Beneath the Tree of Heaven

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.

afterward , in a smaller, brighter room just off the great hall, they met again, the doors locked and guarded, all masks discarded. On the far wall, beyond a massive desk, hung a large map of Chung Kuo, the seven Cities marked in pale gold, a thousand black-headed pins indicating the position of the Ministry’s field operatives—their “thousand eyes” among the masses. Beneath this map now stood the First Dragon, his broad Han face shining waxily as he looked about him at his fellow Ministers. “You have prepared the list, brother Fan?” he asked, meeting his fifth brother’s eyes.

“I have done as you asked,” the Minister for West Asia replied, handing his eldest brother the handwritten list.

“Good.” The First Dragon scanned the list with interest, then looked up again. “This is all of them?”

Fan nodded, looking about him at the knowing faces of the other Dragons.

“You want me to act on all of those names?” “At once. Then see if you can arrange a meeting with An Sheng. I understand the great man is restless, that he has been heard to speak—in private, naturally—of taking matters into his own hands.” “That is so, brother. And there are others among the Minor Families who feel the same. Would you meet with them all?” The First Dragon shook his head fastidiously. “No. An Sheng is the key. If he commits himself, the rest will follow. But in the company of his peers he might feel. . . constrained.”

Fan’s smile broadened, understanding.

“Good. Then go at once. See to these names. In the meantime I shall contact Tsu Ma and beg audience. It is time the Seven understood what depth of feeling they have unleashed.”

shang mu waited in the corridor beside the broad, central pillar, his head bowed low, as the six Dragons came from the room. Then, at a signal from the Chief Steward, he went inside, guards pulling the huge, studded doors closed behind him.

“Excellency,” he said, bowing low, his silks whispering against the tiled floor.

The First Dragon stood at the far end of the chamber, in front of a massive desk that, in its dark solidity, was reminiscent of a funerary slab. To his right stood a’ small, bearded Han with severe features and prematurely gray hair. The bright orange and mauve of his silks were a stark contrast to the severe black of the First Dragon’s formal attire. Shang Mu knew him well. His name was Hsia and he was a Wu, the First Dragon’s personal diviner. Seeing him there gave Shang Mu pause for thought. If Hsia was here, the matter was a serious one. “Shang Mu,” the First Dragon said, summoning him with his left hand, leaving the hand extended as Shang knelt and kissed the ring. Shang straightened up, but kept his eyes averted. “You summoned me, I Lung?”

The First Dragon hesitated, then, turning away, began to speak, his left hand stroking his chin as he paced.

“Yin Shu was a good man. A trusted servant. Only a week ago I would have said that no more loyal man existed in the Ministry. But appearances can be deceptive, neh? It seems that True History is like a disease that hollows a man long before its mark is seen on the flesh. One cannot tell until it is far too late.”

Shang Mu lowered his head an inch or two, his stomach tight with fear. Had someone accused him? Was that what this was about? He felt the urge to ask, but checked himself, knowing that to interrupt the First Dragon would only incur the great man’s anger.

The First Dragon looked to the Wu and nodded, then came across, standing directly in front of Shang.

“And then there’s you, Shang Mu. No Hung Mao has ever risen as high as you in the Ministry. No one, it seems, has worked harder to fulfill the Ministry’s sacred cause. And yet I look at you now and I wonder to myself whether I can trust you. Whether you, too, might not have been infected with the same disease. You knew Yin Shu, neh? He was a good friend of yours?”

Shang Mu swallowed. “That is so, Excellency.”

“And you suspected nothing?”

“Nothing, Excellency. To the end he seemed a good man, a trusted friend.” The First Dragon nodded; then, unexpectedly, he placed his hand gently on Shang’s arm. “Fear not, Shang Mu. I am not accusing you. Yet you must understand my caution. What I have to say . . .” He moved away slightly, then lifted a finger, summoning Shang Mu to come with him across to the great desk.

The Wu had laid a cloth upon the dark surface—a faded, ancient cloth of white silk. At the center of the square of cloth was drawn a circle an arm’s length in diameter. Within the circle, at the eight points of the compass, were painted the eight trigrams of Heaven, Wind, Water, The Mountain, Earth, Thunder, Fire, and The Lake. Outside the circle the trigrams were repeated, their arrangement fitting the “Sequence of Earlier Heaven”: Heaven to Fire, Wind to Earth, and so forth. Close by lay the ancient oracle itself, unopened as yet, its plain black cover embossed with the great symbol of the Tao.

The Wu lit tapers to the north and south, to east and west, rocking backward and forward all the time and mumbling to himself, as if in a state of trance. On the desk lay the folded piece of paper on which was written the question the First Dragon wished to ask the oracle. Shang glanced at it, then at his Master, surprised by the tension in the I Lung’s cheek and neck muscles. This was clearly important to him. “We are ready,” said the Wu. In his right hand he held the fifty yarrow stalks. “If you would read the question, Excellency.” The First Dragon leaned across and took the paper. Unfolding it, he cleared his throat, then read.

“As the darkness closes in, should we give torches to the masses, or should the thousand eyes burn brighter?”

The Wu was smiling. He leaned forward, letting the stalks trickle onto the table. Then, with a quick movement of his right hand, he divided them into two and then again, so that three groups of stalks lay on the table—the three lines of the first trigram. Satisfied, he gathered them up again and repeated the process.

Time and again he let the stalks fall gently from his hand, then divided them up. Time and again he stared at the resultant trigrams, as if fixing them in mind. Finally, he pushed them to one side and met the First Dragon’s eyes.

“The upper trigram is Ch’ien, Heaven, the lower is K’an, Water. The hexagram is Sung, Conflict.”

The First Dragon stared at him, almost in disbelief, then spoke, his voice a whisper. “Sung . . . Are you sure?”

The Wu nodded, then, taking up the great book, turned to the relevant page, and read.

“Conflict. You are sincere

And are being obstructed.

A cautious halt halfway brings good fortune.

Going through to the end brings misfortune.

It furthers one to see the great man.

It does not further one to cross the great water.” The First Dragon pulled at his beard, clearly agitated. “It is as I feared. When I first called you, Wu Hsia, I said to myself, if it is Sung then I shall know. It will be ‘Conflict.’ And yet does the oracle not say that such conflict cannot be engaged in successfully? Does it not say that, though our cause is right, though our minds are clear and strong, to carry our purpose through can bring only further ill?” He wrung his hands, pained by the answer he had received. “If it is Sung, then how can I act? How can I even take the first step when I know the abyss that lies before me?”

The Wu moved closer, the reassurance in his voice at odds with the fear in his eyes. “It does not have to be so, my Lord. As the oracle says, contention may be lucky when balanced and correct. Seek balance in your actions and all will be well.”

The First Dragon stared at the Wu a moment, then, with an irritable little gesture, waved him away. “Leave me now, Hsia. I must talk to my Junior Minister.”

“Excellency.”

Bowing, leaving his things where they lay, the Wu backed out of the room.

When he was gone, the First Dragon turned, facing Shang Mu again.

“Do you understand what is happening, Shang Mu?” Shang hesitated, then ventured an answer. “Has it to do with your meeting with Tsu Ma?”

“It is related.”

“Related, Excellency?”

“As the shadow to the sun. You see, Shang Mu, I expect nothing from my meeting with Tsu Ma. No concessions, no new funding, not even the courtesy of an explanation. And yet the meeting is essential. Without it nothing is clarified. Without it the oracle means nothing.” “I don’t understand you, Excellency. If Tsu Ma concedes nothing, then what will be clarified?”

“There is to be a new directive. A brand-new strategy to deal with the Seven Ills.”

Shang Mu frowned, puzzled by his Masters words. “But just now, in the great chamber, you said we would do as the Seven commanded. That we would carry out their policy, not determine our own.” The First Dragon smiled tightly. “That is true. But what was said out there was spoken for the Seven’s spies in our midst: it does not reflect the wishes of the Inner Council.”

Shang Mu’s eyes widened. “I see.”

“Good.” The First Dragon paused, then went around his desk and sat, drawing a black lacquered file toward him and opening it. “You must understand, Shang Mu. What is said in public and what is done privately must diverge from henceforth. It is unfortunate but necessary. We cannot simply sit back and let the Seven take us onto the rocks. We must take things into our own hands—we, now, must steer the great ship of State—for the good of all.” He looked up. “This is not disloyalty: you must be clear on that, Shang Mu. What will be done will be done not for personal gain, nor to extend the power of this Ministry, but for the long-term good of Chung Kuo.” He paused, his voice taking on a solemn air. “We have examined this at length and are agreed on it. The Mandate has been broken. We must act now or see the world we’ve built crack apart.” The Mandate has been broken . . . Shang Mu felt a wave of shock wash over him at the words. Yet wasn’t it so? Weren’t the Seven Ills evidence enough of the Seven’s failure to control events. No. The First Dragon was right. It was time to act, independently of the Seven if necessary. He had known it for some while, but it had taken the First Dragon’s words to make him realize it.

Shang Mu bowed low. “I will do whatever is asked of me, I Lung.” “Good. Then listen closely. The matter of funding is a pretext. It is a century or more since we depended on the Seven in that regard. But that is not to say that funding is unimportant. Over the next few months we must make strenuous efforts to obtain new funding. Arranging that will be part of your new task, Shang Mu.”

“But where will I find such funding, Excellency?” The First Dragon reached into a drawer beside him and took out a slender file, handing it across. “In there you will find a list of all those who, over the past few years, have shown, by word or deed, opposition to the Sevens actions. Normally we would have taken action—in concert with Security—to discredit or destroy such opposition, but it was decided, at a secret meeting some three years ago, to refrain from such action for a time in the case of those whose power or influence might, at some future date, prove useful.” He smiled. “That time is now. We must harness such opposition and direct it ... create an alliance of like-minded people to fight this debilitating sickness of liberalism.” He leaned toward his Junior Minister, his face suddenly stern, implacable. “Understand me well, Shang Mu. This is no time for half measures. We must grasp the nettle or go under. Security are no longer the force they were. They are corrupt and lazy, rotten to the core, their intelligence gathering poor, their generals weak and indolent. It is left to us alone to carry the torch, to keep alight the bright ideals of our forefathers. Too many compromises have been made. Too many deals. It is time to tear up all paper tigers, to purge the levels and enforce a rigid discipline on this great society of ours. The Seven will not do that. They lack the will. Only we can do it, Shang Mu. Only the Thousand Eyes.” Shang bowed his head, stirred by his Master’s words. “I understand, Excellency. I shall do all you ask of me and more. But what of the Seven? Surely they will expect us to react to their decision? And our agents—how are we to convince them of the necessity of the new directive?” The I Lung raised a gloved hand. “We have considered everything. As far as the Seven are concerned, we shall make great show of our outrage at their decision. I shall make much of contacting Ministers and other high officials of influence to press our case not merely for a return to old levels of funding and staffing but for an increased share of resources. To their eyes it will look as if I am fighting my corner hard, even to the point of resignation. Seeing that, their suspicions will be blunted. They will think they have dealt with me. But the real work of opposition will go on elsewhere, in secret, where their prying eyes cannot see. That is where you come in, Shang Mu. You and the internal network you have built so carefully these past thirty years.”

Shang bowed, conscious of the praise in his superior’s eyes. “I have thought long and hard about this, Shang Mu, and have decided that one man alone can organize all this. Only one man has the skill, the diplomacy, the contacts, to enable us to build our great alliance without a word getting out, and that is you.”

The First Dragon’s smile was like the opening of a tiny crevice in a glacier. “As First Operator you will be responsible for coordinating all aspects of our plan. You will appoint key officials to work under you and come to me with any requests for special funding. As for the agents in the field, they will continue as before. They will act only on specific instructions, received direct from your office. At no point are they to be made aware of the new directive. Only we, the seven Dragons, yourself, and others I shall let you have the names of, know of this. It is our secret. A deadly secret. And a sacred trust. You understand?”

“I understand, I Lung.”

“Good. Then there is one last thing you must do for me. On the way out my Chief Steward will hand you a file. In the file is a handwritten report. I want you to read it, tonight, and then come to me first thing tomorrow morning, at sixth bell, here in this office.” Shang went to nod, then spoke instead. “And might I ask what your Excellency requires of me?”

“Exactly what I said. Nothing more. And remember, there can be no turning back. If any one of us fails we are all dead men. And dead men cannot help Chung Kuo, can they?”

Shang Mu met his Master’s eyes solemnly. “No, I Lung.”

“Then go. There is much to do.”

the young woman stood at the entrance to Hui Tsung Street, her sketchboard held against her chest, looking across at the crowd gathered at the feet of the hua pen. The storyteller was sitting cross-legged on a low platform, a ragged group of children scattered about him. Farther back small groups of old man and idlers looked on from among the food stalls, while at a nearby guard post three young, fresh-faced officers leaned idly on the barrier, listening to the tale.

From where she stood Hannah could hear the hua pen’s voice clearly, rising animatedly above the background hubbub. Most of the hua pen she had seen before now had been old men, graybeards, sagelike and somnolent, their delivery slow, almost ritualistic, as if they had told the tale one time too many and were bored with it, but this one was different. For a start he was a relatively young man, in his thirties. Moreover, he looked more like an actor in a historical drama than a traditional hua pen, his startling orange whiskers and unkempt hair—hair that was barely kept in check by a broad, blood-red headband—emphasizing the pop-eyed savagery of his face. In his flowing black cloak he seemed more like an ancient bandit prince than a teller of tales, his arms making huge, exaggerated shapes in the air, his hands every bit as expressive as the words he uttered. She had heard the story often—it was the famous tale of Wu Song, one of the heroes of the Shut Hu Chuan, the “Outlaws of the Marsh”— of how he first met the great Song Jiang, the “Timely Rain” as he was known, and of how he had killed the man-eating tiger on Ching Yang Ridge—yet she had never heard it told with such power, such vitality. For a time she found herself caught up in the tale, swept along, as if this were the very first time she had heard it. Then, reminding herself why she was there, she crouched, balancing the sketchboard on her knee, and began to set it all down, using the finest setting on the stylus. It was a quick, rough sketch—more an impression than an accurate depiction of the scene—yet when she had finished it she nodded to herself. Yes, that was it. That was it exactly. That sense of tense excitement in the crowd—the childlike anticipation of each new, yet familiar, twist in the tale—it was there in every line, every shadow, of her sketch. She pressed to save and store, then rested there, lightly balanced on her haunches, her arms draped loosely across the sketchboard, watching the hua pen. She was a striking-looking young woman, a Hung Mao, yet with something distinctly Han about her. Tall and willowlike, her eyes were dark and piercing, while her long, jet-black hair was plaited into a single thick braid that lay against her back. From the simple elegance of her clothes and the strong lines of her face you might have thought that she was in her early twenties, but in reality she was a mere sixteen years old. As she crouched there, watching the hua pen, the eyes of the youngest of the soldiers went to her appreciatively, then looked away, thoughtful. She was not of this level, that was certain, yet what she was doing down here—a young woman, alone and unguarded—was hard to fathom. The tale was almost ended, the climax of Wu Song’s adventure almost reached. The hua pen was leaning forward, his voice lowered slightly, almost confidential, as he told of the attempted seduction of Wong Sun by his elder brother’s wife, Golden Lotus, when, from the far end of the corridor, came the sound of gunfire. There was a moment’s shocked silence as all heads turned to look, and then all hell broke loose. Hannah had straightened up at the sound of the shots; now she drew back, into the doorway of a nearby shop, staring openmouthed as people struggled to get away. Instinctively she held the sketchboard in front of her to protect herself, yet there was no need. It was as if she stood at the center of a magic circle in which she could not be harmed. All about her people were panicking, knocking over stalls, and fighting each other to get away, yet the stream of frantic humanity flowed about her, as if she were a rock, going either left into the big feed corridor where she had been standing, or right, toward the interlevel stairs. She watched, horrified, as, only ten ch’i from where she stood, an old Han woman went down, one hand grasping at the air, and was instantly trampled beneath a hundred urgent feet. She cried out as she saw a child stumble and go down on the stairway, but there was nothing she could do, the crush of people was so great.

From the far end of the corridor came the sound of sporadic gunfire, carrying over the shouts and screams. Then, as the crowd in front of her began to thin, she glimpsed a tall, well-dressed Hung Mao with long, red-gold hair, making his way between the fallen stalls. He turned and, raising his right hand, fired back at his pursuers, then ran on. Beneath his left arm he was carrying a blood-red package, something that looked like a small bolt of silk or a box of expensive chocolates. He hesitated, looking about him anxiously, then ran off to the left, choosing one of the small side corridors that led through to the interdeck lifts. Yet even as he ran she knew he would not get far, for his pursuers—Security guards, a dozen or more in number—were close behind. For a moment Hannah hesitated, then, impulsively, she started forward, pushing her way through to where she had last seen the man. As she began to run someone called out to her—one of the young soldiers from the guardpost—but she ignored him and ran on. She was certain now that something important was happening: something so important that Security were willing to panic a whole deck—and risk a large number of lives—to get what they wanted.

And what was that?

Instinctively she knew it had to do with the package. In fact the more she thought about it, the more she knew it for a certainty. She had seen the fear in the man’s face—the frightened certainty of capture and death—and yet he had gripped the package as if his life depended upon it. And why should that be unless it were more important than his life? Maybe. Yet what could be more important to a man than his life? Hannah stopped and turned. The short corridor behind her was empty. To her right was a locked-up shop, the boarded window covered with paste-on posters. To the left was a communal washroom. She shivered. Instinct told her that she had missed something. Or seen something but not registered it properly. She walked back slowly, looking to either side of her. Nothing. Nothing at all. She turned back, determined to go on, to witness for herself what happened. And then she saw it. The package was wedged into the vent above the washroom door, one edge jutting out into the corridor. Quickly she went across and, reaching up, tugged at it until it came loose. Then, looking about her, she went inside, ignoring the stench of the place, and found a relatively clean stall, pulling the door closed behind her. For a moment she hesitated, staring at the package. It was heavy, heavier than her sketchboard even. Nor had she been mistaken. The silk wrapping alone was beyond the purse of anyone at this level. This wasn’t Yu, this was First Level. But what did that mean?

She took a long, deep breath. The right thing to do was to go back out and find the Security officer in charge of the operation and hand it to him, but she knew that doing the right thing wasn’t an option for her. Not this time. She needed to know what was in the package, and why a man should be willing to die to keep it from them.

She knew how they worked. Security would strip these levels bare to get what they wanted—would search each and everyone who went, herself included. But this time they would find nothing. Setting the parcel down, she took the sketchboard from about her neck and, balancing it on top of the seat, began to strip the inner workings from it. She had done it often enough when cleaning the machine, but this time she undertook the task in real earnest. As each piece of the delicate mechanism came loose, she lifted it and let it fall beside the grimy bowl. Then, when she was done, she forced the package into the central space and popped back the sketchboard’s screen. She took another long breath, calming herself. The machine looked no different. Only the discarded parts gave the game away, but there was nothing she could do about that. Audacity alone would save her now.

At the washroom door she paused, listening, then went out into the corridor again. There was shouting still, some distance off, but things seemed much calmer now. Quickly she turned right, making toward the big interlevel lift.

You’re mad, she told herself. There’s no reason for this. None at all. But she was in the grip of a compulsion. She had to get the package out. Suddenly it was as if she were Song Jiang himself, alone in the enemy camp with only his wits, his silver tongue, to get him out. “Nu Shi!”

She turned, facing back down the full length of the corridor. It was the young soldier from the guard post; the one who had been watching her. He came quickly toward her, then stopped, three paces away, his head bowed. “Are you all right, Nu Shi?”

Her mouth was dry, her hands, where they clutched the sketch-board to her chest, damp. She lowered her eyes and nodded, playing upon the vulnerability the guard clearly expected from her, exaggerating it, knowing instinctively that he was the key. “It was awful,” she said quietly, in an affected little-girl voice. “I thought I was going to die.”

“It’s all right,” the guard said, coming a pace closer, trying to reassure her, to comfort her without touching her, knowing—by her clothes, her manner—that she was far above him. “It’s all over. They got him. Look, I’ll see you to the transit, all right?”

“Thank you.” But inside she was burning with curiosity. How had they got him, and where? Was he alive or dead? Maybe they were questioning him right now, torturing him, perhaps, to get the truth from him. And if they were, they would come directly here and find the machine’s discarded workings and then . . .

“Come,” the young soldier said. “Let’s get you out of here.” She let him lead her out into the main feed corridor and along, past milling crowds of curious locals and down two flights of stairs to the bottom of the deck. There, in the crowded space before the interlevel transit, a barrier had been set up. In front of it a dozen guards formed a line, their riot helmets lowered, their heavy automatics held threateningly at waist level. Hannah’s heart began to beat furiously. To one side of the barrier an officer sat behind a desk, questioning an elderly Han. Hannah followed the young soldier across, close behind him as he pushed through the line, coming out at the side of the desk. The officer—a young man, in his mid-twenties—looked up at her quizzically, then turned to the young soldier, clearly angered at being interrupted. “What is it, Private Lauer?”

The young man stiffened slightly, then answered. “The Nu Shi here was caught up in things earlier. This isn’t her level, sir, and I thought—“ “Quiet!” The lieutenant turned to her. His voice had been hard, dispassionate. Now his eyes studied her face as if she were something strange and horrible; something he would like to crush beneath his heel. “Your pass, please,” he said coldly, his politeness masking what seemed a natural brutality.

Reaching into her jacket, she pulled out her pass and handed it to him, watching as he opened it and began to read. After a few seconds he looked up, surprised. Getting up, he went across to a second officer standing by the lift. The two spoke quietly for a moment, a hint of urgency about their whispering, then they came back. The second man, a Captain, stood to the fore, Hannahs pass between his hands. He looked at it once, checking the holophoto against her face, then gave a bow. “Forgive me, Nu Shi Shang. We had no idea that you were on this deck. If I had known, I would have assigned a squad to protect you.” He smiled weakly, then continued. “You must forgive me if I am constrained from explaining exactly what has been going on—I’m sure you understand—but if you would like an escort home?”

She looked past him at the lieutenant. The man’s eyes no longer met hers. Abashed, he looked to one side, his discomfort evident in the way he stood there.

“Thank you”—she glanced at the name tag at his neck—“Captain Johnson. I must admit, I feel rather shaken by events. I think it would be best if I did as you suggested.”

“Of course.” He bowed his head respectfully, then. “Forgive me, Nu Shi, I don’t wish to be impertinent, but what exactly were you doing at this level? It can be dangerous this far down, even at the best of times. I’d have thought your father ...”

He changed tack, as if mention of her father disturbed him. Then, remembering that he still held her pass, he stepped forward, offering it to her.

“I was sketching,” she said, taking the pass and slipping it back inside her jacket. “Drawing scenes from life down here. Usually my guard is with me, but he was ill today. I suppose I shouldn’t have come. There’s usually no trouble. Even so, I’ll not make the same mistake again, will I?” “No.” The Captain smiled, then turned, giving instructions to the lieutenant. With the briefest glance the young officer turned away and went across to speak to his guards.

“You must forgive his abruptness,” the Captain said quietly, leaning toward her, “but he lost two of his men today. This business ...” He shook his head. “Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you, Nu Shi Shang. I hope your drawings are satisfactory. Have you plans to publish them?” She kept her smile steady. “No. It’s only a hobby. Besides, they’re not that good.”

“Ah . . .” He straightened and, bowing his head smartly to her, took a step backward. “Well, if you would forgive me now, there’s much to do.” “Did you ... get him?”

He hesitated, meeting her eyes. “You saw him, then?” She nodded, remembering the sight of the man running, the way his red-gold hair had flowed out behind him as he fled, the fear in his ashen face. The Captain sighed. “We got him. I wanted him alive, of course, but he gave us no choice. As I said, we’d already lost two men, with another couple wounded. I couldn’t risk losing any more. Strange, though, I’d not have thought him the type.”

“The type . . . ?”

“Never mind. Look. You get back now. And next time you want to have adventures, bring a pair of guards, neh?” He bowed his head smartly. “Oh, and if you speak to your father, please pass on my deepest respect. I shall make sure he receives a copy of my full and final report.” She smiled. “That is most kind, Captain. I’ll make certain he knows of your kindness and efficiency.”

She turned, looking to the young guard. “And thank you, Private Lauer. You were most helpful.”

The young soldier blushed and lowered his head. “Nu Shi...” Two soldiers escorted her to the lift, standing at a respectful distance as the big transit climbed the levels. And as it rose, she stood there, the sketchboard clutched tightly to her chest, staring blindly at the blank white doors, the image of the dead man vivid in her memory. Dead, she thought. But why?

And suddenly a second image came to mind, of the dead man fastened to a pole and slung between two guards, his thick, red-gold hair hanging like a mane beneath him as they carried him along. Yes, she thought, like the great man-eating tiger Wu Song killed up on Ching Yang Ridge.

Whatever he’d had, whatever it was she was carrying in the hollow of the sketchboard, it was something that terrified the authorities every bit as much as roaming man-eaters had terrified the villagers of long ago. But there were no heroes in the modem world, no Wu Songs or Song Jiangs, and certainly no tigers—only men and the things men did. So what was it? What could possibly be so important that a young man would rather choose death than relinquish it?

She looked down at the sketchboard, conscious suddenly of what she had done back there. Aware—suddenly, acutely aware—that three men had died over this thing she was carrying with her. Hannah closed her eyes, feeling the sharp edge of the casing pressed against her ribs, the upward motion of the lift as it climbed toward the top of the City, and shivered. She would know soon enough. But what then? What would she do with that knowledge?

She waited, emptying herself, but no answer came. Curiosity had driven her this far. But beyond that she didn’t know. She simply didn’t know. The lift slowed and stopped. Hannah opened her eyes.

“Nil Shi. ..”

She went out, between the guards, numbed, suddenly uncertain that she had done the right thing, convinced that they would find the inner workings of the sketchboard and piece together what she’d done. And then even her father’s influence would not save her. But it was done now. She had committed herself, just as surely as the young man with the red-gold hair. She, too, was now a tiger.

chen crouched over the broken sweeping machine, studying it closely. It was the tenth he had seen that morning and, like the others, it was damaged almost beyond recognition—kicked and beaten with a savagery that was hard to imagine. This time, however, they had been careless. This time they had not smashed the security cameras before the attack. “You’ll get the scum who did this, Major Kao, you understand me? I want them tracked down like the dogs they are and punished.” Chen turned, staring up at the obese form of the AutoMek director, then looked past him at his duty sergeant.

“Sergeant Krol, take Shih Cornwell back to headquarters and make sure he is treated with the respect he is due. Once I have completed my investigations here I shall join you.”

He turned back to the Company man, lowering his head respectfully. “Forgive me, Shih Cornwell, but as I’m sure you’ll understand, I must give this matter my utmost concentration.”

“I fail to see . . .” Cornwell began, all four hundred pounds of him leaning toward Chen intimidatingly, but Chen ignored the threat and, standing, raised a hand to silence him.

“You want the job done, Shih Cornwell. I understand that. Now, please, let me get on with it. Unless you want this ‘scum’ to evade us once again.” Cornwell glared at him a moment, then, relenting, took a step backward. With a terse little bow—the most his bloated form could manage—he turned, allowing Chen’s sergeant to lead him away. Watching him go Chen let out a huge sigh of relief. “These days they think they own us,” he said, turning, looking across at his lieutenant, Wilson, who stood nearby, looking on.

Wilson smiled. “I admire your patience, Major. I’m sure I’d have given him a mouthful.”

“And ended before a tribunal. . . .” Chen shook his head, then looked back at the machine. “The thing is that I understand all this. These machines”—he stood, wiping his hands together— “each one of them replaces eight good men—throws eight hardworking sweepers out of work. And for what? To boost the Company’s profits and make insects like Cornwell even fatter than they already are!”

“Isn’t that right! Half our work these days seems to be tidying up the mess our so-called superiors have made.”

Chen looked at the young officer sternly. “Oh, I don’t mean our Masters,” Wilson said quickly, raising his hands as if to defend himself. “No, I mean hsiao jen like Cornwell there. Little men, thinking they’ve the power of life and death over others—that money makes them gods.”

Chen sighed. “In a way it does. It always has. But that’s not our problem, neh? Our job is to sort out the mess. To find this . . . scum . . . and make them pay.”

Wilson moved closer, handing Chen a small cassette. “Well, this time it couldn’t be simpler. We’ve got it all here. Six faces. No masks, no hoods. Clear shots.”

“We’ve got names?”

“And addresses. They’re all ex-sweepers, naturally. So there we have it.

Evidence, motive, the lot. All we have to do is round them up.” Chen took the tape and stared at it, then looked back at him. “Who else knows about this?”

“No one. Only you and me.”

“But there’s a copy, neh? On record.”

“Not now there isn’t. I ... erased it.”

“Ah . . .” Chen looked at the tape again. “So this is it? Without this we’ve nothing?”

“That’s about it.”

Chen looked up again, smiled, then dropped the tape and crushed it beneath his heel. “Shame,” he said, meeting Wilson’s eyes clearly. “It looks like the cameras failed again. Pity. We might have got them this time.” Wilson nodded, then, taking a folded sheet from his pocket, handed it to Chen. “Those are the addresses. It’s the only record. Burn it once you’ve used it, huh?”

“Okay.” Chen slipped the paper into his pocket, then, smiling, reached across and patted his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Stephen. A good soldier. And a good friend.”

“And Comwell?”

Chen laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with that fat toad. Scum.” He shivered, a sudden indignation overtaking him. “As if he understood.”

hannah stood at her father’s door, looking in. He was sitting at his desk on the far side of the room, a reading lamp hovering just above his right shoulder. Behind him the walls were filled floor to ceiling with books. “Father?”

He looked up, then seeing it was her, stood, beckoning her across. They embraced, his face lit up with delight at seeing her. “I didn’t know you were coming home,” she said, hugging him tightly. “I thought you’d be gone another week yet.”

“I know, but something’s come up.” He indicated the files scattered about his desk. “I’ve got to prepare something for the morning. Something confidential. I thought it best, in the circumstances, to bring it back here.”

She moved back slightly, looking down at him, sensitive to the unusually guarded tone in his voice. “Confidential? I thought everything you did was confidential. Why, you’re the great master of all secrets, aren’t you?” Normally he would have laughed and played along with her, but this time he looked away, his face troubled. “This is no joking matter, my love. It’s deadly serious.” He looked back at her. “I am to report to the First Dragon himself first thing tomorrow morning. The I Lung has an appointment with the T’ang, Tsu Ma. It seems the very future of the Ministry is at stake.”

“I see. So—“

He leaned toward her, putting a finger to her lips. “No, sweetheart. Not a word. If I could tell you, I would. You know that. But for once it’s best you don’t know. Not until it’s over.”

“Then I’d best leave you to it, neh?”

“It would be best.”

“And tomorrow? Will you be here for dinner?” He hesitated, then shook his head. “It would be nice, but I think it might be difficult. There’s so much to be done. The I Lung has given me a new appointment. I’m afraid I may be away rather a lot in the coming months.” She studied him a moment, seeing how tired he looked, how drawn, and felt a stab of concern for him. “So what’s new?” she said, trying to coax a smile from him. “The day you aren’t busy you’ll be dead, and then it’ll be my turn to be busy, clearing up after you.” He laughed. “Look, I’ll try. But you must try too. Your mother—“ “That woman...”

“Please, Hannah. I know you two don’t get on, but you could make an effort, if only to help me.”

“Okay,” she relented, “I’ll try.” Then, leaning close, she kissed his brow gently. “I hope it all goes well tomorrow.” He held her to him briefly. “You and I both, my love. You and I both.” Back in her own rooms she locked the main door, leaving the key in the lock, then went through to her study. The package was on the desk where she had left it, the jade-handled kitchen knife beside it. She switched on the desk lamp, then stood there, staring at it. Three men had died because of this. Three men . . . and who knew how many others? She took a long, shuddering breath, then set to work, cutting through the fine silk wrapping.

Inside was a plain white folder and inside that. . . She took the handwritten pages out and set them on the desk beside the wrapping, then pulled up a seat and began to read, speaking the words aloud.

“The Aristotle File . . . being the true history of the West, 384 b.c. to a.d. 2087.”

She stopped, a shiver passing down her spine. The true history . . . Then it was true. All the whispers and mumbled half tales were true. She flicked through quickly, reading a paragraph here, a few words there, then stopped again, looking up, finding it suddenly difficult even to take a breath.

So it was all a lie, one vast deception. It was unthinkable, impossible, and yet she knew it was true. All her life she had suspected it—and now she knew.

She sat back, feeling strange, almost insubstantial, the room, the very chair on which she sat, somehow changed from what they’d been only a moment before.

She understood . . . the deaths, the urgency of the pursuit. This file—this truth—was a ticking bomb, waiting to explode. Even to know of its existence was, she knew, a capital offense. And yet to deny it, wasn’t that also a kind of death?

The darkness shimmered before her eyes.

She shuddered, filled by the vision that had come to her. There was her world, like a giant crystal globe, adrift in the vacuum of space. From afar it seemed to glimmer in the starless emptiness, lit from within by the shining, translucent figures of forty billion ghosts, their pale, tormented eyes pleading for release.

Ghosts, yes . . . these were the hungry ghosts of Han legend: those poor, unfortunate wretches who could find no rest, neither in this world nor the next. Her eyes met theirs, understanding for the first time the insatiable craving that drove them, the dissatisfaction that had eaten away at them until there was nothing left of them but this— this shell, this pale imitation of being. There they all were, the spirits of the lost and abandoned. She watched them, saw how they burned, without sound or heat, the pale light of their consumption slowly guttering toward extinction, and understood that this could not go on. To be bom into this world was to be stillborn. To live here was intolerable. But hadn’t she always known that? Hadn’t she, at the back of everything, always known the falseness of it all?

She moaned. Lies, all of it lies, and her father a custodian—an intimate—of that great deception. That, perhaps, was the worst of it: that such a good, kind man—such a funny, caring man—could serve so foul an end. For there was no doubt of it, a lie so vast, so all permeating, was evil.

Secrets—she was used to secrets—but lies were different. Lies corroded.

They were a disease of the inner self. They ate the marrow from the bone. Besides, what purpose had life if its lessons could be doctored, its lived experience rewritten by those who followed after? How could they learn to be better people if the past were forever denied to them? She shivered, her distress giving way to indignation. How could they have done this? Who gave them the right? And how many deaths, how much suffering, had the Ministry caused in policing the Lie? Her father ... it all came back to her father. What was it the Han said?

Ah, yes. She said the rhyme aloud, her voice a whisper.

“A dragon begets a dragon.

A phoenix begets a phoenix.

The son of a rat, from the day of his birth, Knows only how to dig a hole in the ground.” So what was she? Dragon, phoenix, or the daughter of a rat? Or was it really that simple? All agreed that her father was loo shih—was a genuine, straightforward man—and yet his whole life was an intricate lie, a social mask, constructed to conceal his work for the Thousand Eyes. And she had inherited something of his manner. Even today, in getting hold of the File, she had used lies and deceptions. So where did one draw the line? Where did the small lie end and the Big Lie begin?

Hannah looked back down at the File. Words, that’s all it was. Mere words. Yet this was potentially more dangerous, more destructive to the status quo, than an army of a million men. Why, if this were known to all... She grew still, the idea growing in her. If this were known to all. . . But why not? Why did it have to be like this—passed furtively from hand to hand in fear of discovery? Why couldn’t it be done more openly, more effectively! There had to be a way.

Setting the title page aside she began again, reading the opening words and then reading them again, letting them burn into her mind, knowing—even as she did—that things would never be the same.

kao chen looked up from his cluttered desk and met his Duty Captain’s eyes. “What now? Not another instruction from our merchant friend!” The Captain bowed, handing a sealed package across. “No, sir. It’s from General Rheinhardt. I was told to give it to you urgently.” Chen sat back, letting the package fall onto the pile in front of him. “As if we’ve not enough . . . Okay. Tell the General’s messenger that I’ll get onto it at once.”

“Sir!”

When his Captain had gone, Chen sat there a moment, looking about him at the stacks of files and papers that cluttered his desk and balanced precariously on the tops of the filing cabinets that seemed to fill his tiny office. Forms! So many official forms to be filled out! He was behind, badly behind, but then who wasn’t in Security these days? The truth was that there was too much crime and too few of them to deal with it, and the recent slackening of the Edict had only made things worse. As more and more people found themselves out of work, so the problem grew—exponentially, it seemed. And always there was more to do, less time to do it in.

With a tired sigh he picked up the package and tore the seal open, then tipped it up, letting the contents fall out onto the desk. A file. Another damn file. He picked it up and flicked through it quickly, then returned to the beginning, suddenly alert, sitting forward and drawing the lamp closer.

It was another of them. . . .

He read it through quickly, then pushed it aside with a grunt of irritation, shaking his head angrily. The idiots! The fatheads! Couldn’t they ever get it right? This was the fourth of these he’d seen in the last six months and every time they’d fucked up when it came down to it. Four pursuits, four deaths—it was a pretty slipshod record. Little wonder Rheinhardt wanted someone new to take things over. Yes, but why me? I’ve enough on my plate. He sat back, yawning, knowing he needed rest—a break from duties. Not only that, but he’d promised Jyan he’d spend some time with him. Oh, Jyan would understand—he always understood—but it wasn’t fair on the boy. Not now, when things were so difficult at home.

Leaning forward again, he tapped out the code for his apartment, then waited as the connection was made. Even that was getting worse. Two, three years ago, there would have been no waiting time, but now . . . Well, it was like his friend Karr had said, last time they’d got together. Things were going to hell in a bucket!

“Hello . . . ?”

The voice was small, distorted, but Chen knew at once who it was. It was his daughter, Ch’iang Hsin, the baby of the family. “Hello, my little peach. It’s Daddy. Is Jyan there?” There was a hesitation, then: “He’s with Mummy. She’s not been well. She’s been crying again. Wu has gone for the doctor.” Chen sighed. “Okay. Well, look, my love, tell Jyan that I can’t get back tonight. Tell him—tell him that I’ll speak to him as soon as I can. Have you got that?”

“She’s not well, Daddy. She—“

He could hear the pain in her voice, but there was little he could do. The doctor could give Wang Ti something to make her sleep, perhaps. Maybe that would help.

“Look, my love, be brave for me, okay? I’ll try and get back there as soon as I can. I promise I will. But it won’t be tonight. Something very important has come up and Daddy has to see to it, okay?” Her voice seemed even smaller. “Okay . . . but be home soon, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, too, my peach. I love you very much. Kiss Mummy for me, neh?” He broke contact, the tightness in his gut much worse than usual. It wasn’t fair on them, he knew. He was away too much, and the woman he had hired to help out didn’t even begin to meet the children’s emotional needs. Something had to be done, and soon, but just now he had no time to see to it.

Chen stood, raising his arms above his head, stretching the tiredness from his chest and upper shoulders. Reaching into his left-hand drawer, he took two tablets from the packet he kept there and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them down, knowing they’d keep him awake and alert for another twelve hours.

He looked about him at the clutter of his office. Short-term solutions, that was how he lived his life these days—juggling a whole mess of short-term solutions. But the problems were long-term and sometime soon he’d have to face up to them.

After this, perhaps, he thought, picking up the file and going across to the door. Maybe 111 ask for a week’s leave and try and sort things out. It was what he ought to do. Things couldn’t go on much longer the way they were. But what was the answer?

To endure, part of him answered. To keep on, day by day, holding things together, smoothing over the cracks, until. . . Chen shuddered, then, taking his tunic down from the peg by the door, slipped it on and went through into the outer office, summoning his men to him, getting down to the task at hand.