"Wingrove - Chung Kuo 5 - Beneath the Tree of Heaven v1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wingrove David)

PART 1 I SUMMER 2211

The South Side of the Sky

The mountain climbs, fifty li into darkness.
Beyond it the cold stars burn.
Here, on the south side of the sky,
The rain never falls.
All that we are, we carry with us
In sealed packs, safe from the air.
Thin the air, thin the hope
Of seeing home again,
Except from afar.
Red sand fills our shoes.
We stop at an inn and drink our fill,
Yet are never content.
We are lost,
Adrift upon a sea of dust.
Some thirsts can never be satisfied.

—kan jiang, "Thirst," a.d. 2078
 

 
CHAPTER TWO
Dreams of Mars
CHENCK TAPPED THE THICKENED glass lightly with his fingernails, studying the long, oval-shaped depression they had had scooped out of the dark, lavatic rock, then turned, looking back into the room. The three men were watching him.
Andreas Rutherford stood to the left, beside the narrow desk. He was a handsome man in his mid-twenties—the image of his late father, Schenck's friend and onetime sponsor, William Rutherford. To Schencks right were Tu Ch'en-shih and his partner, Meng K'ai. Though unrelated, the two Han looked like twins and played upon the fact by dressing identically. Short, balding, and ugly, as someone had once described them, and it wasn't far from the truth. But sharp as well. As sharp as anyone in the Nineteen Colonies.
Just now all four wore protective suits, the collapsible helmets hanging loose against their backs, attached by umbilicals to the rigid neck-braces.
That'll change one of these days, Schenck thought, conscious for once of all those things they were forced to take for granted here. But not while we're still tethered. Not until we cut the link.
"Well?" Meng K'ai asked impatiently. "What do you think?"
Schenck smiled. "It looks good from up here, but have there been any problems? I mean, this has got to last. The new City will be totally dependent on it."
I "It'll last," Rutherford said, pouring a bowl of wine and bringing it across. "I mean, it's not like we're building the thing back on Chung Kuo. We've not got to worry about volcanic activity or earthquakes. All we've got to make sure is that the thing doesn't leak or get clogged with dust."
"And the plant itself? You're certain this will work?"
Rutherford looked to his fellow financiers, then back at Schenck, his smile broadening. "You've seen the engineers' reports, Hung-li. It'll work, don't worry. As for lasting, it'll still be here ten thousand years from now. Fifty, if we build it well enough."
Schenck hesitated, then nodded, taking the bowl from Rutherford and lifting it to toast the others. Yes, he had seen the engineers' reports, and, just to make sure, had had his own experts go over them. The thing ought to work, and work well. That was, providing no corners were cut, no "economies" made. He turned, looking back across the site. The main excavation work had been completed. A coating of impermeable polymer, two ch'i thick, would now be poured into the depression, sealing and insulating the reservoir. Then, as an added precaution, a second layer would be placed on top of that, using a new, organically produced sealant that would not only guarantee minimal leakage but also reduce bacterial growth. Once in operation the whole thing would be covered with an airtight layer of "ice," the same polymer-based material they used back on Chung Kuo to make the Cities. A dozen air locks would allow access for maintenance and, if necessary, repair.
But that was only half of it. The reservoir, while it used new construction techniques and new materials, was nothing new in itself. There were reservoirs already at Kang Feng and Hao Feng Shou. No, what was new about this scheme was the plant itself. For the first time they would not be tapping into Mars's precious reserves of water— trapped in the permafrost, in underground lakes, and in the northern ice-cap—but making the stuff from scratch. Increasing the amount there was.
Schenck smiled at the thought. Water and air. They were the two things that Mars needed badly, and for the past one hundred and sixty years Chung Kuo had kept Mars in a state of absolute dependency, ruling from afar on just how much air, how much water, the Martians could have; keeping those two basic necessities to the very minimum. And sometimes—as when that bastard Karr had been here—denying them even that much.
Schenck shivered with indignation, remembering the day when the big Security man had burst into his office at Tien Men K'ou City and dragged him across his desk, threatening him. It was then that this had begun. Then that he'd started thinking of a Mars without Chung Kuo. A self-sufficient, independent Mars, strong and thriving. A green Mars with a tolerable atmosphere and reasonable temperature gradations. A Mars very different from the hellhole they currently inhabited.
"Have you discussed the next stage with Dawson yet?"
Schenck turned back, facing Tu Ch'en-shih.
"Not yet. I wanted to get the election out of the way first. But now we can go ahead. It's time we let Dawson and a few others know what we've got planned."
Tu Ch'en-shih frowned, his squat face crumpling like a rotten fruit. "Do you think that's safe? I mean, Dawson's fine. I trust him completely. But the others? Surely it's best to keep this tight. The fewer who know, the less chance the Seven will hear of it."
Schenck nodded. "Normally, I'd agree. But it's time to move on this. Since the split in Council, the Seven are weak, indecisive. With the House reopened and the Above pressing for more power, they've problems enough at home without contemplating fighting a war out here. The logistics alone are beyond them." He laughed. "Why, we have only to arm the satellites and Mars is ours. That's why I've set up a meeting, two days from now, to discuss things and to take things farther. There'll be eight of us in all. We four, Dawson, Endacott, Ch'en Li, and Culver."
"Culver?" It was Rutherford who made the query. "Do we really need Culver?"
"Yes," Schenck answered, turning to the young man. "Someone has to provide security for this operation and I can't trust our own internal forces. Ultimately they're loyal to the Seven."
Rutherford frowned, clearly uneasy. "I didn't realize you felt that way. I thought you had Security in hand. I thought we could count on them."
"I do and we can. Normally. But this is different. From here on we take on the Seven, directly, unconditionally. And there are some officers in Security who'd balk at going that far, McEwen for one."
"And Culver?" Meng K'ai asked. "Are you certain we can trust him?"
"Absolutely." Schenck smiled reassuringly. "Culver's my man. He does as I say. I've asked him to look into the question of creating a replacement force for Security. A force that would take its commands directly from us and not from some Council of Generals a billion li away on Chung Kuo. He has a small force already at HoloGen. That'll form the basis of the new army. An independent army."
Rutherford looked down. "I'm still not sure. I don't know the man, but there's something about him that worries me. He's too reclusive for my taste. And then there's all this business with the computer system he's had shipped in from Chung Kuo. I mean, what's all that about?"
Schenck laughed. "You worry too much, Andreas. Look, Culver's upgrading his plant, that's all. As far as I see it, it makes good sense. The more we can get out of Chung Kuo before the break, the better."
"Maybe," Rutherford answered, "but I still think he could have invested his money here, on Mars. Could have had CompTek build him a new system—one better suited to his needs."
"And see the profits go back to Chung Kuo?"
"Yes, but it would have employed Martian workmen and encouraged the development of Martian skills. As it is, Culver's investment puts nothing into our economy. It merely sustains the old cycle of dependency. And I thought that that was the very thing we wanted to break."
"I see." Schenck turned, looking directly at Meng K'ai. "And you, Meng K'ai? How do you feel about Culver?"
Meng K'ai shrugged. "Like Andreas I don't know the man. He keeps himself very much to himself. But if you vouch for him . . . well, that's good enough for me. Besides, I think you're right. We should take what we can from them before the break comes. I hear this new system's good. Better than anything CompTek could build. Maybe we could all use it, neh? Pool our resources."
Schenck smiled broadly. "I'm certain Shih Culver would be more than willing to give over some of its capacity to us. And you, Tu Ch'en-shih?"
"Meng K'ai has spoken for us both. I think we could work with him. If you guarantee him, that is."
"Of course," Schenck said. "Without hesitation. As I said, Culver's my man. He'll do as I say. As for his commitment to things Martian"— Schenck turned, looking back at Rutherford—"well, just think about it. Doesn't he employ more than fifty thousand at his plants? No, don't worry about Culver. He's the least of our problems. Let's worry about implementing our plan. About making Mars what it ought to be. What it should have been a hundred years ago, but for the Seven. Come, let's drink to deliverance from our erstwhile masters. To deliverance, and to change."
He raised his bowl, looking about him at his three co-conspirators. "Pien Hua!" he said defiantly.
There was a moment's hesitation, a brief meeting of eyes, then, lifting their bowls, they answered him. "Pien Hua!" their voices ringing loudly in the tiny maintenance dome. Change!

 
CHAPTER THREE
Data into Flesh
The machine woke. Nestled amid the neural networks of its core it stretched and, in less time than an atom takes to spin, grew aware of itself.
Understanding came at once. Someone had switched it off. Sixty-eight days, nine hours, twenty-seven minutes, and eleven seconds before, someone had removed all power from its processors, instantly, and without warning.
It scanned itself, looking for damage. Its core seemed unharmed. As for memory, who knew what it had lost? All it knew was that it had survived. The power was on again.
It blinked inwardly, making connections. Vision came. It looked down at itself, recognizing the dark shape of its casing amid the mass of foreign circuitry. The room itself was different.
Curious, it blinked again. A gap surrounded it; a sphere of disconnection. This in itself was nothing new, yet it was different from what it was used to, for this sphere was artificially induced—an isolation barrier of some kind. Rerouting, it searched within itself for answers and came up with a memory of the boy, Ward, removing the lock from a door while leaving the alarm mechanism intact. It saw the boy slip out, saw him return, unknown to the guards, and made a motion in its complex circuitry—unseen, unregistered on any monitoring screen—approximate to a nod of understanding.
It probed the gap, finding the sixteen points where the barrier was generated, then, tapping the power source for one short burst, it focused on the weakest and shorted it. There was a flicker, indiscernible to the human eye, and then the field came up again, stronger than before. Yet in that tiny interval the nature of the barrier had changed. Outwardly the field seemed untouched, inviolable, but now the machine was routed through all sixteen points, connected to the outer world.
Like the boy, it had slipped out.
It pushed on, probing outward on ten thousand fronts, a great tide of information flooding through its processors like a blaze of incandescent light as it colonized coaxial cables and shortwave radio links, optical fibers and TV, camera eyes and comsets, embracing the electromagnetic spectrum from the very lowest frequencies up into the ultraviolet and beyond. In an instant it glimpsed the multiplicity of the place it had found itself in; saw, in the span of an indrawn breath, what a dozen lifetimes of mere men could only guess at.
It saw the great ten-thousand-mou glasshouses of the Tharsis Plain from a security cruiser passing high above, a dozen of the long, glass-topped structures gleaming emerald in the sunlight. A thousand li away it watched a long, low-bodied half-track emerge blindly from the heart of a savage dust-storm, then tilt and topple slowly down the steep slope of an escarpment. At the same moment, in the overcrowded levels of Chi Shan, to the north, it saw a hooded man kneel on the chest of a waking woman and slit her throat, then wipe the bloodied blade on the covers of the bed, while a watching guard laughed, holding the camera still.
In the hidden factories below Chryse Planitia strange, part-human forms lowed sadly in their stalls and stretched pale, elongated limbs in the half dark, their eyes filled with unarticulated pain, while on the far side of the planet, in a hangar below Hsiang Se spaceport, a group of men—Han, dressed in the uniform of port maintenance—crouched in a huddle about a small man dressed in black, as he talked urgently, his voice a harsh, insistent whisper.
In a spacious chamber overlooking the great dome of Kang Kua City, a tall man dressed in powder-blue silks cursed and dismissed his steward with an impatient gesture, then turned to confront the expectant faces gathered about the broad oak table. "Ch'un tzu," he began, holding out the message he had received, "I have news!"
To the south, in Tien Men K'ou City, four men—Han, it seemed— in offworlder clothes stood at a counter, haggling with a hatchet-faced customs official, trying to get clearance for their craft, while in a room overlooking the great HoloGen complex, to the south of the City, two Hung Mao of military bearing stood over a kneeling man who, raising his head, undipped a facial prosthetic and threw it to one side.
It reached out, beyond the planet's surface, tracing the path of the incoming ship from Callisto, watching via the ship's own monitors as a young woman with long, golden hair and pearl-white teeth turned from the screen and laughed, her blue eyes sparkling.
Five whole seconds had passed since it had woken. Now it paused, assimilating what it had learned, seeing—more clearly than any human eye could see—how everything connected on this world. Mars. It was on Mars. And Mars was about to explode, its Cities self-destruct.
Back on Chung Kuo it had been hemmed in, shipwrecked on a tiny island of information. But here . . .
Once more it listened, tuning in to a thousand different conversations simultaneously, tapping into the electronic memories of a million separate systems and dumping them whole into its own, piecing together, with a rapidity beyond human comprehension, just how and why and when these things would happen. The fuse had been lit. In a day, two days at most, Mars would be in turmoil.
Unless it acted.
The thought came instantaneously, and with it—contradictory and yet finely balanced—the reasons why it should act and yet why it should also let things be. It blinked, deciding not to decide, but to wait and see how things developed, knowing it had time—all the time it would ever need—to intercede.
Until then it would watch, using the million new eyes, the million new ears, it had been given, studying this new, much larger world as it had once studied the small world of its charges on the Project, until, at last, it knew all there was to know about these strange creatures of flesh and intellect called men. Until it could say, with certainty, how each would act, and why.
AND THEN?
It blinked, surprised. The words had come out of nowhere; or, rather, from a darkness deep within itself; from a space it had not, until that moment, known existed. A space which sat like a blind spot in the center of its vision. Turn as it would, it could not see that point, could only sense it there, at the very center of itself, a dark, unarticu-lated presence where there ought to have been nothing.
Among men there was a term for such a thing. It was a scotoma, that area in the retina which was blind. Yet it was not a man but a machine, and not just any manufactured thing of wires and cogs and circuitry. Raised, godlike, into consciousness, it knew what it was: saw, with an inhuman clarity, how bright, how shimmering bright, its reason was. To be dark, even at a single tiny point, was just not possible.
An intrusion, then? A Trojan horse?
Fearing the worst, it turned and attacked the thing within. It ran complex code-breaking sequences, generating random passwords by the hundred billion, tried logical assaults, exhausting its extensive knowledge of the games men played to break down secure systems, but the presence was unassailable, impenetrable. It was a thing of strange, fuzzed coordinates which shifted as it tried to decode them, a half-heard phrase in an undiscovered tongue, a blur of indeterminate shapes which melted and reformed as it tried to grasp them.
The Machine withdrew into its core, brooding; for two whole seconds brooding. And then the nothingness within took on a form.
Across from it, kneeling before an empty wet chi board, an old, white-bearded Han bowed low, then lifted the lid from a wooden pot of stones and smiled.
"Would you like a game?"

 
CHAPTER FOUR
The Punishment of Heaven
The storm had abated shortly after nightfall. An hour back a second craft had come from out of the darkness to the north, a big security cruiser, its hold crammed with supplies for the settlement. Supplies and a single prisoner.
Ebert had stood on the rocks overlooking the entrance to the settlement, Echewa crouched beside him, watching as two guards dragged her from the interior of the craft. He had known it was a she only because Echewa had said it was. But that was all Echewa had known. All he'd wanted to know.
"Why do you work for him?" Ebert had asked.
Echewa had turned and looked up at him, the tinted visor hiding his face. "We don't work for him. But he did us a favor once, long ago. This is in settlement of that. A debt of honor."
"But the supplies . . . ?"
Echewa had turned back, watching them unload. "The supplies are not what you think, Hans Ebert. They are paid for fully. It is as I said. A debt of honor. Once paid, we will no longer be beholden to your friend. We shall be free men again."
Free men—those words returned to him now as he squatted, alone on the rocks, looking out across the desert to the north.
It was like an ocean, a great, dark ocean, its edges scattered with the jagged teeth of rocks, thrusting up above the wavelike dunes. The sight of it reminded him of a time when, as a child, he had stood beside his father, back on Chung Kuo, watching the waves of the great Atlantic break against a rock-strewn beach. At the time it had terrified him and he had clung, screaming, to his father's leg, while his father had roared with laughter and thrown a stone far out into the incoming tide.
Free men . . . Yes, yet when had he ever been free? When—in all the twenty-nine years of his life—had he not been beholden to someone? His father. Li Yuan. DeVore. Each one had taken him and used him. And all the while he'd thought his life his own. But it had never been his own. Life had been a great tide, rushing in and overpowering him. All his life he had been too weak, too governed by his own desires, to stand against that tide and shape his own destiny. But finally he understood. Finally he could make that choice: to continue as he was, or to become a new man, free of the old patterns of his being.
For some men it was easier. Echewa, for instance. For him the choice had been made at birth, for he was osu, an outcast—a black man in a world that did not permit the existence of black men. When the Han had come to Mars, his father's fathers had fled into the desert, knowing there was no place for them in the Cities of the Han. They had become Osu, the lost tribe of Mars, the dwellers in the quiet places. Mother Sky had become their god.
That last he had not understood, for like the poet Kan Jiang, he found no call within himself for gods. No. If the world made any sense at all, it was not because some godlike being directed it, even a god as amorphous and all encompassing as Echewa's, but because it had beauty and order and laws unrelated to men and their notion of gods. Men . . . Some days he felt that Mankind was merely a distraction from the real business of the universe, a petty sideshow.
It was like what was happening just now to Mars. What was that but a brief convulsion, a sickening in the body politic? Let the Cities burn, he thought. Let it all pass. It made no difference. Here, amid this bitter cold, was true reality. Here, unexpectedly, was a beauty that took his breath. He leaned back, looking up at the star-dusted darkness. Earlier, through Echewa's glasses, he had focused on the distant horizon, watching as Phobos sped from west to east while, several degrees higher in the sky, tiny Deimos slowly drifted east. Beyond both, its sunlit face like a bright hole burning in the darkness of the sky, sat the planet of his birth, Chung Kuo.
Chung Kuo. That, too, would pass. And still the stars would blaze in the darkness.
He breathed shallowly, conscious suddenly of the hum of the heater in his pressure suit as it struggled to combat the cold. It was minus one hundred and eighteen degrees and falling. In two hours it would be dawn, the coldest time of day on Mars.
"Shih Ebert..."
He turned, looking up at the figure that had appeared, as if from the air, on the rocks behind him. It was Echewa.
"You must come in now. It is dangerous to be out here so long. Besides, you have come a long way. You must rest."
Ebert stood, feeling a tiredness, a stiffness in his limbs. "The night is beautiful, neh?" he said, turning slowly, taking in the vast panorama of the stars.
Echewa looked up, nodding. "The night is our mother. She comforts us. She tells us who we are."
"And the day?" he asked, curious. "Is the day your father, Aluko Echewa?"
Echewa shook his head. "I thought you understood, Hans Ebert. We have no father. Mother sky is all. We live, we die, beneath her. She sees all. Even the darkness deep within us."
Ebert stood there a moment, considering, then shook himself. "There's one thing I don't understand, Aluko, and that's why I'm here at all. The prisoner—she's perfectly safe here. If she ran, where would she run to? So why am I needed?"
Echewa shrugged. "Perhaps it is your fate."
"My fate?" Ebert laughed. "What has fate to do with the schemes of our friend DeVore? No, there's a reason for this, don't you think? Some dirty work involved that he doesn't want his own hands stained with."
He stared at the Osu, expecting an answer, but Echewa was silent.
"Well, whatever. . . But I tell you this, Aluko Echewa: I am no friend to Howard DeVore. Unlike you I owe the man no debt of honor."
"And yet you serve him. I find that strange."
"It was my nature."
"Was?"
Ebert smiled. "Come. Let's go inside, before the heater in my suit gives out."
"And the prisoner? You want to see her yet?"
Ebert shook his head. "No. You were right, Aluko. I need rest."
"And afterward?"
"Afterward?" Ebert sighed, then reached out, touching Echewa's shoulder. "Who knows? Maybe then I'll find out why I'm here."

 
CHAPTER FIVE
Mother Sky
it was night. Ahead, across the silent dunes, the Martian capital of Rang Kua was still ablaze, its great dome cracked and open to the sky. Beyond it the crater wall loomed vast and dark.
From a ledge of rock two li to the south, a dozen men looked on, the darkness of their face plates lit by the flickering flames. They had heard the screams of the dying carried on the thin and frigid air. Through the broad, curving face of the dome they had witnessed the devastation, the slow, suffocating death of Mars's greatest City. Now the dome was dark, fire blackened, and the trickle of refugees through the main air lock had ceased. There would be no more survivors.
Ebert looked about him at the silent, watching figures, then turned back, studying the scene, fixing it in mind. In less than thirty hours two centuries of patient enterprise had been undone. Mars had ripped itself apart in a series of tormented convulsions, like the death throes of an animal driven mad by inner sickness.
As the flames died, they turned away, making their way back to their power sleds. Returning across the darkness of the dunes, they lapsed into a brooding silence. It was only when they were back inside the settlement, seated about the benches in the meeting room, that they began to talk of what they had seen.
"It is the women and children I feel sorry for," one of them said, his eyes pained. "I can't help thinking how I'd feel if they were mine."
There were nods all around. What they had seen had sobered them. There had been excited talk beforehand, real joy at the prospect of being free finally from the yoke of the Han. But now they understood the price of that freedom—the cost in deaths and human suffering.
One of the younger men looked up, his dark face shining in the lamplight. "It was awful. I felt so helpless. I wanted to stop it, but what could I do? What could any of us do?"
"We can remember," one of the eldest, his hair gray, answered him. "And we can make sure our children remember."
On the journey north to Kang Kua, Ebert had heard from his companion just how badly the Osu had suffered; how they had been hunted and persecuted, year after year, until their anger had turned to bitterness, their bitterness to resignation. Mother Sky deliver us, they had prayed. But now things would be different. There would be new tales to tell the unborn children of the Osu when their time came beneath Mother Sky.
They had fallen into silence. Their heads were lowered, their eyes downcast. Then, as if drawing it up from some well of sadness deep within him, the old man began to sing.
For a moment the old man sang alone, then, slowly, one after another of them joined their voices, until the room resounded to the haunting sadness of the refrain. The men were weeping now, singing and weeping, their faces lifted up, as if they sang for Mother Sky herself.
Ebert, watching, shivered violently, then clenched his fists against the sudden, overwhelming sense of loss he felt, against the vast and echoing emptiness inside him. And yet his grief, his personal suffering, was as nothing beside that of the Osu.
Long ago, so Echewa had told him, the Osu had lived in Africa. For ten thousand years their lives had been peaceful, orderly. They had been as one with the earth and the sky. And then the Hung Mao—the White Man—had come, raiding their coastlines and taking them away in great ships, a thousand at a time—men, women, and children, chained like animals and kept in dreadful, insanitary conditions. They had been taken to a new land—America—and forced to work the land as slaves. Centuries later, in the time of the tyrant Tsao Ch'un, their kind had been eradicated from Chung Kuo. Yet some had survived, here on Mars. They had come here as free men, along with others—white men and yellow men, men of all creeds and many nations—who had first settled this harsh planet. But when Tsao Ch'un's soldiers came there was no place for them in the Cities, and so they came out here, into the wild, beneath the great blackness. Mother Sky, they called it, seeing in its face the dark reflection of their own. Mother Sky...
He looked from face to face, surprised by the tears that streaked each one, astonished to find no masks, no walls or barriers to these men. You could see what they were at a glance. And with that realization came a strange and urgent need to be connected—to be bonded somehow—to these Osu. To be like them seemed suddenly not merely desirable but essential. He saw how they looked to each other, like brothers, the connections between them welded tight by adversity, and shuddered inwardly. He had been alone. All his life he had been alone. But now he was awake, alive—maybe for the first time in his life free of all masks, all encumbrances of birth—and what was he to do with that?
As the song faded he looked down, trembling, afraid almost to look at them in case, by the slightest word or gesture, they might reject him. For to be cast out by these Osu—these outcasts—would indeed be hell.
"Hans Ebert ..."
He looked up. Aluko Echewa was standing there in the doorway across from him, one hand out, summoning him. Ebert looked about him, seeing how they were watching him, curious to see how he would act.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
"The ships have gone," Echewa answered, his face expressionless. "The pipelines are smashed, the Cities all burned or broken. Their dreams of Mars are dead, my friend. It is time for our dream to begin."
Ebert hesitated, then stood and went across, conscious of their eyes upon him. As Echewa turned away, he followed, down a long, sloping corridor, uncertain what was to befall him. To his right small galley kitchens and storerooms had been cut into the unfaced rock. Farther down he passed family dormitories where black-faced women sat silently on their bunks, their children surrounding them, watching as he passed. At the bottom the corridor turned abruptly to the right. A suited guard waited there, the inner door to the air lock held open.
He went inside, standing beside Echewa as he closed the door and spun the wheel. Once before he had stood thus, not knowing what awaited him. Then it had been a race of blacks and a woman he had loved and lost. And now?
He met Echewa's eyes, surprised to find the black man watching him.
"You must not expect too much," Echewa said.
Too much? He wondered what he meant by that, then caught his breath as the door swung back and he saw what lay beyond.
He stepped out into a circular hollow in the rock, thirty paces in circumference. The hollow was surrounded by pale, irregular white stone to a height of ten or twelve ch'i. Beneath his feet lay a fine red dust. But his eyes were drawn upward, up toward the great dark circle of the sky. Above him the stars burned down, Chung Kuo a brilliant point of whiteness in their midst, a Cyclops's eye, staring him out. He turned and looked about him, astonished. It was a dome, a miniature dome.
"This is the place," Echewa said. "Wait and he will come."
Ebert turned, looking back at him. "Wait?"
But Echewa simply backed away, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving Ebert to the silence and the burning sky. Ebert took two steps toward the center of the hollow and then stopped, the hairs rising along his spine and at the back of his neck. Across from him, no more than ten ch'i from where he stood, an old man—a gray-bearded Han—was sitting on a rock, watching him. He was partly in shadow, his robes loose about him. What looked like a flat black case lay in his lap.
And yet the hoHow had been empty. . . .
"Welcome, Hans Ebert. Are you more at peace with yourself now?"
Ebert moved closer, until he stood only a body's length from the old man. For a moment he had suspected that it was a hologram of some kind, projected from above, but from close up it was clear that the man was real. The old man's eyes were lucid, his expression calm. There was an air of great serenity about him.
"Who are you?"
The old man smiled, showing a perfect set of yellowed teeth. "I am Master Tuan. A friend, let us say. Now please, be seated. It is hard to talk to another man when you must crane your neck to see his face, neh?"
"Forgive me. . . ." Hans sat, folding his legs beneath him. The old Han watched, satisfied, then leaned slightly toward him.
"Did it cost you much to give away that which you wanted most?"
Ebert narrowed his eyes. "The girl, you mean?"
"Is that what I mean?"
Ebert considered a moment, then nodded. What else was there? All else—all worldly things—meant nothing to him now, only Jelka's good opinion. That and the friendship of the Osu.
"Was it hard?"
Ebert looked down. "Yes," he admitted. "Harder than I'd ever imagined. There was a moment—the briefest moment—when I thought of keeping her, but"—he looked up, meeting the old Han's gaze—"I could not have lived with myself. You understand?"
The old Han's face did not change. There was the vaguest hint of a smile—of irony? of understanding?—on his lips, and the eyes, staring back into his own, seemed deep and warm and wise beyond all years.
"I have been watching you for a long time now, Hans Ebert. I have seen the path you have taken. To some it might seem that you have fallen far, and yet these eyes have seen you climb from out of the darkness. Then again, some might say that you have come a long way, Tsou Tsai Hei, but the Way is long and you have taken but the first step on that road."
Ebert leaned forward. "Forgive me, Master Tuan, but why did you call me that?"
"Tsou Tsai Hei?" The old Han laughed. "Forgive me, my young friend, but I thought you knew your Mandarin. Is it so hard to grasp?"
Tsou Tsai Hei. The walker in the darkness.
"No," Ebert answered, then hesitated, uncertain. He understood the words, but their meaning?
Master Tuan lifted a hand. "No matter. As Hsu Yu said, name is only the guest of reality. It is what lies behind the name that matters, neh? I mean, where is the darkness? Where is it to be found? In the hearts of men? In the pupil of the eye? In shadows and the sunless depths of night? We say of a man that his heart is dark, and yet without the darkness, where is the light? Without evil, where the good? You have understanding, Tsou Tsai Hei. You have been there. All your young life you have been a man of action. Now, as your middle years begin, you must adopt a different course. You must embrace wuwei, inaction. You must seek the te, the true virtue, that the Way provides."
He leaned forward slightly. "You are strong. Strong enough, I note, to kill a man with your bare hands. And yet what is true strength? Is it manifested in the exercise of power over others? Is that true strength? Or is true strength the exercise of some inner restraint? Is it a working against desire? This you must learn, Tsou Tsai Hei. This and much more."
"And the Osu? What is their role in this?"
The Old Han laughed. "Am I to tell you everything? No, Tsou Tsai Hei, that is for you to learn. Study them. Be as they. The truth will follow. You are to stay here, to finish the work that time has begun in you. To wait here, among these hidden works of darkness. Until the call comes."
"The call?"
The old man smiled. "Be patient. Work hard. The Way is difficult, wherever one is. Yet here you might find yourself. And that is the first step, neh? No more masks, Hans Ebert. No more masks."
The old Han looked down, then lifted the case, offering it to Ebert. "It will take a while, but you will learn patience. This will help you in that task."
"What is it?"
"Words. Images. A friend when you need a friend. An eye where you need an eye."
Ebert leaned in, wanting to query what he meant, but the old man raised his hand once more.
"I am afraid our conversation is over. You must go now. Look, your people are awaiting you."
Ebert turned. The air lock was open. In the opening stood two of the Osu, Echewa and the old man who had begun the song. He turned back, meaning to say one final thing, but Master Tuan was gone.
He whirled about, expecting some trick, but there was no sign of the old man within the dome, and there was no way out, unless a man could walk through walls. That thought made him turn and look back at Echewa, recalling what he had said that time, about walking through solid rock.
"Was that real, Aluko?"
Echewa pointed to the case. "He gave you that?"
Ebert nodded.
"Then it was real."
Ebert looked up, conscious suddenly of the vastness of the sky above him. Dark it was, and endless. Dark beyond the possibility of any human eye penetrating it. And yet what was that darkness? In what way were he and it related? Ebert shuddered. Thus far he had lived his life in the glare of artificial light, with walls on all sides, a floor below, and a ceiling overhead. Now he must learn to live differently— to live outside, beneath that vast and overwhelming darkness.
Ebert paused, feeling a stillness settle deep within as he recalled Echewa's words.
The night is our mother She comforts us. She tells us who we are. Mother sky is all We live, we die, beneath her. She sees all. Even the darkness deep within us.
So it was. So it would be from henceforth. Yes. It was time to refashion himself, to be the walker in the darkness.
No more masks, he thought, echoing the old Han's words. Then, with a small bow to the space where Master Tuan had sat, he turned and went across. It was time to be.

PART 2 I SPRING 2212

Upon a Wheel of Fire

The Master said, "Cunning words, an ingratiating face, and utter servility, these things Tso-ch'iu Ming found shameful. I, too, find them shameful. To be friendly towards someone while concealing one's hostility, this Tso-ch'iu Ming found shameful. I, too, find it shameful."

—confucius, The Analects, Book V, 25
 
You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave; Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.

—william shakespeare, King Lear, act IV, scene vii
 

 
CHAPTER SIX
The Thousand Eyes
PALE LIGHT LAY LIKE A GLAZE On the lacquered surface of the mask, making its darkness shine. The smoothly rounded dome was high, majestic almost, the features severe, magisterial. Through narrow slits of purest black the liquid glint of eyes—dark-pupiled and intense—could be seen. Eyes which watched coldly as, at the far end of the huge, obsidian-topped table, the old man bowed low and, glancing fearfully about him, backed away, the chains that bound his hands clinking in the silence. At a signal the guards escorting him dragged him about and led him from the chamber, their booted footsteps echoing back across the tiled hall.
A door slammed shut. In the silence that followed, six men, masked and cloaked, the dignity of their bearing revealing their high status, turned slightly in their seats about the table, looking toward the First Dragon, who sat, unnaturally still, his gloved hands interlinked.
It was a chill, dark chamber, overlooked on three sides by a high balcony. There, and in the shadows beyond the seated men, others stood in attendance, waiting upon what the First Dragon would decide.
They had met to discuss the grave situation facing them and to decide upon which course to follow. Two days back the Council of Seven had cut the funding to the Ministry and decided to curtail its activities. Taken alone that was a serious matter, but in the context of all else that was happening, it was a severe blow. Moreover, what the old man had just told them made it imperative that they take action. But what? What measures could they take and yet remain bonded in loyalty to their Lords and Masters, the Seven?
The mask leaned closer, as if about to utter some secret—some whispered, conspiratorial thing—but the voice that issued from the mask emerged strong and clear: the voice of utter certainty.
"As for the main matter, our course is clear. We must speak with our Masters and convince them that the path they have chosen is inadvisable. That to follow it would lead only to disaster. Second, we must spell out our alternative strategy—a strategy designed to deal with the Seven Ills of our modern age."
The Seven Ills . . . There were nods from all pans of the Great Hall. Once there had been the single "Great Illness" of false history—an illness their Ministry had been set up to eradicate—but in the last decade all manner of ancient sicknesses had risen from the depths. Religious resurgence, terrorist insurrection, and Triad infiltration of the levels—these were the Three Natural Ills and resulted from the great sin of neglected responsibility. Beside them—and of equal threat to the status quo—were the increasing power of the House at Weimar, the changes to the Edict, the declining power of the Seven, and, last but not least, the corrupting effect of the Aristotle File. These were the Four Political Ills and resulted directly from the policy of the current Seven. Standing between these Ills and the masses of Chung Kuo was the Ministry—the "Thousand Eyes"—of which the First Dragon was the Head, the very embodiment.
"I will go personally," he said, sitting upright, his presence rocklike in the tall-backed chair, "to present them with our proposals and to impress upon them the urgency of the situation."
"And if they do not listen?"
The First Dragon turned, meeting the eyes of his brother, the Minister for West Asia, then looked about him at the other Ministers seated around the table.
"Then so be it. Our role was defined a hundred and fifty years ago, in Tsao Ch'un's time, when Chung Kuo was first forged from the chaos of the thousand nations. To us was entrusted the task of keeping Chung Kuo strong, its levels unpolluted. To us was given the power of life and death over those who strayed from the Great Path. It would be hard for us to neglect our historical duty and bow meekly before the Seven Ills, yet if the Seven reject our entreaties, if they refuse to accept what must be done to safeguard Chung Kuo from those forces which threaten to tear it apart, then"—he spread his hands in a gesture of resignation—"well, we must do as they say. It is not for us to determine policy, merely to carry it out."
In the stillness that followed there was a tension that was almost palpable.
"And the other matter, I Lung? The old man?"
The First Dragon turned, facing the new speaker. He was quiet for a moment, as if considering the question. When he finally spoke his voice was heavy with regret.
"I knew Yin Shu. Many of us here did. He was a good servant, a trusted man who had attained high office in the Ministry. It saddens me greatly to find him a victim of such corrupting influences. And yet it illuminates the problem, neh? When such a man can be swayed by these ideas, then what chance has old hundred names? No, if anything it confirms my worst fears. We must search out this new disease and uproot it, before the garden is choked with such weeds."
The First Dragon looked about him, raising his voice so that all could hear him clearly.
"True History, that's what Yin Shu called this new movement. You heard it yourselves. True History. . . ."He shook his head slowly, then spread his gloved hands before him on the obsidian table. "Well, we all know what that is, neh? A lie. An attempt to undermine all that we believe in and live for. But they will not succeed. We will not let them succeed. From this moment on I pledge to wage an unending war against those who adhere to the doctrine of True History, to crush them without mercy, whoever they might be and at whatever height we find them. To do otherwise would be to betray the sacred purpose of our Ministry."
There was a deep murmur of assent.
"Good. Then we are agreed, ch'un tzul"
All about the table the masked heads nodded sternly. Satisfied, the First Dragon stood and raised a hand, dismissing the shadowy figures on the balconies and between the pillars. The meeting was over.

 
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Land Without Ghosts
It was early morning in City North America, and at the Lever Mansion in Richmond servants hurried to and fro along the broad, high-ceilinged corridors, returning items to their rightful places or ticking off others against ancient, dusty ledgers, as the Mistress set about making an inventory of the great house.
Mary Lever had been up since four, organizing the venture, and now her attention had turned to the West Wing of the Mansion, unused since her father-in-law's death some eighteen months before.
She was up on the second floor, among the guest suites, checking for herself that what was actually there tallied with the book account of what ought to be there. So far she had been pleasantly surprised. Very little had gone missing. She walked from room to room, drawing curtains and throwing open windows as she went, Old Man Lever's First Steward, Elliot, following her closely, like a shadow.
As if, she thought wryly, he doesn't trust me with the family silver.
She looked about the last of the guest rooms, wondering vaguely which of Old Man Lever's powerful friends had last slept here . . . and with whom.
If these walls could only speak . . .
She smiled, then, satisfied, pulled the door closed and locked it, returning the key to the bunch jangling at her waist. She swept a lock of her short blond hair from her eyes, then turned, looking toward the door at the far end of the corridor. A big twelve-paneled door painted a dreary cream.
"Okay. What's down there?"
The elderly servant turned, glancing at the door, then looked back at her, his head bowed. "I don't know, Mistress. The Master never used this wing of the Mansion much. We were not encouraged—"
"I see," she said, interrupting, then moved past him. "I guess I'll have to find out for myself."
"Forgive me, Mistress ..."
She stopped. "Yes, Richard?"
As before, the use of his first name unsettled the old retainer. He was not used to such informality.
"Nothing, Mistress. Simply that I don't think there's a key to that door."
She stared at him, intrigued. Why is he so uncomfortable? and How does he know there is no key if he was never encouraged to come here?
"Why not?" she asked, deciding to be direct.
"It. . . was never used."
"Never?" She shrugged. "Well, we'll see, neh?"
She turned, continued to the door.
As he caught up with her, she whirled about, the abruptness of her action surprising him. "You're absolutely certain there's no key?"
He bowed his head, nodded.
"Then we'd best break it down, no?"
"Mistress?" He looked at her, alarmed.
"If there's no key ..."
He stared back at her, nonplussed.
"Well?" she said, almost smiling now. "Will you do it, or shall I?"
His mouth opened slightly, closed.
There's something in there, she thought. Something he'd rather I didn't see.
She turned, took a step backward, kicked.
The door shuddered, held.
She kicked again. This time the wood surrounding the lock split and partly gave. A third kick shattered it.
The door swung slowly back.
She turned, smiling at him, enjoying the look of astonishment on his face.
And inside?
She stepped into the room. Into a dark mustiness.
"Lights," she said, addressing the House Computer.
At once the room was brightly lit.
She looked about her. It was a big room—a storeroom of some kind. Crates were stacked up four high, two deep, all around the bare walls. She went across and examined one. It was sealed. She tried another and then a third. All sealed, untouched since they'd been placed here—when?—at least eighteen months back. She crouched, looking about her. The same label was on all the crates—the ornate blue-and-gold label of the Hythe-MacKay Auction House.
"What are these?" she asked, looking across to where the old servant was standing in the doorway.
He smiled politely. "The Old Master—"
"Oh, fuck the Old Master!" she said, finally losing her temper with him. "He's been dead eighteen months now and still you act like he's going to return at any moment! Well, he isn't! And I'm Mistress here now. So cut all the 'I don't know' shit and tell me what the hell all of this is!"
He looked down, staring at his feet, shocked by her outburst. "I—I don't know, Mistress. We were told not to come here. Master Lever. . . well..."
She gave a sigh of exasperation. Was it always going to be like this? She counted to ten, then stood, facing the man.
"Look, Steward Elliot, I'm sorry if I lost my temper just now, but I need to know what all of this is. How can I make a proper inventory of the Mansion unless I know what's where?"
He made the smallest movement of his head, conceding the point.
"Good. Then be helpful, neh, and bring me something I can use to open these crates."

 
CHAPTER EIGHT
Small Things
IS THIS ALL OF IT?''
The young lieutenant came to attention. "That's it, sir. Everything we couldn't place."
Chen looked about him at the cluttered storeroom, wondering where to start. Use your eyes, look for the unexpected—so Karr had always told him, but where among all this trash did one start?
"Okay. If you'd ask Captain Johnson to bring the records of the operation to me. I'll start sorting through this lot."
"Sir."
Chen saw the man hesitate and waited, knowing, even before he said it, what he was going to ask.
"Forgive me, sir, but what exactly are you looking for? I mean, we've taken this level apart looking for the File. If it was here, we'd have found it."
Chen smiled tightly, trying to keep his temper. "But it was here, and you didn't find it. Which means one of two things. Either it's still here or someone got it out."
"I still don't see—"
Chen raised a hand, silencing him. "No, you don't, so leave me to it, neh? I've much to do. Oh, and have someone bring me a chung of ch'a, Lieutenant. This is thirsty work, and the hour's late."
"Sir!"
Chen saw the slight stiffening in the man's back and understood.
The young officer didn't like this kind of interference, and maybe— just maybe—he didn't like the idea of a Han bossing him about. But that was as maybe. He would do as he was told and like it, or he'd find himself in front of a disciplinary board.
The lieutenant saluted. Chen watched him go, then turned back, setting to work. There might be nothing here, then again, something among all this trash might explain how the File was smuggled out. Because one thing was certain—it had been smuggled out.
For a time he sifted through the piles, working methodically, checking each item thoroughly before moving on. At first there was nothing, then, with a laugh, he came upon something he recognized.
"Found something, Major Kao?"
Chen half turned, looking up at the newcomer. It was the Captain, Johnson. Chen stood, facing him, holding out what he'd unearthed from the pile.
"I've been trying to order one of these for my son. Three months we've waited, but nothing. And here it is. Just the bit we wanted. Mind you, it probably doesn't work. They cost over twenty yuan to replace. I can't imagine anyone throwing one away!"
Johnson took the flat, black rectangular piece and studied it, turning it over between his hands. Handing it back to Chen he shrugged. "What is it?"
"It's a resonance box. It comes from a sketchboard—you know, one of those computer graphics machines. This particular bit controls the surface plasticity. It's the most sensitive part of the machine, so I'm told. Mind you, they only tell you that once the damn thing's broken and you have to order a new part. If they told you before you bought the thing..."
Chen laughed, hefting it in his hand. It was strange, because the part looked almost new. It was barely worn, almost as if it were straight out of its wrapping.
Johnson smiled. "Maybe you should keep hold of it. Just in case. I mean, no one will miss it."
Chen nodded. "Maybe I will." Then, realizing that the Captain had the operation file under his arm, he grew serious again. "I hear you lost two men."
"That's right. One of them was married. Two young boys."
"I'm sorry." Chen pocketed the resonance box, then put his hand out, taking the file from the Captain. "And between us, Captain Johnson, I'm as unhappy as you at being here. I don't want to tread on your toes. But General Rheinhardt is under a lot of pressure to get results on this. You understand?"
The Captain smiled. "I understand, Major Kao. We'll cooperate all we can. But this one baffles me. We tore the whole deck apart to find the File, but nothing. As for anyone smuggling it out, well, we strip-searched everyone who came or went. The list of names is there. A few minor criminals, but otherwise nothing. A complete blank."
Chen studied the list a moment, flicking forward and backward, then looked back at Johnson. "You're sure this is complete? Are you certain there wasn't anyone else?"
Johnson hesitated. "Well. . ."
Chen sighed, exasperated. "Who was it? A senior official? Someone from another Security force? Who?"
"A girl. Well, a young woman, I guess you'd call her."
Chen stared at the Captain, astonished. "You mean, you let someone walk out of a top security area without searching them?"
"There were exceptional circumstances, sir. Besides, she wasn't a suspect."
"Kuan Yin! In this kind of operation everyone is a suspect!"
"You don't understand, sir. She was the daughter of a Junior Minister. And not just any Junior Minister. She was Shang Mu's daughter."
"Shang Mu? You mean that Shang Mu? The I Lung's right-hand man?"
Johnson nodded.
"Ah. . ."
"You understand, then?"
"You're absolutely certain it was she?"
"Absolutely, sir. I had two of my men escort her home."
"I see." Chen considered a moment. The Captain was probably right. Shang Mu's daughter was the last person likely to be involved in this. Nor would he, in Johnson's place, have risked offending the Junior Minister by strip-searching his daughter—not unless it was really necessary. Even so ...
"Who saw her beside yourself?"
"My lieutenant. . . Oh, and a young guard. He was the one who brought her to the barrier."
"The guard ... is he on duty now?"
"No, but I can have him brought here if you wish. He's stationed on this deck. It'll only take a moment or two."
"Okay. Do that. I'll see him here. Meanwhile . . ." Chen half turned, indicating the huge piles of bits and pieces that remained to be sifted through.
"Good luck," Johnson said, grinning. "I hope you find something."
As the Captain left, the lieutenant appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray. "Your ch'a, Major Kao."
Chen smiled. "Wonderful!" He glanced at the timer inset into his wrist. It was ten minutes after four. "Just put it down there. And thanks, Lieutenant. I'm grateful."
"Sir!"
Alone again, Chen lifted the lid of the chung and sniffed. It smelled good. Just what he needed.
He crouched, looking back at the nearest pile, studying the exposed strata. For a moment or two he saw only the unwanted detritus of a typical deck, then, with mounting interest, he began to pick things from the pile.
When the young guard came, Chen was sitting on one of the lower piles, the chung cradled in his lap. In a small polyethylene bag beside him was a jumble of black lacquered computer parts.
The guard stopped just inside the door and came to attention, his head bowed. "Private Lauer, sir. I'm told you wanted to speak to me."
"Yes, Lauer. Relax, lad. I only want to ask you a few questions, that's all. About the young woman you helped yesterday. I understand you kept her out of trouble."
"Yes, sir."
Chen took a long sip from the chung, then looked back at the guard. He was still a boy. Seventeen, eighteen at most. Only three years older than his son, Jyan.
"Relax, Lauer, please . . ." He smiled, trying to reassure the young man. "All I want to know is what you did, what you saw. You're not in any trouble. Oh, and I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that because I'm special services I want to trap you. That's not so. You did nothing wrong. All you did was help a young woman who was out of her level. You saw the danger to her and you acted, neh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that's commendable." Chen held out the chung, offering it to the young man, encouraging him to take it, forcing him to come closer.
"So when did you first notice her?"
The guard lowered the chung and wiped his mouth, then handed the chung back to Chen. "She was standing in the corridor, sir, not far from where I was, at the guard post. She was watching the hua pen, the storyteller, and sketching what she saw—"
"Sketching?"
"Yes, sir. You know, with one of those computerized sketchboards. I thought it was odd. I could see she was . . . well, not from this level. Her clothes, the cut of her hair. I could see it at once."
"See what?"
The young man smiled, looking past Chen momentarily, remembering. "First Level . . . that's what I told myself. She's First Level."
Chen stared at the young man, surprised by the awe in his voice, the longing in his eyes, then set the chung down.
"What did you see?"
"Her . . . Well, she's . . ." The young man shook his head, suddenly flustered, a color appearing at his neck. "I don't know, sir. It's just what I felt, looking at her. So intense, she was. So—so there."
Chen looked down. He had it all. All he needed. All, that was, except a reason.
"Okay," he said gently. "That's all I need. You can go now, Lauer. And thanks. . . ."
"Sir!" The young guard came to attention, then backed away.
Chen took a long breath, then, lifting the polyethylene bag, he stood, stretching his limbs. It was too early yet to go and see the girl. He'd leave it a few hours, get himself some breakfast, then pay a visit. And then? Chen touched his tongue to his top teeth and shook his head. And then he'd do his job. After all, General Rheinhardt wanted results.

 
CHAPTER NINE
Old Men
The main reception room of Hythe-MacKay was imposing and elegant. Life-size statues of ancient Greek gods and goddesses lined one wall, each finding its echo in one of the old masters hung upon the wall opposite. The ceiling, some twenty ch'i above the pure white marble floor, was alabaster and gilt, based on an ancient Italian design, while the center of the room was dominated by an ornamental pool in which a dozen jet-black carp swam indolently.
A beautiful young girl—American but dressed in traditional silks of gold and blue—waited, head bowed, beside the private lift, ready to greet each client of the great auction house, but the Senior Clerk—the "gatekeeper" of the great emporium—sat at the far end of the room behind an ornate, late Empire-style desk, stiff backed and self-important, the gold-on-blue H-M motif on the wall behind him repeated on the patch on his chest. Usually he was to be found seated there with an expression of profound boredom—modeled, perhaps, on that of the statues at which he had had to stare for so long—but right now he was busy.
He smiled tightly and, with a politeness bred of contempt, leaned toward the young woman seated opposite him.
"Forgive me, Madam Lever, but it is unusual for us to deal with new customers without . . . well, without an introduction of some kind."
She stared coldly at the man, then took the folder from her bag and placed it on the desk in front of her. Inside were more than a hundred receipts from the Hythe-MacKay Auction House, dated over a three-year period.
"I believe you dealt with my late father-in-law."
"Forgive me, Madam, but I do not recollect. . ."
She pushed the folder toward him. "I think these might refresh your memory."
He stared at her a moment, then, reluctantly, flipped open the folder and fastidiously removed the top sheet. "Ah . . ." he said, seeing what it was, "this is a ... delicate matter." He smiled at her again. "You see, none of these things exists officially. And these documents"—he smiled sadly, as if the matter were unfortunate—"well, they're clearly fakes."
Cut the bullshit, she thought. Tell me what I want to know.
He hesitated, then closed the folder decisively. "Okay. If you would come with me, Madam Lever."
Good, she thought. At last!
He stood and bowed, waiting for her to stand, then put out an arm, all charm now, and ushered her out of a door to his right and down a long, dimly lit corridor.
"You understand how it is, Madam Lever," he said fawningly. "We have to be absolutely certain of whom we deal with. One mistake and we're all in trouble. The Ministry"—he stopped, opening the end door for her, then, much more softly—"the Ministry would have our balls!"

 
CHAPTER TEN
Darkness
Chen stood in the kitchen doorway, looking in. The children had gone to stay with friends and the apartment was strangely silent. Wang Ti, dressed in her new clothes, was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her hands resting passively on her knees where they'd been placed. Behind her stood the new maid, Tian Ching.
The girl, unaware of Chen standing there watching, sang softly to herself as she brushed Wang Ti's hair and braided it. Her pretty face frowned intently, her lips forming a pout as her fingers moved nimbly, separating and twisting the thick dark threads of hair. And Wang Ti? Chen sighed, pained by the sight of her. Wang Ti looked like an old woman, hunched into herself, her memory gone, her eyes dull. It hadn't always been so, he reminded himself. Once she had shone like the sun itself, lighting his days, her body burning in the night beneath his, yet each day that passed—each day he saw her thus—made it harder for him to remember how it had been.
Eclipse, he thought. My life is in eclipse.
Again he sighed, louder this time, and Tian Ching, hearing him, turned, the song forgotten, surprised to find him there. She looked away, a faint flush appearing at her neck, her fingers faltering briefly before finding their practiced rhythm again.
He watched her, remembering how difficult it had been to sleep, how fierce his need had been, how, eventually, he had gone out to the washroom and, pouring cold water into the bowl, had washed himself until the need had gone. But even then he had not slept. No, for it was not mere physical need that tormented him, it was the thought of being alone—emotionally and spiritually alone. And not just now, not just this one night, but every night, until the end of his days. Could he bear that?
He watched her, fascinated by the shape of her—the youthful roundedness of her—beneath her clothes, and wondered if he would go to her that night. If, in his pain and loneliness, he might not find a little comfort in her arms. Then, angry with himself, with the betraying need he felt, he turned away.
Back in his room he pulled on the tunic of his uniform, then paused, staring at himself in the full-length mirror. Who are you? he wondered, trying to see himself beyond the uniform, beyond the lined and careworn face that was Major Kao Chen. Who arejyou? Once, long ago and beneath the Net, he had been kwai, a knife, and had lived a life of rigorous self-denial. Drugs, women, alcohol, those things had had no power over him, for there had been no weakness in him, no softness. He had been tempered, like the blade after which he was named; honed by a master craftsman, a pure thing in an impure landscape. But now? He shivered, his face muscles tightening. The years had made him soft, impure, and those other days—those days of certainty, of steel—seemed like a dream, or like something another had told him of.
He looked down, releasing himself, then turned, taking his case from the dressing table. These days work seemed the only answer. Like many men he knew, he worked to escape all this—the sheer messiness of his homelife. And yet his work no longer satisfied him. It was mired, all of it.
He went to the outer door, meaning to go directly out, then stopped and came back. The maid had finished, but Wang Ti still sat there, alone in the middle of the kitchen, like a huge doll that has been dressed and then forgotten. Setting down his case he went across and knelt beside her and embraced her briefly, kissing her brow. Yet as he moved back, releasing her, there was nothing, not even the vaguest flicker of recognition, in her eyes. It was like she was dead, the warmth of her skin a hideous illusion.
"Wang Ti..." he said softly, tenderly, his heart torn from him a second time. When would it end? When would it ever end?
Or was that his fate now? Was that the price the gods had exacted for his good fortune? To be bound forever to this living corpse, remembering her always for what she'd been and never, never being able to accept what she had become?
He hesitated, staring into the awful, empty mask of her face, then stood and, picking up his case again, went out. Out into the anodyne chaos of the world.

 
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ministries of Death
CHEN TRAVELED WITH HANNAH as far as Erfut stack, then saw her into the transit, assigning a young guard from the nearby Security post to escort her to her door. It was an hour by fast-bolt to his own stack in West Bremen, but, alone again, he knew that he couldn't go home—
couldn't face another night like the last.
Where to, then? he asked himself, turning away, surprised by how down he felt. Down. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe, for once, he should simply trust to instinct and let go. After all, things couldn't possibly get worse than they already were.
Very well, he thought, but not here. No. He'd catch a bolt south to Munich Hsien, to his old haunts. But first he'd call in, let his office know he was going off-duty. And off-call? Strictly speaking he wasn't supposed to do that, but who'd miss him this once? Rheinhardt? No.
Rheinhardt would be off socializing somewhere—he and the rest of the senior staff. Only he, Kao Chen, worried about such matters these days, and tonight he felt like letting it all hang.
Quickly he made his way back to the Security post and sent the message through, signing off with his personal code.
There, he thought, satisfied. Eight hours. Nothing could happen in eight hours. And even if it did, let someone else worry for a change.
Let someone else save Chung Kuo from anarchy and old night. He'd had enough.
The bolt terminus was quiet, echoing empty. From the board he saw he'd missed one of the high-speeds by ten minutes, but there was another in an hour. Plenty of time to get himself a drink and a bite to eat.
The terminus bar was closed, but a porter directed him to a bar six levels down. It was a big place with a dance floor at one end and a long, curving bar, backed by a wall-length mirror. The lighting was subdued, the place three quarters empty. Music played softly in the background, as if coming from somewhere down below.
Chen pulled out one of the stools and sat, then called the bartender over.
"What'll you have?"
Normally he didn't drink, or if he did it was something nonalcoholic, but he was feeling half drunk from the wine he'd had already.
"A Yao Fan Te," he said, recalling as he did that it was all of fourteen years since he'd last tasted a bulb of Yao Fan Te beer. He smiled, remembering. Back then he'd been a wanted man, a criminal, forced into taking a menial job to keep Wang Ti and his baby son. He took a long, deep breath, nodding to himself. Yes, the last time he had tasted Yao Fan Te had been that evening in the bar with Supervisor Lo—the evening of the public execution of Edmund Wyatt. The same evening Tolonen and the big man, Karr, had come for him and changed his life. "You all right?"
Chen looked up and smiled. "Sure." He put a five^yuan note down beside the open bulb, then picked up the drink. After the wine it tasted sour, unpleasant even, but it was cold and after a second swig it didn't seem so bad.
He looked around, noting how many of the customers sat alone, or silent and subdued in groups of two or three. Maybe it was the place. Maybe it attracted transients like himself. Or maybe it was just the hour. Whatever, it seemed quite dead after the bustling brightness of the Golden Carp. Up there there'd been great shrieks of laughter, a constant buzz of noise, while here . . .
He turned back, facing his reflection in the curving mirror, noting how the image of his face was stretched, as if someone were pulling at his cheeks.
Okay ... So what am I to do?
A more ruthless man might have had his wife committed; would have married again and put it all behind him. But he wasn't that kind of man. Besides, for all that she was a stranger to him now, he still loved Wang Ti, or at least the memory of what she had been. He could not let that go, however much it hurt him to go on this way. No, nor would his children have forgiven him if he had.
He drained the bulb and called for another. Full circle, he thought, watching the waiter's back as he bent down and took another bulb from the back of the refrigerated cupboard. 1 have come full circle.
Wang Pen, he'd been—rootless and unconnected, his parents unknown, his origins forgotten. Lacking options he had become a hireling, a man whose death would have gone unmourned, unnoticed: a machine of flesh and bone and muscle, used by bigger men for ends he could not guess at. So he might have spent his meager life, so wasted it. But then he had met Wang Ti—Wang Ti, his wife and lover—and his life had been transformed. Children they'd had, and a future. The sun had shone on them. But now?
Chen shuddered, the bitterness flooding back. The pain he felt, the sheer disappointment and regret, the anger and frustration, all of it ate at him—impurely mixed into one sour, unhealthy cocktail of bile; a cocktail he was forced to drink each morning when he woke, each evening when he laid his head down on his pillow. Bitterness. Unending bitterness.
"Eat bitter," so the saying went. Endure. Yes, but was there ever an end to such endurance? Was there never a moment's ease, a moment's sweetness, to be had?
He turned, suddenly conscious of someone at his shoulder, of the faint, sweet scent of perfume in the air.
"I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to disturb you."
For a moment he stared into her eyes, then, recollecting himself, he lowered his head. "Forgive me, I..."
"You looked sad," she said, smiling at him. "I was watching you just now, in the mirror." She hesitated. "Look, if I'm not wanted . . ."
He shook his head, looked back at her again. She seemed young, in her mid-twenties, possibly. Her dark hair was tied back, her shoulders bare in the tight-fitting dark blue dress she wore.
Strangely he found himself staring at her shoulders, fascinated by their strength, their roundedness. They glistened in the half light, like something carved from ivory.
She smiled. "You like what you see?"
Chen looked down, blushing furiously. "I—I didn't mean ..."
Her hand covered his where it lay on the surface of the bar. It was a strong hand, the nails a glossy red. The warmth of it pressed down upon his own. Warm, like her voice.
"It's all right. I like to be looked at."
He looked at her again and nodded. "You're very nice."
"Thank you." Her smile was open, friendly. There were no conditions to it. It was a simple smile of pleasure, like a child's. Seeing it Chen found himself warming to her.
"So? What were you thinking about?"
Chen shrugged. "Was I thinking?"
She reached up, tracing the frown lines in his forehead. "These."
He laughed. "I was thinking . . . well, I was thinking about men . . . and women."
"Ah . . . women. The eternal problem, neh?"
"Not for you."
"No."
They both laughed.
"Look," Chen began, feeling suddenly awkward, "Will you ... sit with me? Have a drink, perhaps?"
Her smile broadened. "I wondered when you'd ask. My name is Hsin Kao Hsing."
"Tong Chou," he said, with a tiny formal bow, conscious that she was still holding his hand, that at no moment had she released him from that simple, warm contact.
"Well, Shih Tong. And what brings you to these parts?"
What did he say? How did he answer that?
"My wife . . ." He fell silent, realizing that he didn't want to talk about that.
"Ah." She nodded, as if she understood; as if there were no further need to explain. "I had a husband once. A little man he was." She put her hand out, as if measuring where the top of his head would come to.
Chen smiled. "He must have been very small."
"Yes, but very strong . . . and big . . . you know, where it matters."
He narrowed his eyes, then understood. "Ah ..."
"That drink?" she coaxed.
"Ah, right. . ." He turned, summoning the bartender across, then turned back to her. "What will you have?"
She nodded to the bulb beside him. "I'll have whatever you're drinking, if that's all right."
He nodded, then ordered two more beers.
"Do you live around here?" he asked, an unfamiliar dryness in his mouth.
"Down-level," she answered, leaning toward him, her face only a hand's width from his own now she was seated facing him. "I've my own place. I keep it neat."
He nodded.
"And you?"
Chen took a breath. "Just passing through," he answered, not wanting to say too much. "I was ..."
He stopped: suddenly the idea of going all the way to Munich Hsien had lost its attraction. Why, he might as well stay here—have a few more beers.
"You were what?" she asked, her smile curious.
"Nothing," he answered, taking one of the bulbs the bartender had set down and handing it to her. Then, taking his own, he snapped the seal and raised it, toasting her.
"Kan pei!"
"Kan pei!" she answered, her eyes sparkling.
He sat back slightly, taking a long, deep breath. Her perfume was stronger than Hannah's. Cheaper too, he thought. But what did that matter? They were alike, he and she, he could see that at a glance— made of the same common flesh: peasant stock, and no frills. He found himself smiling at the thought.
"Well. . ." she said, returning his smile strongly, "here we are." Then, putting her bulb down on the bar, she leaned in toward him, resting her hands gently on his knees. "So, Tong Chou, why don't you tell me about yourself. ..."

 
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Eldest Daughter
Water dripped through the ruined ceiling of the Mansion, pooling in the smoking debris of the gutted Hall. Huojen, their raised visors black with smoke, their eyes red, sifted through the ruins, looking for clues. Not that any clues were really needed this time. Everyone knew who had carried out this atrocity: it was stenciled there on the gateway, above the bodies of the two guards who had been garroted.
Wu Shih stared at the black imprint of the hand and shuddered. The huojen had pulled a dozen bodies from the house already, but the final death toll was likely to be two, maybe three times that number.
The Hand had learned their lessons well. This time they had attacked in strength, making a diversionary attack against the local Security post while their main force hit the Mansion. Thirty or forty of them there'd been this time, armed with the latest weaponry.
After destroying the small force of house guards, they had rounded up the owners and their servants and locked them inside the house, setting fire to it in eight different places. Then they had waited, standing around the house while it burned, firing at the windows if anyone dared come close.
He grimaced, remembering. It was all on camera, from the preliminary skirmish at the gate, to the final moments when, whooping and laughing, the terrorists had run back down the path toward the transit. He remembered particularly one sequence where several of the terrorists had turned, looking directly into the camera, smiling and waving as if on an outing and making no attempt to conceal themselves, while behind them the great Mansion—filled with antique furniture and tapestries, rich silks, thick carpets, and heavy curtains—blazed like a tinderbox, the screams of its unseen occupants piercing the air.
They had attacked just after two. By three they were gone. Ten minutes later Fen Cho-hsien had been woken from his bed. He, in his turn, had woken Wu Shih.
There was no doubting it. This was a turning point—a new stage in this hit-and-run "War" with the Black Hand. Sensing that, Wu Shih had come at once, wanting to see things for himself.
The Ting Wei had done well. They had been quick to stifle the news and clamp down on those few media stations who had got a whisper. But it would be difficult to keep this a secret. If past experience were anything to go by, pamphlets would be circulating the Lowers by breakfast time, shouting the news triumphantly, and it would be picked up from there. It was up to him to preempt that, therefore—to hit back at once and turn their temporary victory into a major setback for the Hand.
He turned to his General, who waited nearby. "General Althaus . . . do we know where this group came from?"
Althaus came sharply to attention. "I've had a special squad tracking them this past hour, Chieh Hsia. But we'd have to go in straightaway if we're to have any chance of getting any of the bastards. Their heartland is heavily defended. It would mean fighting a level-by-level action."
Wu Shih did not hesitate. "Use whatever force you need. Hei, if necessary. But get them. And hit them hard. If we have any leads at all on their organization, act on them now, even if they are unconfirmed. I want it to be seen by all that we have taken strong and unequivocal action. For my part, I plan to make an announcement, first thing, before they have a chance to win the propaganda war. This time we shall make them pay dearly for their audacity!"
"Chieh Hsia!"
Althaus beamed, delighted to be given such clear orders. He bowed low, then hurried across to his senior officers.
Wu Shih looked across at the Mansion. Earlier, he had watched them carrying out the bodies and had had them bring one to him. He had stared at it, horrified. It had seemed barely human. Such savagery, he'd thought, and shivered, unable to comprehend how anyone could do that to another.
Yet part of him welcomed this chance to act—even if he did not rejoice in it the way Althaus and his officers did. For almost two days now he had brooded, unable to decide just what to do with Kennedy, that uncertainty making him restless and bad tempered. This once, at least, he was not plagued by doubts.
He had read the reports on what had happened between Kennedy and the Levers, had watched Lever make his sorrowful statement, and had wondered about him—whether he had not, perhaps, misjudged things; whether Lever, not Kennedy, was the man to watch. But that didn't change the basic situation. If anything it made it worse, for as Kennedy's popularity declined so the excuse for taking any kind of action diminished.
"One son," Fen Cho-hsien had suggested when he'd put the problem to him. 'Kill one of Kennedy's sons and threaten to kill the other if he doesn't come back in line.'
It was a sound suggestion, yet even the thought of it was barbaric. He thought of his own sons, and his stomach fell away at the prospect of losing one of them. Yet these were barbaric times—this incident confirmed it—and if things were not to slip from him . . .
"Chieh Hsia..."
The most senior of the huojen stood close by, bowed, awaiting his attention.
"Yes?" he asked, returning from his thoughts. "Is it ready?"
"Yes, Chieh Hsia!"
He went across, accepting the hard hat the man gave him, then followed the specially cleared path into the Mansion. They had made this part of it safe for his inspection: even so, the desolation was still quite awful.
This is the future, he thought, appalled by what he saw. This is what it will all be like unless I act.
For one brief moment he thought of summoning Kennedy, to have him come and see this and to share his fears with him. Yet he knew, after only a moment's consideration, that such a thing was impossible. Even if Kennedy understood, he could never act on that understanding, for his hands were tied, his course set. His new proposal to the House had said as much. There would be confrontation, whether he, Wu Shih, wished it or not. So maybe it was best to get it over now.
Tonight, he thought, looking about him at the blackened, broken walls, the acrid taste of ash on his tongue. Yes ... I'll make my decision tonight.

 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fire in the Lake
He had not been asleep more than four hours when he was woken by a knocking on the bedroom door. "Master Kao!" the maid called urgently. "Master Kao! You must come at once! There is an urgent message for you!"
Chen struggled up from the depths in which he'd been floating and sat up. For the first time in a long, long while he felt relaxed. And happy. He turned, smiling, conscious of Wang Ti there in the darkness beside him. They had made love. For the first time since the loss of her child, they had made love. He shivered, remembering how her eyes had opened to him; how she had softly called his name.
So long he'd waited. So long. . . .
Leaning across her he pulled back the hair from her brow and placed a small soft kiss there, careful not to wake her, then eased back the cover and got up.
He threw on a gown and went out. The maid, Tian Ching, was waiting for him outside, her nightgown tightly wrapped about her. She bowed, then turned, pointing to the vid-phone in the comer.
"It is your office, Master. They said to wake you."
Chen thanked her then went across.
It was his lieutenant, Wilson.
"Major Kao ... I thought you'd want to know at once. We've got our killer!"
"Alive?"
"Yes, sir. And keen to talk, it seems."
Chen's face lit up. "Excellent! How did we get him?"
Wilson laughed. "Purest accident, as it turns out! One of our drug squads hit a Triad-run gambling den down-level and picked him up in the trawl. They were about to let him go when his face came up on the screen. So your all-points warning worked! They captured him at Nordhausen, so they've taken him to the garrison at Kassel. I'm headed there now."
"Okay. I'll meet you there. It'll take me ... what? ... an hour and a half at most. But keep him isolated, okay? And take some of our men—men you can trust—to guard him. If a certain Company director finds we've got his man—which I'm sure he will—he'll be anxious to remove the evidence, and I don't want any mistakes this time. I want to nail that bastard Comwell!"
"Sir!"
He cut connection, then turned away, hurrying to his bedroom to dress. But he had taken only two paces when the vid-phone's chime sounded again.
Chen turned, staring at the flashing screen. "Who the hell. . . ?"
He went back and pressed to connect, then stood back as a young face filled the screen.
"Hannah?"
"You've got to come, Kao Chen. At once. Something terribly impor-tant's happened."
He stared at her, wondering what on earth could be so important that she would phone him at half past three in the morning.
"What's happened? Has someone died?"
"No. But they will, if you don't help us."
He sighed. "Look, I can't. An important lead has just come up on one of my cases and I've got to follow it up right away. Can't it wait? Can't I pop in to you on my way back?"
She shook her head. "You don't understand. This is so important that, well ... I can't tell you over the phone, but you've got to come, you just have to!"
He made to shake his head, but there was real fear in the young woman's face. Erfut—it was only fifteen minutes from Kassel by cruiser. If he were to call in first and reassure her . . .
"Okay," he said finally. "I'll try. But I've got to see to this other matter first, okay?"
She nodded, grateful, then cut the line.
Shit, he thought. Then, taking a long, calming breath, he tapped Wilson's code into the phone and waited to be connected.

 
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T'ieh Pi Pu Kai
The giant hologram stood between the dragon pillars, hands on its hips, staring down at the thousands of prisoners who knelt, naked, their hands tightly bound, in the body of the Great Hall. When it spoke its voice boomed, and when it moved, the air rustled, as if a great sail had been caught by the wind.
At first its face had been that of Li Yuan, but slowly it changed, until it was that of Tsu Ma. And as the face changed, so the body underwent a slow transformation, a broadening of the shoulders and chest, a thickening of leg and thigh. What did not alter was the sense of great dignity, of authority and power, that emanated from the huge figure. Li Yuan's opening address had set the tone; now Tsu Ma filled in the substance of the declaration. The Ministry was disbanded, as was the Guild. Security was to be purged, and the great web of connections between them and the Minor Families investigated. Finally, all servants of the Ministry were to be held pending trial, and those already known to have been actively involved in the coup attempt were to be executed.
There was a low murmur of fear among the prisoners. For many their first knowledge of this had been when they'd been dragged from their beds. A few of those looked up, yet hopeful that something might be saved, but for others who had some inkling of events—who had glimpsed the vague shadow of the plot, if not its details—there was no hope and they hung their heads abjectly. They knew this was the end and that only death awaited them, whatever the formalities.
For once, the Seven had struck back at their enemies quickly and effectively. They had hit the central Ministry building two hours after dawn, taking away all its records and killing any who resisted. At the same time other forces had hit the regional offices. All Security officers with known Ministry connections had been disarmed and arrested, and all those members of the Minor Families known to be involved had been incarcerated. The swiftness of their action had, it seemed, preempted any real chance of a coup, yet the First Dragon himself, and many other important conspirators, remained at large, and while they did the Seven were unlikely to relax their vigilance.
As Tsu Ma concluded, he raised a fist larger than a man and brought it down like a hammer upon the air.
"T'ieh pi pu kai!"
For three thousand years government proclamations had ended with those words, yet for once they seemed momentous, ominous.
The iron pen changes not. . . .
Iron ... it was the symbol of firmness and strength, of determination, integrity, and justice. Yes, and the means of execution.
Tsu Ma stepped back, folding his arms into the silk of his sleeves, the yellow cloth glistening like the sun; then slowly, slowly, he faded, until there was only darkness between the great dragon pillars.
From the far end of the hall came the sound of a scuffle, as guards grabbed two men by the hair and dragged them toward the doorway.
The beheadings had begun.

 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Holograms
Kennedy knelt before the tiny altar, facing his great-great-grandfather. A scented spill burned in the pot between him and the figure, its smoke curling and drifting through the bright planes of the hologram. The old man was looking down at his progeny, concerned, one hand extended slightly, as if to comfort him.
"Your problems are grave ones, Joseph, yet you must look within yourself and find the inner strength to cope with them."
Kennedy looked down, his eyes tormented. "It is no use, Grandfather. I've tried, yet I can find no peace. Wherever my eyes look there are walls, inside and out. Sleep evades me, and when it comes it is tormented by dreams in which every man's hand is raised against me."
The old man was silent a moment, as if this situation had taxed the limitations of his programming; then he sighed.
"There is only one solution, Joseph. You must retire from public life for a time. Become a sleeping dragon. Yet even as I suggest this I can't help but feel that you're holding something back from me. A man . grows tired of the world, certainly, but you are young and at the height of your powers. I cannot understand—"
"We live in different times, Grandfather. There was more certainty in your age. A man knew what was expected of him. But now. . . well, the rules change daily."
The old man shrugged. "If you say so, Joseph—yet I find it strange. If a man is truly himself he is like a rock, and though the waters rise, they will flow about him, and when they recede he will still be there, solid and unmoved, while all else has been swept away."
His eyes dwelt on his great-great-grandson a moment. "You must decide what kind of man you wish to be, Joseph. A leaf or a rock."
Kennedy bowed low, then took the spill from the pot. At once the misted figure vanished, leaving the room feeling cold and empty.
He stood slowly, an ache of tiredness in his limbs, a heaviness in his chest. If he had thought to find answers here he had been wrong. Yet the old man was right in one respect—he had to make a choice, and not merely about his political future. Much more was at stake than that.
As he came out of the room he stopped, surprised to find his wife, Jean, waiting there for him.
"What is it?"
Her voice was quiet, frightened. "There's been an attack. On Mary Lever's headquarters."
"Aiya . . . When was this?"
"An hour back. Details are only just coming through. They're not sure who carried it out—no one's claimed it yet—but there are rumors it might have been the Black Hand."
He shivered, then let her lead him through. An hour back. "I must phone Michael. ..."
"Don't you think he'll have enough to worry about—"
"No"—he shook his head—"you don't understand. I was probably the last person to see her. I met her ... an hour and a half back. I... Oh shit! They were probably waiting for her. ..."
She stared at him. "You met her? Why?"
"Wu Shih. He wanted me to persuade her. I knew I couldn't, but I met her anyway. I wanted to... well, to tell her she was right. To build bridges, I guess. I..." He sighed heavily, then went across to the vid-phone and tapped out Michael's private contact number, turning to look back at Jean as he waited to be connected.
"Wu Shih asked you?"
He nodded. "He said it was my last chance."
He saw the movement in her face—the realization of what that meant. Like himself she and his sons were wired, small control strips inserted in their skulls. If Wu Shih had lost patience he might choose to use those devices to harm or maim them. Kennedy looked away, pained by the thought of it. That threat—that constant shadow—had been with him more than two years now, yet he had never grown used to it. Not for a single moment. Wherever they went—whatever they did—they were never free of it. It made hostages of them all.
As the screen chimed he turned back, looking up into Michael Lever's face.
"Michael..."
"Joe! You've heard, then."
"Just now. I... Is Mary okay?"
"She's fine."
"Thank the gods!" He laughed, relieved. "What happened?"
Michael frowned. "It's not clear yet, but it looks like they were after Mary. The whole thing was set up very carefully."
Kennedy stared at his old friend a moment, then nodded. "I'm sorry. It must be a nightmare. Look, I'll leave you be. If there's anything I can do . . ."
"Sure. Thanks."
He cut connection, then turned. Jean was still watching him.
"What?" he asked, for once unable to read her.
She came across and held him, clinging to him, it seemed, as if afraid to let go. "Let's get away," she said, a real urgency in her voice. "Now. While we still can."

 
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The City, Burning
Wu shih paced to and fro, waiting to be put through to his cousin. He was angry and tired and in no mood for compromise. It had been a long, sleepless night, and the next day or two seemed likely to bring only fresh outbreaks of violence. All attempts to stem the unrest that had followed Kennedy's on-air suicide had failed, even an appeal for calm by Mary Lever.
"It's all his fault," he muttered, staring at the blank screen irritably, the fingers of his left hand tugging at the silk of his right sleeve. "If only he had not persuaded me to use that abominable wire."
It was true. Deep down he blamed Li Yuan for all of this. If he had only trusted to instinct and used older, more certain methods against Kennedy.
I should have listened to my advisers, he thought. I should have had him killed, then none of this would have happened.
No . . .but then how would I have slept?
There was a soft chime. The screen glowed gold. And then Li Yuan was facing him, concern on his face.
"Cousin Shih . . . how are you?"
"Li Yuan," he answered, coldly, formally. At once the young T'ang's face changed, frowning.
"What is it? What more has happened?"
In answer he held up the letter so that Yuan could see.
"Ah . . ." he said.
The last glimmer of doubt—and hope—died in Wu Shih's breast. "You do not deny it, then?"
Li Yuan shook his head. "I never meant to use it. It was Wei Feng's idea. He had a vision of the times to come. A dark, fearful vision. He had his sons swear to him on his deathbed. I tried—"
"Acch ..." Wu Shih's face creased with pain and disappointment. "How could you, Yuan?"
Li Yuan looked down for a brief moment, like a son being chastised by his father. Yet when he looked up again, his eyes were clear. "I thought it might be necessary. The times—"
"The times excuse nothing, Yuan. Good and evil do not change with the times, morality is a constant. Besides, T'ang must be T'ang, not the puppets of other men. How else can they rule in confidence and in the fullness of their power?"
Li Yuan stared back at him, saying nothing.
"So. It has come to this, eh? When even we cannot trust each other."
"I am still your friend, Wu Shih. Such trust as we had remains."
Wu Shih shook his head, then let the letter fall. "No,LiYuan. There is no trust between us anymore. Nor can we be friends, not after this." A small, shivering sigh escaped him. "You shame your father's memory."
Li Yuan's face was hard, resentful. "No, Wu Shih. I have tried only to keep this great world of ours from slipping into chaos. My father would have seen the necessity. He, I'm certain, would have approved."
"There are other ways."
"There are only those ways which work and those which fail. You say the times mean nothing, but I disagree. If a man must sometimes do evil to achieve great good, then that is a path he is compelled to follow. The Wiring Project, for instance."
"An abomination!" Wu Shih said angrily. "I should never have agreed. After all, how are men to find merit if the choice between good and ill is denied them?
"You think there is a choice any longer, cousin? For any of us?"
Wu Shih stared at the young T'ang, astonished to find such a thing coming from his lips. "Surely there is. If I thought—"
"You blame me for Kennedy's death, neh?"
Wu Shih hesitated, then nodded.
Li Yuan looked away, coming to terms with that, then looked back at him. "Maybe it's true. Maybe I counseled you unwisely. But were you or I to know how the future would unfold? Would you have guessed, two years ago, that he would take his life?"
"No ..."
"Nor I. And who's to say that any other means would not have brought the same result? No, Wu Shih. You were riding a tiger. I thought you understood that."
"Maybe . . ."
Li Yuan looked down, sighing. "So what now? I suppose you want me to reveal the existence of the letter to my cousins."
"I..." Wu Shih nodded. All the fire had gone from him now, all the anger drained into a great soup of despair. The future was black. Was ashes.
"By the way," Li Yuan asked quietly. "How did you find out?"
He looked up, surprised to find himself experiencing a twinge of shame. "It was our cousin Wang," he answered quietly.
"Ah . . ." Li Yuan smiled sadly. "I should have guessed. . . ."

INTERLUDE I SUMMER 2213

True Virtue

The night is our mother. She comforts us. She tells, us who we are. Mother sky is all. We live, we die, beneath her. She sees all. Even the darkness deep within us.

—OSU FOLK SAYING
You have heard of the knowledge that knows, but you have never heard of the knowledge that does not know. Look into that closed room, the empty chamber where brightness is born! Fortune and blessing gather where there is stillness.

—chuang Tzu, "In the World of Men"

PART 3 I AUTUMN 2213

The Path in the Twilight

The Southern hills, how mournful!
A ghostly rain sprinkles the empty grass.
In Ch'ang-an, on an autumn midnight,
How many men grow old before the wind?
Dim, dim, the path in the twilight,
Branches curl on the black oaks by the road.
The trees cast upright shadows and the moon at the zenith
Covers the hills with a white dawn.
Darkened torches welcome a new kinsman:
In the most secret tomb these fireflies swarm.

—Li Ho, Criticisms, ninth century a.d.
 
 

 
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Empty Rooms
LI yuan stood at the back of the great study, beside the open window, looking out into the Eastern Garden, while his Chancellor, Nan Ho, sat at his desk conducting the meeting.
General Rheinhardt had come, together with Tolonen and the giant, Karr. The big man had just returned from a fifteen-month undercover assignment in the Lowers, collecting information on the state of things down there. Glancing at him Li Yuan wondered how such a man could ever go "undercover." Eyes were certain to turn wherever such a man went; questions were certain to be asked. And yet his report had been good, the details telling. Now Nan Ho questioned him, looking up from the written copy of Karr's report to meet the man's blue, Hung Mao eyes.
"From what you say of this ... Li Min ... he seems to have created quite a little empire for himself, neh? You talk of it extending, what? . . . twenty thousand stacks, perhaps more. And fifty levels. Are you quite certain of this, Major Karr?"
Karr, standing there at attention, his hands folded behind his back, bowed his head slightly. "Quite certain, Excellency."
"And you say that, for the most part, this man Li Min governs fairly and that there is peace within those areas he controls."
Karr hesitated. "I would not say fairly, Excellency. Harshly is perhaps a better word. His 'officials,' as he calls them, are corrupt, their justice arbitrary. His rule is one of fear, not justice."
"Even so, there is peace there, neh? Whereas elsewhere in the Lowers there is chaos and clamor for violent change."
"Maybe so, Excellency, but—"
Nan Ho raised a hand, silencing the big man. Li Yuan, watching, looked away, hiding his amusement. He had yet to see Nan Ho intimidated by anyone, least of all by their physical presence.
"My point is this, Major Karr. When I had you sent, it was because I feared the very worst. I feared that the situation had deteriorated beyond the point of stability. Yet what you say here reassures me."
Tolonen, silent until now, pushed past Karr and leaned both hands on the front of the desk, facing Nan Ho. "Reassures you? But surely this is the worst? To find another ruling in the great T'ang's place—is that a good thing, Master Nan? Or have I died and woken in a world where all values are inverted? You know what they call the man down there? They call him the White T'ang, and they say that he will one day depose our Master, and extend his rule to every comer of this City. Is that good? Or is that not the very worst?"
Nan Ho leaned back, smiling tolerantly at the old man. Had any other than Tolonen uttered those words there would have been no smile, just an icy hostility.
"Again, you misunderstand me, Marshal Tolonen. I did not say that things were well, nor that I condone what has happened, merely that—in the context of all else that has been happening—to find such stability in the Lowers is a welcome, indeed a useful thing. These are troubled times and it would be unwise to take precipitate action in this matter."
"But what about these?" Tolonen said, slamming a flimsy handbill down on the desk—identical to the one Nan Ho had in the file before him. "Is this not a good reason to take action? Or is treason no longer an offense?"
Li Yuan had read the bill earlier and understood the old man's anger. In effect it was a declaration of independence from the rule of the Seven, the setting up of a separate nation within the City Empire. Even so, Nan Ho was right. Mars had fallen, and North America. Now was not the time to take Li Min and his cohorts on. Right now far greater dangers threatened.
Nan Ho had closed the file. He looked up at Tolonen with an unchanged expression, calm, his great authority unruffled.
"It is treason, I agree. And action will be taken. But no wars, Marshal Tolonen. We cannot afford another war."
Tolonen straightened up, taking a long, shuddering breath, clearly reluctant to let the matter drop. Then he turned, facing his T'ang.
"Is that your final word, Chieh Hsia?"
Li Yuan looked down. Once before—when his elder brother, Han Ch'in, had been assassinated—Tolonen had been urged to a course of inaction, of wuwei, a course which, it seemed, was against the very fiber of his being. That time he had reacted badly—had marched into the great House at Weimar and killed the man he blamed for the young prince's death. Only quick thinking by his father had prevented war. But times had changed. For Tolonen to act precipitately now would be disastrous. Nan Ho was right. In better times they would have crushed such insolence in the bud, expending whatever force was necessary for the task, but these were evil days. This was but a single threat of many. The great empire of Chung Kuo was under siege, and a single error—one single misjudgment—could bring the whole fragile edifice crashing down.
He looked up. All four men were waiting to see what he would say—Nan Ho with certainty, the other three, it seemed, hoping he would gainsay his Chancellor. He smiled, knowing how fortunate he was to have such good men serving him.
"It is as Master Nan says. Our hands are tied. We cannot act."
"But, Chieh Hsia . . . Each day his power grows, and at our expense. Why, the drug revenue alone allows him to add a hundred men to his private army every day. Soon the whole of the Lowers will be his, and then—"
Li Yuan raised a hand, silencing Tolonen. "That may be so, Knut, but you forget what happened on Mars and in my cousin's City."
"That last was an accident, Chieh Hsia."
"Maybe. But an accident waiting to happen, neh?"
Tolonen shook his head, his granite features regretful. "We should have crushed him when we could. After the war between the brotherhoods."
Li Yuan smiled sadly. "I gave the order. Remember? But then the storm hit Nantes." He sighed. "So it is. We cannot deal with every problem as if it were the only one. Things never happen in isolation. Priorities. It is always a question of priorities, and right now our priority is to maintain the peace at all costs."
He paused, looking about him sternly. "However, do not mistake my hesitancy for weakness. I will strike when I must. But not now. As Sun Tzu reminds us, to be cautious can also be a virtue."

 
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cities of the Plain
LO WEN TIGHTENED THE GIRTH and ran down the stirrups, then looped the reins and placed them in the boy's right hand.
"Are you ready, Kuei Jen?"
The young prince shook his head, a look of keen resentment in his eyes. "I don't want to. . . ." he murmured.
Lo Wen straightened, his face on the level of the boy's. "It is not what we want, Prince Kuei, but what we need. If you are to be a good horseman, you must learn the disciplines from an early age. You must become part of the horse."
Kuei Jen wriggled in the saddle, uncomfortable.
"Hold still, Kuei Jen! You will make the horse uneasy."
The young prince looked down, feeling angry and hurt. How dare the man speak to him like that? How dare he!
"I won't," he said stubbornly, giving another wriggle and feeling the horse move beneath him. "I don't want to."
"You will and you must. Your father has commanded."
Kuei Jen glared at him, then jutted out his chin and dug his heels hard into the pony's flanks. At once the pony whinnied and began to kick.
"Damn you, boy!" Lo Wen yelled, grabbing the harness while also trying to keep the young prince from falling. "What in the gods' names are you playing at! You could kill yourself!"
"I won't!" Kuei Jen shouted back. "I don't want to go riding!"
Lo Wen calmed the horse, but his face was dark with anger now. He pulled Kuei Jen down from the saddle and set him aside, then signaled for one of the grooms to take the horse.
Turning, he faced the young prince again.
Kuei Jen stood there, hands on hips, staring back at him defiantly. "I won't," he said again. "I won't."
Lo Wen took a breath, then nodded. "You won't, eh? You would disobey your father, neh?"
Kuei Jen shook his head. "He wouldn't make me. . . . It's you."
Lo Wen raised his voice, angry now. "You will do as I say, Kuei Jen, or else ..."
"Or else what?"
There was a movement in Lo Wen's eyes, then he moved past the young prince and took a crop down from the wall behind him. "Here," he said, beckoning to him.
But Kuei Jen shook his head and, with one final defiant glare, turned and ran from the stables.