The Art of War

by David Wingrove

  Besides which, she needed him. Needed him as much – though he did not see it yet – as he needed her. It would break her heart to see him go.

  ‘Is that all?’ he asked, sensing she had more to say.

  She answered him quietly, looking away past him as she spoke. ‘No. It’s more than that. I worry about you. All this business with morphs and mimicry. I fear where it will take you.’

  ‘Ah...’ He smiled and looked down, plucking a tall stem of grass and putting it to his mouth. ‘You know, Meg, in the past there was a school of thought that associated the artist with Satan. They argued that all art was blasphemy – an abrogation of the role of the Creator. They claimed that all artists set themselves up in place of God, making their tiny satanic palaces – their pandemoniums – in mimicry of God’s eternal City. They were wrong, of course, but in a sense it’s true. All art is a kind of mimicry, an attempt to get closer to the meaning of things.

  ‘Some so-called artists are less interested in understanding why things are as they are than in providing a showcase for their own egotism, but in general true art – art of the kind that sears you – is created from a desire to understand, not to replace. Mimicry, at that level, is a form of worship.’

  She laughed softly. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in God.’

  ‘I don’t. But I believe in the reality of all this that surrounds us. I believe in natural processes. In the death of stars and the cycle of the seasons. In the firing of the synapses and the inexorable decay of the flesh. In the dark and the light.’

  ‘And in the City, too?’

  He smiled. ‘That too is a process, part of the natural flow of things, however “unnatural” it might seem. The City is an expression of human intelligence, which, after all, is a natural thing. It’s too easy to dismiss its artificiality as an antithesis to nature, when all it really is is an attempt to simplify and thus begin to understand the complexity of natural processes.’

  ‘And to control those processes.’

  ‘Yes, but there are levels of control. For instance, what controls us that makes us want to control other things? Is it all just genetics? And even if it is, what reason is there for that? We’ve been asking ourselves that question since DNA was first isolated, and we’re still no closer to an answer.’

  She looked away sharply, as if suddenly tired of the conversation. ‘I don’t know, Ben. It all seems suddenly so bleak. So dark.’

  Again he misread her comment, mistook its surface content for its deeper meaning. ‘Yes,’ he said, staring out across the water. ‘But what is darkness? Is it only a space waiting to be filled? Or has it a purpose? Something other than simple contrast?’

  ‘Ben...’

  He looked back at her, surprised by the brittle tone she had used. She was looking at him strangely.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What about us? How do we fit in with all these processes?’

  ‘We’re a focus, a filter...’

  But she was shaking her head. ‘No. I didn’t mean that. I meant us. You and me. Is that just process? Just a function of the universe? Is what I feel for you just another fact to be slotted into the great picture? Or is there more to it than that? Are there parts of it that just don’t fit?’

  Again the bitterness in her voice surprised him. He had thought it resolved between them, but now he understood: it would never be finally resolved until he was gone from here.

  ‘Three years,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’ll need. You’ll be, what... seventeen – my age now – when I come back. It’s not long, Meg. Really it isn’t.’

  She rose, moving away, then stood at the edge of the trees above him, her back turned.

  ‘You talk of dying if you stay. But I’ll die if you go. Don’t you understand that, Ben? Without you here it’ll be like I’m dead.’ She turned to him, her eyes wide with hurt and anger. ‘You’re my eyes, my ears, the animating force behind each moment of my day. Without you... I don’t exist!’

  He gave a short laugh, surprised by her intensity. ‘But that’s silly, Meg. Of course you exist. Besides, there’s Mother...’

  ‘Gods! You really don’t understand, do you?’

  There was that same, strange, unreadable movement in her face, then, abruptly, she turned away, beginning to climb the slope.

  Ben got up awkwardly and made to follow her, making his way between the trees, careful not to knock his useless arm, but she had begun to run now, her whole body leaning into the slope as she struggled to get away from him.

  At the edge of the trees he stopped, wincing from the sudden pain in his hand, then called out to her. ‘Meg! Stop! Please stop!’

  She slowed then stood there, just below the barn, her back to him, her head lowered, waiting.

  Coming to her, he moved round her, then lifted her face with his good hand. She was crying.

  ‘Meg...’ he said softly, torn by what he saw. ‘Please don’t cry. There’s no reason to cry. Really there isn’t.’

  She swallowed, then looked aside, for a moment like a hurt four-year-old. Then, more defiantly, she met his eyes again, bringing up a hand to wipe the tears away.

  ‘I love you,’ he said gently. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Then make love to me again.’

  He laughed, but his eyes were serious. ‘What, here?’

  She stared back at him challengingly. ‘Why not?’

  He turned her slightly. From where they stood they could see the cottage clearly down below.

  She turned back, her eyes watching him closely, studying his face. ‘All right. Up there, then. In the barn.’

  He turned and looked, then nodded, a shiver passing down his spine.

  She reached down, taking his good hand, then led him up the slope. At the barn door she turned, drawing him close, her arms about his neck. It was a long, passionate kiss, and when she pulled away from him her eyes were different. Older than he remembered them, more knowing.

  She turned and led him through. Inside, the barn was filled with shadows. Bars of sunlight, some broad, some narrow, slanted down from gaps between the planks that formed the sides of the barn, creating broken veils of light from left to right.

  ‘Quick,’ she said, leading him further in. ‘Before Mother calls us in for lunch.’

  He smiled and let himself be led, thrilled by the simple pressure of her hand against his own.

  ‘Here,’ she said, looking about her. A barrier of wooden slats formed a stall in the far left-hand corner; a space the size of a small box-room, filled waist-high with old hay. The warm, musty smell of the hay was strong but pleasant. Light, intruding from two knot-holes higher up, laced the shadows with twin threads of gold. Meg turned and smiled at him. ‘Lie down. I’ll lie on top of you.’

  He sat, easing himself down on to the hay, feeling it yield beneath him, then let his head fall back, taking care not to jolt his hand. Lying there, looking up at her, his left arm still cradled in its sling, he felt like laughing.

  ‘Are you sure this is such a good idea?’

  Her smile, strange, enigmatic at first, widened as she slowly undid the buttons at the front of her dress, then pulled it up over her shoulders. Beneath the dress she was naked.

  Ben felt his breath catch in his throat. ‘Meg...’

  She bent over him and eased the sling from his arm, then straddled him, the soft, warm weight of her pressed down against him, as she began to unbutton his shirt.

  Meg’s face lay but a short space from his face, her lips slightly parted, the tip of her tongue peeping through, her eyes concentrating on her busy fingers. But Ben’s eyes were drawn to her breasts, to the hard, provocative shapes of her nipples.

  He reached up and cupped her left breast in his hand, feeling its smooth warmness, then eased forward until his lips brushed against the budlike nipple.

  Meg shuddered, her fingers faltering a moment. Ben drew back slightly, looking up into her face once more. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted more fully, reminding him fleetingl
y of one of those ancient paintings of religious ecstasy. He shivered then leaned forward again, drawing the breast back to his mouth, his tongue wetly tracing the stiff brown berry of the nipple, teasing it with his teeth and lips and tongue, conscious of Meg pressing herself down into him with each small motion.

  He lay back again, ignoring the dull pain of the reawakened pulse in his hand, watching as her eyes slowly opened, smiling back at him.

  For a while he lay there, letting her undress him. Then, his clothes set aside, she climbed above him again, the smooth warmth of her flesh against his own making him shiver with anticipation.

  ‘Close your eyes...’

  He lay there, letting her make love to him, slowly at first, then, as the ancient rhythm took her, wildly, urgently, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly, her face changed, unrecognisable, her teeth clenched fiercely, her eyes staring wildly down at him. In it he saw a reflection of the agony he was suffering from his damaged hand. That lay beside him, quivering, the fingers clenched tight, trapped in a prolonged spasm that was as painful as her lovemaking was delightful. Faster and more furious she moved, until, with a shudder that brought on his own orgasm, she arched her back and cried out, forcing herself against him as if to breach him, as if to press through the flesh that separated them and become him.

  Afterwards he lay still, the pain in his hand ebbing slowly. Meg lay across him, sleeping, her dark hair fanned across his chest. Two small bands of light lay across their shadowed bodies, like golden ribbons joining their flesh, striping them at chest and hip, tracing the contours of their expired lust.

  Ben looked down the length of their bodies, studying the play of shadow within shadow, noting where flesh seemed to merge with flesh. The scent of their lovemaking filled the tiny space, mingling with the smell of old hay. It seemed part of the shadows, the dust-specked bands of light.

  He closed his eyes, thinking. What had she meant by this? To show her love for him? Her need? Perhaps. But needs were of different kinds. She had been wrong earlier. Though she thought so now, she would not die for missing him. She would wait, as she always waited, knowing he would be back. But he – he had to go. He would go mad – literally, mad – if he did not leave this place. Each day now it grew worse. Each day the feeling grew in him, feeding his restlessness, stoking the fire of dissatisfaction that raged in his belly.

  Out. He had to get out. Or ‘in’ as she preferred to call it. Whichever, he had to get away. Far away from here. Even from those he loved.

  ‘Ben...! Meg...!’

  The calls were muted, distant, from the slope below the barn. Meg stirred and lifted her head slowly, turning to face him.

  ‘What’s that?’

  He smiled and leaned forward, kissing her nose. ‘It’s all right. It’s only Mother calling us in. It must be lunchtime.’

  ‘Ah...’ She went to relax back, then pushed herself up abruptly, suddenly awake. ‘Only Mother!’

  ‘Mind...’ he said, wincing at the pain that shot up his arm where she had knocked his hand.

  Her face was all concern. ‘Oh, Ben, I’m sorry...’

  Then they were laughing, clutching each other, Ben’s hand held out to one side as he embraced her. And outside, more distantly, moving away from them now, the call came again.

  ‘Ben...! Meg...!’

  Beth stood in the gateway at the bottom of the lower garden, relaxed, her apron tied loosely about her dress, waiting for them. She had let her hair down and she was smiling.

  ‘Where were you?’ she said as they came up to her. ‘I was looking everywhere. Didn’t you hear me calling?’

  Meg looked away, but Ben went straight to his mother. ‘We were in the barn,’ he said casually. ‘It was warm in there and musty. We were talking, then we fell asleep. We must have missed you calling.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, smiling, ruffling his hair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, falling in beside her while Meg walked on ahead. ‘Lunch isn’t spoiled, I hope.’

  Beth smiled and shook her head. ‘I wasn’t calling you for lunch. It’s your father. He’s home.’

  Meg turned. ‘Daddy...’ Then, without a further word, she raced up the slope and disappeared inside the house.

  Ben walked beside his mother, taking her arm. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Ben stopped, looking at her. Her voice had seemed strange, her answer too defensive. His query had been politeness, but she had taken it for something more meaningful.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  Beth looked away. ‘I don’t know. He seems much older, somehow. Tired.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s overwork. Things have been bad in there.’

  ‘Yes... Maybe that’s it.’

  They walked on. Up ahead, from inside the cottage, they could hear Meg’s squeals of delight. Then she appeared, cradling what looked like a tiny, animated fur hat. She thrust the bundle at Ben.

  ‘Isn’t he just adorable?’

  Ben held the kitten up to his face, meeting its strange, alien eyes. ‘Hello, there, Mog. I’m Ben.’

  Meg took the kitten back at once. ‘Don’t hurt him. And it’s not Mog. It’s Zarathustra.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ben reached out and rubbed the kitten between the ears, then moved past Meg into the doorway.

  His father was sitting just inside, in the intense shadow of the hallway. Seeing Ben, his face creased into a smile.

  ‘Ben! How are you, lad?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he answered, moving inside, feeling his mother’s hand on his shoulder. ‘And you, Father?’

  ‘I’ve been busy. Run ragged, you might say. I feel like I’ve put the whole world to rights these last few days.’

  Hal Shepherd sat back in the tall-backed, armless chair, his arms stretched wide in a gesture of expansiveness. The old fire still burned in his eyes, but Ben could see at once that he was ill. He saw the lines of tiredness and strain, the redness at the corners of his eyes, the way his muscles stood out at his neck when he spoke, and knew it was more than simple fatigue.

  ‘The kitten’s beautiful. What is it? GenSyn?’

  Hal shook his head. ‘No, Ben. It’s a real kitten. We confiscated its parents from Madam Moore the day the warrant was signed for her husband’s arrest. It seems there are a few cats left in the Wilds. Moore must have smuggled it in through quarantine for her.’

  ‘Or bribed his way.’

  ‘More likely...’ Hal took a deep breath – awkwardly, Ben thought – then smiled again. ‘I brought something back for you, too.’

  ‘A dog?’

  Hal laughed, for a moment almost his old, vital self. ‘Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? But, no, I’m afraid not. Although I’ve a feeling that, as far as you’re concerned, you might find it a lot more interesting than a dog.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Hal’s smile remained while he studied his son, as if this was a sight he had not expected to see again. Then, with a brief glance past him, at Beth, he said, ‘It’s downstairs. In the cellar workrooms. I’ve rigged one of them up ready for you to try.’

  Ben frowned, trying to work out what his father meant, then he understood. ‘It’s a pai pi! You’ve brought back a pai pi!’

  ‘Not one, Ben. Eight of them.’

  ‘Eight!’ Ben laughed, astonished. ‘Christ! Where did you get them? I thought they’d all been destroyed years ago. They’ve been banned more than sixty years, haven’t they?’

  ‘That’s right. But there are collectors amongst the Above. Men who secretly hold on to banned technology. These were found in the collection of a First Level Executive.’

  Ben understood at once. ‘The Confiscations...’

  ‘Exactly. The man was a Dispersionist. We were going to destroy them, but when I told Li Shai Tung of your interest, he signed a special order permitting me to take them out of the City. Here in the Domain, you see, the Edict has no power. We Shepherds can do as we wish.’

  ‘C
an I try one now?’

  Beth, her hand still on Ben’s shoulder, answered for her husband. ‘Of course. Meg and I will get dinner ready while you’re downstairs.’

  Meg, coming in from outside, protested. ‘That’s unfair! Why can’t I join them?’

  Hal laughed. ‘Well... Ben might be a bit embarrassed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Meg asked, cuddling the struggling kitten under her chin.

  ‘Just that it’s a full-body experience. Ben has to be naked in the harness.’

  Meg laughed. ‘Is that all?’ She turned away slightly, a faint colour in her cheeks. ‘He was practically naked when he was working with the morph.’

  Hal looked at his son, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’ve been using the morph, Ben? What for?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Ben said, watching Meg a moment, surprised by her sudden rebelliousness. ‘But later. After I’ve tried the pai pi.’

  The cellars beneath the cottage had been added in his great-great-grandfather’s time, but it was only in the last decade that his father had set up a studio in one of the large, low-ceilinged rooms. Beneath stark, artificial lighting, electronic equipment filled two-thirds of the floor space, a narrow corridor between the free-standing racks leading to a cluttered desk by the far wall. To the left of the desk a curtain had been drawn across, concealing the open space beyond.

  Ben went through. The eight pai pi lay on the desk, the small, dark, rectangular cases small enough to fit into the palm of his hand. He picked them up, one at a time, surprised by the weight of them. They looked like lozenges or like the ‘chops’ executives used to seal official documents, each one imprinted with the logo of the manufacturing company. Pai pi – the name meant, literally, ‘a hundred pens’ – provided full-body experiences, a medium that had blossomed briefly in the earliest days of the City as an entertainment for the very rich. The ‘cassettes’ themselves were only the software, the operational instructions; the hardware stood off to one side.