The Art of War

by David Wingrove

  Not their fault. Yes, but that wasn’t what she had thought back then. She could still recall the sense of repugnance with which she had faced her new surroundings, her marked distaste for the people she found herself among. So coarse they were. So dirty in their habits.

  No, she had never really recovered from that. It had shaped her in every single way. And even when her aversion had turned to pity and her pity into a fiery indignation, still she felt, burning within her chest, the dark brand of that fall.

  Her mother had been a genteel woman, in many ways a weak woman, wholly unsuited to the bustle of the Lows, but she had done her best, and in the years that followed had tried in every way to keep the standards that her husband had once set. Unused to earning a living, she had broken with a lifetime’s habits and gone looking for work. Eventually she had found it, running a trader’s stall in the busy Main where they lived. The job had bruised her tender Mid-Level sensibilities sorely, but she had coped.

  Emily shuddered, remembering. Why do you do it? she had asked her mother whenever she returned, tearful and exhausted, from a day working the stall, and the answer was always the same: For you. To get you out of this living hell. It was her hard work that had put Emily through college, her determination, in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds, that had given Emily her chance. But for what? To climb the levels again? To take part in the same charade that had destroyed her father? No. She was set against that path. Secretly – for she knew that even to mention it would hurt her mother badly – she had harboured other dreams.

  She had joined the Ping Tiao eight years back, in its infancy, before the War. Back then there had been a lot of talk about ultimate goals and of keeping the vision pure. But eight years was a long time to keep the flame of idealism burning brightly, especially when they had had to face more than their fill of disappointments. And all that time she had been Bent’s woman; his alone, fired by his enthusiasm, his vision of how things might be. But things had changed. It was hard to say now whether those ideals still fired them or whether, in some small way, they had become the very thing they once professed to hate.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror, trying, as she so often tried, to get beyond the surface of each eye and see herself whole and clear. So hard to do, it was. She looked down again, shaking her head. There was no doubting it. Her fall had opened her eyes to the evil of the world, a world in which good men and women could be left to fester in the shit-heap of the lower levels while the corrupt and the unscrupulous wallowed in undeserved luxury high above. A world unfit for decent beings. No, and she would never feel at ease in the world while such moral discrepancies existed.

  She sighed and turned from the bowl, drying her face and upper arms. So maybe Bent was right. Maybe she was just being silly about the Tolonen girl. Maybe it would help bring this rotten pile come crashing down. And yet it didn’t feel right. Because it wasn’t Jelka Tolonen’s fault that she had been born into this world of levels. And so long as she had no proof that the girl was anything other than a pawn of circumstance, she would not feel happy undertaking such a task.

  Not for herself, let alone for a bastard like Turner.

  Besides, what was his motive? Why did he want the General’s daughter dead? Was it as he said, to weaken the General and thus undermine the T’ang’s Security forces? Or was it something personal? Some slight he’d suffered at the General’s hands?

  She shivered again, remembering the moment on the mountainside beside Turner. To think that he thought they had something – anything – in common! She laughed and felt the laugh turn sour, recalling his words.

  ‘Love, you mean? Human understanding? Goodness? Those things don’t exist. Not really. They’re illusions. Masks over the reality. And the reality is like these peaks – it’s beautiful, but it’s also hard, uncompromising and cold, like the airless spaces between the stars.’

  Well, maybe that was how he saw it, but the truth was otherwise. It was as she had said: he was lacking a dimension; lacking, essentially, any trace of basic human feeling. The Han had a saying for the behaviour of such men, Hou lian, hei hsin, ‘Thick face, black heart’, and it was never more true than of Turner. Only in his case thick face, black heart had reached its ultimate, where the face is so thick it is formless, the heart so black it is colourless. His nihilism was pure, untempered by any trace of pity. And that was why they should not be working with him, for while their paths might coincide for a time, their aims were diametrically opposed.

  In time they would have to fight the man. That was, if he had not, between times, robbed them of the will to fight.

  The mui tsai bowed deeply, then backed away two paces.

  ‘Major Ebert. Please, come in. My mistress offers her apologies. She is afraid she will be late.’

  The girl kept her head lowered, as if from politeness, but a faint flush at her neck and cheeks betrayed her embarrassment at being left alone with the young major.

  ‘Oh? Not ill news, I hope.’

  ‘I believe not, Excellency, but she was summoned urgently. She knew you would understand.’

  Ebert moved past her slowly, turning to keep his eyes on her. Yes, she was a pretty young thing. Sixteen, seventeen at most. He could see the shape of her breasts beneath the thin silk of the dress she wore, the fullness of her hips. She was a peach. An absolute peach, ripe for the picking.

  He moved closer. ‘How long will your mistress be?’

  She turned to face him, her eyes averted. ‘She said she would not be long, Excellency. Fifteen minutes, perhaps. Twenty at the most. Her husband...’

  She fell silent, looking up at him, surprised. Ebert had moved closer, taking her left hand in his own, while with his other hand he held her breast.

  ‘Good,’ he said, smiling. ‘Then come. There’s time for other things, neh?’

  The linen cupboard was in the next room; a tiny chamber in itself, wide drawers and rows of silk chi pao, the full-length elegant formal dresses arrayed in a rainbow of stunning colours to either side. He had noticed it on his previous visit, had seen the cushioned floor and thought how nice it might be...

  He pushed the girl down, on to the cushions, laughing softly, enjoying the way she looked back at him, a strange wantonness in her dark eyes.

  Afterwards they lay there, the soft hiss of their breathing the only sound in the silence. The scent of their lovemaking was mixed deliciously with the faded perfumes of the dresses ranged on either side above them: a sweet, musky smell that, with the warm presence of her naked body beneath him, made him stir again.

  She laughed softly, then turned her head to look at him. ‘That was nice...’

  ‘Yes...’ He let out a small, shuddering breath. Maybe he’d offer to buy her from Chuang Lian...

  He felt her stiffen, then draw back from him, and opened his eyes. Then he heard the sound. It came from the other room. The sound of rustling silks.

  ‘Gods...’ the girl whispered anxiously, searching for her dress. But Ebert was smiling. Had they been at it that long, then? Or had the Minister’s wife come back earlier than expected? He pulled his trousers up over his knees, then climbed to his feet, beginning to button himself up.

  The girl had pulled the dress over her head and was fumbling at the fastenings. Ebert turned to her and put his finger against his lips, then, reaching past her for his belt, pushed her back into the linen cupboard and closed the door.

  Fastening the last button, his belt in his hand, he went out into the other room.

  ‘Lian, my love...’

  She turned, clearly not expecting him, momentarily embarrassed by her state of half undress. Then, with a laugh, she let the garment fall from her and, her breasts exposed, put out her arms to welcome him.

  ‘Quickly,’ she said, drawing him down on to the bed, her hands fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. ‘Gods, I’ve missed you...’ She looked up at him, her eyes filled with an unnatural agitation.

  ‘Slowly...’ he said, pushing her
down, amused by the strange urgency of her actions. ‘What’s up, my darling? Why so tense?’

  She paused, then looked away, shuddering with disgust. ‘Of all the times...’ She looked back up at him, uncertain whether to say, then she looked down again, sniffing, her hands reaching out to take his. ‘It was my husband. He doesn’t ask for me often, but when he does...’

  Ebert laughed. ‘So the old man still fucks you, eh?’

  He saw the brief flare of anger in her eyes. Then she relented and laughed. ‘He tries. But it’s like trying to fuck a goldfish...’

  ‘Hmm...’ He thought of the girl, crouched still in the linen cupboard, and felt a little shudder of desire wash through him. ‘And you wanted a pike... ?’

  Her eyes met his, all pretence gone from them suddenly. But all he could see was how lined she was, how old; how her breasts sagged, her flesh folded upon itself at neck and stomach. He shivered, thinking of the mui tsai, of the taut silken surfaces of her young flesh, then leaned closer, kissing the woman’s cheek and neck, closing his eyes, trying to imagine that it was Sweet Flute he was kissing. But the scent of her was different – was old and faded like her flesh, her powder sickly sweet, like the scent of a corpse.

  He moved back, shuddering, all desire suddenly dead in him. She had just come from her husband, was unwashed from the old man’s feeble groping. The thought of it made his stomach churn. He could see her under him, the old man’s wrinkled, emaciated buttocks tightening as he came.

  And was he to take his place now? To be the man her husband clearly couldn’t be?

  ‘What is it?’ she said, her eyes narrowed, her whole body suddenly tensed.

  ‘I...’ He shook his head. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. I...’ He fished for an excuse, then remembered the Han he’d beaten earlier. ‘I’ve been on duty thirty hours. Something urgent came up and I had to see to it. A number of senior Company men were murdered...’

  She swallowed and looked down. ‘I heard...’

  He looked at her, suddenly disgusted, not only by her but by his involvement with her. And when she reached out to touch and hold him, he drew back sharply from her.

  He saw her draw her hand back, then, her face wrinkling, lift it to her nose. Her mouth fell open, then she jerked her head up, glaring at him, her eyes black with anger. ‘What’s this? Is this what you mean by duty?’ She nodded her head exaggeratedly. ‘Oh, I understand it now. You’ve been screwing my mui tsai, haven’t you? You’ve been having fun here while I’ve been on my knees before my husband...’

  He laughed, delighted by the image that came to mind. ‘On your knees, Madam Chuang?’

  There was a dark flash of fury behind her eyes, then she swung her hand at him, trying to slap his face, but he caught her hand easily and threw her back down on to the bed. Oh, he could fuck her now. Could do it to her in anger. To humiliate her. But from desire?

  ‘What if I have?’ he taunted her. ‘What if I tell you that your mui tsai fucks like a dream? That she’s ten times the woman you are, neh?’

  She had bared her teeth. ‘You’re a liar. She’s only a girl...’

  He sneered at her. ‘You think you were hot, eh? Is that it? You think you could make me come just thinking about what you did to me, eh? Well, let me tell you, Madam Chuang... you weren’t so good. I’ve had much better below the Net. Clapped out old singsong girls who’d do it for a single yuan!’ He saw how she made to answer him and put his hand brutally over her mouth. ‘No... it was simply the thought of fucking a Minister’s wife. Of shitting in his nest. It amused me. But now I’m bored. I’ve had enough of you, old woman. Your haggard old frame bores me.’

  He stood, fastening himself, pulling his belt about him, watching her all the while, contempt burning in his eyes. He could see now how weak she was, how frail under that brittle carapace of hers. She thought herself so hard, so sophisticated, but she was just a spoilt little girl grown old. Tediously old.

  ‘I’ll bury you...’ she said quietly, almost hissing the words through her teeth. ‘You can smile now, but I’ll destroy you, Hans Ebert. Your name will be shit by the time I’m finished with you.’

  He laughed dismissively. ‘And yours? What will your name be worth, Madam Chuang, if the truth came out? How would you hold your head up in company if it were known what appetites you harboured inside that ancient, wizened skull of yours?’

  ‘You bastard...’ She shivered and drew the blanket up about her breasts. ‘I’ll have you, Ebert. See if I don’t.’

  He went to the door, then turned, looking back in at her, crouched there on the bed. ‘You’ll have me?’ He looked down, laughing, then looked back at her, his face suddenly hard, uncompromising. ‘You’ll have me?’ He shook his head, then laughed: a cruel, dismissive laugh. ‘Go suck on your husband’s prick!’

  Two hours later, Klaus Stefan Ebert, Head of GenSyn, stood on the front steps of his family’s mansion, his broad hand extended to his old friend Tolonen. The Marshal had become a grey-haired, stiff-mannered old man in the fifty-odd years Ebert had known him, the uniform a second skin, but he remembered a simpler, less daunting fellow – the gay companion of his adolescence.

  The two men embraced, the warmth of their greeting overriding the formality of the occasion. This was more than politics. They grinned at one another and slapped each other’s backs.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Tolonen, tears brimming in his eyes.

  ‘And I,’ responded Ebert, holding him at arm’s length and smiling fiercely into his face. ‘This is a day to remember, Knut. Truly a day to remember!’

  Jelka stood there at the bottom of the steps, a tall, willowy girl of fourteen with long, straight, ash-blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. She was no longer the child Ebert remembered so vividly. Now she was not far from womanhood.

  Ebert smiled and nodded. She would make his son a perfect bride.

  His son, Hans, stood behind him at the top of the steps, a tall twenty-eight-year-old, broad-shouldered yet lithe of build. He was considered extremely handsome by those who dictated taste in the Above, and, as heir to the mighty GenSyn Empire, he was rated the most attractive unattached male in City Europe.

  Hans barely looked at his bride-to-be. There was time enough for that. He stood there, at ease, his dress uniform immaculate, his short blond hair styled fashionably with a double pigtail. He watched the two men embrace and recognized the significance of all this, his role in it. The Marshal was like a second father to him, his commanding officer.

  It was a perfect match. Strategically, logically, it was the obvious thing to do, and when his father had suggested it, ten years back, he had agreed at once.

  As he stood there he imagined the power he would one day wield, not merely as his father’s son but as commander of the forces of the T’ang. He had dreams. Dreams he could not share. And they began here.

  He looked at his intended – the child. She was studying him, looking at him with a critical eye, as if to sum up and dismiss him. He glared at her, then relented, remembering, letting his face form into a smile, as if the first were only mischief.

  He looked her up and down. She possessed the unformed figure of a girl. Pretty enough, but not a woman. Not a patch on the women he knew, anyway.

  He smiled and looked away. Still, he would arrange things. Make life pleasant for himself. A wife was not a gaoler, after all.

  They went inside, Jelka bowing her head, her cheeks flushed, as the contracts were presented and endorsed by all parties.

  He signed, then straightened, looking across the table at her. In three years he would be her husband. Three years. But who knew how things would be in three years’ time? And the girl? In three years she would be seventeen. Again he smiled, remembering the mui tsai. And you, my little one? he wondered, looking across at the Marshal’s daughter. What will you be like on our wedding night? Are you the frigid, nervous type, or is there fire in your loins? His smile broadened, seeing how she looked away, the colour deepening at her neck. Yes, well,
we’ll see. And even if you prove a disappointment, there will be others – plenty of others – to sweeten my nights.

  And in the meantime maybe he would buy the mui tsai. After all, it wasn’t every woman who could make love like that. Gifted, she’d been. He turned, taking the Marshal’s offered hand, smiling back fiercely at the two old men. Yes, he would buy the mui tsai. And later, when her temper had cooled, he would go and see Madam Chuang again, and make it up with her.

  Jelka sat at her father’s side, sipping at her bowl of ch’a, conscious of the stifling opulence of the room. She looked about her, feeling an unease that had nothing to do with her personal situation.

  She shuddered and looked down. The Eberts flaunted their wealth, displaying it with an ostentation she found quite tasteless. Ornate Ming vases rested on hideous plinths: heavy, brutal things in garish colours. In recesses of the curiously shaped room, huge canvases hung in heavy gilt frames, the pictures dark, suggestive of blood.

  Across from her, Hans’s two sisters were staring at her with an unconcealed hostility, the younger a year or so older than Jelka, the elder in her early twenties. She tried not to look at them, knowing they saw her only as a rival. More disconcerting was the creature serving them: a goat-like being, grown in GenSyn’s vats. She shivered when its pink-eyed stare met her own and, in a deep but toneless voice, it asked if she would like more ch’a. She looked at its pinched, three-toed hand and shook her head, noting the fine silk of its cuffs, the stylish cut of its trousers.

  She had the oddest feeling of being in a dream, unreality piled upon unreality. Yet this was real. Was the reality of power. She looked at her future husband and saw him with a clarity that almost overwhelmed her. He was a tall young man, taller than her father, and handsome. Yet there was a cruelty, an arrogance in his handsomeness that made her shudder. She could see his pride, his intense sense of self-importance; saw it in how he held his head, in the cold indifference of his eyes.

  Even so, it didn’t reach her yet; didn’t touch or move her. Three years was a long time. She could not imagine how she would feel three years from now. This much – this ritual of contracts, of pledges and vague promises – seemed a small thing to do to satisfy her father.