‘Major Karr. Welcome to Feng Shou. Captain Wen would like...’
Ignoring him, Karr brushed past and turned off to the left, taking the narrow stairwell down to the basement. Guards looked up, surprised, as he came down the corridor towards them, then stood to a hurried attention as they noticed the leopard badge of a third-ranking officer that adorned the chest of his suit.
‘Forgive me, Major Karr, but the Captain says you must...’
Karr turned and glared at the junior officer who had followed him, silencing him with a look.
‘Please tell your captain that, as his superior officer, I’ve taken charge of this matter. And before you ask, no, I don’t want to see him. Understand me?’
The young soldier bowed deeply and backed off a step. ‘Of course, Major. As you say.’
Karr turned away, forgetting the man at once. These stations were all the same. There was only one place to keep prisoners securely. He marched down the narrow, dimly lit passageway, then stopped, facing a heavy, panelled door. He waited as one of the guards caught up with him and took a bunch of old-fashioned metal keys from inside a thick pouch, then, as the door swung inward, pushed past the man impatiently.
Hasty improvisation had made a cell of the small storeroom. The floor was bare rock, the walls undecorated ice, opaque and milky white, like a blind eye. The four men were bound at wrist and ankle.
Berdichev was sitting slumped against the wall. His grey uniform was dusty and dishevelled, buttons missing from the neck, his face thinner, gaunter than the Security profile of him. He hadn’t shaved for a week or more and he stared back at Karr through eyes red-rimmed with tiredness. Karr studied him thoughtfully. The horn-rimmed glasses that were his trademark hung from a fine silver chain about his neck, the lenses covered in a fine red grit.
He had not been certain. Not until this moment. But now he knew. Berdichev was his. After almost five years of pursuit, he had finally caught up with the leader of the Dispersionists.
Karr looked about the cell again, conscious of the other three watching him closely, then nodded, satisfied. He knew how he looked to them. Knew how the suit exaggerated his size, making him seem monstrous, unnatural. Perhaps they were even wondering what he was – machine or man. If so, he would let them know. He lit up his face plate, seeing how the eyes of the others widened with surprise. But not Berdichev. He was watching Karr closely.
Karr turned, slamming the door shut behind him, then turned back, facing them again.
He knew what they expected. They knew the laws that were supposed to govern an arrest. But this was different. They had been tried in their absence and found guilty. He was not here to arrest them.
‘Well, Major Karr, so we meet up at last, neh?’ Berdichev lifted his chin a little as he spoke, but his eyes seemed to look down on the giant. ‘Do you really think you’ll get me to stand trial? In fact, do you even think you’ll leave Mars alive?’
If there had been any doubt before, there was none now. It was a trap. Berdichev had made a deal with the Captain, Wen. Or maybe Wen was in another’s pay – a friend of Berdichev’s. Whatever, it didn’t matter now. He walked over to where Berdichev was sprawled and kicked at his feet.
‘Get up,’ he said tonelessly, his voice emerging disembodied and inhuman through the suit’s microphone.
Berdichev stood slowly, awkwardly. He was clearly ill. Even so, there was a dignity of bearing to him, a superiority of manner, that was impressive. Even in defeat he thought himself the better man.
Karr stood closer, looking down into Berdichev’s face, studying the hawk-like features one last time. For a moment Berdichev looked aside, then, as if he realized this was one last challenge, he met the big man’s stare unflinchingly, his features set, defiant.
Did he know whose gaze he met across the vastness of space? Did he guess in that final moment?
Karr picked him up and broke his neck, his back, then dropped him. It was done in an instant, before the others had a chance to move, even to cry out.
He stepped away, then stood there by the door, watching.
They gathered about the body, kneeling, glaring across at him, impotent to help the dying man. One of them half rose, his fists clenched, then drew back, realizing he could do nothing.
Karr tensed, hearing noises in the corridor outside. Captain Wen and his squad.
He took a small device from his belt, cracked its outer shell like an egg and threw the sticky innards at the far wall, where it adhered, high up, out of reach. He pulled the door open and stepped outside, then pulled it closed and locked it. His face-plate still lit up, he smiled at the soldiers who were hurrying down the corridor towards him as if greeting them, then shot Wen twice before he could say a word.
The remaining four soldiers hesitated, looking to the junior officer for their lead. Karr stared from face to face, defying them to draw a weapon, his own held firmly out before him. Then, on the count of fifteen, he dropped to the floor.
The wall next to him lit up brightly and, a fraction of a second later, the door blew out.
Karr got up and went through the shattered doorway quickly, ignoring the fallen men behind him. The cell was devastated, the outer wall gone. Bits of flesh and bone lay everywhere, unrecognizable as parts of living men.
He stood there a moment, looking down at the thermometer on the sleeve of his suit. The temperature in the room was dropping rapidly. They would have to address that problem quickly or the generators that powered the pumps would shut down. Not only that, but they would have to do something about the loss of air pressure within the station.
Karr crossed to the far side of the room and stepped outside, on to the sands. Debris from the blast lay everywhere. He turned and looked back at the devastation within. Was that okay? he asked silently. Did that satisfy your desire for vengeance, Li Shai Tung? For the T’ang was watching everything. All that Karr saw he saw, the signal sent back more than four hundred million li through space.
He shrugged, then tapped the buttons at his wrist, making contact with the pilot.
‘I’m on the sands to the west of the pipeline, near where the explosion just happened. Pick me up at once.’
‘At once, Major.’
He turned back and fired two warning shots into the empty doorway, then strode out across the sands, positioning himself in a kneeling position, facing the station.
Part of him saw the craft lift up over the massive pipeline and drop towards him, while another part of him was watching the doorway for any sign of activity. Then he was aboard, the craft climbing again, and he had other things to think of. There was a gun turret built into the side of the station. Nothing fancy, but its gun could easily bring down a light two-man craft like their own. As they lifted he saw it begin to turn and leaned across the pilot to prime the ship’s missiles, then sent two silkworms haring down into the side of the dome.
A huge fireball rose into the sky, rolling over and over upon itself. A moment later the blast rocked the tiny craft.
‘Kuan Yin!’ screamed the pilot. ‘What in hell’s name are you doing?’
Karr glared at the young Han. ‘Just fly!’
‘But the station...’
The big dome had collapsed. The two nearest domes were on fire. People were spilling from the nearby buildings, shocked, horrified by what they saw. As Karr lifted up and away from the settlement, he saw the end of the fractured pipeline buckle and then lift slowly into the air, like a giant worm, water gushing from a dozen broken conduits, cooling rapidly in the frigid air.
‘Aiya!’ said the young pilot, his voice pained and anxious. ‘It’s a disaster! What have you done, Major Karr? What have you done?’
‘I’ve finished it,’ Karr answered him, angry that the boy should make so much of a little water. ‘I’ve ended the War.’
Four hundred million li away, back on Chung Kuo, DeVore strode into a room and looked about him. The room was sparsely furnished, undecorated save for a flag that was pinned to the
wall behind the table, its design the white stylized outline of a fish against a blue background. At the table sat five people: three men and two women. They wore simple, light blue uniforms on which no sign of rank or merit was displayed. Two of them – one male, one female – were Han. This last surprised DeVore. He had heard rumours that the Ping Tiao hated the Han. No matter. They hated authority, and that was good enough. He could use them, Han in their ranks or no.
‘What do you want?’
The speaker was the man at the centre of the five: a short, stocky man, with dark, intense eyes, fleshy lips and a long nose. His brow was long, his thin grey hair receding. DeVore knew him from the report. Gesell was his name. Bent Gesell. He was their leader, or at least the man to whom this strange organization of so-called ‘equal’ individuals looked for their direction.
DeVore smiled, then nodded towards the table, indicating the transparent grid that was laid out before Gesell. ‘You have the map, I see.’
Gesell narrowed his eyes, studying him a moment. ‘Half of it, anyway. But that’s your point, isn’t it, Shih Turner? Or am I wrong?’
DeVore nodded, looking from face to face, seeing at once how suspicious they were of him. They were of a mind to reject his proposal, whatever it might be. But that was as he had expected. He had never thought this would be easy.
‘I want to make a deal with you. The other half of that map – and more like it – for your co-operation in a few schemes of mine.’
Gesell’s nostrils dilated, his eyes hardened. ‘We are not criminals, Shih Turner, whatever the media says about us. We are Ko Ming. Revolutionaries.’
DeVore stared back at Gesell, challenging him. ‘Did I say otherwise?’
‘Then I repeat. What do you want?’
DeVore smiled. ‘I want what you want. To destroy the Seven. To bring it all down and start again.’
Gesell’s smile was ugly. ‘Fine rhetoric. But can you support your words?’
DeVore’s smile widened. ‘That packet your men took from me. Ask one of them to bring it in.’
Gesell hesitated, then indicated to the guard who stood behind DeVore that he should do so. He returned a moment later with the small, sealed package, handing it to Gesell.
‘If this is a device of some kind...’ Gesell began.
But DeVore shook his head. ‘You asked what proof I have of my intentions. Well, inside that package you’ll find a human ear. The ear of the late T’ang of Africa, Wang Hsien.’
There was a gasp from the others at the table, but Gesell was cool about it. He left the package untouched. ‘Half a map and an ear. Are these your only credentials, Shih Turner? The map could be of anything, the ear anyone’s.’
He’s merely playing now, thought DeVore; impressing on the others how wise he is, how cautious. Because he, at least, will have had the map checked out and will know it is to the Security arsenal at Helmstadt Canton. Likewise with the ear. He knows how easy it is to check the authenticity of the genetic material.
He decided to push. ‘They might. But you believe otherwise. It must interest you to know how I could get hold of such things.’
Gesell laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re a thief, Shih Turner.’
DeVore ignored the insult, but stored it in memory. He would have his revenge for that.
‘The ear is easy to explain. I had Wang Hsien assassinated.’
Gesell’s laughter was harder; it registered his disbelief. ‘Then why come to us? If you can have a T’ang murdered so easily, what need have you for such...’ he looked about him humorously ‘...small fish as we Ping Tiao?’
DeVore smiled. ‘I came here because the War has entered a new phase. And because I believe I can trust you.’
‘Trust us?’ Gesell studied him closely, looking for any trace of irony in the words. ‘Yes. Perhaps you could. But can we trust you, Shih Turner? And should we even consider trusting you? I mean, what are your real motives for coming here today? Is it really as you say – to ally with us to bring down the Seven? Or do you simply want to use us?’
‘I want to share what I know with you. I want to fight alongside you. If that’s using you, then yes, I want to use you, Shih Gesell.’
Gesell’s surprise was marked. ‘How do you know my name?’
DeVore met his stare openly. ‘I do my homework.’
‘Then you’ll know we work with no one.’
‘You used not to. But those days are past. You’ve suffered substantial losses. You need me. As much as I need you.’
Gesell shrugged. ‘And why do you need us? Have your Above backers pulled out, then, Shih Turner?’
He feigned surprise, but he had known Gesell would raise this point. Had known because he himself had passed the information on to his contact inside the Ping Tiao.
Gesell laughed. ‘Come clean, Shih Turner. Tell us the real reason why you’re here.’
DeVore stepped forward, appealing suddenly to them all, not just Gesell; knowing that this was the point where he could win them over.
‘It’s true. The War has taken many whose funds supported my activities. But there’s more to it than that. Things have changed. It’s no longer a struggle in the Above between those in power and those who want to be. The conflict has widened. As you know. It’s no longer a question of who should rule, but whether or not there should be rulers at all.’
Gesell sat back. ‘That’s so. But what’s your role in this? You claim you’ve killed a T’ang.’
‘And Ministers, and a T’ang’s son...’
Gesell laughed shortly. ‘Well, whatever. But still I ask you: why should we trust you?’
DeVore leaned forward and placed his hands on the edge of the table. ‘Because you have to. Alone, both of us will fail. The Ping Tiao will go down into obscurity, or at best earn a footnote in some historical document as just another small, fanatical sect. And the Seven...’ He heaved a huge sigh and straightened up. ‘The Seven will rule Chung Kuo for ever.’
He had given them nothing. Nothing real or substantial, anyway. As Gesell had so rightly said, all they had was half a map, an ear. That and his own bare-faced audacity in daring to knock on their door, knowing they were ruthless killers. Yet he could see from their faces that they were more than half-convinced already.
‘Unwrap the package, Shih Gesell. You’ll find there’s something else beside an ear inside.’
Gesell hesitated, then did as DeVore had asked. Setting the ear aside, he unfolded the transparent sheet and placed it beside its matching half.
‘I have three hundred and fifty trained men,’ DeVore said quietly. ‘If you can match my force we’ll take the Helmstadt Armoury two days from now.’
Gesell stared at him. ‘You seem very sure of yourself, Shih Turner. Helmstadt is heavily guarded. It has complex electronic defences. How do you think we can take it?’
‘Because there will be no defences. Not when we attack.’
Quickly, confidently, he spelled out his plan, holding back only the way he had arranged it all. When he’d finished, Gesell looked at his colleagues. He had noted what DeVore had said, in particular the part about the high-profile media publicity the Ping Tiao would gain from the attack – publicity that was sure to swell their ranks with new recruits. That, and the prospect of capturing a significant stockpile of sophisticated weaponry, seemed to have swung the decision.
Gesell turned to him. ‘You’ll let us confer a moment, Shih Turner. We are a democratic movement. We must vote on this.’
DeVore smiled inwardly. Democracy, my arse. It’s what you want, Gesell. And I think you’re clever enough to know you’ve no option but to go along with me.
Giving the slightest bow, he went out, and sat there. He had only to wait a few minutes before the door opened again and Gesell came out. He stood, facing the Ping Tiao leader.
‘Well?’
Gesell stared at him a moment, coldly assessing him. Then, with the smallest bow, he stepped back, holding out his arm. ‘Come in, Shih Turner. We have p
lans to discuss.’
The girl was dead. Haavikko sat there, distraught, staring at her, at the blood that covered his hands and chest and thighs, and knew he had killed her.
He turned his head slightly and saw the knife, there on the floor where he remembered dropping it, then shuddered, a wave of sickness, of sheer self-disgust washing over him. What depths, what further degradations, lay ahead of him? Nothing. He had done it all. And now this.
There was no more. This was the end of that path he had set out upon ten years ago.
He turned back, looking at her. The girl’s face was white, drained of blood. Such a pretty face it had been in life: full of laughter and smiles, her eyes undulled by experience. He gritted his teeth against the sudden pain he felt and bowed his head, overcome. She could not have been more than fourteen.
He looked about the room. There, draped carelessly over the back of the chair, was his uniform. And there, on the floor beside it, the tray with the empty bottles and the glasses they had been drinking from before it happened.
He closed his eyes, then shivered violently, seeing it all again – the images forming with an almost hallucinatory clarity that took his breath. He uttered a small moan of pain, seeing himself holding her down with one hand, while he struck at her frenziedly with the knife, once, twice, a third time, slashing at her breasts, her stomach, while she cried out piteously and struggled to get up.
He jumped to his feet and turned away, putting his hands up to his face. ‘Kuan Yin preserve you, Axel Haavikko, for what you’ve done!’
Yes, he saw it all now. It all led to this. The drinking and debauchery, the insubordination and the gambling. This was its natural end. This grossness. He had observed his own fall, from that moment in General Tolonen’s office to this... this finality. There was no more. Nothing for him but to take the knife and end himself.
He stared at the knife. Stared long and hard at it. Saw how the blood was crusted on its shaft and handle, remembering the feel of it in his hand. His knife.
The Art of War Page 5
