Beneath the Tree of Heaven

The Eldest Daughter

Water dripped through the ruined ceiling of the Mansion, pooling in the smoking debris of the gutted Hall. Huojen, their raised visors black with smoke, their eyes red, sifted through the ruins, looking for clues. Not that any clues were really needed this time. Everyone knew who had carried out this atrocity: it was stenciled there on the gateway, above the bodies of the two guards who had been garroted.

Wu Shih stared at the black imprint of the hand and shuddered. The huojen had pulled a dozen bodies from the house already, but the final death toll was likely to be two, maybe three times that number. The Hand had learned their lessons well. This time they had attacked in strength, making a diversionary attack against the local Security post while their main force hit the Mansion. Thirty or forty of them there’d been this time, armed with the latest weaponry. After destroying the small force of house guards, they had rounded up the owners and their servants and locked them inside the house, setting fire to it in eight different places. Then they had waited, standing around the house while it burned, firing at the windows if anyone dared come close. He grimaced, remembering. It was all on camera, from the preliminary skirmish at the gate, to the final moments when, whooping and laughing, the terrorists had run back down the path toward the transit. He remembered particularly one sequence where several of the terrorists had turned, looking directly into the camera, smiling and waving as if on an outing and making no attempt to conceal themselves, while behind them the great Mansion—filled with antique furniture and tapestries, rich silks, thick carpets, and heavy curtains—blazed like a tinderbox, the screams of its unseen occupants piercing the air.

They had attacked just after two. By three they were gone. Ten minutes later Fen Cho-hsien had been woken from his bed. He, in his turn, had woken Wu Shih.

There was no doubting it. This was a turning point—a new stage in this hit-and-run “War” with the Black Hand. Sensing that, Wu Shih had come at once, wanting to see things for himself.

The Ting Wei had done well. They had been quick to stifle the news and clamp down on those few media stations who had got a whisper. But it would be difficult to keep this a secret. If past experience were anything to go by, pamphlets would be circulating the Lowers by breakfast time, shouting the news triumphantly, and it would be picked up from there. It was up to him to preempt that, therefore—to hit back at once and turn their temporary victory into a major setback for the Hand. He turned to his General, who waited nearby. “General Althaus . . . do we know where this group came from?”

Althaus came sharply to attention. “I’ve had a special squad tracking them this past hour, Chieh Hsia. But we’d have to go in straightaway if we’re to have any chance of getting any of the bastards. Their heartland is heavily defended. It would mean fighting a level-by-level action.” Wu Shih did not hesitate. “Use whatever force you need. Hei, if necessary. But get them. And hit them hard. If we have any leads at all on their organization, act on them now, even if they are unconfirmed. I want it to be seen by all that we have taken strong and unequivocal action. For my part, I plan to make an announcement, first thing, before they have a chance to win the propaganda war. This time we shall make them pay dearly for their audacity!”

“Chieh Hsia!”

Althaus beamed, delighted to be given such clear orders. He bowed low, then hurried across to his senior officers. Wu Shih looked across at the Mansion. Earlier, he had watched them carrying out the bodies and had had them bring one to him. He had stared at it, horrified. It had seemed barely human. Such savagery, he’d thought, and shivered, unable to comprehend how anyone could do that to another. Yet part of him welcomed this chance to act—even if he did not rejoice in it the way Althaus and his officers did. For almost two days now he had brooded, unable to decide just what to do with Kennedy, that uncertainty making him restless and bad tempered. This once, at least, he was not plagued by doubts.

He had read the reports on what had happened between Kennedy and the Levers, had watched Lever make his sorrowful statement, and had wondered about him—whether he had not, perhaps, misjudged things; whether Lever, not Kennedy, was the man to watch. But that didn’t change the basic situation. If anything it made it worse, for as Kennedy’s popularity declined so the excuse for taking any kind of action diminished. “One son,” Fen Cho-hsien had suggested when he’d put the problem to him. ‘Kill one of Kennedy’s sons and threaten to kill the other if he doesn’t come back in line.’

It was a sound suggestion, yet even the thought of it was barbaric. He thought of his own sons, and his stomach fell away at the prospect of losing one of them. Yet these were barbaric times—this incident confirmed it—and if things were not to slip from him . . . “Chieh Hsia...”

The most senior of the huojen stood close by, bowed, awaiting his attention.

“Yes?” he asked, returning from his thoughts. “Is it ready?”

“Yes, Chieh Hsia!”

He went across, accepting the hard hat the man gave him, then followed the specially cleared path into the Mansion. They had made this part of it safe for his inspection: even so, the desolation was still quite awful. This is the future, he thought, appalled by what he saw. This is what it will all be like unless I act.

For one brief moment he thought of summoning Kennedy, to have him come and see this and to share his fears with him. Yet he knew, after only a moment’s consideration, that such a thing was impossible. Even if Kennedy understood, he could never act on that understanding, for his hands were tied, his course set. His new proposal to the House had said as much. There would be confrontation, whether he, Wu Shih, wished it or not. So maybe it was best to get it over now.

Tonight, he thought, looking about him at the blackened, broken walls, the acrid taste of ash on his tongue. Yes ... I’ll make my decision tonight.

mary turned from the viD-PHONE, raising one hand, beckoning to her secretary, then turned back, continuing the conversation. “That’s right. A twenty-minute slot. We’ll do it live, then run it once every hour for the next four.”

Beresiner’s chubby face looked down at her from the screen, frowning. “It’s gonna be hard, Madam Lever. You mess with their schedules, they make you pay through the nose for it.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Just book it. The five main channels, continent-wide. And don’t try to fuck around with me, Berry. You try to screw me and I’ll get to hear of it, okay?” Beresiner sighed. “Would I do that? Consider it booked. You want them to send a crew to you, I assume?”

She nodded.

“Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll call you lunchtime, right?” “Right.” She cut contact, then tapped in another number. There was a moment’s pause, and then the screen lit again. This time a woman’s face stared back at her—a beautiful Oriental woman. Gloria Chung. “Mary?”

“Gloria. How are you? I hope it’s not too early for me to call.”

“No, not at all, I’m just. . . surprised, that’s all.”

“It’s been a long time, neh?”

“Too long. How are you? How’s Michael?”

Mary sat back, smiling. “We’re fine. I just thought it might be nice to see you.”

Gloria smiled. “Hey, I’d like that. When?”

“Today? Over here?”

“That’d be great. Any particular time?”

“I’ve got a camera crew coming here about six to set up, but . . . well, how about lunch? We could catch up on everything.” “Lunch?” Gloria considered a moment, then smiled. “Sure. That’d be nice. But what’s all this about camera crews? You doing a feature for the fashion shows or something?”

Mary smiled enigmatically. “You could say that. Look, I’ll tell you all about it when you’re here. One o’clock?”

“That’d be fine.”

“Good. I’ll see you then. Bye.”

“Bye.”

She took a breath, then turned, looking to her secretary, who sat at the nearest desk. Behind her twenty other helpers manned phone lines or worked at screens.

“Jill, did that report come in?”

“It’s here.” Jill came across and handed her a large brown envelope.

“You’ve looked at this?”

She shook her head.

“Good. It’s probably best you don’t know what’s going on as far as Kemp’s concerned. If you need to know anything I’ll tell you, right?” “Right.”

“Now get me what you can on Michael’s main trading rivals. Full files, not summaries. Then I want that nutritionist in here. Give me. . . oh, ten minutes. I’ve three more calls to make.”

She watched the young woman hurry away, then turned back to the screen, a feeling of immense satisfaction buoying her up. Leaning forward she tapped out the next number on her list, then pulled the report out of the envelope. As she waited to be connected she flicked through it, scanning the handwritten pages.

So the old men thought they were going to win, did they? Well, not if she had anything to do with it!

“Eva?” she said, looking up and smiling as a stern, matriarchal face filled the screen. “How are you, sweetheart? Look, I’ve something you might be interested in.”

the room was packed, the mood angry as Kennedy stepped inside. “Resign!” someone shouted from the back, and the cry was taken up instantly. “Resign! Resign!”

As he made his way across to the table, he looked about him, noting how eyes that only days before had glowed with respect now held nothing but contempt for him. As he took his seat he looked down, trying not to show any sign of the turmoil within. The decision to hold a vote of confidence had been a body blow, coming so close upon the scene at the Lever Mansion. But maybe he was simply being naive. Maybe he was no longer the right man to lead the NREP Carl Fisher, the Representative for Boston and one of Michael Lever’s oldest friends, had been chosen to chair the meeting. As he stood to call for order, Kennedy looked up at him, noting how the young man’s jaw was set, as if prepared for a fight. Strangely, the sight encouraged him.

If Fisher stays with me ...

“Gentlemen . . .” Fisher began, raising his hands for silence. “If we could have some hush here we might get this matter straightened out.” He waited as the meeting settled, the Representatives taking their seats once more. Then he spoke again, looking about him sternly. “Okay. Let me come directly to why we’re here. A number of you have drafted a motion which you wish to have presented to this meeting. It reads as follows. . . .”

He took a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, then cleared his throat.

“In view of recent developments detrimental to the general well-being of the New Republican and Evolutionist Party, it is proposed that its current leader, Representative Joseph William Kennedy, be removed from that position and an election held to determine his successor.” Fisher let the paper drop contemptuously from his fingers, then looked up, a tight, angry expression on his face.

“Well. Before we come to debate the issue, let me just remind those of you with short memories of our history. The New Republican Party was formed a mere four years ago in Philadelphia. In less than two years it became a continentwide movement, and in the elections to the House won huge popular support, merging with the Evolutionists to gain the second highest number of seats in City North America. Our founding member, our chief policy-maker and leader throughout this period of unparalleled success, was, need I remind you, the aforementioned Joseph William Kennedy.” Fisher paused and turned, looking down at Kennedy. “Now. . . I’m not deaf and I’m not blind. I hear what the media say and I see what’s written in the papers, but it strikes me that on several other occasions in the past this party has been the subject of intense media pressure. Many of you might recall what happened after we’d won that first round of votes. All kinds of shit was thrown at us by those bastards, but we have never—and I mean never—until now shown any sign of disloyalty from within our own ranks.”

He took a breath, then straightened up, eyeing some of those standing nearest him. “To be frank with you I find this motion not merely an irrelevancy but an insult to a fine man ... a man without whose vision and unstinting work none of us would be standing here in this room today!” There was clapping and applause, but also some dissenting jeers. “Now, before I finish and throw the floor open, let me say this. Like many of you I’m sad that my old friend Michael Lever has decided to part company with us. Indeed, it grieves me to think that we’ve lost his services to the party. But those of us close to Michael have realized for some time now that a parting of the ways was imminent, and it came as no surprise that it should be over the matter of the subsidies. Michael, as many here will testify, has come increasingly under the influence of his wife, Mary, whose views are . . . well, questionable to say the least.” “At least she’s consistent!” someone yelled from halfway back. Fisher smiled. “Inflexible, I’d call it myself. But let me finish. In the last few days I’ve heard criticisms of some of our more recent changes in policy. Well, let me deal with those criticisms. Some of you talk as though we ought to follow the same policy day after day, month after month, year after year, no matter what the circumstances. Personally, I feel that such dogmatism is not merely foolish, but dangerous.” There was a murmur of dissent and unrest, but Fisher spoke on. “A political party, if it’s to be effective, must be capable of change— of questioning even its most cherished beliefs and revising them according to the dictates of common sense and necessity.” “Bullshit!” a big man to Fisher’s right shouted. “It sounds like the politics of the whorehouse—on our backs for the Seven and ass-up for the Military!”

There was a roar of laughter, but as Fisher made to respond, Kennedy touched his arm, then, as Fisher sat, got slowly to his feet. Silence fell.

“Gentlemen. . .” Kennedy looked about him at his friends and colleagues, his natural dignity mixed with an air of sadness. “Maybe I have made mistakes. Maybe it is as some of you claim—that we’ve come too far, too fast, and have forgotten in the process just what it was we set out to achieve.” He sighed, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we have lost our way. And if it’s the will of this party that I stand down ...” He shrugged, making a so-be-it gesture with his face. “No!” came the cry from all sides, “Stay on, Joe!” but there were others who were clamoring for a vote. Kennedy raised a hand, then, as silence fell again, turned to Fisher.

“Give the members what they want, Carl. I’ll abide by their decision.”

Kennedy sat, looking down at his folded hands. Fisher sighed, then stood again, facing the packed room. “Okay,” he said, “let’s vote on it. All those in favor of the motion raise your hands.”

“Em?”

Michael took two paces into the room, then stopped, astonished. There were desks everywhere he looked, and women—strangers— operating phones and comsets or writing in files.

“Em? What’s going on?”

Mary turned, looking up from where she was discussing a layout board with two of her assistants, then smiled. “Michael! What kept you?” “I. . .” He laughed, and went across, holding her to him, unrestrained by the harness. “What is all this? And why didn’t you tell me?” She moved back slightly, then planted a kiss on his nose. “I thought I’d surprise you. Besides, you were busy.”

He frowned at her, mock stern. “So?”

“So I thought I’d do something.”

“Like what?”

“Something positive. Something . . . well, you’ll see. I’ve booked airtime on several of the channels for tonight.”

“Airtime? For what?”

“You’ll see.”

He laughed, exasperated. “Is that all you’re going to say? You spend millions of my money and that’s all the explanation I get?” “Our money. And yes, that’s all the explanation you’re getting.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Kennedy, has it?”

“Not directly.”

He met her eyes; saw how she was watching him—expectantly, as if this were some kind of test of loyalty.

“I’ve got to do this, Michael. I’ve thought long and hard about it, and it’s the only way. So trust me, huh?”

“Okay. But what’s all this for?”

She laughed. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“No. Oh, by the way, there was a vote this morning.”

“A vote?”

“The Party called a special meeting to discuss the leadership issue.”

“I didn’t know there was a leadership issue.” “Well, there is now. Parker called me. It seems they had a vote of confidence. Kennedy won, but only by eleven votes.” She looked at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry. Not for him, he deserved to have his leadership challenged, but for you. A lot of people will blame you for it, won’t they?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, you ignore them. It wasn’t you who went back on your promises. And it wasn’t you who voted for the reduction of the subsidy.”

“No. Even so, I can’t help thinking—“

She took his face in her hands and held it, forcing him to look at her. “Get this clear, Michael Lever. It wasn’t your fault. It’s as absurd as apologizing for having been blown up that time. It wasn’t you. Don’t you understand that? It wasn’t you.”

But she could see from his face that he was only half convinced.

gloria chung came an hour later, a small train of servants carrying boxes and bags and a wrapped gift that smelled of roses. She hugged Mary, then stood back, letting one of her entourage take her wrap.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Mary said, conscious of the contrast they made, Gloria so tall and elegant, herself so austere. “Don’t be silly,” Gloria answered, looking about her with a wide-eyed delight. Then, with a tiny laugh, she took her friend’s arm, letting herself be led through. “You know, the first time I came here I was eight. It was a big party and Michael’s father. . . well, he frightened me even then. He was such an ogre. But Michael. . .” She smiled, then squeezed Mary’s hand. “I’m glad you two got married. I knew from the first moment I saw you together.”

Mary lowered her eyes, but she was smiling. “Michael told me. It seems I’m indebted to you.”

“Nonsense! You should know Michael well enough by now to know that nothing can make him do what he doesn’t want to do. Marrying you . . . he just had to be nudged, that’s all!”

“Even so ... two million yuan. It was quite a wedding gift!” She looked down, serious suddenly. “If it had been ten times that, I’d have helped him out, you know that.”

“I know. That’s why you’re here.”

Gloria stopped and turned, staring at Mary. “What. . . money? You, the richest woman in North America . . . you want my money?” Mary laughed. “No. Not this time. But your help, that I do need.”

“You?”

“That’s right. Not Michael this time. Me. There’s something I have to do, and if it’s going to work, then I’m going to need all the help I can get to set it up. That’s where you come in.” She smiled, then returned the pressure on Gloria’s arm. “But come through. Let’s talk about it over lunch!”

kemp lay on his back, the younger of the girls riding him slowly, deliciously, while the other knelt behind him, leaning over him to caress his neck and chest, her bare legs pressing warm against his shoulders, her tiny breasts brushing against his cheeks and hair. He was close now, very close, and as he began to come he pulled her down onto him and, with a groan, sank his teeth into the soft flesh, her cries making him spasm fiercely.

Afterward, as he lay there watching the big screen in the comer of the room, a shiver of satisfaction rippled through him. That was the one good thing about being his age: one had no illusions about the world, and therefore no restraints. What one wanted one took, and no apologies. If he had only known when he was younger. Imagine it! To have that power and this knowledge!

He looked across to where the younger of the two was tending her friend and smiled. They had been good girls and he would reward them well. Indeed, after what had happened earlier he could afford, perhaps, to buy them from the Madam and have them installed in his Mansion. After all, such good, uncomplaining girls were hard to come by these days. When the ad appeared again, he sat up, watching it more carefully this time.

“Wonderful!” he said, pressing his right fist hard into his cupped left.

“Fucking wonderful!”

His boardroom ploy had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Why, Michael Lever hadn’t just bought the idea of keeping the Institute running, he had transformed it. For the last two hours these ads—with details of the forthcoming launch of the new Immortality 3000 Project—had appeared on four different channels. And from his own sources within the Institute had come news that Lever had agreed to a comprehensive refunding program: a financial package which, while it seemed sound now, would—in time—bring ImmVac crashing down, as Lever tried frantically to recoup some of the funds to defend his falling market share. “I’ve got you,” he said gleefully. “I’ve fucking got you!” Only an hour back Fairbank’s man, Jackson, had called to say that his Masters were very pleased with what Kemp had achieved, and that a bonus had been placed to his account. Now it was time to put the second phase of things into effect—to start that long, painstaking process of attrition that would, six months from now, have Lever humbled, the young man crushed for all time.

He climbed from the bed and stood, looking about him. When had he last felt like this? When had life last promised him so much? Never. And who knew . . . when this was all over and they came to share out the ruins of ImmVac’s great empire, maybe he’d buy himself a share in the Institute and have some of the new treatment. To live forever, he didn’t believe that was possible, but another twenty, thirty, even forty years, that would be worth trying for.

“Champagne!” he said, feeling magnanimous. “Let’s have some champagne, neh, girls?”

And afterward? Afterward he would have the older one again. From behind, perhaps, while she made love to the younger one. Kemp smiled, watching as the younger of the two ran to do his bidding, then went and sat beside the other, tracing the wound gently with a fingertip before pulling her down onto his lap. Old . . . who says I’m old?

out in the center of Main the crowd was going berserk. Many were dead already and it looked like it was developing into a full-scale riot. Those shops that had still been trading were ruined now, their goods stolen, their fronts smashed and burned. Behind a reinforced barrier, blocking off the main route to the interlevel transit, a Security Captain crouched, yelling urgently into his handset.

“Send me some backup! Now! They’ve gone fucking mad down here!” There was a squeal, an awful screeching, and then the sound of one of the big lighting sections overhead shattering, segments raining down. The Captain popped his head up over the parapet, looking. If this went on, the whole of Main would be in darkness before long. He’d thought the lighting sections were indestructible, but they’d got hold of something—something that made the ice they were made of fragile—and were spraying it everywhere. Holes were appearing in the walls and floors, cabling was shorting, and who knew what other damage. Two men were swinging from one section to the next, fifty ch’i up, hanging from the ceiling seemingly without fear. Black Hand, he thought; fucfeing Black Hand. But there was nothing he could do. If he shot them down they’d target him. And with only two dozen men to contain five thousand rioters, he didn’t fancy their chances.

There was an urgent buzzing on the handset. He clicked it on again and stared down into the tiny screen. This time it was Major Seymour, his line commander.

“Captain Wells? What the hell’s going on down there?” Wells put his head down as a shower of debris came over the top of the barrier.

“There’ve been some deaths, sir. Bizarre things. Some of the local troublemakers were hit. Mutilated, it seems. Word got out and they’ve gone crazy down here. There’s been a lot of burning and looting. Not only that, but they’ve got hold of chemicals. Ice-eaters.” “Ice-eaters!” The Major turned away, consulting someone close by, then turned back, facing Wells. “Okay. I’ll get some men down there. But we’re stretched thin. This operation against the Black Hand ...” He sighed. “Oh, shit. . . ice-eaters, huh? That’s all we need!” “Sir?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“I’ve a prisoner, sir. I pulled him out before they got to him.”

“A prisoner?”

“Yes, sir. He won’t say much, but I did get something out of him. Says he works for a man called Kemp. First Level, he says. When we pulled him out we found some fairly grisly stuff on him.” “Like what?”

Wells swallowed. “Like a sealed bag full of severed penises.”

“What? Did I hear that right, Captain Wells?”

“I’m afraid you did, sir. He says he gets paid for them.” “Shit! What do you think they are? A delicacy up there? You think this guy Kemp is in the restaurant business?”

“I don’t know, sir. The system’s down here, so I couldn’t make any checks. ...” Again there was the sound of one of the big units shattering. The shadows deepened. “Oh, and sir ... you’d better hurry with that backup squad. If they don’t come soon, we’ll be in total darkness down here!” “Right! They’re on their way. And, Wells . . .”

“Sir!”

“Hang on to that bastard, neh? I want to know what this Kemp guy’s up to.”

the delivery came just after four. Gloria had gone and Michael was resting after his afternoon exercises. Confident of being alone, Mary took the tiny package into his study and sat at his desk, running the tape through, seeing what she’d got for her money.

She was still sitting there an hour later when she realized someone had come into the room. Turning, she found Michael just behind her. “What is that?” he asked, nodding past her at the frozen image.

“You want to know?”

“No secrets. . . .”

She leaned forward, unfreezing the image, then moved it back ten minutes and let it run.

He made a tiny sound of surprise. “Porn? You’re watching porn?” Then, as the man’s face came around, he understood. “Shit! Where did you get that?”

She moved it back farther, stopping it at the part where Kemp had been talking to Jackson, then paused it.

“I did a bit of thinking,” she said, turning around and looking up at him again. “And I asked myself, who’s in a position to do us a great deal of harm? And then I made a list. And after I’d made a list, I made a call, and hired myself a team of investigators, and they found out where the people on my list spent their recreation time. Hotels, sports clubs, that kind of thing. And you know what I found? I found that Kemp had recently paid a visit to Denver Hsien. And you know who’s at Denver?” “Fairbank.”

“Right. And not only Fairbank. A bit of checking turned up the fact that the Heads of all our other three main trading rivals were in Denver at the same time—Green of RadMed, Egan of NorTek, Chamberlain of WesCorp. A bit of a coincidence, huh? So I thought I’d dig a little deeper and find out how our friend Kemp spends his recreation time. And this is what I turned up. Underage girls and shady deals. Jackson’s a free-lancer. He works for himself. But recently he’s taken on a contract with a company called VasChem. Nothing sinister there, you might think, only VasChem are a subsidiary of HydGel, who themselves are a partly owned subsidiary of—“ “AmLab.”

“You knew?”

“No. Just a good guess. So Kemp’s working for our opposition.” He heaved a sigh. “Shit! I’ve never liked the man, but I’d never have thought...” He looked from the screen to Mary. “So what do we do? Confront him with this?”

“No. We wait,” she answered, clearing the screen. “And build up a file. But now we know, eh? Old Men. We’re at war with the Old Men, Michael. And they’ll do anything—anything—to destroy us.”

“okay, what’s your fucking game, Shih Kemp?” Kemp stood there in the hallway of his Mansion, his mouth flapping. “This is outrageous, Major! You march in here uninvited and the first thing you do is insult me! I demand an apology!”

“Crap!” Seymour glared at him, then pointed to the fleshy remains he’d thrown down on the hall table. “I want to know what’s going on. I want to know just why you’re paying a pack of jackals to go marauding around the Lowers cutting the cock off anyone they take a dislike to! Thanks to you I’m having to put in extra squads to keep the peace down there. It’s a fucking butcher’s shop! If I lose one man through this—just one man—then I’m going to hold you personally responsible.”

“This has nothing to do with me. As I said—“

“I’d save your talking for the tribunal, friend. As it is I’ve got signed statements from two of the men in my custody swearing they were employed by you.”

Kemp snorted indignantly. “I don’t care if you’ve got it tattooed on your bollocks, Major Seymour! Unless you’ve got proof—real proof, and not just the word of some scumbag liumang!—that I was in any way involved in this—this obscenity, I’d kindly keep your accusations to yourself. If you don’t. . . well, I shall have great pleasure in suing the ass off you!” Seymour laughed coldly. “I’d be careful just who you threaten, Shih Kemp. These are difficult times. Under the special regulations I am empowered to arrest anyone I think is guilty of incitement. I’d say this qualified, wouldn’t you?”

“Are you threatening me, Major?”

Seymour stood back a little. “No. I’m just warning you. Any more of this and I’ll be down on you like a fly on shit. My job’s hard enough as it is without you adding to it, okay? So leave off. Whatever it is you’re up to, just can it, right? That’s my last word.” Kemp opened his mouth, then, realizing what the Major had said, closed it again and nodded.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. That shit there ... do whatever you have to with it. But no more. Not unless you want me back here. And next time—“ “I understand.”

“Good. Then good day, Shih Kemp. Have a pleasant meal!” Kemp stared at the officer’s retreating back, wondering what he meant, then went straight to the vid-phone and tapped out the special contact number he’d been given.

There was a moment’s pause and then a face swam into view. “General Althaus?” Kemp said, bowing his head respectfully. “Forgive me, but a mutual friend of ours said I might contact you if there was any trouble. . . .”

wu shih stood on the high stone balcony of his palace, looking out over the Garden of Manhattan. The sky was a perfect blue, yet it would be dark within the hour. Already the sun rested low over the distant City, while below him much of the Garden already lay in shadow. A pleasant, late evening breeze blew from the east, carrying the scent of blossom, while from below the call of a magpie drifted up to him, punctuating the stillness.

He stretched his neck, then reached up with one hand, kneading the tired muscles of his neck. He heard a soft footfall behind him, then felt his hand gently removed and another take its place, its touch more expert than his own. It was his First Wife, Wei-kou.

“It’s beautiful, neh?” she said softly, to his ear. He smiled. “The best view in the world, my father called it. I know what he meant. Some days I think I could not cope if I did not have its quiet paths and silent spaces.”

“You looked worried earlier. I thought—“

“I am fine, Wei-kou. These last few days. . . there was so much to be done, but now . . . well, the worst is over now.” He turned, facing her, and put his hand up to her cheek, brushing it gently, then drew her head down onto his breast. “It must be hard for you when I am like this.”

“I do not complain, my husband.”

“No. And yet you are much neglected, neh?”

“I do not—“

She gave a small laugh, realizing she was repeating herself, then looked up at him and smiled.

He put his arm about her shoulder, then turned, looking out across the vastness of the twilit Garden. Here had once stood the greatest City of the Hung Mao—an island fortress, a temple to their economic dominance, the pumping heart of the sixty-nine states of the great American Empire. Yet their City had fallen. His great-greatgrandfather had swept it into the sea and built this garden—the Garden of Supreme Excellence—in its place. In truth it was a whole series of gardens, copies of the great gardens of Suchow and Wushi, Shanghai arid Pei Ch’ing, but looking out across it, it was easy to think of it as a single thing—his “Green Dream,” as he sometimes called it.

“Listen,” he said. “Can you hear the magpie calling?” She smiled. “It is a sound of good omen, husband. Maybe it will come and perch on your head. . . .”

He laughed, recalling the tale. It was said that Nurhaci, the founder of the great Manchu Dynasty, had been fleeing from his enemies when a magpie came and perched on his helmet. His enemies, seeing this, called off their pursuit, and Nurhaci, in thanks to the bird, declared it sacred. He squeezed her shoulder, his happiness shadowed by the memory of recent events. “We need its eggs to heal our sick, neh?” She pushed back at him gently with her head. “You take too much upon yourself, husband. You cannot do it all.” “Maybe so. Yet I am their Father, Wei-kou. If I do not worry for them, who will?”

“This once let your servants worry. You have a Chancellor, neh? Well, let him carry more of the burden, as Li Yuan does with Nan Ho.” “Li Yuan would do more, were it not for the grief he has to carry. Three wives he lost. To think of even losing one . . .” He squeezed her tenderly again. “Well. . . Let us go inside.”

She looked up at him and frowned. “You do not wish to see the sunset, husband?”

Wu Shih shook his head. “It has been a hard day, my love, and I am getting no younger. It would be best if I got some rest.” He turned, hearing a noise behind him. His Master of the Inner Chambers, Pao En-fu, stood in the arched doorway, his head bowed. “What is it, Master Pao?”

“There is something on one of the media channels, Chieh Hsia. I thought you might be interested.”

He gave his wife’s shoulder a brief pat. “Excuse me, Wei-kou. Prepare my bed. I shall be with you when I can.”

She nodded and turned away. He watched her go, then went across, letting Pao En-fu usher him through to the upper study. The big, slatted blinds had been pulled down and the big screen on the far side of the room was already lit. He went across, then stood there, light spilling down over his silk-cloaked figure.

It was Lever’s wife. He frowned, then signaled for the volume to be raised slightly. She was dressed strangely—austerely—as if in some odd form of mourning clothes, and her hair had been cut even more severely than he remembered it. He listened for a moment, then turned, looking across at Pao En-fu.

“Run this back. From the beginning.”

At once the image jumped, and the program began again.

“Is this a news item, Master Pao?”

“No, Chieh Hsia. It seems Madam Lever bought the airtime. Shall I find out more?”

Wu Shih nodded and dismissed him, then turned his attention back to the screen.

For a moment the screen was black. Then there was the sound of a bell being struck and a faint illumination rose from the darkness at the very center of the screen. After a moment he realized what it was. A lamp. He watched as it approached. The faint, flickering pool of light surrounding it revealed a long, expensively decorated corridor, set with vases and statues, the walls hung with tapestries and ancient paintings. Holding the lamp, her features carved, it seemed, from the darkness, was Mary Lever. He nodded, then pulled at his beard, impressed. As she came close to the camera, she slowed, looking directly into the lens, then set the lamp down on a table at the side.

“Come,” she said simply, beckoning the camera. “We need to talk.” He shivered. Powerful, he thought, watching as the camera followed her to the left, into the darkness there, then out into the sudden brightness of a tiny walled garden.

It was an illusion ... of course it was ... yet for a moment he had been fooled by it. The light had seemed so real, so natural. . . . She turned. Behind her was an apple tree, its crown bright with leaves, heavy with fruit, while beneath her feet—her bare feet, he realized with a shock—was a carpet of lush green grass.

Brown she wore. The brown of autumn.

“You know me,” she said, as if confiding something to the camera. “At least, you know the image of me. You know my name, Mary Lever, and you know that my husband, Michael, was almost killed by the Old Men who run things in our City. And now my husband, in his turn, is rich and powerful, and so I, too, am rich. At least, that’s how it seems, neh?” She turned and plucked a fruit, then turned back, holding the apple up so that the camera could see it. It glinted in the false daylight, fresh, perfectly formed, the very ideal of an apple. “This tree is mine, and all its fruit. I can eat what I wish, when I wish it, and more will grow, for that is the way of things. Yet all is not well. I have enough—more than enough—to feed myself, and yet others have nothing, and so I must build a wall to keep those others out. . . . A whole world of walls.”

She looked down, and as she did, the apple in her hand became a tiny skull, a child’s skull.

“Our world is dying,” she said. “From where we stand, up here above it all, it has the appearance of a healthy thing, yet it is diseased. The apple is rotting from within.”

He shivered. Behind her the tree had changed. Its leaves were now brown and dry, its fruit blown and maggot-ridden. The grass beneath her feet was sere and the light had grown unnatural.

“We live in a blemished world,” she said, the camera closing in on her eyes, her strong, attractive mouth, “a world in which one whole side of us has been forgotten. We talk of the great Father who looks after us all, but where is our Mother? Where is she?”

There was the sound of a great wind soughing through the dry leaves of the tree. The sound of emptiness.

“Who minds the home? Who tends to our deeper needs while the menfolk go about their business?”

Slowly the camera pulled back.

“No one,” she answered, her voice clear now, like a tolling bell. “We are hollow, unfulfilled. There are walls everywhere we look and an emptiness within that cannot be filled by any amount of things. Yes, and all the while, down there, beneath our feet, hidden from sight in the depths of our great City, lies the source of our despair and inner emptiness, the cause of all our guilt.”

Her face was urgent now, her eyes lit from within. She nodded. “Yes . . . guilt. Yet why should we feel guilty? Did we make this world of levels? Did we create those teeming billions? No. And yet they are there, like ghosts—there at the table as we eat.” Behind her the tree had changed. Now, instead of fruit, tormented faces hung from the blackened branches, their eyes pleading, their mouths silently supplicating.

And in front of it, so still, so filled with power that, for a moment, she seemed unreal, stood Mary Lever, staring out at the world, her eyes like small, dark points of certainty.

“Ahead the path divides. We can either feed that dark flame of despair that burns in each of us, or we can try and fill that inner emptiness. The choice is ours. We did not make this world, yet we can change it. If we have the will.”

The garden slowly faded. Now she was standing in a book-lined room, the portrait of a blond-haired child behind her—a young Michael Lever, Wu Shih realized with a start.

“We have lived too long without a mothers tender care. We have forgotten how it feels to be whole. Ours is a Yang world, a hard, dry, masculine world. A harsh world. And that harshness has hardened us to the fate of others. We have grown indifferent to their suffering. And yet their fate is ours. Ignore them and we ignore ourselves. Hurt them and we hurt ourselves. Help them . . . yes, and we help ourselves. It is the Way.” Again there was the sound of a bell being struck, and Wu Shih, hearing it, felt a ripple of awe pass up his spine, making the hairs of his nape stand on end.

“For those of you who are still listening, for those of you who have understood what I’ve been saying and who have felt what I’ve been feeling, let me say this. It is not too late. The choice has not been made. We can still change this world of ours for the better. But the hour is upon us. Ahead the path divides.”

Again the camera moved inward, until her face filled the screen, her eyes staring earnestly into the lens.

“There is an old tradition that when the mother dies, the eldest daughter assumes her responsibilities, taking care of her little brothers and sisters. ...” She paused, her features softening. “It seems to me that we are in need of such an eldest daughter. Someone to care for us, to fill that gap of love and tenderness, to satisfy those deeper, finer urges within us. To bring them out.

“It is my purpose, from this evening on, to use what wealth I have to become this City’s conscience, to be its Eldest Daughter, tending and caring, and showing by my example how it is we ought to be behaving toward each other.”

The camera moved back.

“You see how I am dressed. Simply. Inexpensively. As a good woman would

dress in the Lowers of our City. So shall I dress from this time on, and

all the money saved will be diverted to a special fund—a fund which will

be used to feed and clothe and educate those in the Lowers who have not

the means to do so for themselves. Not only that, but I shall eat far more

simply than before: a small, well-balanced meal—nutritionally adequate—as

one would eat below. And again, all savings shall be diverted to the

fund.”

There was the faintest smile now on that earnest face. “But one person’s efforts, however powerful that person, cannot bring about the change that has to come. Alone I cannot do it. And that is why I want you all to join me. To dress as I dress and eat as I eat, and to contribute all of the savings made to a central fund—a fund which shall be named ‘Eldest Daughter.’”

The smile grew, coaxing a response.

“These actions—gestures of solidarity, of basic humanity—will be our starting point. From these foundations we shall work our great change—a change not in the politics of this great City, but in its most basic attitudes, in how it thinks and feels about itself.” She nodded, her face determined, certain, now. “We can have a say. We can make a difference. But only if we wake to the emptiness within and throw off the weight of lethargy that has, until now, kept our spirits chained.”

The room was gone. Suddenly the garden was back, but this time there was no wall. The sunlit grass stretched away to the horizon. Mary Lever looked about her briefly, then turned back, smiling. “Once again I ask you to join with me, to share this great moment and take the first step on the path to new health, new growth. All you have to do is contact the box number at the end of this broadcast, giving your name and stack code, and a full information pack will be delivered to you before the evening’s out. Don’t wait to be the last to make the change. Act now and be proud to say, ‘I was among the first.’ And remember . . . your tzu, your Eldest Sister, awaits you.” The light intensified, became a honeyed gold. Her voice now spoke from the middle of that light, as if it were embedded in it. “We can make our world a new and special place. We can. But we must act and act now, before it is too late. Ahead lies the divide. One path leads to darkness, one to light. Let us make sure we choose the path that leads to balance . . . the Way that leads into the sunlight.” Her voice fell silent. Only the gold remained, filling the screen. There was the sound of a bell being struck, and then slowly, very slowly, the contact number appeared in a box in the center of the screen—the blood-red letters forming from the gold, surrounded by a circle of tiny bright-red pictograms which read “good luck,” “good health,” and “many children,” time and again in an unending triad of good fortune. As it faded, Wu Shih breathed deeply, heavily, then turned. All of his senior staff had now gathered and were waiting there at the back of the room.

“Who is this going out to?”

Pao En-fu answered him. “To the top fifty, Chieh Hsia. All four of the main channels are carrying it. She’s bought five twelve-minute slots on each. The estimated viewing figures are four hundred million up.” Wu Shih looked down, then nodded. “Clever,” he said. “And dangerous. We must stop this, Pao En-fu. Get the Heads of all four channels on for me.” His Chancellor, Fen Cho-hsien spoke up. “Is that wise, Chieh Hsia? A matter like this ... if we ban it, will that not merely serve to give it the air of credibility it needs? After all, the idea is a preposterous one. That people should send in their money to the richest woman in America! Besides, why should they care what happens down below? In all my experience the Above has never done a single thing to help those less fortunate—less elevated—than themselves. Why in the gods’ names should they start now?”

Wu Shih answered him sharply, angry that his Chancellor could not see the danger. “Because the times have changed, Master Fen! And because that woman is very clever. Very clever indeed. Did you not see how she angled it? No word of blame, nothing about their greed and selfishness. No. She worked them, Master Fen, like the most devious of whores. Loss and guilt. Fear and the hope of a golden future. Trees and skulls. Lamps and tormented faces. All of it thrown together and salted with snippets of the Way.”

He grimaced. “Why, the she-fox is at her husband’s business, I’ll wager. Why should he make such a public parting with Kennedy—why quit the NREP—unless he had his own ambitions? No. . .I’d wager five yuan to every one they collect that that is what this is. He plans a new campaign, a new party, and this is how he means to fund it.” Pao En-fu, who had been hovering in the doorway, awaiting his master’s final decision, now spoke. “But Lever is a rich man, Chieh Hsia. Why should he need any further backing?”

“Because his wealth is all tied up, Master Pao. The Cutler Institute, business loans, extended trade agreements. ImmVac is extremely vulnerable right now. Any further calls upon its funds might bring about its fall. No. Lever is neither naive nor the simpleton some of his critics make him out to be. He’ll be behind this, you can be sure of it.” Chancellor Fen was smiling now. Wu Shih looked to him, curious. “Well, Fen?”

“I was only thinking, Chieh Hsia . . . What better reason not to cancel the broadcasts? If we can prove that connection, if we can show that this ‘Eldest Daughter’ fund is being used to float a new party, what better way to destroy Lever and his ambitions?”

“I thought you said it would not work!”

“I am sure it won’t, Chieh Hsia. I think the natural greed of the Above will show itself. But why don’t we wait and see? Surely one victory is enough for you today, my lord?”

Wu Shih laughed, delighted by the reminder. His swift action today had crushed the Black Hand. It would be months, years perhaps, before they regrouped in any strength. What’s more, it had brought him nothing but praise throughout the Middle and Upper levels of the City. So maybe Fen Cho-hsien was right. Maybe he shouldn’t meddle in this, but should leave it to fail of its own accord. And in the meantime he could do as Fen suggested and investigate just where any funds were headed. “All right,” he said, smiling at his Chancellor. “We’ll do as you suggest. But let’s monitor it closely, Master Fen. As I said, she’s a clever woman, and there’s nothing so troublesome as a clever woman, neh?” There was laughter, yet as Wu Shih left to go to his rooms, he felt a strange dissatisfaction at the decision, as if he had overlooked some vital point. And even as Wei-kou began to massage his back, trying to ease the tension from his muscles, some part of his mind still gnawed at the problem, refusing to leave it be.

Damn her! he thought, then grunted as Wei-kou pummeled his back. Yet mixed in with his anger was the memory of how powerful she had looked, standing there before the apple tree, that tiny skull cradled in her hand. A Yang world. That was what she’d said. A hard, dry, masculine world. Was she right? Was that really what they’d made?

Wei-kou placed her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Relax, my husband, please, relax. . . .”

But it was suddenly difficult to relax. All of the ease he had been feeling earlier, all of the happiness he’d felt listening to the magpie calling in the garden—all that had drained from him now, leaving him empty and despondent. Like a dead tree, he thought, remembering how the wind had soughed through its branches.

Tomorrow. He would see to it all tomorrow. Yet when Wei-kou had finished, he got up again, put on his robe and went to his study, then stood before the screen, looking up into the brightness, watching the Eldest Daughter and her fable of the tree that died.