Awakening, 2nd edition (29 page)

They haven’t changed a bit, he thought. As if nothing has changed. But in fact quite a lot has. Fifteen years have passed . . . no, it must be longer than that. What year was it? Must be eighteen years . . . Eighteen years, all gone in a single heartbeat! And I have no clue where that irresistible girl is now, although about six years ago someone told me that she had been happily married, just as happily divorced, and even more happily married for the second time. And I ’m almost thirty-four already. And the times of low self-confidence with women are long gone and forgotten.

These days, I care about things like winning at this odd workshop, figuring out what it ’s really all about, and guessing what ’s going on back at work while I ’m wasting my time here. That overly excited teenager who gave these stars the proud look of a conqueror had ceased to exist a long time ago. He disappeared, vanished into thin air. Someone else walks the earth in his place. This someone is a manager bothered by the serious issues of grownups, and while he ’s labeled “young ” by many, anyone taking a good look at him would see that he is not so young anymore. Not young at all.

Yet the stars haven’t changed a bit. They will remain the same when this “young ” manager disappears too, and when the “mature ” man who replace s him is gone as well, and when the “still going strong in his fifties ” person is gone, and when the “looking great for his age ” elderly man turns into a “decrepit ” old man . And when these metamorphoses come to an end and even the shell in which they have been taking place turns into dust and disappears, the stars will twinkle just as indifferently in the black sky above the earth, above the lake, above the forest, above the entire world.

Forget
me . All these world-famous tyrants, rulers and conquerors whose names we kept bringing up a day ago—they all saw the same stars. Exactly the same stars, exactly the same constellations that I ’
m looking at now. Perhaps some of these rulers looked at the stars from a different angle, but still . . . the y were the same stars.

They flamed with vanity, they built their lives on vanity, they created step-by-step horrifying and intimidating images of themselves. They were rising above the crowds, they were leading others, they were inspiring some and making others tremble. They were thirsty for power—for ultimate, boundless, absolute, unmatched -in -history power. And they succeeded at that. The world was now reciting the name, in a trembling whisper —the name , which just ten years ago was known to no one . A nd the kings, who not long ago had snort ed contemptuously at the mere sound of it , were rushing cap-in-hand to swear allegiance to the new ruler.

And they had no other dream but power. Money, gold, treasures, women, slaves, monuments, palaces were but attributes. Power, absolute power , was the goal. The one and only goal. And they accomplished it , and they subjugated many nations, and they destroyed hundreds of thousands—if not millions—of people along the way . A nd they built empires, and they founded dynasties, and they experienced the kind of power that was unimaginable for anyone else in their time.

And then they died and rotted, and the cold stars—these stars—glanced down indifferently at their graves and got back to their business of twinkling . And another few hundred years later—less than a tiniest fraction of a shortest instant for stars—the empires were gone , too, and with them the degenerated dynasties, and with that the power, which die d along with a true ruler. Only the names remained, written in books and annals, passed down through the generations by word of mouth, turning slowly into common nouns—the names that became synonymous with power and the lust for it. And that was all.

As for us, we won ’t leave even that legacy behind. We ’re sitting now in this lodge, and our only concern is about winning this competition—by any means. Because upon winning here , the winner will come back proudly wearing an “A pproved for power ” stamp on his forehead. And he will be welcomed back with the utmost hospitality, and promoted, and given a new assignment of vast importance, and probably a new very attractive position. Because now it would be known for a fact that , of all people , he can lead and he can be trusted with authority.

And the winner will be given another slice of power —for what is people management if not power? And he will accept it and for some time will feel satisfied and even proud. But then he will take a look or two around and recall that those who gave him that slice of power have much, much more , and so with renewed vigor he will start lusting again for more, more, more . . . Because a man who wants power is never completely satisfied with what he has. And if he is satisfied , it means only one thing : he ’s growing old and his days are numbered. The younger, hungrier, more rapacious and dangerous newcomers will come on the scene and the man who decided to rest on his laurels will be swept aside and replaced by someone who wants more.

Or perhaps the victory at the w orkshop will be interpreted differently , and no one will rush to give more power to the proud winner. Contrary to everyone ’s expectations, the round red stamp on the forehead will scream “DANGER!” And the winner will be immediately sent off to the periphery or in the best case left at his place and even fed a few bonuses, but completely deprived of the key thing he needs : advancement up the food chain. True, it was hinted to us that those who sent us here had attended the w orkshop themselves long ago . But who said they were the winners ? It had been our own assumption. A very natural, very logical, very human one—but still, an assumption. And , who knows, it could ’ve been those who lost back then who now lead our companies. Those who were smart enough to show to their patrons that they would stop at nothing. And now, some years later, they ’re waiting for the workshop ’s results to see whether those who want to become their successor are as smart as they were. Smart enough to lose .

One way or another, upon our return we will be busy doing the same thing that keeps us busy here : struggling for power. Not fake power like the one we ’re after here, but the real thing . Well, real probably isn ’t the right world. We ’ll be working hard, we ’ll be contributing to the bottom line, we ’ll be helping the company to grow the revenue, we ’ll be inspiring, managing, hiring, solving problems, creating strategies, reducing expenses, and so on and so forth. We will be , with out a doubt , very useful assets to our corporations. But deep in our souls we will still be longing for the same old things : getting a bigger department, being trusted with a more important area, being allowed to hire another ten people. We ’ll be longing for more power.

And although this power will be truly insignificant in comparison to the power that the Napoleons and Tamerlanes of this world had in their possession, we will be fighting for it ferociously, enjoying our victories wholeheartedly , and having our hearts broken over our losses. And each night , the stars will scornfully watch the tiny buildings of mighty corporations, in which passions boil throughout the day .

The stars have seen many billions of people and they know the true value of power—the most illusory, most delusive , and most obsessive of all human passions.

“Hurry up!” a low voice said impatiently nearby. “I don ’t want anyone to see us together.”

Michael swiftly turned at the sound, discerned two gray shadows emerging from the darkness, and swiftly stepped back, becoming almost invisible.

“My ankle hurts, ” said the shadow that was smaller , somehow managing to mix capricious and frightened tones in its voice. “I think I ’ve sprained it.”

It lowered carefully onto its right knee and began manipulating its foot.

“Not my problem, ” the second shadow snapped harshly. “So?”

“Listen,” pleaded the shadow with a sprained ankle, “can ’t we go back into the house? It ’s freezing out here. I didn ’t have time to put anything on. If you want privacy, let ’s just go to the pool room.”

“We can’t. Brandon ’s there.”

“Okay, how about your room? Or my room, or the bar? Can ’t we just talk inside? Anywhere —but inside?”

“No, we can’t, ” the bigger shadow replied, its cold voice full of the same harsh tones. “Not the way I need to talk .”

“What?” the first shadow asked , panicky, instantly forgetting the sprained ankle and jerking back. “Again?”

“Don’t sweat it. Just tell me what ’ve you got so far and I ’ll let you go. Relax, I ’m not going to touch you this time.”

The first shadow sighed with relief.

“I don’t have much, you know. They just keep silent. All of them. Really. They are like a bunch of conspirators.”

“Nothing at all?”

“I swear, nothing. Joan only said that Chris rocks. But then she said that about everyone.”

“Have you talked to everybody?”

“Yes, except Rob and Stella. They must be having a blast tonight.”

“I see,” the large shadow said dryly. “You were supposed to be useful —do you know that?”

It fell into a short frustrated silence.

“What about Mike?”

“I couldn’t catch him after that.”

“Kevin?”

“Mute as a fish. I tried poking him in different ways, but no use. He agrees with everything I say, but gives no hint about what he ’s thinking. He ’s even worse than the others.”

“A slimy weasel, that ’s who he is, ” the second shadow said suddenly with feeling , then fell into reverie.

The smaller shadow waited patiently.

“That trick you pulled off with Mike, that was good, ” the large shadow finally broke the silence. “Do that more often. With him, with the others. Just know where to stop. Don ’t carry it too far.”

“Will do,” confirmed the first shadow , a proud note in its voice. “So what did Kevin tell you?”

“That’s none of your business, ” the second shadow replied curtly. “You can go now. I ’ll find you tomorrow when I need you. And keep working hard. Do your best, or we ’ll play another pool game.”

“I’m doing my best, ” the first shadow assured the second one in the utmost heartfelt fashion and set off, limping slightly.

The large shadow watched until the first shadow disappeared around the corner. Then it bent down, picked something up from the ground and swung its hand towards the lake. A moment later the sound of a heavy splash came from the water accompanied by nervous quacking.

“Conspirators, ” the shadow spitted discontentedly, and vanished, following its companion.

Michael cautiously stepped out of the shadows . So much for playing fair . “I always follow the rules . . .” So much for wounded innocence and a wrongfully accused man, deeply hurt by the scheming of wrongdoers . Why in the world has Ross decided to turn into such an eager helper to Alex? It ’s late, it ’s cold, he ’s got a sprained ankle —yet instead of staying inside and getting some rest he comes outside in the cold darkness and accepts insult after insult . And what insults!

What happened to all his composure? Alex, it seems, has found a little key to his heart. Along with a vote for himself, since there ’s little doubt about where Ross ’s vote is going to end up. Well, at least one competitor is down. Not that he ever was a competitor.

The little key looked probably more like a little baseball bat. “I ’m not going to touch you tonight . . .” And this is the same Alex who ’s always so polite and amiable. Did he really drive him into some dark corner? Just like that, simply tossed away even minimal social niceties and threw a couple of punches to the stomach? What was that thing he said? “Another pool game .” That ’s a tough one to swallow, although that ’s exactly what that planted note was screaming about. The note , by the way , now looks entirely different in light of this friendly conversation. And the question as to the authorship of that note has become even more interesting, though less mysterious. Many things look more interesting and less mysterious in light of this little chat. Many, many things . . . But that ’s not so important anymore. The nice games are over.

He looked around and headed for the entrance, leaving the stars to their twinkling, and not paying any further attention to their eternal pale-blue light .

Joan sat, lazily swinging her nylon-covered leg and listening to Paul with what appeared to be sincere interest. Sincere interest, however, exist ed only in Paul ’s imagination. Her real attention at the moment was focused on the direction of Chris ’s gaze, which meant more to her than any of the sarcastic wisdom coming out of Paul ’s mouth. Chr is, his head tilted slightly, was also listening attentively to Paul. Nevertheless, a carful observer would ’ve noticed that for some strange reason his eyes were more frequently studying Joan ’s slowly swinging leg than anything Paul had to offer.

Joan felt warm satisfaction stirring up inside her. Whoever invented nylon pantyhose was a genius. No! He was a talent . The genius was the guy—or gal—who invented the mini skirt . No matter how independent, smart and proud a man is, no matter what his social status, or his marital status , he ’s always game for that mother of all tricks. Granted, you need to have curves in all the right places to carry that little fashion item off successfully , but she has no complaints in that department .