Endgame

by C. J. Cherryh

  The obverse was the continuation of a grindingly cruel system because the people living under that system had become ignorant, invidious, and grasping— and because, if there was no disruption, all those souls would stay alive.

  Violent revolution is never more clearly immoral than when you've fomented that revolution and you step over a corpse of your making in your path.

  The corpse was before him: a real corpse, with its head at an odd angle, and some debris from a scuffle around it. In its hand was a sack which once might have held loot. There was no sign of perpetrators, or current violence, on the walkway or anywhere around.

  In his separate space of responsibility and know-ingness, Magruder stepped over the corpse and passed on, without stopping.

  The corpse was a sign, a symbol, a cull; it was of nature's choosing, as much as of his doing.

  The corpse was, most of all, dead. Magruder wasn't trying to shirk responsibility. He was a surgeon, cutting out a disease and hoping the body would not only survive once it left his care, but not reproduce exactly the same killing conditions and symptoms he was removing.

  Tatiana Kalugin believed that there was no right and wrong where the lives of others were concerned; that there was only a process of life and death, a hierarchic, natural process that justly put some at the top of society, and some on the bottom.

  Magruder remembered the night she'd told him that. Her words had made him realize that he'd been closing his eyes to too much about her, trying to pretend that she was not only useful, but more like him than she was.

  He wasn't willing to argue the point, but he wasn't willing to live a lie, either.

  Being unwilling to live with injustice, lies, and compromise was Chance's worst personality flaw. It had kept him solitary and lonely and full of regrets for far too long.

  In the midst of this fiery destruction and rebirth, he was finally going to do something for himself. He was, after all, a person, too. He was not some caretaker appointed by Nature itself to see to the needs of everyone but himself. And he was tired of so much death. To decree the sacrifice of others, you needed to be sure that such sacrifice was worthwhile.

  Magruder wanted to make peace with himself, over Merovingen, before he left it. Maybe that was why he was luckier than Mondragon: he understood what he needed. Tom never had allowed himself the room to be human—

  When Magruder came to Boregy House, he saw to his relief that Vega had done everything humanly possible to protect his holdings: the House had been soaked down: pumps lifted water to the roof, sent it sheeting down the walls. Guards were posted everywhere.

  He walked up to one and said, "Ambassador Magruder. I'm here to see the family."

  Magic words, and he was ushered down a double row of wet sandbags as if he were being presented at one of Tatiana's dress balls.

  He and Tatiana had parted amicably enough. She hadn't known what tomorrow would bring. He had. She'd invited him to a dress ball in three days' time, as her escort.

  And he'd changed the subject, asking, as he stroked her long thigh, "Why is it that Merovingian mice have such small balls?"

  "I'm sure I don't know," she'd chuckled, going along with the joke.

  "Because so few of them know how to dance."

  She'd laughed, and he'd laughed, but he'd seen the concern in her eyes. Knowing he was failing at pretending there was nothing on his mind, he'd left early.

  "You're worried," she'd said. "You're almost . . . desperate with me. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

  He shook his head. "Ill handle it. If I could tell you, or you could help, or if it would help if you knew, you know I'd say something."

  She was a professional, was Tatiana, so he didn't lie, just chose his words very carefully. And when he was done, knowing he wasn't lying, she'd seemed relieved, and kissed him once more before she'd let him slip out the door and back to his work.

  He'd left her, out through the slate and tan and velvet and flocked grandeur of her office sitting room, and gone back to his work.

  His work of causing all this. On the Boregy doorstep, he looked behind him, for the first time.

  From this vantage, the city seemed as if it were celebrating a mad holiday. The tiers were backlit. Red glows touched the sky in places. Smoke hung like veils over hightown Houses. It was corrupt, clearly.

  It was being cleansed, by its own folk, as he watched.

  Chance wished there was some easier way, some more civilized way. There might be, when folk were more civilized. Somewhere. Somewhere the poor were not so full of hate and the rich so full of disdain.

  The door opened, and a stooped old man let him in and muttered, "This way, Ambassador. The master is this way."

  He hadn't come to see Vega, but there was no way around a courtesy call.

  Boregy was sitting at his gilt-encrusted desk in the green room as if this were a normal evening. But on no normal evening would Vega Boregy's eyes have been red and deeply circled with shadows, or his skin so deathly pale, or the blue veins standing so high on his temples.

  Boregy said, "Chance, what news have you? Sit. Have a drink. Tell me why you've come."

  Okay. Have it your way, Boregy was either cooler than the glass of wine the servant handed Chance, or in some sort of shock.

  "I need to see Dani. We've been burned out—the Embassy—I'm sure you've heard."

  "Yes. Let me apologize for my ... for Merovingians. This is ... a difficult hour for us."

  One your daughter created from her drug-induced rumblings, you fool. And you know it. "Don't apologize. We're none of us in control of everyone or everything. But I'm collecting my people. We're going back to Nev Hettek, in anticipation of a recall order that must surely come."

  "I see, Ambassador." Noncommittal.

  So now you know why I'm here. Or part of why. And if you argue with me, Vega, I'm going to slit your throat, personally. And I'm not going to mind it a bit, no matter how messy it is. If not for this family, into whom Mike Chamoun had married, none of those roasting in the flames or coughing in pools of their own blood out there—none of them would have had to die.

  Cassie Boregy had been the wild card that had skewed all plans. And she was probably still up there in her blue and gold bedroom, doped out of her mind, high as a kite, muttering about fiery revolution, in her bed, with a baby that wasn't even hers clutched to her breast.

  "I see. Well, I'll be sorry to see m'sera Lambert go, of course. But I understand that you must care for your citizens here, as I must care for mine."

  Did Magruder sense relief? Was Vega worried that the presence of a Nev Hetteker in his household would bring the mob down on him? So far, this place had escaped harm. "That's right, Vega. My citizens are at too much risk here. If I can get them home without casualties, when this is over, perhaps we'll be able to send another contingent back."

  The unspoken matter of Michael Chamoun, Nev Hetteker citizen and husband of Cassie Boregy, hung between them as Vega sipped his drink and Magruder merely turned his in his hands.

  Finally Vega said, "I'm not going to ask you to do anything differently than you may have conceived it, but I'm concerned for my House, of course. And everyone's safety."

  "Of course. Well, I'll just run upstairs and collect Dani and be on my way." I won't mention Michael if you won't.

  But Vega had to broach the subject: "Shall I tell Cassie, later, when she's gotten over the shock of Mikhail Kalugin's death, that her husband went along to see his countrymen safely home? Or shall we arrange a more serious severing of relations?"

  "Vega, I want to do whatever suits your needs. We'll want to be informed, of course, if you wish to declare the marriage nullified and the merger as well. My assumption is that it's too early for you to tell what you may wish to do."

  And you know as well as I, there's no telling that any or all of us endangered Nev Hettekers will make it back upriver alive. You wouldn't want to risk Cassie's inheritance—either through nationalization of Nev Hettek assets here or
through that "daughter's" claim, however the wind blows.

  Vega got up, came around the desk, and Magruder rose to shake his hand.

  The man was impressively calm, in a deadly situation. Magruder said honestly, "It's been a pleasure knowing you, m'ser. I hope we'll meet again. You won't mind if I don't stop back in on my way out. Dani's going to find it hard to leave her patient, whom I'm sure she'll say still needs her. I may need to force the issue."

  "I understand. Good sailing, m'ser Magruder."

  "And good fortune to you, m'ser Boregy." All nice and neat and not a feather ruffled.

  Chance was sweating under his collar by the time he got out of there. He half expected to be stopped on the endless staircase by young, strong guards who'd grab him and keep him from the third floor because Vega had seen through Magruder's subterfuge to the truth and decided to stop him.

  But nobody came running after him. When Chance reached Dani Lambert's door, he took three deep breaths, closed his eyes, and then knocked resolutely.

  "Come," she said.

  And when he opened the door, Magruder saw that Dani had her baby in with her. The natural mother of the child substituted for the stillborn Boregy heir was cooing at the baby, playing with little Hope. Dani's face was swollen from crying and tears had made her cheeks flushed.

  But she wasn't crying now. "You."

  "Me." Magruder closed the door and leaned on it, crossing his arms. "You must have known I'd come. Let's go. We don't have much time."

  Dani Lambert got up from the bed, brushing her short hair back from her eyes, and snatched up her baby—the baby they'd been passing off as Cassie's.

  "I won't leave Hope. You can't make me."

  "I don't want to make you. Bring her. Just hide her. Pray she doesn't cry and get us both killed while we're sneaking her out of here."

  Dani took a step back as if he'd threatened her. Her face turned white. She said, "You know, then?"

  "That Hope is my baby? I've always known. What was I going to do about it? You didn't want my help. I'm assuming you'll accept just a little help, now— enough to get the two of you out of harm's way."

  She had the baby's head against her breast. She was still walking backward. "That's all you can say to me? After—what you've done. After all this time. This . . . revolution out there, it's all your doing. I suppose you just assumed I'd be able to take care of Hope and keep her safe enough, without any help from you—or any warning. I know your style, Chance Magruder. You precipitated this horror out there as surely as if you lit the first fire yourself."

  "Ssh! Please. Or do you want to end up as one of the first retributional killings? Those will be starting soon enough. I couldn't tell you. I couldn't move you out of here prematurely. Either would have endangered you. I played the odds. It's what I do."

  "I can't stand to look at you sometimes," she whispered, still not making any move to find some way to smuggle the baby out.

  What am I going to do about that now? Surely not leave my own child in Boregy House and you with it. You didn't have to bear that child unless you wanted it. You're a physician, damn you. Don't do this to me. Let me help us all.

  He could barely make his tongue work, part his lips. They seemed glued together. "What can we use to smuggle Hope out?"

  "Oh, I'll give her something to make her sleep. Weil put her in my carpet bag. Don't worry about that. I won't let anything happen to her. And I can take care of myself."

  "Just like old times."

  "Not quite," she said venomously, and began preparing the baby to leave.

  He stayed there, leaning against the door, fearful that anything he said or did might set her off, make her do or say something neither of them could survive. If only she were as bloodless as she pretended, none of this would ever have happened to either of them.

  But it had happened. And in the end, he couldn't live with it. He couldn't have his own child reared by a dope-addicted Merovingian spoiled brat, no matter how he cared for the revolution, and no matter how much he'd done to put Mike Chamoun in place, and no matter how much great sex he had with Tatiana Kalugin.

  If Karl wasn't so good at keeping them all on track, one of these days a man like Magruder was going to slit his throat. Maybe Magruder would do it himself, just so that Karl could get an understanding of what karma really meant. And Mondragon had named the names and given him the keys.

  Magruder thought about that, as he watched Dani put the baby to sleep with an injection and pack her between blouses and underwear in a bag.

  He'd never been able to bring himself to touch the child. He'd thought that if he did touch it, something in him would shatter beyond repair.

  But now he knew that wasn't so. He was doing the best he could, for some life he accidentally brought into this world. But he was doing this more for Hope's mother. And what had shattered in him where Dani Lambert was concerned had shattered long, long ago.

  So he could handle it, whatever happened: if he couldn't get them safely to the boat, by himself. Or even out of the house. Or if they all died between here and Nev Hettek.

  Whatever happened, he'd deal with it the best he could. He could feel the coming together of his body and mind that meant he was on the right track.

  Dani wouldn't let him come near her, or touch her. That was fine. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked like the model physician, hustling down the stairs, being almost forcibly removed from her putative patient—Cassie.

  At the last instant, when they were on the landing and Magruder could feel the sooty wind of escape in his nostrils, Cassie called out upstairs.

  Servants called Dani. Dani stopped and handed Chance the bag with little Hope in it.

  Chance Magruder held his child for the first time. He could hardly breathe. If he jostled the bag and she woke and screamed, they were dead. All of them. There and then.

  Dani started to go back upstairs and Vega stuck his head around his office door: "It's all right, m'sera Lambert. We understand your peril. We'll tend to Cassie now."

  "What? Oh. All right. If you're sure?"

  "A Merovingian physician is safer for all of us, under the circumstances." A wisp of black hair fell over Vega's eye. He brushed it back, cold as ice.

  "Your ambassador is right. We thank you, but your services are no longer required."

  Vega wanted them out of his house before their presence brought down a mob, or blacklegs, or any other part of this holocaust upon the Boregys.

  Dani came down the stairs at a measured pace. Chance had never admired her more. Her jaw was set. Her head was high. There was fire in her eyes and the strength of her made him want to grin.

  But he didn't.

  He stepped out the door first, carrying the carpetbag with the sleeping baby into the night.

  He had to make sure there wasn't anyone lurking out there, waiting for them.

  When Dani followed and the door closed with a thump of finality, she coughed in the air full of smoke and char. "Well?" she asked. "What now?"

  "Now we catch a boat for Nev Hettek, m'sera," he said, and she took the baby in the satchel from him as he walked with her through the wet sandbags and into the revolution.

  Michael Chamoun saw Chance and Dani running down the gangplank, seemingly at the last instant. The lines were cast off and the engines thrumming.

  He saw the baby, too. And then he knew it was over. He didn't even go up on deck to ask why Cassie wasn't saved, somehow.

  Cassie couldn't be saved. Cassie couldn't come with them. Cassie was of Merovingen, as Mike Chamoun had never been. He'd come down here, so long ago, to live a lie and then found himself believing it.

  Michael Chamoun, who'd been nothing until the revolutionary council had groomed him to marry the Boregy heiress, was about to become nothing again.

  Chamoun felt the deck shudder under him as they made way. Escape was nigh.

  He put down his glass of wine and it fell over, to drip on the polished floorboards. Maybe he'd had enough to drink
. Now that he didn't need to live the lie, maybe he didn't need to stay half drunk.

  He wanted to talk to Chance, though. About everything.

  To do that, he'd need to go up on deck. So he would. He'd face Dani Lambert and the baby that really wasn't his, and Kenner and the carnage they'd wrought here.

  He would.

  When he finally climbed up to the foredeck, where Chance was, the baby and Dani were nowhere in sight. Merovingen blazed with lights and fires and sparkled with water in arcing plumes from the firefighters' boat.

  They were nearly out of the harbor. No one had yet come chasing them. Magruder was staring behind him, looking for pursuit, his face grim.

  His eyes flicked over Michael, and away. Mike Chamoun was just a tool to Magruder. He'd always known that.

  Michael turned his head away. And then he was looking at the Angel of Retribution, its sword half drawn from its scabbard, that guarded the harbor.

  Cassie had said the angel looked just like him. The angel's name was Michael.

  It hadn't meant anything. It hadn't needed to mean anything. He'd loved his wife and almost failed the revolution. But Chance had saved him even from that.

  His eyes were smarting from the fire. He rubbed them. "Chance, it'll be better, won't it? We did the right thing?"

  'it'll be different," he thought he heard Chance say. "Maybe that's better." Then, louder: "You did fine, kid. You did the best job you could. Let it go."

  "But . . . Cassie's my . . . wife." She'd killed their baby, with her drugs. She'd killed his heart, and all his hopes to make something lasting out of this venture.

  Magruder said, "Trust me, kid. Let it go. You're going to be a hero."

  Mike Chamoun couldn't believe that heroes felt the way he was feeling. He had a mouth full of tragedy, a gut full of guilt, and a heart as heavy as a stone.

  But then, maybe that was what being a hero was all about.