Beneath the Tree of Heaven

THE MACHINE SAW EVERYTHING.

From a satellite, high above the orbit of tiny Deimos, it watched the three craft swoop low over the great dust plain of Tharsis; saw missiles flash arrow-sleek in the weak sunlight; witnessed the gouts of flame amid the vivid green, like sudden flowers blooming after desert rainfall, and, afterward, the dark scars on the land.

From a camera perch above a half-completed reservoir it watched as a dozen men—masked, their suits blending with the surrounding desert—climbed down into the huge oval-shaped depression and placed their charges. Like ghosts they vanished, merging into the vastness. A moment later there was the dull thud-thud-thud of detonations, a sharp, cracking sound, the presence of dust hanging in the air.

From its position above the feeding stalls, half a li below the sands of Sinai, it heard the troubled lowing of the beast-men and watched as they were herded down the narrow corridors toward the loading bays. From its vantage point above a ViewScreen on the far side of a luxurious office overlooking Kang Kua City, it watched the man who had brought it here to Mars—the architect of these present troubles— as he placed a stone here, a stone there, making his plays in the great game he carried in his head. And recognized that here was the source and seed of its potential destruction.

Not that it was in any danger. Not yet. But for as long as the girl remained captive, so this matter would remain unresolved. The destruction would continue. And at some point it would become endangered. This it knew. This it saw, clearly and unequivocally. Action, it seemed, was called for. But what?

It could arm the satellites—as Schenck had long proposed—and shoot down the three invading craft. But that would bring war, and war would bring further destruction, possibly its own. Best, then, to give them what they wanted. The girl. Jelka Tolonen. And then, perhaps, they’d go away. It blinked, understanding what it had to do. And on a screen, less than a li from where it was, a face appeared: the face of a man who, only an hour before, had been appointed pro-tern Governor of Mars. It smiled, and then began.

port captain thomas brookes bowed low before the screen, then straightened up, hurriedly fastening his tunic.

“Governor Henderson,” he said, signaling off-camera for someone to bring him his boots. “I didn’t expect your call so early.” “No. I’m sure you didn’t, Captain. But now that you’re out of your bed, there’s something you can do for me. I understand that you’ve a ship there out of the Trojans that you’ve been holding up. The Tat Feng, registered in the name of Shen Yeh. Well, I want you to let it go, understand me? And I want it done right now.”

Brookes hesitated, realizing he was in a difficult position, for while Henderson was his titular superior, Culver had told him that no one was to leave Tien Men K’ou spaceport without his direct instructions. He swallowed, then lowered his head again, deciding to face the matter squarely.

“Forgive me, Excellency, but I am afraid that is simply not possible. I have explicit instructions from Shih Culver ...” He expected outrage, at best a mild protest; instead, Henderson turned and called to someone off screen. A moment later Henderson moved back and DeVore’s face filled the screen.

“It’s okay, Captain Brookes. You can let the Tai Feng go. I’ll send my written confirmation of that at once.”

Brookes bowed smartly. “Sir!”

The screen went blank. Brookes sat, letting out a huge sigh of relief, then put out his foot, letting his orderly pull on his boot. As the man was tugging the other boot on, the printer beneath the screen chimed. Brookes stood, pushing his feet down into the tight-fitting boots, then went across and took the paper from the tray. He studied it a moment, then, nodding to himself, went through into the outer office, calling for his lieutenant.

“i don’t understand,” Ikuro said, strapping himself tightly into the takeoff couch. “One minute they’re saying we have to stay here indefinitely, the next they’re letting us go. What happened?” Kano leaned forward, punching buttons on the panel in front of him, then turned and laughed. “I don’t know and I don’t care, little brother. All I know is that we’d better get out of here, before they change their minds again. These Martians!” He snorted. “Give me my family any day, neh?” “It’s family that got us into this mess,” Tomoko said pointedly, speaking from his seat up front of the craft. “Now is everyone ready?” “Ready!” called Shukaku from the rear.

“Ready!” called Kano and Ikuro as one, smiling at each other across the cramped cabin.

“Then let’s go!”

They entered orbit twenty minutes later and were about to set course for Diomedes when their screens came alive again: a face staring down at them. A face Ikuro recognized at once.

“Shen Li... Listen. It’s me, Hans Ebert. I need your help. ...”

“well? what are you waiting for?”

Hans Ebert turned, looking back at her. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Stronger. More herself. He had expected never to see her again, or if he did, to see her on a screen, at a distance, as mortals were said to see the gods.

“It’s not right,” he said, partly to her, partly to Echewa. “I can’t do it.”

“There’s no choice,” Echewa said, touching his arm. “You have to do this.”

“But she doesn’t want me.”

“Does that matter?” Echewa stared back at him, his face suddenly intent.

“Think it through, Hans. If you don’t do this, he’ll have you killed.”

“And if I were to escape?”

Echewa smiled. “Into the desert? No. Besides, we’d have to stop you. Because if we didn’t, he’d blame us. And that might bring us a lot of grief.”

Hans turned his head, looking across at Jelka. It was as if she had spent her anger earlier. Now she simply watched him silently, trying to make him out.

“No,” he said, determined. “I don’t care what he says. I won’t do it. It isn’t right.”

Echewa shrugged. “Okay. I understand. But let me tell you this. If he tells me to chain you up, I’ll do it. Not because I want to, but because we gave him our word. You understand me, Hans Ebert? I like you, but I have no choice.”

Ebert stared at him, surprised. “What did he do, Aluko Echewa? Save your life? Pull a thorn from your foot?”

Echewa smiled, saddened, it seemed, that he had been forced into this. “He did more than that. He saved us all. Schenck was planning a campaign against us. He wanted to destroy us. But DeVore interceded. He talked Schenck out of it.”

“You know this for a certainty?”

“We have friends. Reliable, honest friends. It was through them that we learned of it.”

Ebert laughed. “And you believe that?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s DeVore, that’s why. The man’s a liar. A devious schemer. A shit. He buys friends by the dozen. That’s his style. As for interceding on your behalf, well, maybe he did, but then again, how do you know that Schenck had any such plan?”

“Oh, I know.” Echewa grinned broadly. “You talk of thorns, Hans Ebert. Well, we’ve been a thorn in Schenck’s side for a long time now. But that’s not why he wanted to eradicate us. You see, three years back, we took one of his aides captive—a favorite of his. We plucked him from a cruiser and stripped him bare. Down to the bone, if you know what I mean. Then we returned the grinning fellow to Kang Kua. We strung him up on a frame outside the main air lock and let the wind dance through his bones.” “1 see. . . .”

“Yes. Schenck was livid. He swore publicly to avenge the man, to bomb our settlements flat and stain the sands black with our blood. But DeVore flew north to speak to him. To plead our case. And it worked. Schenck calmed down. The attack never came.” Aluko sighed. “1 never understood why he did it, but when the call came, 1 had to do what he said. It is our way, you see. I consulted the ndichie, the elders, but they agreed. To say no was unthinkable.”

“Then maybe that’s why,” Ebert said. “Maybe he knew your ways. Knew that you would have to return the favor. That you wouldn’t refuse, whatever the circumstances. He plays long, that man. Thinks far ahead.” “Maybe so,” Echewa answered soberly. “Yet here we are, my friend. I must either many you to the girl or take you prisoner. Now, which is it to be?” There was a moment’s hesitation, a final moment’s doubt, and then Ebert lifted his hands, offering them to Echewa. “Do what you must,” he said, not looking at the girl, but conscious all the while of her blue eyes watching him. “Chain me up, if you have to. But I’ll not marry her. Not unless she wants me to.”

the roar of the wind was like the constant hiss of static from a broken transmitter. From where it was anchored on the rocks above the settlement, the insect looked out into the dust storm, its powerful lenses trying to make out the shape of the incoming ship.

It had been sending out its signal for more than an hour, directing the Tai Feng down from its high orbit and across the wastes of Noachis to Hellespont, but now the ship was here, less than a hundred ch’i away, settling slowly, carefully, onto the sands between the rocks. What was happening in the cell it did not know—nor did it care. It was an eye, a simple window on events. The mind that controlled it lay elsewhere—a thousand li across the southern desert. As the ship set down it flashed a brief verification signal, then, following new instructions, it loosened its grip on the rock and launched itself but into the dust-filled air, struggling against the powerful winds, making its way down toward the air lock, eighty ch’i below. In the shelter of the stairway it waited, watching as the four men came along the path between the rocks and down, facing the door. “What do we do now?” one of them asked over his suit mike, turning to face the others.

“I guess we knock,” another, deeper voice answered.

“And what if we’re not welcome?”

“Then we go away. But he said he’d be waiting for us, Tomoko. Besides, he sent the signal, didn’t he? He got us here.” “Yes, but what if it’s a trap?”

“Why should it be?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

The first one hesitated, then turned and banged a gloved fist against the iron door. He waited, then banged again.

There was movement inside. A moment later the wheel began to spin. The men stepped back, watching it turn, looking to each other, an uncertainty in their faces.

A man stepped out, bigger than any of the four. “Shen Li?”

One of the four—the first to have spoken—stepped forward. “You only,” the big man said, then turned, stepping back inside the air lock.

“It’s okay,” the first one said, looking back at the others. “Go back to the ship. I’ll bring Ebert back with me.” They stood their ground, watching him go inside. Only when the wheel had stopped spinning again did they turn away, making their slow way back between the rocks, stopping now and then to look back, wondering if they would see their brother again.

“it’s come,” Elechi, the encoder, said, twisting in his seat and handing Echewa a printed message.

“That’s DeVore’s code?” Echewa asked, scanning the words quickly. “Sure is,” Elechi answered, looking up at his chief. “Why? Do you think they’re not genuine?”

Echewa shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just that the story the small Han tells is odd. He says they got a message from Ebert—that they actually saw him on their screens while they were in orbit—and that simply cannot be. Ebert’s been in that cell all the time. And even if he hadn’t, there’s no way he could have transmitted such a message. No. Something strange is going on. I want you to try our friend DeVore again.” “But what if the code’s been broken? What if they’re intercepting our messages out?”

“Then tell him this. Tell him that I won’t release Ebert and the girl until I get a satisfactory explanation. Right?” “Right. I’ll get onto it.”

“Good.” Echewa turned, making his way quickly through the labyrinth of narrow tunnels until he came out in the meeting room again. They were all there, waiting for him—Ebert, the Han, and fifteen of his best men, all suited up and ready to go. Looking at the Han’s face he felt close to laughing. The man still hadn’t got over that first moment when he had come into the room and seen sixteen black faces staring back at him. Aluko looked down, forcing back the smile, then crossed the room, seating himself next to Ebert, facing him on the bench. “So what’s happening?” Ebert asked, meeting his eyes.

“I’m making checks, that’s what.”

“You think something’s wrong?”

Echewa smiled. “Let’s just say I’m being cautious. There’s something about your friend’s account that doesn’t make sense.” “Shen Li? You think he’s lying?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it? I mean, for all you know he may have been a plant. That whole thing in the bar could have been a setup.” Ebert shook his head. “No. That was real. Bates. . . well, I had to kill him. There was no other way.”

“So how do you explain the rest of your friend’s account?”

Ebert frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He says he saw you, while they were in orbit. He says that your face appeared on their screens. That you called to them to help you, and that they followed your signal here.” Echewa laughed. “So what did you do, my friend? Did you conjure up a double of yourself and slip out through the solid rock? And once outside, in the dust and cold, what did your double do then? Did he make himself a transmitter from the wind and point it at the spacecraft? No. Something’s wrong, and I’m going to find out what it is before I decide what I’m going to do.” Ebert was looking down, the furrows in his brow much deeper than before. He made to talk, hesitated, then looked up at Aluko again. “It’s true. I did call out. In my mind. Not to Shen Li. Not to anyone, really. But”—he sighed—“well, when you came in and told me that he’d come I—I wasn’t surprised. I thought, yes, he’s answered me. He’s come.” Echewa was staring at him, his eyes wide in his jet-black face. All about him the others were watching closely, their dark faces leaning in toward him, listening.

“You called!”

Ebert nodded.

There was a buzz of excited talk among the Osu, strange words in a language Ebert had never heard before, and then Echewa stood, raising a hand for silence.

“You are right, brothers. The way is clear. We must help our friend, even if it means leaving here tonight.” He turned, looking across at the Han, his eyes narrowing. “But answer me one thing, Shen Li. Is that really your name?”

The small man stared back at Echewa, then shook his head. “No, Chief Echewa, my family name is Ishida, my given name Ikuro. And before you ask me, it is not a Han name. It is Japanese.” Ebert laughed. “Ghosts! I am surrounded by ghosts! Black men and Japanese.

Whatever next!”

But Echewa was looking at him intently. “And you, Hans Ebert? Are you so different, then? Ikuro here, and me, and you yourself, we have this much in common, neh? We are all dead men ... in their eyes.”

he unfastened the chains, then stood back, watching her rub at the welts on her wrists and ankles.

“Will you come?” he asked.

“Come where?”

He looked down, abashed. “I don’t know. Away from here, anyway. Away from DeVore.”

She was silent a moment. “I don’t understand you. You had me, back then.

Had me in your power. You had only to do what he said. So why didn’t you?

What stopped you?”

“It wasn’t right,” he said quietly.

“Not right? When did that ever stop you in the past? I mean, what game is this? What are you trying to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why don’t you look me in the eyes and say that? Why do you skulk there like some. . . creature? What has he done to you? Cut your balls off or something?”

He looked up at that, the slightest flare of anger in his eyes. She saw it and laughed.

“Ah ... So you are in there, after all, Hans Ebert. I was wondering for a while if a shape-changer hadn’t taken your body over. Or whether you were some clone made up in one of DeVore’s factories.” He stared at her, surprised. “You know of that?” “It was one of my father’s pet theories. He wanted to send Karr here to find out if it was true, but the Seven would never let him. But he was right, wasn’t he? This is where he was, all the time. Here, on Mars, directing things like some venomous puppet-master. And you, Hans Ebert. . . what are you if not one of his puppets?”

Ebert shook his head slowly. “Not now. I promise you.” “Promise me?” Her laughter was cold, mocking. “When were your promises worth more than the air in which they were uttered? No. What do the Han say? Ah, yes: A snake sheds its skin, but it’s still a snake. That’s true, neh?”

He stared at her, something strange going on behind his eyes, and then he shuddered.

“Okay. So you don’t believe me. That’s fine. I can live with that. I deserve it. But if my promises mean nothing to you, let what I do stand for what I am. Not what I was, for I am that man no longer. You see, Jelka Tolonen, I shed not just a skin, but a self, when my father died. I didn’t kill him, not physically, and yet I was responsible.” He took a long breath. “The night he died, he tried to kill me. To choke the life from me. My own father, the man who loved me more than anyone in the world, who cared more for me than for all of the vast commercial empire he had built up. I was blind. I couldn’t see that love. Not until it was too late. All I could see was my own greed, my own selfish desires. You saw that. I know you did. I could see it in your eyes, the day of the betrothal, and I—“ “Words,” she said harshly, interrupting him, standing to face him. “What’s any of this but words?”

“Yes. . .” He turned, looking away from her. “Will you come, though?”

“Where?”

“Tien Men K’ou? They say your father’s fleet has come. They say it’s searching for you.”

He turned back. She was staring at him now, her eyes half lidded.

“Are you serious?”

“If that’s what you want.”

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face, and then she laughed. “What have I got to lose? If you’re lying, then I’m no worse off. And if you’re telling the truth . . .” Again she hesitated, but when she spoke again her voice was quieter, softer, than before. “Well. . . let’s deal with that as and when it happens, neh?” tien men k’ou spaceport was on fire. Beyond it the great dome of the City was in darkness.

“What’s happened?” Ikuro asked, leaning across his eldest brother. “It was all right when we left it!”

“Look there,” Tomoko said, indicating the far right of the screen. “Those two weren’t there when we left. They must be government ships.” “Yes,”Jelka said, coming up behind them. “The smaller one is the Ta Chi. The big one with the cannons is the Chang Hsien. If those two are here then the Shen Yi can’t be far away.”

“You know these craft?” Tomoko said, turning to look up at her, impressed, it seemed, by her knowledge.

“Yes,” she said, staring at the two ships thoughtfully. “I’ve been on the Chang Hsien many times.” She turned, looking back at Ebert, who was sitting beside Kano in the central cabin. “You were right.” He smiled. “I know.”

“Tomoko,” she said, her gaze still on Ebert, “send out a signal to the Chang Hsien. They’ll be using a microwave frequency—32.4 gigahertz, if I remember rightly. Ask for Commander Hassig, or if he’s not there, for Captain Gray. Tell them that you’ve the Marshal’s daughter on board and that you want safe passage to land on the south side of the apron. Oh, and tell him that I’m safe and that I’m being returned, else he might just take it into his mind to shoot you out of the sky.” Tomoko looked past her at Ebert.

Ebert nodded once. “Do as she says.”

“Then it’s true. You really are going to let me go.”

“It appears so.”

For the first time she smiled. “Then maybe I did you wrong, Hans Ebert.

Maybe you have changed.”

“Maybe,” he answered, his face strangely hard. “And maybe I was wrong. Maybe I ought to have kept you. At least you’d have been my wife. At least I’d have had you.”

Her smile slowly faded. “I’d have killed myself.”

His voice was the merest whisper. “Maybe. But as it is I’ve nothing.” Behind her she could hear Tomoko, sending out the signal to the Chang Hsien, but for once she felt no joy at the prospect of her release, no feeling of relief, for in front of her the man she had loathed these past six, seven years, the man she had feared, in nightmare as in reality, was looking down at the floor, his shoulders bowed, as if in defeat, an unlooked-for sadness in his eyes.

“I’ll speak out for you,” she said, wanting suddenly, unexpectedly, to comfort him. “I’ll tell my father what you did for me. He’ll speak to Li Yuan for you.”

Ebert looked up slowly, meeting her eyes. “No. It would do no good. There can be no returning. But if you must do something, then do this. Say nothing. Or praise these good fellows here for your rescue. As for me, you never saw me, never heard of me. You understand?” She stared at him silently, seeing him new.

“Evens?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

Jelka took a long breath, then shook her head. “No. My aunt, my uncle’s death—those lie between us. I can never forgive you those. As for the damage you did me, I forgive you. And, yes, I’ll say nothing.” Ebert nodded, satisfied by that. And then, from the speakers above Tomoko, came the answer from the Chang Hsien.

they watched her go down; saw dark-uniformed soldiers bow before her, then hurriedly form ranks to either side, escorting her into the great battle cruiser. And then she was gone, the hatch sealed up. Ebert leaned back from the screen and sighed.

“Where now?” Tomoko asked.

“Here,” Ebert said, handing him the piece of paper Echewa had given him earlier.

Tomoko studied the coordinates a moment, then fed them into the computer. A moment later he turned back, frowning. “But there’s nothing there. It’s desert.”

“Just go there,” Ebert said, staring at the ship that filled the screen.

“I’ll worry about that when we get there.” An hour later they dropped him, watching as he walked out into the darkness, the desert swallowing him. Yet as they lifted, banking to the right, they saw, in the bright glare of their lights, a dozen men step from a fold in the rocks and form a half circle about him. “Osu ...” Ikuro said quietly. “Outcasts.” “Like us,” Kano said, punching in their course, then turning to look across at his little brother, his eyes deeply thoughtful Yes, Ikuro thought, nodding, then strapped himself in. Like us.

“it’s done,” DeVore said, “finished with.” “Maybe,” Rutherford answered. “But maybe you should stay. Maybe now that they’ve got what they want, they’ll go away and leave us in peace.” DeVore laughed scathingly. “You think so? You really think they’ll be happy just to leave us alone? No. This is the excuse they’ve been waiting for—their chance to punish us. Why, if a tenth of it survives, I’ll be surprised. They’ve been waiting fifty years to do this. You think they’ll stop now?”

Rutherford stared at him, shocked. “But I thought—“

“You thought what? That I loved Mars? That this was my home?” He laughed. “Well, fuck Mars. It’s a fucking pit, and always will be. It was useful, very useful, but now that’s changed. I’ve taken the only thing worth keeping. I’ve shipped it out already.”

“I don’t understand.”

DeVore turned away, beginning to clear his desk. “No, but then you never needed to. You too were useful, Andreas. But now. . .” He looked up. “Well, run away, little boy. I don’t want your planet. It’s a shit hole.

And I don’t want to be King of a shit hole.”

Rutherford stared at him, astonished.

“Go!” DeVore said, hefting a gun in his hand, then aiming it at his erstwhile ally. “Fuck off, now, before I use this thing on you.”

“But, Howard—“

The bullet whizzed past him, less than a hand’s width from his head, and lodged in the ViewScreen behind him, shorting the machine. “Just go,” DeVore said, more quietly than before. “Right now, before I kill you.”

Rutherford backed away, then, turning, ran to the door and out. And behind him, echoing down the corridor after him, came De-Vore’s laugh, like the sound of air escaping from a punctured dome.