At first their talk had ranged widely, embracing all manner of things: from the planned reopening of the House and new research into space technologies to developments in the GenSyn inheritance case and the latest round of inter-City trade agreements. But as the evening drew on, their mood had grown darker, their talk focusing in upon the tyranny of the Seven and the corresponding failings of their fathers.
Lever's close friend Carl Stevens was talking, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. "Our fathers talk of changing things, of a return to Empire. That's something we'd all like to see, but when it comes down to it there's really not much between them and the Seven. Whichever ruled, the Seven or our fathers, we would remain as we are. Dispossessed. As powerless then as we are now."
Beside him, Bryn Kustow nodded. "Carl's right. If anything, our position would be much worse than it is now. If the Seven fell and our fathers came to power what would happen? Would they embrace us as their natural partners in the venture? No. Not for a second. We know how they think. We've all had a taste of their treatment these past years. They see us as a threat. As potential usurpers. It's sad to say, but in effect we have become our fathers' enemies."
There was a murmur of reluctant agreement, heavy with unease.
"But what can be done?" one of the others, Mitchell, asked. "They have all the power—the real power. All we get is the scraps from their tables. And what can we do with scraps?"
The bitterness in Mitchell's voice was mirrored in every face. Kustow looked across at Michael, then looked down, shrugging. "Nothing. . ." he answered quietly. But there was something about his manner that suggested otherwise.
Standing there at Michael's side, Emily let her eyes move from face to face, conscious of the sudden tension in the circle. Despite what was being said, something about this whole elaborate charade of "Empire" made her stiffen inwardly against them. They talked of changing the balance of power—of "liberation"—when all they really meant was grabbing it for themselves. In that they were no better than their fathers. No. Even after their experience of incarceration, they didn't understand. To them it was still essentially a game. Something to fill the hours and stave off the specter of boredom.
Even so, it was good to see this—to understand how they thought, how they acted—for in some strange way it made her stronger, more determined.
For a moment she abstracted herself from their talk, looking inward, focusing on the ideal she had worked for all these years. The ideal of Change—real change—free of the old power structures. Something pure and clean and utterly new. That was what she had struggled to achieve all those years in the Ping Tiao. A new world, free of hierarchies, where men and women could breathe new air and live new dreams. Yes, and that was what Mach and Gesell had really betrayed when they had chosen to work with DeVore.
She shivered, then looked aside. Michael was watching her, concerned. "What is it, Em?"
She stared back at him a moment, not recognizing him for that instant, surprised to find herself there in the midst of that gathering, among those she would, without a moment's thought, have destroyed. And then, as realization struck her, she laughed. And he, watching her, smiled, his smile broadening, not understanding, yet liking what he saw in that austere and sculpted face. And as he looked, a strange new determination formed in him, as if from nowhere, making his nerve ends tingle.
"Well, Michael? Have you enjoyed your evening?"
Michael Lever turned, embracing his hostess, holding her a moment and kissing her cheek before he stepped back. Gloria Chung was a tall, strikingly elegant young woman with the classic features of the Han aristocracy. It was said her ancestors had been related to the great Ming dynasty, and, looking at her, it was not difficult to believe. She had dressed tonight as the famous Empress Wu in sweeping robes of midnight blue embroidered with a thousand tiny golden suns.
They were alone on the broad upper balcony. Below them the last of the guests were making their unsteady way back through the winding pathways to their sedans. She moved past him, standing there at the rail, looking out over the dim, lamp-lit garden.
"I've had a good time," he said quietly, taking his place beside her at the rail. "It's been nice to think of something other than the troubles with my father."
"And the girl?"
"The girl?" He looked blank for a moment, then he laughed. "Oh, you mean Mary?"
She turned her head, studying him, as if she could see right through him, then she smiled. "I was watching you, Michael. Watching how you were together. It was . . . interesting."
He turned his head. "What do you mean?"
"I do believe you're half in love with her."
"Nonsense," he said, shocked by the suggestion; yet even as he said it, he saw the truth in it. He stood there a moment, looking at her, then pushed away from the rail, masking his slip with a laugh. "And what if I were?"
She reached out, holding his upper arm, then leaned close, kissing him. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not disapproving. If it makes you happy. . ." She moved back slightly, her eyes searching his. "She'd be good for you, Michael. I can see that. She's strong."
"Yes, but. . ." He sighed. No, it was impossible. His father would never approve.
"YouVe taken the first step. Why not the next?"
"What do you mean?" »
"I mean, get out of your father's shadow for good. Show him you're your own man. Marry her."
He laughed, astonished. "Marry her?" He looked down, troubled, then turned away. "No. I couldn't. He'd cut me off. . ."
"He'd not dare. But even if he did, how could things be any worse than they are? What else could he do?"
"No. . ."
"No? Think about it, Michael. The Old Man's backed you into a corner. He's cut off your finances and tried every which way to prevent you from making a go of it on your own. As things are, you're going to have to make a choice, and soon—either to go back to him and beg forgiveness; to go down on your knees before the Old Man and agree to his terms; or to assert yourself. So why not do it now? Right now, when he least expects it."
He faced her again. "No. Not while there are still other options."
She shivered. "You mean, like the Clear Heart Credit Agency?"
He stared at her. "How did you know that?"
"Because I make it my business to know. And if I know, you can be sure your father knows. In fact, I'm certain of it."
"How?"
"Because he's the owner of the Clear Heart Credit Agency. As of this morning."
He closed his eyes.
"So what are you going to do?"
"Do? What can I do?"
"You could do what I said. Marry her. Be your own man. As for the money, I'll give you that. It's two million, neh? Good. I'll have a draft ready for you in the morning. My wedding gift."
He stared at her, astonished, then shook his head. "But why? I don't understand you, Gloria Chung. Why should you want to do this for me?"
She smiled and leaned close, kissing him again. "Because I believe in you, Michael Lever. And because I want to see you strong. Strong and independent. For all our sakes."
twelve tiny HOMUNCULi —hologram figures no more than six t'sun in height—were gathered in a half-circle on the desk's surface, blinking and flickering in the faint light from a nearby float-globe. In a tall-backed chair, facing them, Old Man Lever looked down at his Departmental Heads and growled.
"So what's the problem? Why can't we use someone else? Someone cheaper than ProFax? Someone more reliable?"
Several of the figures shimmered, as if about to speak, but it was one of the central holograms—the tiny form of Lever's Head of Internal Distribution Services, Weller, who answered Lever, his image hardening, glowing stronger than before, standing out from the images to either side.