An Inch of Ashes (Chung Kuo)(42)

Ebert placed another black stone in the diagonal line, preventing DeVore from linking with his other stones, but again it allowed DeVore space within his own territory and he sensed that DeVore would make a living group there.

‘You know, I've always admired you, Howard. You would have been Marshal eventually. You would have run things for the Seven.'

‘That's so... But it was never enough for me to serve another. Nor you. We find it hard to bow to lesser men.'

Ebert laughed, then realized how far DeVore had brought him. Only it was true. Everything he said was true. He watched DeVore set another stone down, shadowing his own line, sketching out territory inside his own, robbing him of what he'd thought was safely his.

‘I see...' he said, meaning two things. For a time, then, they simply played. Forty moves later he could see that it was lost. DeVore had taken five of his stones from the board and had formed a living group of half of shang. Worse, he had pushed out towards ch'u and down into p'ing. Now a small group of four of his stones were threatened at the centre and there was only one way to save it, to play in the space in shang beside the central stone  –  the signal for his men to open fire on DeVore. Ebert sat back, holding the black stone between his fingers, then laughed.

‘It seems you've forced me to a decision.'

DeVore smiled back at him. ‘I was wondering what you would do.'

Ebert eyed him sharply. ‘Wondering?'

‘Yes. I wasn't sure at first. But now I know. You won't play that space. You'll play here instead.' He leaned across and touched the intersection with his fingertip. It was the move that gave only temporary respite. It did not save the group.

‘Why should I do that?'

‘Because you don't want to kill me. And because you're seriously interested in my proposition.'

Ebert laughed, astonished. ‘You knew?'

‘Oh, I know you've three of your best stormtroopers here, Hans. I've been conscious of the risks I've been taking. But how about you?'

‘I think I know,' Ebert said, even more cautiously. Then, with a small laugh of admiration he set the stone down where DeVore had indicated.

‘Good.' DeVore leaned across and set a white stone in the special space, on the edge of shang, beside Ebert's central stone, then leaned back again. ‘I'm certain you'll have assessed the potential rewards, too.' He smiled, looking down at his hands. ‘King of the world, Hans. That's what you could be. T'ang of all Chung Kuo.'

Ebert stared back at him, his mouth open but set.

‘But not without me.' DeVore looked up at him, his eyes piercing him through. ‘Not without me. You understand that?'

‘I could have you killed. Right now. And be hailed as a hero.'

DeVore nodded. ‘Of course. I knew what I was doing. But I assumed you knew why you were here. That you knew how much you had to gain.'

It was Ebert's turn to laugh. ‘This is insane.'

DeVore was watching him calmly, as if he knew now how things would turn out between them. &lsquoo.pacequo gain.o;Insane? No. It's no more insane than the rule of the Seven. And how long can that last? In ten years, maybe less, the whole pack of cards is going to come tumbling down, whatever happens. The more astute of the Above realize that and want to do something about it. They want to control the process. But they need a figurehead. Someone they admire. Someone from amongst their number. Someone capable and in a position of power.'

‘I don't fit your description.'

DeVore laughed. ‘Not now, perhaps. But you will. In a year from now you will.'

Ebert looked down. He knew it was a moment for decisiveness, not prevarication. ‘And when I'm T'ang?'

DeVore smiled and looked down at the board. ‘Then the stars will be ours. A world for each of us.'

A world for each of us. Ebert thought about it a moment. This, then, was what it was really all about. Expansion. Taking the lid off City Earth and getting away. But what would that leave him?

‘However,' DeVore went on. ‘You didn't mean that, did you?' He stood and went across to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a second glass of brandy. Turning, he looked directly at the younger man. ‘What you meant was, what's in it for me?'

Ebert met his look unflinchingly. ‘Of course. What other motive could there be?'

DeVore smiled blandly. Ebert was a shallow, selfish young man, but he was useful. He would never be T'ang, of course  –  it would be a mistake to give such a man





real power  –  but it served for now to let him think he would.

‘Your brandy is excellent, Hans.' DeVore walked to the window and looked out. The mountains looked beautiful. He could see the Matterhorn from where he stood, its peak like a broken blade. Winter was coming.

Ebert was silent, waiting for him.

‘What's in it for you, you ask? This world. To do with as you wish. What more could you want?' He turned to face the younger man, noting at once the calculation in his face.

‘You failed,' Ebert said after a moment. ‘There were many of you. Now there's just you. Why should you succeed this time?'

DeVore tilted his head, then laughed, ‘Ah, yes...'

Ebert frowned and set his glass down. ‘And they're strong.'

DeVore interrupted him. ‘No. You're wrong, Hans. They're weak. Weaker than they've been since they began. We almost won...'

Ebert hesitated, then nodded. It was so. He recognized how thin the Families were spread now; how much they depended on the goodwill of those in the Above who had remained faithful. Men like his father.

And when his father was dead?

He looked up sharply, his decision made.

‘Well?' DeVore prompted. ‘Will you be T'ang?'

Ebert stood, offering his hand.

DeVore smiled and set his drink down. Then he stepped forward and, ignoring the hand, embraced the young man.





Part 13





Artifice and Innocence





Spring 2207





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‘The more abstract the truth you want to teach the more you must seduce the senses to it.'

-Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good And Evil





‘Reach me a gentian, give me a torch!

let me guide myself with the blue, forked touch of this flower down the dark and darker steps, where blue is darkened on blueness

even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September

to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark

and Persephone herself is but a voice

of a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark

of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,

among the splendour of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the lost bride and her groom.'

-D. H. Lawrence, Bavarian Gentians                       
       
           



       Chapter 54



THE FEAST OF THE DEAD



A bank of eight screens, four long, two deep, glowed dimly on the far side of the darkened room. In each lay the outline image of a hollowed skull. There were other shapes in the room, vague forms only partly lit by the glow. A squat and bulky mechanism studded with controls was wedged beneath the screens. Beside it was a metallic frame, like a tiny four-poster stretched with wires. In the left-hand corner rested a narrow trolley containing racks of tapes, their wafer-thin top edges glistening in the half-light. Next to that was a vaguely human form, slumped against a bed, its facial features missing. Finally, in the very centre of the room was a graphics artboard, the thin screen blank and dull, the light from the eight monitors focused in its concave surface.

It was late  –  after three in the morning  –  and Ben Shepherd was tired, but there was this one last thing to be done before he slept. He squatted by the trolley and flicked through the tapes until he found what he wanted, then went to the artboard and fed in the tape. The image of a bird formed instantly. He froze it, using the controls to turn it, studying it from every angle, as if searching for some flaw in its conception, then, satisfied, he let it run, watching as the bird stretched its wings and launched into the air. Again he froze the image. The bird's wings were stretched back now, thrusting it forward powerfully.

It was a simple image in many ways. An idealized image of a bird, formed in a vacuum.

He sorted through the tapes again and pulled out three, then returned to the artboard and rewound the first tape. That done he fed the new tapes into the slot and synchronized all four to a preset signal. Then he pressed to play.

This time the bird was resting on a perch inside a pagoda-like cage. As he watched, the cage door sprang open and the bird flew free, launching itself out through the narrow opening.

He froze the image, then rotated it. This time the bird seemed trapped, its beak and part of its sleek, proud head jutting from the cage, the rest contained within the bars. In ze nale doothe background could be seen the familiar environment of The Square. As the complex image turned, the tables of the Café Burgundy came into view. He could see himself at one of the nearer tables, the girl beside him. He was facing directly into the shot, his hand raised, pointing, as if to indicate the sudden springing of the bird, but her head was turned, facing him, her flame-red hair a sharp contrast to the rich, overhanging greenery.