Her eyes had a full, liquid look, something that Mike had never seen before; they were like a pair of dark, crystal globes with internal reflections. After a few moments he realized what had happened. Li was crying; in free-fall, the tears remained on her eyes instead of trickling down her cheeks.
"I reward you with pain," she went on. "And I have done a still worse thing. I have disobeyed my own family's direct command, and I have betrayed my people in showing you this. But worst of all, I have placed you in an impossible position. When we land, my people will ask you under Trader Oath to say nothing of any of this. But I am begging you here, before we land, to pass that word, secretly, to all the governments of Earth. I know that if you do these things, you will be breaking Trader Oath, and you will lose your own family. But I ask you to do it. I am your worst enemy, Mike. In return for the gift of my life I am asking the destruction of yours."
Mike sat dry-eyed, gazing out at the monstrous tableau below them. Those endless miles of cultivated fields and neat channels took his breath away. But there were no tears in him, only resolution and a strange peace. The decision point that he had sensed before he began this mission was here. And the decision had been made easily, deep within him, without a microsecond of debate.
Prime Rule: Be a human being first. At last he understood what that implied. Everything else in the Trader Rule Book offered advice, counsel, or warning, and drew the Traders closer together. Prime Rule was different; it alone demanded individual responsibility, offered freedom of choice, provided no advice, and gave no comfort.
"Do not cry," he said to Li, and he spoke those words in poorly pronounced Chipponese.
"I am doing an unforgivable thing." Her eyes had closed. "You will lose your family."
"No, Li. I will not."
And Mike did a terrible thing, too. Without any threat or coercion, he broke Trader Oath. He told Li Xia, a non-Trader, an outsider, a stranger to Trader customs, all about the Great Republic's fusion project. He broke Trader Oath, and did not think for a moment of asking for her silence.
And then he hugged her to him, a fainting woman who was still in many ways a stranger, and said many other things, in words that were old under the Sun and new above the Moon, words that belonged to Li alone and had no place in a Trader mission record. And he dried the tears in the corners of her eyes, was rewarded with a faint smile, and felt like a new-crowned king.
"You are right, Li," he said. "But you are also wrong. When I go back from here I will tell them I broke Trader Oath. I will be exiled from the Trader community. It is inevitable. But I can never lose my true family."
Li was slipping away into unconsciousness. Mike put his cheek next to hers. She was fiery hot. The radiation was deep in their bones, burning up their blood. He felt light-headed, dizzy, irrational. He squinted out of the port, peering down. The ship's jets beneath them burst into sudden, blue-white flame.
I know my family. I know my family now. And you know them, too, Li. His burning throat could no longer speak, and she could not hear him. It did not matter. The litany of the first Trader training courses overflowed in his mind.
When the world was young, we rowed our galleys far to the West, past the Pillars of Hercules, to trade for tin in the Northern Islands; our caravans plied the Great Silk Road, braving deserts, bandits, and disease to carry goods from Cathay and Samarkand to Venice and Damascus; we lived and died for our work, trading for spices in the East Indies, tea in Serendip, slaves and ivory in the Congo, gold in Alaska, and silver in the high Andes. Our spiritual grandfathers sat and haggled in every sun-soaked, rug-filled store from Rio to Manila; our fathers wriggled on knees and elbows around the muddied, blood-filled shell craters of Verdun, crossing No-Man's-Land to swap cigarettes and candy for coffee and tinned beef . . .
They were descending steadily toward a bright cluster of buildings on the dusty surface. Touchdown was no more than a few seconds away. Mike did not have the strength to strap them in. He cradled Li's helpless body in his arms.
I know my family. Let them take away the Trader name, Li, and call us what they will. It does not matter. We—you, and I, and our children's children's children—we will survive, and flourish, as long as humans endure. And we will always be traders.
The ship touched down on the lunar surface, but Mike never knew it. He had slipped away with Li into the burning darkness.
CHAPTER 18
"Here again."
"Yes."
"Again, and too often. You have become a regular guest of the Rehab Center."
"No more. This is my last time."
"Ah." Daddy-O fell silent.
Mike waited. "Do you know why I came back?" he asked at last.
"When someone on the Moon refuses to communicate over the Chipponese remote circuits, it implies that a very private conversation is needed. When that someone is angry and depressed, I can surmise a reason for his presence here."
"I want out." Mike had been lying on the cot. Now he rolled off it and began to pace the bare hospital room. He was almost hairless, and his body beneath the loose white jacket and pants bore the purple-red scars of radiation overdose. "I never thought I would say this, but I want out of the Traders."
"Ah. I see. Out of the Traders—to do what?"
"I'm going to marry a Chipponese woman—if I can ever talk her family into allowing it."
"And after that?"
"I'm going to live with her on Luna."
"Very well. But those two events are not inevitably coupled. Many non-Trader wives and husbands have become part of the Trader community. If you move to Luna, what comes next? Life does not end with marriage. Why not apply for the admission of your bride to the Traders?"
Mike swore to himself. He had hoped to avoid this. But knowing Daddy-O, the discussion was inevitable. "Because I'm beginning to have a faint idea what Max Dalzell was feeling when he left that note to me. I'm tired of missions, I'm tired of Trader talk, I'm tired of fakery, and most of all I'm tired of failure."
"Failure. Indeed. It would be instructive to me if you were to compare your own assessment of performance with my records. Please tell me, Mike. How well have you performed as a Trader?"
Mike frowned and flopped down again on the bunk. "I don't see why this is worth doing, but I'll play your stupid game. I think I started well. In the Darklands, I felt on top of things. I probably did better than anyone expected. I liked Rasool Ilunga, and I thought I understood him even when I knew I couldn't trust him. I also think I did a reasonable job in the Strine Interior."
"More than reasonable. Were it not for the Dulcinel Protocol, Jack Lester would still be a naked fragment floating in a life-support tank."
"And Li Xia and I would be dead. All right, so let's say I did well with the Strines. I won't grieve if I never see Cinder-feller again, but that's another matter. I wasn't unhappy with my performance. Things fell apart with Dreamtown, and Dominic Mantilla. I've looked back on that mission a hundred times, trying to see anything positive about what I did on it, and I can't. I didn't do a thing, and you had to save me."
Mike paused, expecting comment from Daddy-O. There was only a faint hissing from the speakers.
"I wanted to do well with Jake in Skeleton City, too," he went on, "and I don't blame myself for the fact that he died when he left me behind. But I never would have worked out for myself the construction of the Diamond Fly's brain."
"A Trader is not presumed to be infallible, Mike. You brought back the vital clues. Subconsciously, you may have already understood how it was done."
"I don't think so. And then there was the Cap Federation. I certainly made a mess of things there—with help from Max Dalzell. Seth Paramine is still down on the Cap."
"By his own choice. But you gave Old-Billy Waters enough proof that Paramine was at the Mundsen Labs to make his next negotiation with the Chills a favorable one. Old-Billy was delighted."
"Traders look at the end product—not at excuses for its absence."
"
You were not expected to bring back Paramine."
"Maybe not—but I expected to do it. And then there was the last mission, out to the Geosynch Ring."
"And beyond. As the first Trader to go to the Moon, you should be pleased."
"Pleased? Pleased at breaking Trader Oath? Pleased at alerting the Chipponese so that the Yankee energy test failed? Pleased at coming back here a bald, burned wreck? What should I be pleased about?" Mike lifted his head to stare at Daddy-O's main sensor lens. "There's nothing more to discuss. I told you, I want out. I'm sick of being a Trader."
"I understand." The voice from the speakers was soft, even subdued. "I will not attempt to block your departure. But permit me, if you will, to offer a different perspective on events. I am telling you nothing new when I point out that Traders are specialists in negotiation. They are not presumed to be supermen and superwomen, nor are they specialists in martial arts. Traders are trained to do one thing superbly: negotiate."
"And I did badly at that."
"You did very well. But did it never occur to you that your missions were unusual? You performed negotiation, certainly, no one could deny it. But you spent much of your time in danger of your life—running across the northern Strine desert; or diving down the slopes of Glissando with a platinum needle deep in your brain; or burned over half your body, clinging to a rail at the top of Skeleton City; or running through another wall of flame at the Mundsen Labs. And finally, coming close to death from radiation poisoning up in the Geosynch Ring. Think of those experiences, and ask yourself: do they seem like typical Trader negotiations? If they do not, then ask yourself, why not?"
"What does that have to do with anything? Good Traders handle the missions they are assigned."
"You are being intentionally obtuse, Mike. Face facts: every mission that you were assigned, after the first one, was selected to provide both danger and difficulty. Each one had a high probability of failure."
"Hell, and I thought the decision to leave the Traders was my idea. It sounds like you were planning to drive me out from the beginning."
"That is correct." Daddy-O was pleased to see—at last—a strong reaction. Mike had sat up on the cot, and he was quivering.
"That's unbelievable! You wanted me out? Then why the hell let me in in the first place?"
"Because I perceived that you were potentially something quite unusual. You wanted to be an outstanding Trader. You became an outstanding Trader. You are an outstanding Trader. You have learned the importance of our group, and what we do in the world. But I wanted more. I wanted you to seek to leave the Traders, and I wanted you to learn a truth that cannot be taught through any amount of formal instruction—a truth that few of our group will ever learn. This: There are things in this Universe more important than Traders."
"Prime Rule."
"Prime Rule." Daddy-O paused for an interval imperceptible in human terms. A crisis was approaching, the summation of half a century of planning. "Prime Rule, which sets humanity above the Traders. And now, Mike, here is a chance to prove how smart you are. Tell me, if you can, why all this was done to you."
"Because—" Mike paused, thought, and shook his head. "I can think of only one reason. You want me to perform a mission that is not a Trader mission. That will serve a different group."
"Different?"
"Or larger."
"Continue."
Mike shook his head again. "I cannot."
"Then watch the display."
The screen in front of Mike lit to reveal a flat, open plain. From close to the camera, away to the distant horizon, the land was covered with armored vehicles. Before Mike could respond, the display changed . . . to a flotilla of aircars, bristling with weapons and racing across a cloud-filled sky . . . to a great shoal of submersibles, sweeping silently through a dark sea, torpedo and missile ports ready for action . . . to the violet-white fire of fusion explosions, many miles away . . . to a great army, hundreds of thousands of marching men, dense as waving blades of wheat, striding through a field.
"Images from my older memory banks," Daddy-O's steady voice said. "They were taken just before the Lostlands War began. And now, see this."
Again the screen filled: marching men, exploding missiles, black, brooding submarines, nuclear fires, screaming aircraft, hissing laser beams.
"Not fifty years ago," Daddy-O said calmly. "This year. Those are the defense systems of the Strine Interior, of the Great Republic, of the Cap Federation, and of the Unified Empire. All are ready for action. Each region has been building its defenses, to the point where the Lostlands War could break out again—tomorrow."
Mike stared in horror at the screen. Daddy-O was proposing the unthinkable. Everyone assumed, beyond question, that nothing like the Lostlands War could ever happen again.
"Can't you stop it?" Mike knew that was a dumb question even before he blurted it out. If Daddy-O could stop it, Daddy-O would have stopped it.
"I cannot." There was a long pause. "But perhaps you can. Mike, I have a task for you. I want you to do something that is simply stated, and has no second agenda. I want you to unify the Earth."
"That's impossible!"
"Perhaps." Daddy-O's voice took on overtones of humor. "I can assure you that it will definitely not be easy."
"If it could be done, you would have done it."
"That is demonstrably untrue. You are accustomed to working with me. Other regions are not. They would not accept a computer. They could accept you."
"It's still impossible. One person, and all the regions to deal with—"
"You would not be working alone. You would begin with more friends than you realize."
Again, the screen filled, this time with a familiar and ugly black human face.
"Rasool Ilunga remembers you well; he knows that he did not fool you, and that was enough to impress him. He will be your ready ally. As will Fathom Lavengro and Kristen Waldemar"—a smiling blonde and a serious-faced brunette were looking out at Mike—"as well as Old-Billy Waters, who thinks you are the best thing that ever happened to the Great Republic. And I do not have to tell you that you have an ally, and more than an ally, in the ranks of the Chipponese."
"It's still totally crazy. What about the Unified Empire? Damn it, I killed one of their coordinators! You think they like me for that? I don't have a friend in the region, and they must hate me down there."
"You are wrong in both statements. You will have the full support of a man who will soon control much of the Unified Empire."
The screen cleared again and filled with the grinning image of Max Dalzell.
"But he's a traitor. He's—"
"Mike, even within the Traders things are not always what they seem. Max is familiar with everything that I am telling you. He is one of your strongest supporters. He went to the Unified Empire already prepared to work with you, and he is here now. He arrived last night."
"That's just one man—in a whole region."
"There are others. Thanks to the death of Dominic Mantilla, Benjy Caps survived the Counterpoint game. He is now a leader of the Cappy Universal Enhancement underground, and he believes that he owes his life and his restored self-awareness to you. You will deny that it is deserved, but you are a hero in the Unified Empire. Fifty thousand Cappies would lay down their lives for your sake if Benjy were to call for it. They are willing to make the sacrifice. Are you, Mike? Or will you go cheerfully off to space, knowing that Earth may be ruined?"
"You know damned well that's not a fair question. Of course I wouldn't be cheerful. But that's not the issue. There are a hundred Traders better equipped to help you than I am. What about Lyle Connery? What about Jack Lester? Come to that, what about Max Dalzell?"
"No."
"Max is a better Trader than I could ever be."
"Perhaps. Twenty years ago, Max Dalzell would have been my choice. Not today. The world changes."
"Then why wasn't the effort started twenty years ago—or thirty? The regions were less militant
. The job would have been a lot easier."
"Ah." Daddy-O sighed. "For that failure, I take full responsibility. My projection of trends was inadequate, and I lacked confidence in my own analyses. But I cannot turn back the clock. We must go forward. Will you help us, Mike?"
Mike scowled at the camera and said nothing.
"Of course," Daddy-O continued, "I did not expect an immediate concurrence. You need time to consider. Think about what you have seen and heard, and then we will talk again. Better still, you should discuss this with Max Dalzell. You can find him in his old quarters."
"I don't need time to think." Mike stood up, took a thick waterproof coat from a wall hook, and walked unsteadily to the door of the room. "And I don't want to talk to Max Dalzell. I can give you my answer now. It's no. I think you've gone crazy. I couldn't do the job you describe—nobody could. All I would do is ruin my own life. For nothing. You think Earth can be unified?" He opened the door. "Fine. Then do it yourself."
Mike slammed the door. The exit led out of the Rehab Center and onto the bare mountain slopes of the Trader training camp. It was a rainy spring evening, and the screes of gravel were dark and slippery. Daddy-O followed Mike's progress with the remote sensors, watching him slide and shuffle downhill toward the wooded lower slopes and the wind-chopped sea beyond.
When Mike reached the tree line, the computer switched the focus of its attention.
"Comments?"
Max Dalzell was sitting at his office desk, older-looking and twenty pounds thinner than when Mike had last seen him. In front of him stood the electronic board of the chess game he had been playing with Daddy-O. Max was up a knight and two pawns, and he knew he had Daddy-O in deep trouble.
He shook his head at Daddy-O's question. "You've lost him."
"Why?"
"The Chipponese woman. Before he met her I gave you an even chance. Now—" He gave a lopsided shrug of the thick shoulders. "That last mission was a mistake."
"It was absolutely essential. The final dimension. Mike had to learn to love. He was incomplete without it."
"I'll take your word for it. But he makes a lot of sense. You persuaded me, but maybe the job is impossible. And he's asking the same question I did: why didn't you attempt it yourself? You said that people would not trust you because you are a machine. But you know that's nonsense."
Trader's World Page 33
