Ziaping made a contemptuous gesture, indicating the chaos around them. "Nothing works. It hasn't managed to get a single thing off the ground. Nobody can make sense of anything. What do you have to say?"
Tsien looked up but stopped short of meeting his gaze confrontationally. "Honorable sir, some of us tried from the beginning to advise against the adoption of technical procedures modeled on decadent Western methods. Their concern is always for immediate returns and considerations only, with no provision for the longer term. My surmise would be that the inevitable consequences of such practices are now manifesting themselves."
Ziaping glowered from side to side with a look that would have stopped an attacking lion dog. "Did you all hear that? They gave good advice. Who overrode them?"
Heads turned toward one another uncertainly. Nobody was going to volunteer this one. Xen Lu Jiang looked inquiringly at a woman in a gray business suit who seemed to be a secretary or assistant. "I, er... think it might have been Director Wou-Pang Lee," she offered hesitantly. Ziaping jerked his head around to confront General Piao.
"If you remember, sir, he was removed to Mongolia some time ago," Piao responded.
Premier Neng raised his hands protectively, evidently having heard enough. "This isn't the time to be thinking about recriminations," he declared. "We have more pressing concerns to attend to. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Of course, Excellency," Xen Lu Jiang acknowledged. Ziaping conceded with a dip of his head. Only Tsien continued holding the premier's eye. The appeal written across her face conveyed an urgent desire to say something.
"Yes, what is it?" Neng asked her. "You may speak."
"Your Excellency, the honorable member of the security cabinet was saying it when I arrived," she replied, glancing at Xen Lu Jiang. "We have been powerless for almost an hour, yet there has been no move by the other side to exploit the situation. Why isn't the sky black with incoming American warheads?"
Chinese strategic planning took little stock of trying to keep a General Launch order secret, since such an event would hardly be something that could be concealed. Even if the American warning system of satellites and radars failed by some miracle to detect the physical evidence, the whole business was so ridden with spies, bugs, communications taps, and informers, and so many people would be involved, that the news would probably have found its way to Washington before the first missile entered U.S. air space. Yet they hadn't retaliated. Such had been the panic around the War Room that it seemed only Tsien and the scientific adviser had seen it.
"They must know that we are defenseless," Xen-Lu Jiang said, making the point.
Ziaping shook his head. The mental momentum that he had accumulated was too much for any abrupt change of direction. "They know they have us cold, yet they do nothing? They have the chance to take out a billion people? Why wouldn't anyone in their right mind go for it?" Baffled looks went this way and that around the War Room. Premier Neng looked from one to another of the faces. None of the generals or ministers of state had a suggestion to offer.
Tsien cast her eyes around and bit her lip hesitantly. When the silence persisted for several more seconds, she said, "Maybe they are trying to tell us something."
Xen Lu Jiang looked shocked and opened his mouth to speak, but Premier Neng stayed him with a wave of his hand. "Hear the young lady." He looked at Tsien curiously. "Trying to tell us what?"
Tsien took a deep breath. "The situation reminds me of a philosophical problem that I was once required to study," she replied. "It demonstrates how seeming antagonists can both prosper more from cooperating instead of seeking to destroy each other."
Neng's eyebrows arched upward in surprise. He looked around his retinue of officers and advisers again, but they seemed equally puzzled. "What an extraordinary notion!" His gaze came back to Tsien, betraying a hint of amusement. "Do tell us more," he invited.
There could be no going back or extricating herself now. Tsien swallowed and nodded timorously. "If it pleases Your Excellency, the problem is one known among logicians and students of human behavior as the Prisoner's Dilemma. As originally formulated, it describes two suspected accomplices in a crime who are arrested and questioned separately. Each is given the following offer, and is made aware that the other has been told the same. He can betray the other by confessing in return for a reduced sentence. But if both confess, each confession is less valuable and the sentences will be harsher. However, if they cooperate with each other by refusing to confess, the prosecutor will only be able to convict them on a minor charge." She paused to let everyone think about it. Ziaping had a look on his face that seemed to be asking, What does this have to do with anything? Tsien explained, "If there is no trust between them, it is to both their immediate advantage to confess and betray the other first. However, they would both fare better if they did trust each other and were resolute in refusing to confess.... But it requires equal nerve and reasoning ability in both of them to arrive at that conclusion."
Neng's brow furrowed. "Do you really believe the Americans would expect anyone to read it that way?"
"I cannot say," Tsien answered. "But the notion of Chinese wisdom does have a strange mystique in the West...." She took a moment to choose her words in a way that would avoid sounding disrespectful, while at the same time remaining pointed. "Perhaps, by some quirk of fate, an opportunity has presented itself for our esteemed and honorable leadership to extricate the country from the predicament that it is at this moment facing." Which was as near as she dared come to saying that the West could wipe them out as soon as it got tired of waiting for them to catch on.
Ziaping's suddenly stunned look, and the deflation of his posture, said that this time even he had gotten the message. An expression of slowly intensifying horror was creeping across General Piao's face as the full meaning of the predicament that Tsien was talking about seeped in. Somebody to the side began gibbering incoherently, while others in the room looked apprehensively up at the roof as if expecting it to vaporize at any instant.
"Perhaps our decision to assume the offensive was a little hasty, after all," Xen Lu Jiang said, licking his lips dryly and directing the words at Neng. His face creased into a toothy grimace that seemed to be the closest it could manage to a smile.
Tsien amplified the point. "This administration could go down in history as one led by the greatest philosophers and statesmen that China has ever produced," she said. "Architects of a new world dedicated to peace and prosperity."
All of a sudden the prospect seemed to have more appeal to Neng than having gone down or up, as the case may be, as a great war leader. "Dare we compromise and risk being seen as backing down now?" he asked, looking at Xen-Lu Jiang.
"Dare we?" the scientific advisor echoed. "The girl is right, Excellency. What other choice do we have? Go for it."
Neng looked across at the Communications director, manning a console beneath the main wall display. "Open the Hot Line to Washington," he instructed.
* * *
From the privacy of his office on the penthouse floor in the headquarters of Multimex Systems and Integration Inc. in Maryland, Alex Sullivan sat before the screen still connected to the War Room. A very different mood had taken hold there. Nobody was talking about facing down black-hats or standing tall anymore. President Byrne stood in the middle of the floor among the rows of consoles and panels, wearing the sick look of a boxer who had just learned that the champ who was supposed to throw the fight was reneging on the deal. The figures around him had expressions that varied from stupor through consternation to the kind of disbelieving, frozen look that accompanies an unexpected wet fart.
Elias Maude, the former evangelical Defense secretary, was the first to recover. He looked down to brush an imaginary wrinkle from his suit, then turned his head and eyed Byrne uncertainly. "It, er, occurs to me that perhaps aggression isn't in keeping with the kind of Christian tradition that we should be upholding," he said. "Our duty is to be compassionate and tolerant, and spread the
Word." To one side, Professor Orst, the scientific adviser, emitted a visible sigh of relief.
Vice President Halle picked up the theme. "It would be good for corporate America, too, Mr. President. There's no need to send the other guy down. We've always welcomed and thrived on honest, healthy competition."
"For the good of the American people," Oskar Eissensatt of the Pentagon endorsed, from where he was standing next to Orst.
A light of sudden hope had come into Byrne's eyes. He swung his head around questioningly toward Craig. The general nodded emphatically.
"I've always said that the Chinese threat was exaggerated. This kind of overkill isn't necessary. And it violates the principles of honor, magnanimity, and fair play that have always constituted the hallmark of the United States military."
Byrne shifted his gaze jerkily from one to another. "The President should be a Lawman and a Peacekeeper. That's what you're telling me, right?"
"Blessed are the peacemakers," Maude intoned.
"Our policy has always been Rule of Law," The VP agreed.
"Deterrence is the purpose of strength," General Craig affirmed.
Byrne drew himself up into a posture of a man feeling back in control. "Open the Hot Line to Beijing. Get me the Premier, what's his name?..."
"Neng," an aide muttered.
"Neng."
The atmosphere of a new lease on life spread across the War Room like air freshener. Everywhere, figures were mopping brows and exchanging relieved looks, while the controller at the communications desk turned to his panel and began entering commands. Then, as Byrne began moving toward him in anticipation, he sat back in his seat suddenly with a surprised look.
"What is it?" Byrne asked.
The controller gestured at the screen. "There's already a call coming in the other way, from them."
General Filbert moved into the viewing angle of the screen, stopped suddenly, and turned to stare at the camera. "An unauthorized person is still connected through on that channel," he said to someone off screen. "Kill it." Moments later, the screen in Alex Sullivan's office blanked out.
Alex smiled to himself, leaned back in his chair, and stretched long and luxuriously while the accumulated effects of the last half hour dissipated. He hadn't realized how much the tension had affected him. His limbs felt as if they had been released from lead weights. He picked up the untouched cup of coffee that he had set down when he came in, and tried a sip. It had gone cold and insipid, but the taste triggered an urgent need for caffeine. He half rose to get a refill from the pot in the outer office, but on second thoughts lowered himself back into the chair and leaned forward to the keyboard. There was one more thing to do first....
* * *
Back at her section in the Defense Ministry building, Tsien-Tsu checked for any urgent messages that might have come in while she was away, then took a moment to relax and compose herself. As the strain that she had been under gradually abated, her breathing eased, and the pattering in her chest returned to normal. She opened her eyes, and a tired but happy smile came over her face. Incredibly, it had worked!
She pulled the keyboard closer and entered the code to unlock and reactivate the screen that she had been using when the two officers arrived to take her to the War Room. She'd just had time to confirm command initiation on receipt of the incoming code Murphy before hastily hiding it and having to leave. Murphy was still there, glowing in red at the bottom of the displayed exchanges.
Two years ago, when she and her friends met the visiting Americans at the cultural exchange weekend organized for young computer people, she wouldn't have believed it possible. But the kids had all agreed that the business of international affairs was getting too serious to be entrusted to the likes of politicians and generals. And what had started out as a crazy joke by the lean, laughing-eyed American with fair hair at the party they all ended up at on the Saturday night, had, piece by piece, transformed itself into a reality.... Except that now she knew him better, Tsien was not so sure it had been a joke at all. He had a strange charisma that inspired and motivated people.
As she watched absently, absorbed in her thoughts, the icon that indicated another incoming request started flashing. Tsien touched a key to accept, and a new line appeared, accompanied by the same originating identifier as the one attached to Murphy. It read:
Operation Defuse completed 100 percent. Nice work, guys.
Tsien-Tsu clapped her hands softly in silent elation. She had to admit there had been moments when she'd found herself wondering, but there were no doubts now. Their wedding would take place after all. And she would have her chance to live in the inscrutable West, and look forward to getting to know him even more over the years. The older generation, with all its talk of wisdom and experience, had had its chance to build and shape a livable world—and look what the result had been! It was up to the young people, now, to take charge of the one that would be theirs.
* * *
The Lord-Protector's Daughter
Written by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Illustrated by Emily Tolson
I
The sound of Mykella's boots echoed dully as she descended the stone staircase to the lowest level of the Lord-Protector's palace. When she reached the small foyer at the bottom, she paused and glanced around. The ancient light-torch in its bronze wall bracket illuminated the precisely cut stones of the wall and floor with the same tired amber light as it always had— so far as she could remember.
Why was she down in the seldom-visited depths? Had it just been a dream? Had she actually seen the gauzy-winged and shimmering figure no larger than a child —though full-figured— who had appeared at the foot of her bed. The soarer had touched her. A tingle had run through her body, and then the soarer had "spoken" to her . . . and vanished, but those few words echoed in Mykella's thoughts.
If you would save your land and your world, go to the Table and find your talent.
Could that figure have really been a soarer— one of the Ancients? She'd heard tales of people seeing soarers, but whenever the Southern Guard or the city patrollers tried to track down someone who had been rumored to have seen them, the reports turned out to be groundless.
Mykella sniffed. Rumors and tales, tales and rumors. Golds were far more reliable in predicting what folk did and did not do. That, she had learned in her informal oversight of the Finance Ministry for her father. Still, she thought she had seen and heard a soarer, and family lore had held that the legendary Mykel, the first Lord-Protector, had been directed to Tempre by a soarer after the Great Cataclysm. Almost for that reason alone, Mykella had thrown on tunic, trousers, and boots and slipped out of her chamber. The guards patrolling the corridor outside the family quarters had only nodded, whatever they might have thought.
She looked through the archway separating the staircase foyer from the long, subterranean hallway that extended the entire length of the palace. The dimly lit passageway was empty, as it should have been. While the ground-level door to the staircase she had just descended was always locked and guarded, as the Lord-Protector's daughter, she had the keys to all the locks, and no guard would dare refuse her entry to any chamber in the palace itself. She'd never quite figured out the reason for the boxlike design of the Lord-Protector's palace, with all the rooms set along the corridors that formed an interior rectangle on each level. The upper level remained reserved for the family and the official studies of the highest ministers of Lanachrona; but there was only one main staircase, of graystone, and certainly undeserving of the appellation "grand staircase," only one modest great dining chamber, and but a single long and narrow ballroom, not that she cared for dancing. More intriguing were the facts that the stones of the outer walls looked as if they had been cut and quarried but a few years earlier and that there were no chambers truly befitting the ruler of Lanachrona.
Mykella walked briskly down the underground corridor toward the door set in the middle of the wall closest to the outside foundation. Once there, sh
e stopped and studied it, as if for the first time. The door itself was of ancient oak, with an antique lever handle. Yet that lever, old as it had to be, seemed newer than the hinges. The stones of the door casement were also of a shade just slightly darker than the stones of the corridor wall. Several of the stones bordering the casement were also darker, almost as if they and the casement had been partly replaced in the past.
After a moment, Mykella tossed her head impatiently, hardly disarranging short-cut black locks, then reached out and depressed the lever. The hinges creaked slightly as she pushed the door open, and she made a mental note to tell the steward. Doors in the Lord-Protector's palace should not squeak. That was unacceptable.
At first glance, the Table chamber looked as it always had, a windowless stone-walled space some five yards by seven, without furnishings except for a single black wooden chest and the Table itself —a block of blackish stone set into the floor, whose flat and mirrored surface was level with her waist— or perhaps slightly higher, she had to admit, if only to herself. She was the shortest of the Lord-Protector's offspring, even if she did happen to be the eldest. But she was a daughter and not a son, a daughter most likely to be married off to some heir or another, most probably the Landarch-heir of Deforya, a cold and dark land, she'd heard, scoured by chill winds sweeping down from the Aerlal Plateau. She only seen the Plateau once, from more than thirty vingts away while accompanying her father on an inspection trip of the upper reaches of the River Vedra. Yet even from that distance, the Plateau's sheer stone sides had towered into the clouds that enshrouded its seldom-glimpsed top.
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