfect copy of him, kept ready for the day when he, Wu Shih, finally died. Only then would it emerge from its lifelong seclusion in these rooms and, for the briefest while, take on his power and authority. Until, as the ritual demanded, his eldest son killed it and became T’ang in his place.

He stared at it, wondering if, despite all the reassurances of the experts, it had its own private thoughts, its own dreams and visions of the world. Wondering if, behind those vacant eyes, some other creature looked out at the world, cut off from speech and impotent to act. Some mad and staring thing. . .

That thought had always frightened him. Since his first visit here he had had dreams—dreams in which he was the ching, a machine of flesh and bone, made only to be woken once and killed. In those dreams he would find himself inside an empty, echoing palace of pale white alabaster, running from room to room, trying each door with a mounting desperation as he found all portals to the outside locked fast against him. Then, from beyond the walls, would come the sound of muted laughter—a deep, horrible, mocking sound. And he would run on, like a lost child, until he woke, his body sheathed in sweat, his heart racing like a newbom’s. “Chieh Hsia . . . ?”

He turned his head. The Chief Technician stood beside him, his head bowed.

“Are you ready?”

“We are, Chieh Hsia.”

“Then let us commence. I must be gone from here in an hour.”

“Chieh Hsta!”

He watched as two of them stood behind the ching, helping it to its feet. Encouraged by their touch it seemed to come alive, the waxwork sheen of its skin enlivened suddenly by the stretch and pull of muscle. Aided by them it moved toward the walkway. Mounting the step it took two paces and then stopped, letting them fasten its hands to the special grips on the rail.

Throughout it all the face-remained unchanged, its idiot vacancy somehow more terrible when glimpsed against the motion of that powerful, well-muscled form, and as ever Wu Shih found himself appalled and horrified. So like himself, it was, and yet... well, it was as if in coming to these rooms he stepped out of the world he knew and entered some other place—ti yu, the underworld, perhaps. As the walkway started up, its legs began to move, as if some conscious choice evoked the movement, yet from all he’d been told he knew that the motion was only the habit of the muscles—a habit patiently induced by its custodians.

Exercise, it was all that body knew. Pleasure and pain—such were strangers to it. Desire and simple need—these too had been kept from its experience. Fed regularly and exercised, it functioned perfectly. Much better, Wu Shih mused, than its original. No illness had ever plagued it, no worries disturbed its dreamless sleep.

Colorless, unconscious of its purpose, it waited.

My death, he thought. It measures its existence by my death. Later, as he was watching it perform a series of twists and turns that would have defied a more thoughtful athlete, he found himself thinking about Weimar and the importance of the vote that afternoon. He had done all he could in that regard. He had bought and bullied, made threats and given promises, drawing upon a lifetime’s experience in an attempt to place the matter beyond doubt. Even so, it would still be close. What’s more, the House was once again pressing for autonomy—an autonomy it could not be allowed to have. Power. It was all about power. Grant them a little and they wanted more. Grant them more and they wanted a lot more. Best, then, to give them nothing—to keep all power in the hands of the Seven and make the matter beyond question. But only force could achieve that, and right now forcing the matter was not an option—not unless they wanted war. Maybe Li Yuan was right, then. Maybe they ought to wire them all—reduce them all to ching!

He huffed irritably, then stood, tired suddenly of the whole business.

“Enough!” he cried. “Let it rest!”

He turned, the watching technicians and officials backing away hurriedly, their heads bowed low, as he moved quickly, impatiently, between them. And outside, in the main office, where representatives of the Ting Wei and the Ministry—the two custodians of the ching— had gathered to honor him, he did not even pause to greet them, but swept through, his mind filled with dark shadows and forebodings, knowing it had been wrong to come.

“Dan? Where’s Em? I’ve looked all over.”

Johnson looked up from where he was preparing the documents for the journey and looked across at Michael Lever. “She left early. I thought you knew. She’s gone in to Hythe-MacKay to see what she can pick up for Joe Kennedy’s birthday.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Strange. She didn’t mention anything. . . .”

Johnson shrugged, then returned to his task.

“When do we need to leave?”

“Not for an hour yet,” Johnson answered, signing a document, then closing the file. “We could leave it longer, but I thought we’d give ourselves plenty of time.”

Michael eyed him a moment, then laughed. “Okay. What have you got up your sleeve?”

“Me?” Johnson looked up, all innocence, then smiled. “I had a thought, that’s all. As we’re going up to Washington anyway, why don’t we make an unscheduled visit to our facility just south of there?” “Alexandria, you mean?”

“Sure. It would be a good opportunity to see for yourself how they’re implementing your changes.”

Michael nodded thoughtfully. “I like that. But what about a brief? I mean, who’s Manager there now?”

“It’s all here,” Johnson said, tapping the stack of files he was about to put in the special courier sack. “I’ve prepared an overview of our operation there. You can read it on our way across.” Michael laughed. “I should have known. . . .” Then, catching his assistant’s enthusiasm, he nodded boyishly. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

despite herself Mary was impressed. The vaults at Hythe-MacKay were massive, stretching down a full ten levels beneath their offices. Armed guards stood at each doorway and every intersection—more for show than anything else, the Senior Clerk confided, pointing out the computer-operated lasers that tracked them wherever they went. At the very heart of the vaults was a small room. Inviting her to enter he pulled out a chair for her behind the console, then sat beside her, placing a key from his belt into the desk before him. Facing them, ten ch’t from where they sat, was a blank screen. Turning toward her he smiled, then spoke to the air.

“Kate, it’sjefferies. Code gold. Display.” The screen lit up, showing a three-by-three grid, each square labeled with a two-letter subdirectory code. She studied them a moment, then looked back at him.

He smiled. “Was there anything in particular you were interested in? Are you thinking of collecting, or buying as a gift?” “Both,” she said, then hesitated, not certain she should show too direct an interest. Then, not knowing how to be indirect, she shrugged. “There was a picture in one of the old books my father-in-law bought here. It had men in it. Black men.”

“Ah, the Negroes . . .” Jefferies’s smile took on a new form, an element of professional interest giving it an almost genuine air. “Kate, give me subroute ST. General index.”

The screen changed at a blink. The nine squares had become a list of four categories:

ARTIFACTS BOOKS DOCUMENTS MAPS

“Maps,” she said, curious.

“Maps, Kate.”

At once the screen was filled with tiny pictures—eleven in all, each item numbered and priced in red. She studied them a moment, then nodded to herself. There was not an item there under two million. “Can I see item seven?”

“Item seven, Kate.”

As the other items faded, the one she had chosen seemed to separate itself from the screen and drift toward her, growing slowly larger and taking on a three-dimensional form in the air. It stopped, an arm’s length from where she sat—a big, solid-looking thing. It was a map of Africa. She stared at it, fascinated. The map was old, much older-looking than the frame. It was yellowed and the writing on it was irregular, not a normal machine script. But it was the names which most interested her.

“Those names . . . ?”

“Segu,” he said, turning and looking directly at her, “Ashanti, Bornu, Wadai, Darfur, Funj, Tutsi, Butua, Menabe, Boina, Oyo, Hausa, Masai. . .” He smiled. “I’m sorry, it’s a specialty of mine. They’re the names of tribes—of nations, if you like. There were literally hundreds of them, all of them black skinned. From what we can make out they led very diverse lifestyles. Most of them were highly primitive, of course—around the same level as the Clayborn—but not all. Some were extremely sophisticated. There was a whole varied culture there at one time. Of course, we’re very lucky here at Hythe-MacKay. We’ve probably the best collection of Negro artifacts in the world, and this map . . . well, it’s a beauty, neh?” And so it should be at fifty million, she thought. Even so, she was quite taken by it. Was it real? Was it really real? And if it was, what had happened to all those tribes—where had they gone? Hundreds of them . . . No. It wasn’t possible.

“Where do you find them?”

He laughed. “Now, that would be telling. Let’s just say we have our sources. And there’s new material coming in all the time.”

“But the Ministry—“

“—knows nothing, officially.” He smoothed his thumb over his fingertips, indicating what he meant. “It adds to the price, naturally, but then our clientele can afford that little extra it costs us.” She nodded, understanding. Corrupt. It was all corrupt, from First Level to the Net. There was probably not one straight official among the lot of them.

“Is there a book of it—a history?”

Jefferies thought a moment, then shook his head. “Of their origins, no.

But there are one or two books about the slave trade.”

“The what?”

“That’s how they came here to America. They were brought over from Africa to work on the plantations. Hung Mao traders went ashore and rounded them up by the thousand, chained them up, and brought them back.” He nodded admiringly. “It was a highly lucrative trade. Many a trading empire was built on black slaves, you know!”

She turned back, staring at the map, seeing it anew. First the Hung Moo had enslaved the blacks, and then the Han had enslaved the Hung Mao. And next? She shivered, sickened by the whole business. “Show me something else. Show me . . .”An idea struck her. “Show me something to do with the Kennedys.”

He smiled. “Now, there’s an interesting subject. Kate, give me sub-route AC, directory six, subfile Kennedy. Show me Documents, subfile Newspapers. Item nine, I think. The copy of the Dallas Times Herald.”

kemp waited in reception while the Steward went in to announce his arrival. He stood there, looking about him at the priceless paintings on the walls, conscious of Fairbanks secretary watching from his corner desk. He felt good. Britton’s report had been excellent and, together with the other material he had, was sure to satisfy the consortium. Even so, this was the first time he had met the four together, and the fact that they had summoned him here to AmLab’s headquarters in Denver put him on his guard.

They had treated him well, there was no denying. The apartment he had been given was of the highest quality, and the girl. . . He smiled, remembering the girl. He was almost tempted to ask for the girl as part of his fee, but knew it would be wrong. To admit any weakness was a mistake when dealing with these men.

“Shih Kemp?”

He turned. The Steward was in the doorway, holding the door open for him.

Taking a firm grip on the folder he gave a tiny bow and went across. The board room was massive, at least a hundred ch’i by fifty, the ceiling twenty ch’i above his head. The floor and walls were finished in a pale green stone, the polished hexagonal slabs embossed with the blood-red circling-atom logo of AmLab.

The old men were seated at the far end, behind a long table of polished ebony. A space of at least five ch’i separated each man. Behind them were their corporate banners—the black on yellow of RadMed; the pale green and red of AmLab; the blood-red eagle of NorTrek; and the blue star on white of WesCorp.

“Kemp!” Fairbank said, his voice still powerful despite his seventy-five years. “Come close where we can see you better.” He approached. Ten paces from the table he stopped and bowed his head.

“Gentlemen.”

He looked along the line, expecting some sign of eagerness in their faces—after all, they had waited a long time to get back at ImmVac— but there was nothing. Their faces were like weathered walls. “Is that it?” Egan asked, pointing to the folder.

“Yes, I—“

“Put it on the table,” Fairbank said abruptly.

“I beg pardon?”

“On the table. We’ll read it later.”

“But—“

“Don’t worry, Shih Kemp, you’ll be paid in full. And I’m sure you’ve done an excellent job. Britton’s a first-class investigator. But that’s not why you’re here.”

“No?”

Fairbank smiled, then turned in his seat, looking to Chamberlain.

“Geoffrey...”

Chamberlain stood and came around the desk, walking past Kemp to a low table placed against the wall. Picking up a small black lacquered box he brought it across and handed it to Kemp.

“What’s this?”

Chamberlain leaned close. “Open it and see.”

He opened it, looked, then looked again. “What the . . . ?” Chamberlain laughed. Behind him the others were laughing, too, sharing the joke.

“I”—Kemp turned, looking to Fairbank for an explanation, trying hard to

retain his composure—“I—I realize what it is, but . . . well, whose is

it?”

Chamberlain took it back from him and smiled. “Does it matter?”

“Not to me, no ... but to htm!”

“Oh, he was dead before it was cut off!”

Kemp stared at the pale gobbet of flesh and swallowed uncomfortably, bile rising in his throat. “So what’s going on?” Egan answered him. “You’re building up a network, right?”

“To use against Lever, sure. But what’s that to do with . . . this?” Egan’s grin was like a skull’s. “In my experience what’s good for one purpose is usually good for another. Your contacts. . . they’ve contacts of their own, right? Little men, operating among the levels.” Kemp nodded.

“And they’re keen to line their pockets, neh? To earn a little extra on the side?”

Again Kemp nodded.

“Good. So we use them.”

“Use them? How?”

Green of RadMed answered him, his voice stretched thin, like the skin of his cheeks and neck.

“We live in troubled times, Shih Kemp. Political agitation and riots . . . these things disturb the markets. And whatever disturbs the markets affects our livelihoods, neh? A climate of uncertainty is bad for trade. You’d agree?”

“Well, sure. . . .”

“I’m sure you would,” he continued. “For some time now the situation in North America has concerned us. We’ve waited patiently, hoping that action would be taken—strong, decisive action—to curtail such activities. But nothing. The authorities know who these troublemakers are. They have camera evidence and the statements of informers. If they wanted they could go in and arrest them, but they don’t. Why? Because they’re afraid. Because they haven’t the guts or determination to deal with the problem!” Green’s deeply lined face was hard with resentment. Beside him Chamberlain and Fairbank were nodding, willing him to go on. “Well, Wu Shih may lack the will to do the job, but we don’t. If he won’t deal with the meiyu jen wen, then we shall!” Kemp nodded. It was not the first time he’d heard that phrase. On numerous occasions in the past few months, after formal dinners, or at more private gatherings, the drink had flowed and, eventually, the subject had come around to “solutions.” And always, always, someone would come out with that description of the Lowers. Mei yu jen wen . . . Subhumans. Meat-men. And the more he heard it, the more he was convinced it was true. For more than a century now they had dealt with their criminal element by demotion. The good had climbed the levels, while the bad had been sent to the bottom of the pile— down to the Lowers—where they could be with others of their kind.

Their kind ... He smiled savagely, convinced of it. The City was the great filter of humanity, separating the good from the bad, the successful from the failures, the real men from the subhumans, the meatmen—the mei yu jen wen. Animals, they were, with the morality of animals. And what did it matter if they lived or died? They were bred in ignorance and died in it. Scum, they were. Less than scum.

Green was watching him. He smiled. “You understand, then?”

“Maybe.” He hesitated. “That thing . . . ?” “Let me tell you a story,” Fairbank said, folding his hands together on the table in front of him, his voice robust—almost youthful, it seemed, after the cancerous tones of Green’s. “When our ancestors first came to this great continent, there were beings already here. Indians, they called them. Subhuman creatures with bright red skins. Well, these Indians proved a real nuisance, attacking Hung Mao settlements and murdering women and children without reason. So the government came up with a reward system. For every Indian a man killed, they’d pay a certain amount of money. Trouble was, it was impractical to carry dead Indians back across country to claim the reward, so they devised an easier method. Scalps. They’d pay the reward on every Indian, scalp brought back.” Fairbank smiled. “Now, I don’t think that’s a bad system, do you? But I felt we could improve on it somewhat. A scalp . . . these days a man can lose half his head and still live. Lose his cock, however, and even if he does live, there’s whole generations of such scum as’ll never be born, neh?”

Kemp laughed. It was ingenious. “How much do you plan to pay?”

“Two fifty?”

“There are risks. . . .”

“Sure there are risks!” Egan said angrily. “There are always risks.”

“But two fifty. It’s . . . too low.”

“Three hundred, then,” Fairbank said. “But no more. And a cut of fifty for you.” He smiled. “Per cock. . . .”

The muscle in Kemp’s cheek twitched. Fifty. ... It was more than he’d expected. A whole lot more.

“How”—he licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry—“how do I find out who to hit?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of that side of things. You’ll be sent copies of all the relevant Security files. All you have to do is arrange to act on them, okay?”

He nodded.

“Good. Then we’ll organize a fund at once. Third party, naturally. And if there are any little problems, you sort them out. Okay?” “Okay.”

Fairbank sat back, clearly satisfied with his afternoon’s work. “You’ll be given a contact address, and you’ll deal directly with that. From now on you’ll have no contact whatsoever with any one of us. If the Pang himself comes calling on you, it’s your job to make sure he doesn’t come here next. You understand me, Shih Kemp?”

Kemp swallowed. “I understand.”

“Good. Then we’re finished here. Oh, and Kemp . . .”

“Yes, Mister Fairbank?”

“You can have the girl. I understand you were rather partial to her. ...”

michael lever climbed down from the sedan and looked about him, taking in the imposing gates, the play of water on the sculpted ImmVac logo in the square before them, and realized just how long it had been since he’d visited one of ImmVac’s facilities.

Years ago—before his incarceration by Wu Shih and the split with his father—he had spent a great deal of time touring the City, inspecting ImmVac’s installations on his father’s behalf while he learned the business. Back then he would have spent the evening partying with officials, then spent the rest of the night with the daughter of some local bigwig—someone who wished to curry favor with his father. But now the very thought was anathema.

So much had changed since then. So much had happened to him. First there’d been the arrests at the Thanksgiving Ball that night—he and a dozen other “Sons,” taken by Wu Shih’s forces for “subversive activities.” For days afterward he had raged against his captors, demanding his release, but fifteen long months had passed—most of them spent in solitary confinement—before he had been freed to see his father again. And when he had . . .

He shivered, remembering the breach with his father, the long and bitter battle for independence which had ended with a bomb blast in which his best friend, Bryn Kustow, had been killed, and he himself badly injured. It could have ended there, but it hadn’t. He had outlived his father and become the Head of ImmVac in his place. And throughout it all there had been Mary, his darling “Em,” there like a pillar of burning light in his darkest moment, supporting him, guiding him, keeping his feet firmly on the narrow path.

Without her...

He turned, hearing Johnson’s footsteps behind him. “Well, Dan? Shall we shake them up a little?”

Johnson smiled. “If you like, we can go through unannounced. I have the codes.”

“Lead on. I’m looking forward to seeing Steiner’s face when we march into his office!”

Johnson turned and went across, giving the runners and the bodyguards their instructions, then came back. “Okay. Let’s go.”

the two guards were in an elevated glass cage on the wall to the left of the entrance corridor, overlooking the outer gates. They were watching a vid, their feet up on the desk, the remains of a meal piled up on the desk in front of them, when the lights on the control panel started flashing. As the doors swung wide, there was a moment’s panic, a reaching for guns. Then they realized who it was and stood, their heads lowered, their faces flushed with embarrassment.

“Shih Lever . . .”

Michael waved them aside impatiently and walked on, his harness carrying him smoothly across the broad expanse of peacock-blue carpet. At the turn of the corridor he went left, toward the executive suites, his assistant, Johnson, struggling to keep up with him.

Seeing Michael, Steiner’s secretary began to rise from her chair, her face alarmed, but one look from Michael made her sit again, her head folding against her chest.

“You first,” Michael whispered, moving to one side. “I’ll give you a minute, then I’ll come in. Pretend you’re alone.” Johnson made a facial shrug, then tapped out the door’s locking code. With the briefest rap of his knuckles against the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

There was a startled gasp and a small high sound of surprise. “Michael?” Johnson said, a faintly amused tone in his voice. “I think you’d better see this for yourself.”

He went in.

It was a big room. To the left was a row of cabinets, to the right a lacquered screen. Apart from that there was only a big executive desk and three chairs. Behind the desk a wall-length picture window showed a view of the old capital, as it had looked two centuries before. Michael glanced about him briefly, then went to the middle of the room, staring at Steiner.

Steiner was at his desk. Or rather, he was strapped to the desk. He lay there on his back, buck naked, a naked girl astride him. His wrists and ankles were fastened by leather thongs to the legs of the desk and a gag was tied tightly over his mouth.

“Are you in any trouble, Manager Steiner?” The old man swallowed uncomfortably, then lifted his chin, indicating to the girl that she should remove the gag. She obliged, then slipped from on top of him, standing behind the desk, her hands attempting to maintain some degree of modesty.

“Well?” said Michael after a prolonged silence. “Is this a regular event, or have I just caught you at a particularly bad time?” “I—I can explain, Shih Lever!”

“Sure.” Michael took a breath, then looked to Johnson. “Dan, bring me four guards. I want this man out of here right now.” “Shih Lever!”

Michael turned back, giving the man the sourest of smiles. “Relax, Shih Steiner. Just relax, neh? Now, you, girl ... do I employ you?” Timidly she nodded.

“Where are your clothes?”

She indicated across the room. Michael looked. There, beside the lacquered screen, was a filing tray and a stack of papers. Next to them—folded very neatly—were two piles of clothes.

“Get dressed, then report to Personnel. You’ll get six months’ pay, okay?”

She nodded, then hurried to do as she’d been told.

Michael turned, hearing Johnson returning with the guards. “Okay,” he said, standing back to let them pass. “I want you to pick up that desk and move it out of here, all right?” The men, who had been staring at the sight wide eyed, turned and answered him as one. “Yes, Shih Lever!”

“Michael...” Steiner pleaded, “in your father’s name ...” Michael turned, glaring at him. “Firstly, Mister Steiner, do not invoke my father’s memory! Secondly, what you do on your own time and in the privacy of your own apartment is up to you, but I do not expect a senior manager of mine to be doing this on Company time or on Company property!” Steiner closed his eyes, as if he’d die of shame. “Dear gods . . .” “Come on,” Michael said, waving the guards across. “I want him out of here, and I want it done right now!”

Johnson was staring at him now. “What are you going to do?” he asked quietly.

“Just watch. . . .” Michael answered, then turned to the guards. “Come on! Move it now! Out into the reception room, then follow me. As from this moment Shih Steiner is no longer an employee of the ImmVac Corporation and as such is a trespasser on this property. As guards you are empowered to eject him from the facility.”

There was an exchange of glances; then, with a roar of delighted laughter, they lifted man and desk and began to carry them across the floor. Through the reception room they went, incurring the startled glances of Steiner’s secretary, and on into the main corridor that led to the front gates. “No. . . .” Michael said, indicating that they should turn and come back. “Through the main facility. I think the staff should have the opportunity to say good-bye to their ex-Manager, neh?” “Have a care, Michael,” Johnson said quietly, but Michael pushed his arm away.

“Whatever you say, Shih Lever,” the most senior of the guards answered him. “Once around the factory floor and back here?” Michael nodded, then stood back, letting them pass.

“It’s too much,” Johnson said, speaking to his ear. “Turf him out, sure.

But this. . .”

Michael turned, staring at his assistant, his face hard, unforgiving. “You’re a good man, Dan, and a fine assistant, but don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, okay?”

Johnson lowered his eyes, chastened.

“Good. I want you to stay here and go through the records. Everything. Invoices, sales, production figures, the lot. I want a team in here this afternoon, and I want a full report on my desk by first thing Monday morning.”

“But what about Washington? Won’t you need me there?”

Michael took a long, shuddering breath. “Everything’s prepared, neh?”

Johnson nodded. “It’s all in the file.”

“Good. Then I should be all right, shouldn’t I? After all, I’ve only got to sign the refunding document.”

“I. . .”Johnson hesitated, then nodded.

1 “And Dan . . . unstrap him once he’s back here and let him get his clothes. But get him out of here. And no company sedan, okay? The bastard can walk home.”

kennedy sat back in his armchair, looking across the room at the three men seated there, watching as the Steward refilled their glasses. It was an hour and a half until the vote, and elsewhere in the great House. Representatives were already gathering, excited by the prospect of a setback for the Seven. Here, however, it was quiet, peaceful, the dark wooden panels and lattice windows invoking a sense of timelessness. Deceptively so, Kennedy thought, knowing that, if he were to be sure of things, he would need to convince these three—and the votes their faction commanded—to join his side.

“Well, Representative,” Underwood said, lifting his glass in a toast, “this is all very pleasant, but I’m sure you’ve not asked us here for social reasons.”

Kennedy smiled. His own glass sat untouched on the table beside him. “No,” he said, looking to Underwood’s companions, Hart and Munroe, taking care to include them in the discussions. “Nor would I insult you gentlemen by pretending otherwise. The hour presses and I am forced to deal more openly than I’m accustomed to.”

Hart smiled. “The House makes traders of us all, neh?” Kennedy returned the smile, yet inwardly he wondered what Hart meant by that. Was it an honest insight, or was it a barb? “That’s true,” he said, “yet trade is better than warfare, surely? If all parties can be satisfied—“ “Impossible,” Munroe said, bluntly, unexpectedly. Kennedy stared at him. “What do you mean?” “He means,” Underwood said, his smile enigmatic, “that we’ve not come here to trade.”

He paused, staring down into his wine, then spoke again. “You want to buy our votes, neh? To have us in your pocket, like the tai you’ve been snapping up these past twenty-four hours.” His eyes slowly looked up, meeting Kennedy’s again. “You brought us here to sound us—to find out what it is we want and offer it in return. A vague promise for a certain vote.” “Not vague.”

“No?” Underwood looked at him, surprise and disbelief balanced in that look. Then, with a shrug, he downed his drink. “Whatever . . . you’re wasting your time. You can’t buy us and there’s nothing we want that you can deliver.”

“Nothing?”

Underwood’s smile was pitying. “We are Dispersionists, Representative, not New Republicans. We don’t want the kind of small compromises you seem happy with, don’t you understand that? Change, that’s what we want. Change. And you can’t give us that. You simply can’t deliver.” No? he thought, indignant. Yet against his natural indignation was set the truth. Underwood was right. He had bartered away whatever strengths he’d brought here to Weimar. And Change—real Change— that was now beyond him. There’d been so many tiny factions to satisfy, so many greedy egos to pamper. And nothing pure. . . .

He sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Then again, maybe you’re kidding yourself too. Spaceships and distant stars . . . it’s not a very practical platform, is it? Come the next elections, do you think you’ll sustain your support?”

Underwood smiled, then, setting his glass down, got to his feet. Either side of him Hart and Munroe did the same. “I wouldn’t worry about my seat, Mr. Kennedy. I know III get reelected. But you? I’d be a little worried if I were you. You’re their golden boy right now, but what happens when you don’t deliver on those promises? What are you going to do when the media start looking at your record a bit more closely than they are just now?” He paused, his smile becoming a sneer. “And what happens when Wu Shih decides he’s had enough of you?”

Kennedy felt a coldness grip his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, just rumors, Representative, that’s all. Just rumors.”

Kennedy looked down. “You plan to vote against, I suppose?”

“Did I say that?” There was no sign now of a smile on Underwood’s face. “As a matter of fact we plan to vote for the proposal. But we’ll be doing that because we want to, not because you bought us, or bullied us, or offered us something in return. I wanted to make that clear, just in case you got the wrong idea.”

“The wrong idea?” Kennedy laughed. “I sure as hell did that, didn’t I?” He stood, his face suddenly hard. “Now, listen, and listen good. You talk of me, Mister Underwood, but who’s funding you? That’s what I’d like to know. Who’s making it easy for you to play Mr. Simon Pure? Because I know you. I know all of you. And if you ever fucking come and insult me to my face again, I’ll kick you from here to fucking Africa, you got me?” Underwood took a long breath, then nodded. Kennedy leaned back a little, relaxing his stance. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other, ch’un tzu- And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve much to do.”

He watched them go, then let out a long, sighing breath. So there were rumors, eh? That was bad. He thought he’d been discreet. Or maybe they were just guesses. Attempts to explain the changes in policy he’d made these past twelve months. Well, let them. They’d be making new guesses after this afternoon’s vote.

And Wu Shih? How will he react?

Kennedy shivered, then, with a tiny shrug, went through to his rooms. As the Steward laid out his clothes on the couch, he stood at the vid-phone, waiting to be connected to his wife, Jean. “Sweetheart?” he said, as her face appeared on the screen. “How’ve you been? How are the boys?”

Her smile warmed him. “We’re fine. . . . How’s it all been going?” He made a face. “Who knows? It’s going to be tight, but hopefully we’ve done enough. We’ll know in two hours, anyway.” “That’s good. . . .”

He stared at her, drinking in the sight. She was still as beautiful as she’d been when he’d married her fifteen years before. There was still something waiflike and fragile about her, even after all that had happened. Her hair had grown back since the operation two years ago, and outwardly she seemed no different from before, but he knew that wasn’t true. Just as he’d been changed by the presence of that tiny soft-wire in her head—and in the heads of his two young sons—so had she. Subtly, insidiously, it affected everything they did, every decision they made. It was as if she had a cancer in her head, waiting to flower at the touch of a switch, and the knowledge of it, just as it made each compromise he wrought seem foul, made each moment between them incalculably sweeter. “I need you,” he said softly, conscious of the Steward moving about in the room behind him.

Her smile for the briefest moment had a bitter, fragile edge to it, then it strengthened. “And I love you, Joseph Kennedy. So go and do what you have to. You’re a good man, Joe. Hold on to that, okay?” He smiled. “I shall. Give the boys my love, huh? And I’ll see you later, at the party.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Bye, my love.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

He turned from the blanked screen, the heaviness he’d been feeling earlier returning to him. He hadn’t told her—he couldn’t have, not on an open line—and yet she knew that he was going to do something at the vote this afternoon. She had always read him well.

He looked up. The Steward was waiting by the door, his head lowered.

“Is there anything else, Master?”

He shook his head. “No . . . thank you, Tao-kuang. But if you could have my things ready for when I return. Something light to travel in. I’ll change again when I’m back in America.”

“As you wish, Master.”

Alone again, he turned, staring at the vid-phone, feeling strangely restless, wondering if he should call Michael and talk things through. Then, steeling himself, making a deliberate effort to set all doubts aside, he undid the top button on his tunic, starting to change. The vote was in an hour.

mary sat back among the silk cushions, glad for once of the isolation of the State Class compartment. She was alone, the tape book she had been listening to beside her on the long, comfortably cushioned seat. The gentle movement of the bolt was pleasant, reassuring almost, as it sped south through the stacks to Richmond.

It had been a remarkable day and for once she blessed the wealth that had allowed her that glimpse into those times before the City. Yet it was that same wealth that troubled her constantly. To be comfortable, that was the right of everyone. But to be rich in the way that she and Michael were rich—that was obscene. The more she thought of it, the more she was convinced. Yet to unburden herself of it seemed no solution, either, for it was the way of their world to have such great divisions between rich and poor. They might give it all away, but it would make no real difference—someone else would only step into the vacuum that they left. Someone—she was sure— without the fine social instincts they possessed.

She sighed. This much she had learned today: that the inequities of their society had existed long before the City, and that the City was merely a perfecting of that hideous process.

The City. It was a cage, a prison for them all. And yet the City had been built to solve all problems. It had been meant to be—what was the word she’d heard?—a Utopia, that was it. “Food enough and space to grow,” that was one of the early slogans she had read about. It had been a bold experiment. To build a world without want. A true meritocracy. A world where people could find their level. A world without prisons. But the experiment had failed. Old patterns of behavior had reasserted themselves—nepotism and corruption, deals and betrayals—and the dream had turned to nightmare.

This world—she shuddered, frightened by the point to which her thoughts had come—it had been designed to reflect the best in Man, yet it had come to mirror the darkness deep within him.

It was a Yang world, a male world. A world without light or a mother’s loving tenderness. A bastard world, cursed from conception. There was a click, and then the faint chime of a warning signal. She looked up, composing herself. At the count of ten the door at the far end of the compartment hissed open and the Number One Steward stepped through, one of his junior assistants—Number Seven from his patch—just behind him. As the door hissed shut again, the two bowed deeply, then looked across at her, paper-thin smiles of politeness plastered to their faces. “Is there anything we can do for you, Madam Lever?” Number One asked, his eyes averted, one hand pressed to the chest of his emerald-green uniform in a gesture of abject servility. “Is there anything you need?” She smiled politely. “Yes, actually. Have you a news screen anywhere on board?”

The Senior Steward smiled again—that same thin, insincere smile—then came across. Reaching up, he pulled a flatscreen down from a niche in the ceiling of the carriage and, adjusting the angle of the flexible arm, positioned it so that she could see from where she sat. He stood back, his face shining with an oily satisfaction. “Is that all right, Madam Lever?”

“Perfect,” she said.

“Just speak clearly to it. It’s programmed to show all the First Level channels.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything else? Ch’a, perhaps?”

“Yes. That would be very welcome, thank you.” Number One turned and muttered a few sharp phrases of Mandarin to his assistant, who bowed low, then hurried off back the way he had come. “It will be but two minutes, Madam Lever.” “That’s fine.” She reached into her pocket, removed a coin, and handed it to him. “Now perhaps you’d leave me.”

“Of course, Madam Lever.”

He bowed deeply, backed off a pace, then went through, disappearing through the door behind her.

Thank the gods, she thought, a shudder passing through her. If anything, that was the worst of it. The obsequious servants, the fawning hangers-on, the lickspittle half-men who would do anything—anything—for a share of the spoils.

She huffed, angry with herself, then sat back, staring up at the screen. “Give me First News Interactive. I want a briefing on what’s been happening at Weimar.”

The screen lit up. A handsome anchorman—a green-eyed, blond-haired Hung Moo of roughly her own age—looked down at her. “Madam Lever,” he said, inclining his head and smiling as if he recognized her. “What would you like to know?”

She hesitated, wondering if she should ask it to reprogram itself as a gray-bearded Han, then dismissed the idea. “How did the vote go? Was it close?”

The anchor smiled, showing perfect teeth. “It’s just been declared. The earliest showings had the ‘No’ faction marginally ahead, but a late block vote by the Dispersionists clinched it. Even so, the final margin was only seven in favor of a ‘Yes.’ It seems the amendment—“ “Amendment?” she sat forward slightly, her smile slowly fading. “What amendment?”

“The amendment Representative Kennedy introduced at the final reading.

Would you like me to read it out to you?”

“No. Just print it up. I can read it myself.”

At once the anchor’s face was replaced by the amendment. She read it, a cold certainty forming in her. Deals. Kennedy had been making last-minute deals.

“That last bit,” she said, frowning. “It isn’t clear what’s meant by the new level of subsidies—is that an increase or what?” The face returned. “There was a secondary document. It was issued by the office of Wu Shih’s Chancellor, Fen Cho-hsien. It reads—“ “Was it an increase or a decrease?”

“A decrease, Madam Lever. Of two point six percent.” She sat there, stunned, slowly shaking her head. He’d sold out. The bastard had sold them all out! No decreases in the food subsidies to the Lowers, he’d sworn. Not even half a percent. And now this! She clenched her fists and stood, blind rage making her unaware of the hiss of the end door as it opened and Number Seven came through carrying the tray of ch’a. “The bastard . . .” she said quietly. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! The conniving First Level bastard!”

The young Steward stopped, his mouth agape, staring at her, the paper smile he’d been wearing ripped from his face by her angry outburst. He swallowed deeply, then began to stammer. “Are—are y-you all right, M-M-Madam Lever?”

She turned staring at him, her eyes wild with anger, then pointed up at the screen. “No! I’m fucking well not! Look! Look what that bastard’s done!”