Beneath the Tree of Heaven

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.

security headquarters at Bremen was like a busy nest, a black basalt ziggurat reaching up into the heavens. Officers came and went like worker ants on errands for their unseen queen, hurrying across the broad arch of the approach bridge. Making his way up the steps and through the great dragon arch, Chen felt how strange it was that he should be a part of it, how odd that the guards at the front gate should salute him, their shaven heads bowed low, then pass him through the barrier. Another day he might have smiled at the thought, but today he was distracted. As he rode the lift up the sixty levels to his offices, he found himself thinking not of Wang Ti, nor even of the maid, but of the officials daughter, Hannah. There was no reason to see her again. In fact there was every reason not to. Were Shang Mu to hear that Chen had been meeting his daughter, there would be all hell to pay. Best, then, to forget it—to conclude the investigation and close the file. Yet even as he decided on it, he found himself curious to know what she wanted from him. He had done her a favor, certainly—maybe even a great favor—and yet he had made it clear that there was no obligation. So why had she contacted him? What was it she wanted to show him?

The lift’s bell pinged, the doors hissed back. It was his level. Chen stepped out, acknowledging the liftman’s salute, then stopped dead, staring in amazement. The entrance hall to his suite of offices was almost blocked by a sedan which rested like a discarded throne in the center of the floor. It was a huge thing, clearly a luxury item, its black-and-mauve drapes made of velvet and silk, its poles a good imitation of wood, the shafts finely carved with figures from Chinese myth. To the left, against the wall, eight pole men squatted silently, their livery matching that of the sedan. He eyed them, understanding dawning on him. They were Company. Chen drew one of the drapes aside and looked in. The chair—a huge thing, heavily reinforced—looked big enough to seat three, yet there was a single imprint in the cushions. He sniffed, taking in the smell of leather and perfume. He knew that perfume. If the imprint hadn’t told him, the smell would have. It was Cornwell. The fat man. The AutoMek executive who had been riding him over the matter of the broken sweeping machines. Anger rising in him, Chen walked through, past the two guards, who—busy chattering, their view of the outer doors obscured by the sedan—only rose to salute him after he had swept past.

As Chen came into his room, the big man got up from Chen’s chair and, thrusting his ample stomach out across the desk, waved the notification at him, launching straight into the attack.

“What the fuck do you mean by this, Major Kao? No further proceedings ...

Do you seriously expect me to take this shit?” Chen put his case down, then turned, facing his Duty Captain, who stood in the doorway. “Who let this man into my room?” “It was Sergeant Fuller, sir.”

“Then have Fuller come here, immediately, and escort the ch’un tzu off the premises.”

Behind Chen, Cornwell shook his head. “Like fuck I’ll leave! Not until I get some action around here! More than sixty of our machines have been attacked in the past ninety-six hours, Major Kao, and you’ve done nothing. Nothing but sit on your ass.”

Chen turned back, facing the obese form of Cornwell. He had been ordered by General Rheinhardt to be as diplomatic as he could with the man, but this was too much.

“You’ll get out of my chair right now, Shih Cornwell, or I’ll arrest you for trespass, understand me? As for the other matter, our investigations are continuing. But where there is no conclusive evidence, there’s little we can do.”

“No evidence?” Cornwell gave a snort of derision. “There’s no fucking evidence because you don’t want to look for any, that’s why! And while you’re doing fuck-all, my Company is losing close on a million and a half a day! Well, it’s not good enough, Major! You either catch these scum and punish them or I’ll be forced to take matters into my own hands.”

Chen glared at him. “I would advise against that, Shih Cornwell. It is still an offense to interfere in an official Security investigation. As for you taking action to punish these ‘scum,’ as you call them, I would look on that as a most serious matter.”

“Oh, would you now?” Cornwell came around the desk and stood nose to nose with Chen, leaning into him threateningly. “Listen . . . Han. I don’t care what that badge on your chest says, you’re still nothing but a little man, a hsiao jen. You get in my way and I’ll have you crushed. I’ll have you stepped on like an insect. My Company”— his lips formed an ugly smile—“we have influence at the highest level, and I mean the highest. So don’t threaten me, Major Kao. Not if you know what’s good for you.” “Sir?”

Chen turned. Fuller was waiting in the doorway. Beyond him, in the corridor, a small group of curious officers had formed. Chen calmed himself, ignoring the scent of licorice in his nostrils from the other’s breath.

“Sergeant Fuller. Escort Shih Cornwell to his sedan, would you? And make sure he finds his way safely from the building.” He turned back, meeting Cornwell’s piggy eyes. “As for you, friend, I would think twice before crossing me. You might scorn the badge I wear, but my power is the T’ang’s power. You will leave this matter to me or eke.”

“Or else what?” Cornwell leaned close, his sickly-sweet breath filling Chen’s nostrils once more. “It’s very simple, Major. These scum have to be dealt with, and if you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will. As for all your bluster, well, you know where you can stick it, neh?” With a grunt of amusement Cornwell moved past Chen, squeezing his gross figure through the door and out between the watching officers. But he was not quite done. Turning, he raised his voice. “Oh, by the way, Major Kao, how’s that mad wife of yours?” Chen stood there a moment, watching Cornwell shake with laughter, then went across and closed the door. But still the laughter went on, following him back to his desk, sounding clearly in his head long after it had ceased outside.

How much longer? he thought. How much longer can I take this crap? He sat, feeling weary, aware of the warmth of the seat beneath him where the fat man had been. It had always been like this. Always. One insult after another; one battle after another. And never any peace. Never any real reward for what he’d done. Well, that was it. He’d had enough. If Cornwell so much as came near him again . . . He unclenched his fists, conscious that his thoughts had turned to violence. Was that the only answer he could think of? Or was there some other way to deal with cunts like Cornwell? Chen sat back, stretching his arms, trying to relax, but it was hard. The tension wasn’t merely in his muscles, it was in every atom of his being. He sighed. Maybe it was fate. Maybe there was nothing he could do to change things. Even so, he could not live with himself—could not respect himself as a man—unless he tried. Unless he took what fate had handed him and tried to shape it for the good.

Chen stood, looking about him at the disorder of his office, then crossed the room. Opening the cupboard where he kept a change of clothes, he pulled out a simple one-piece of the kind they wore down-level. He was behind with his reports—badly behind—but the paperwork would have to wait. Ill go down, he thought, beginning to change. See things for myself. Work out what action we ought to be taking.

But even as he went out into the corridor, passing the curious, staring faces of his fellow officers, he knew that it was only an excuse, an evasion, for the truth was he had to get out, to escape all this. Yes, he thought, facing it for the first time. He had to get away. Right away. Before things cracked. Before the whole charade came down on top of him.

shang mu leaned forward, facing the First Dragon across the narrow space between their seats. Far below—visible through the cruiser’s ornately decorated porthole—the huge, ten-thousand-mu fields of the West Asian Plantations moved past like the squares on a giant wei chi board. “The first meeting is this evening, I Lung. Prince An Mo Shan and four other Minor-Family princes. Sympathizers. Men he trusts. They have arranged to meet at Yin Tsu’s palace.”

“At Yin Tsu’s?” The First Dragon’s eyes widened. “But I thought Yin Tsu was staunchly loyal to Li Yuan?”

“He is. But Yin Tsu will not be there. It is his second son, Yin Chan, who will be hosting the meeting.”

“Ah . . . Even so, I find that strange, Shang Mu. Chan has always struck me as a most loyal son.”

“That is so, I Lung. Yet it seems he has never forgiven Li Yuan for divorcing his sister. He feels his family was shamed and wants revenge.” “Revenge ...” The First Dragon looked away. “It’s a piss-poor reason for deposing a Son of Heaven, neh? Watch him, Shang Mu. Find out if he drinks, if he has a loose tongue.”

“And if he has?”

“Then we have no choice. Yin Chan must have an accident.” Shang Mu looked down, staring at his hands uncomfortably. “And the list, I Lung?”

Unexpectedly, the First Dragon smiled. “Now, that’s a document, neh? I wonder what Li Yuan would make of it? Does he realize, I wonder, just how deeply this enmity is rooted? And if he does, what will he do? What action can he take that will not undermine the very throne on which he sits?” The First Dragon reached inside the darkness of his robe and drew out the handwritten list An Sheng had given him. Eight thousand names were written there, among them almost every member of the Seven’s government, from chamberlains and ministers right down to bond servants and grooms. But there was one name he had noticed in particular: that of the young American politician, Joseph Kennedy.

He looked up from the thick sheaf of paper, meeting his Junior Minister’s eyes. “As I said, it is interesting. And An Sheng is right, of course. It is not enough to remove the Seven, we must also remove all those who serve them. Yet we must not be impatient, Shang Mu. We have not thrived all these years through impatience. No. We must saw with soft ropes, as the old saying goes. And we must heed the lessons of the past. We must be thorough. Everything must be planned, down to the last tiny detail. Only then can we guarantee success.”

“Then I am to do nothing, I Lung?”

“Quite the contrary, Shang Mu. You will begin at once. There are names there—Kennedy and his close friend Lever, for instance— whose deaths would not inconvenience anyone. But choose carefully, Shang Mu. The last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves.” Shang Mu smiled, noting the tone of irony in his Master’s voice. If there was one thing the Thousand Eyes had perfected over the years, it was the art of not drawing attention to themselves. Even so, he felt a profound unease at this latest development. He had not imagined . . . He drew back from the edge and met his Master’s eyes once more, nodding.

“It shall be as you say, I Lung.”

“Good,” the old man said, closing his eyes. “Then leave me. And get some sleep, Shang Mu. It may be some while before any of us sleeps soundly again.”

“Where is your husband?”

“My husband? He’s . . . gone. Looking for work.”

“Gone? Where has he gone?”

The woman looked down, avoiding Chen’s eyes. “I don’t know, I—I haven’t seen him for a while. Two, three days . . .” Chen stared at her, trying not to lose his temper, then turned away. Like the other wives he had interviewed, she clearly knew where her husband was, but she was frightened. She knew what her man had been up to and what the penalty for that was, and she was keeping quiet. Well, he’d have done the same in her place, but that made it no less frustrating. He needed to talk to one of the men, to find out what they wanted. And to try to do something before things got out of hand. Because these were decent, hardworking people. Their only crime was to have been thrown out of work by the Company and replaced by machines.

And who wouldn’t be angry at that?

Chen looked about him at the room. It was like all the others he had seen:

a clean, immaculately tidy room, its boxlike simplicity augmented by tiny touches of luxury, like the colorful holoprint on the wall opposite. He went across and studied it, ignoring the woman a moment, losing himself in his appreciation of Ku Hung-chung’s masterful work. Reaching up he activated the holo, then stepped back, nodding. It was good the way the picture seemed suddenly to come to life, the computer adding depth to Ku’s beautifully painted figures. He put his palm up, feeling the warmth generated by the field, then switched it off. Chen looked down. Against the wall beneath the holo, unnoticed until then, was a tiny, boxlike cupboard on legs. Chen crouched down and opened the tiny doors, then looked across, meeting the woman’s eyes. “You know this is illegal?”

She said nothing, simply watched him, like a trapped animal, unable to answer.

He looked back, studying the tiny figures within the red-and-gold-painted box. It was a miniature temple, not unlike those you’d find in many households, but whereas most temples were to the Family Ancestors, this one was different. He had not seen such figures often, but he knew enough to recognize that these were of the ancient gods. Possession of even one of these figures was enough to get the family demoted, and here were a dozen, fifteen, of the things.

He took one out and held it up so that she could see.

“I take it these are yours?”

She was about to answer when the curtain in the doorway twitched and an old man came into the room.

Chen stood, facing the ancient, and bowed respectfully. “Lao jen. . .” The ancient came toward him a pace or two, then stopped, waving away his daughter-in-law. He was a tall, refined-looking old man, with a face like carved ivory. There was a sense of repose about him, of deep stillness, but just now his eyes seemed troubled.

“What do you want?”

Chen almost smiled, surprised by the directness of the old man’s words.

Yet it showed that he understood. More than his daughter-in-law, anyway.

“Forgive me, laojen, but I was looking for Song Wei, the sweeper.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask? Who are you, and what do you want of my son?”

Chen smiled. Word would have gone out, like ripples from a dropped stone, that a man was going from apartment to apartment, asking questions. But who he was, that no one knew. Not yet, anyway. He looked down at the figure in his palm, then closed his fingers over it, meeting the old man’s eyes once more.

“My name is Tong Chou, and I am a friend. I wish only to talk with Song Wei.”

“A friend?” The old man shook his head, his eyes suddenly hard. “I am sorry, Shih Tong, but I know all my son’s friends, and you I have never met. Besides, my son is not here. Nor do I know when he will be back. He has gone looking for a job. You know how things are. . . .” Chen lowered his head slightly. “I know and sympathize, Master Song. Things are bad. And you are right. Your son does not know me. Yet I am still his friend and wish to help him. If he returns in the next few hours, tell him he will find me at Wu Mao’s rice stall on Main. After that I cannot say. I am a busy man.”

He saw how the old man’s eyes took in his words, assessing them, trying to guess just what Chen’s purpose was and whether he was genuine. And there was hope there, too, just the tiniest glimmer. Enough, perhaps, to tempt Song Wei to contact him.

And if he did? Well, he had no job for Song Wei, no hope. Only a warning for him to stop before it was too late.

“Wu Mao’s,” he said, moving close and handing the old man the figure. “Oh, and a word of advice. Destroy the temple. Or the figures, anyway. It will not help Song Wei if his wife and children have been taken from him.” Old Song gazed at the figure fondly a moment, then looked up into Chen’s face again.

“We live in bad times. The people need their comforts.” “I don’t deny it. But then, I don’t make the laws. Do as you will, (ao jen, but think of your son, neh? How best to help him.” Chen stepped back, bowed, then moved past the old man and out through the curtained doorway, surprising the daughter-in-law who was getting up from where she’d been eavesdropping. With a nod to her he went out into the public corridor, a crowd of women and children making way before him, a murmur of speculation passing among them. At the entrance to Main he stopped, looking about him, taking it all in. Ten years ago this would have been a good place to live, well lit and orderly, its people affluent, industrious, and law-abiding. But things had broken down. Change had washed across these levels like a great wave of corrosive acid, eating away at the certainties upon which these people had built for so long.

Even so, there was still coherence of a kind, as if those years of different expectations had conditioned the people here, forging in them a passivity, an acceptance of their fate. The future might seem bleak, yet they were Han—they would endure and chi ku, “eat bitter.” At least, so long as they had the capacity to endure.

He sighed, knowing how they felt. There was a time when he, too, had burned with the bright ideal of betterment, with the dream of a wife, a child, and of seeking his fortune up-level. But the dream had died in him, had proved a kind of ghost vision, no more substantial than a flickering hologram. Yes, that brilliant, blinding light that had led him on had guttered, and now the darkness summoned him again, like a hungry mouth, sucking him down into the depths. Down, as if he’d never climbed at all. He stirred himself, making his way across to Wu Mao’s stall, trying to lift his spirits—to think of something that was positive amid the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. But there was nothing. It was as if it had pursued him, year by year, level by level. As if, to escape it, he would have to climb to the very top and burst through the thin yet impermeable skin of the City’s roof. And even then he would not be free of it, for the City was inside him, like a sickness, thickening his blood, darkening his vision.

So what then? What was the answer to it all? Taking a seat he looked about him at the people on either side of him along the counter, noting how each face mirrored his own. How in each one might read the coming of the new age. An age of uncertainty and encroaching darkness.

Better, perhaps, to die, then? To go out in one final blazing act? Or was that simply the frightened child in him talking? The boy who’d never known the love of a mother, the example of a father? He shivered. If only Wang Ti had been with him. If only she were well again. Then he might begin to make sense of it. But as it was . . . Wu Mao came across and leaned across the counter. “What you want, friend?” Peace, Chen answered in his head. And a better, saner world than this. But what could Wu Mao, the rice seller, do about that?

Chen smiled, liking the man’s rough, bearded face. “Give me some ma-po

bean curd, if you have it. If not, some beggar’s rice with lots of

onions.”

Wu Mao laughed. “The bean curd is finished. Beggar’s rice it’ll have to be, friend. And maybe that’s good, neh? For we’re all beggars now.”

the two men slipped from the shadows and moved softly, silently, across the broad, tiled floor until they stood before the raised dais and the great chair. There they stopped and, like flowing pieces of the darkness, knelt, placing their hooded heads to the floor in obeisance. Above them, in the great, tall-backed chair, the First Dragon sat impassively, his masked face looking down at them.

“Listen,” he said, his voice booming, echoing, in the vastness of that dark, sepulchral chamber. “You are to follow the man. Find out what he does, who he sees, what he thinks, if that’s at all possible. And you will report to no one but myself. If your superiors ask what you are doing, you will say nothing. You will refer them directly to me. Here ...” The First Dragon leaned forward slightly, his closed right hand extended. There was the smallest movement of his fingers, the clink of falling metal on the tiles in front of the two prone figures. “These rings bear my seal. They will afford you entry into places where you would not normally be allowed. But do not abuse their power. They must be used only in the furtherance of this inquiry. You understand?” There was the slightest nodding of heads. “Good. But be discreet. Shang Mu must not know he is being shadowed. If you think he suspects, then you must tell me at once. There will be no punishment. Similarly, there will be no reward.” The First Dragon paused and sat back again, staring out over the two dark shapes, as if meeting the eyes of someone in the darkness between the great pillars at the far end. But he was alone in the audience chamber with them.

“Your fee is two hundred thousand yuan. A third will be paid to you now, the rest upon completion of your task. Now go. You will begin at once.” There was a nod of hooded heads, a quick, almost serpentine movement of a hand to retrieve the fallen rings, and then the figures backed away, swiftly, silently, their dark robes flowing like a mist across the smooth black tiles.

Watching them go, the First Dragon let out his breath. It was some six years since he had needed to call upon the services of the Guild of Assassins, nor was he entirely certain now. Shang Mu, after all, was a good man. If he proved false, then who could be trusted? Yet he had to be sure, if only for his own peace of mind, for it was not simply his own fate that now rested on Shang Mu’s shoulders, but the fate of the Ministry itself, the great Thousand Eyes. If the Ministry failed—if it fell—then there was no hope for Chung Kuo.

He shuddered, horrified by the prospect. By the thought of there being no Eyes to see, no guiding Hand to help. It was unthinkable. And yet think of it he must, for if he did not, then who would? The Seven? No. Any doubts he had harbored about them had gone completely now. There was no alternative. They had to act, and act decisively, before the Seven pissed away the gains of the last two hundred years. Before the Hung Mao took back the reins and pushed the world on into chaos once more. Progress. He had heard that foul and cursed word on many lips these past six months. Progress. Like some dark litany, chanted by the insane. And maybe that’s our fault, he thought, making his way slowly down the steps. Ours, because we did our job too well. Because they no longer understand the true meaning—the awful, frightful cost—of Progress. Not that they had been wrong. No, for their intentions had been good and honorable. They had tried to start again—to build a new world free of the sins and errors of the old. And for a time it had worked. All had been well. Yet Man was Man. His ways could not be changed. One might wipe the slate clean, yet Man would dirty it again. Moreover, in burying the past they had also buried the lessons of the past. Indeed in many ways the new man was worse than the old, for while he had the same instincts he had none of his restraint—a restraint founded in long centuries of experience. Of history. Or was that true? Did history really teach them anything? Once more the great man shivered, conscious of how far his thoughts had come—of what heresies they touched upon. Then, gathering his cloak about him, he walked briskly across the broad, tiled floor, his footsteps echoing after him, the slam of the great doors like a punctuation mark. And then silence.

two hours had passed and no one had come. Paying Wu Mao, Chen made his way to the interlevel transit, his mood despondent. Whatever his feelings on the matter he would have to do something, before Cornwell went over his head and someone else was put in charge of the investigation. But what? What could he do? He could round them all up, certainly, but as soon as he did, the matter would be taken out of his hands. A tribunal would decide their fate, and in all likelihood they would be sent down—they and their families. And to be demoted these days— to be sent “Below the Net”—was as good as a death sentence. No. He would have to warn them off somehow—to impress upon them just what the stakes were. But how? How did you get the message across to such angry, desperate men? How did you convince them that, however bad their lot was now, it could be ten times worse?

He rode the transit up fifty levels, and then another fifty, ignoring the crush in the big lift, the smell of unwashed bodies, going over the problem in his mind time and again. Warn them off. Sure. But how? Should he make one of them an example? Song Wei, perhaps? Or would that only make matters worse? Wouldn’t it, perhaps, simply harden their attitudes against authority?

Or hostages . . .

He laughed, surprised that he’d not thought of it before. Hostages. Why not? What if he rounded up the wives and held them against the good behavior of their menfolk?

Yes. But it would have to be planned. He’d have to find someplace to keep them. And he’d have to make sure there was no reaction from the men. The last thing he wanted was a riot.

A few weeks should do it. Until the men had cooled off. And in the interim maybe he could try to get some kind of deal for them— compensation, perhaps. Or jobs.

He smiled, for the first time feeling positive about the situation. He’d get onto it first thing tomorrow morning. And maybe, once it was done, he would pay that bastard Cornwell a return visit—fill his reception hall with Security.

But before then he’d better check on the other matter—see how the investigation into the missing File was going. And later, perhaps, he’d go and see the girl.

The Golden Carp. Eighth bell. . .

He nodded to himself. Maybe he’d go after all. And afterward?

Afterward he’d go home, to his children, his wife. Chen shuddered, shadows falling once again, remembering Corn-well’s gross belly shaking with laughter. His mad wife. . . .

thedaywasending, the western light fading fast. Three craft now rested on the huge, circular pad, their Minor-Family crests indistinguishable. Behind Yin Chan, at the center of the lake, the lights were slowly coming on in the great house, while to the east, above the hills, the fourth of the craft circled, then made its approach. It has begun, thought Yin Chan excitedly. And when it’s done, that man will be dead, his family eradicated.

The thought was sweet. It made the tiny hairs on his neck prickle with an unexpectedly sharp anticipation. To stand over his corpse and spit into his vacant face—that, indeed, would be heaven. He watched the ship come down, anxious for a moment in case An Hsi had sent another to say he could not come, yet when the craft had settled and the hatch hissed open, it was An Hsi himself who stepped down, arms wide, to greet him.

Yin Chan went across, grinning fiercely.

“You came!” he whispered, holding An Hsi tight against him for a moment, relief and happiness making him laugh.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” An Hsi laughed, then held Yin Chan at arm’s

length. Yin Chan shivered, feeling the strength of the older man’s hands

against his arms. “We are like brothers, Chan. I would never let you

down.”

No, thought Yin Chan, staring into his once-lover’s face. Simply by coming here they had committed themselves—all five of them. There was no way back from this. No way out, except death. He smiled and, taking An Hsi’s shoulder, led him out down the path to the waiting boat. Five years ago he and his brother Sung had rowed Li Yuan across this lake to see their sister, who had fled here after a bitter row with her then-husband. The young T’ang had come here to be reconciled with her. Or so he’d claimed. For it was then that it had ended between Li Yuan and Yin Fei Yen; that day that he had set her aside—she and her unborn son—shaming Yin Chan’s family, making them a laughingstock before the others of the Twenty-Nine. He shuddered, the indignation fresh in him. As the servants rowed them across, he made small talk with An Hsi, yet the thought of what they were about to do distracted him, and as they climbed up onto the landing stage, beneath the ancient willow, he could remember nothing of what had been said.

An Hsi stood a moment, looking across at the elegant, two-story mansion with its gently sloped roof and broad, paneled windows, then turned to Yin Chan, smiling.

“It has been too long since I was last here, Cousin. You should have asked me long before this.”

The admonishment was gentle and the smile, the slightly teasing tone, reminded Chan of earlier days when he had first brought An Hsi here to his family home. He searched An Hsi’s eyes, looking to see what he meant, wondering if, after the meeting, he would perhaps stay. But An Hsi’s dark eyes revealed nothing.

“Come,” the older man said, taking Yin Chan’s arm. “Let us go and meet our cousins. We have much to talk about.”

eighth bell was sounding as Chen made his way through the crowds in front of the Golden Carp and up the broad steps that led to the reception. He was feeling awkward, out of place. Everyone here was young and fashionably dressed, while he, though not shabbily attired, felt old beyond his years, his simple ersilk one-piece like something a tradesman or a servant would wear.

The young woman behind the counter, her face painted gold, fake gills at her neck, stared at him as if he had made some kind of mistake, then narrowed her eyes. “Well? What do you want?” He cleared his throat, strangely nervous—he who had fought men hand to hand and to the death. Even so, he understood. There were different kinds of fear, and this was his—a fear of social places, of the bright glare and insincerity of it all; of being spotlighted and made to seem a simple clod, an uncultivated fool. General Rheinhardt himself had picked him up about it, reminding him that it was his duty as a Major to engage in social activities, but he had done little to remedy the fault. He was a soldier, not a courtier, and there was nothing he could do about it. If Rheinhardt didn’t like it, he could demote him and there was an end to it. Just now, however, something else drove him on—plain curiosity.

“Can I help you, sir?”

He smiled awkwardly, conscious that he was blushing like a girl. At a loss, he stared past the receptionist, trying to make out Hannah among the crowd within. The restaurant was on two levels, both of them packed. Tables filled the floors, young people sitting six or seven to a table with little room between for the fish-headed waiters to make their way through, stacked trays held effortlessly above their heads. He looked from table to table, trying to locate where she was, but it was no good. He would have to ask for her.

“I—I’m meeting someone.”

“Ah ...” The golden head looked down, studying the appointment book in front of her, then looked back up at him. Green eyes—lenses, he realized with a start—stared back at him from the painted Han face. “Are you Kao Chen?”

He laughed, part from relief, part from embarrassment, and nodded, his mouth dry, then watched as she summoned one of the waiters over. “Table seventeen. Upper floor. If you’d show the ch’un tzu . . .” She turned back to Chen, smiling—a tight, insincere smile—as she said this last, as if to imply he could never be “ch’un tzu”—a gentleman—were he to try a thousand years. But Chen was used to that. With a face like his he could fool no one that he had come from an ancient line of kings. No. His face said plainly peasant. And so it was, and mainly he was proud of it, but sometimes—as now—he would have done anything, paid any price, to have had the face of a gentler, more handsome fellow than he was. As the waiter turned away, he followed, mumbling apologies all the way across the lower floor, stumbling as he climbed the six low steps that led to the upper room. There the waiter left him, pointing across to a table in the comer where four people—three young men and a woman, her back to him—were seated, the remains of a meal on the table before them. For a moment Chen wasn’t sure. For a second or two he hesitated, prepared to turn back, to forget he’d ever come here, but then Hannah turned in her seat, as if sensing him, and met his eyes, her smile so bright. She was so clearly pleased to see him there, all thought of leaving fled him. He was smiling back at her and nodding, pleased, absurdly pleased, to see her there.

“Kao Chen!” she called above the noise, then stood, making her way between the tables. “Kao Chen . . .”

He stood there, a faint thrill of surprise passing through him as he watched her come across to him. In the tangle of his thoughts he had forgotten that she was Hung Mao. He had visualized her as Han, like himself. Shang Han-A. But that was understandable perhaps. Her tall, willowy build, her dark eyes, the single plait of her long, dark hair—these made her seem, at first glance, what she was not. And now that he saw her again, he remembered how old she was— sixteen—and shook his head. Why, his own son was barely two years younger. As she squeezed between the last two chairs and came face-to-face with him, he found his awkwardness returning. He felt the urge to embrace her, to greet her physically somehow, but knew it would be taken wrongly. Even so, it surprised him when she reached out and took both his hands in hers, then leaned close to kiss his cheek.

“Kao Chen,” she said more softly, the scent of her perfume giving the words a strangely romantic cast. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” “Nor I,” he confessed, and then laughed. He looked past her, conscious that his mouth was dry again, his pulse racing. “Your friends?” “Come. I’ll introduce you.” She hesitated, then leaned in close, speaking to his ear. “And please. Don’t react. Just listen, okay? We’ll talk afterward.”

He stared at her as she moved back, then shrugged. Okay, he mouthed, then let her lead him across to the table.

Three heads turned as they approached; three bodies repositioned themselves about the table, as if confronting Chen. Like fighters, he thought, and then wondered why he’d thought that, for the look of them was soft, their muscle tone poor. Their clothes—so different from his own—seemed garishly effete, while the jewelry they wore—rings, bracelets, and fine necklaces of gold—were so overdone that they reminded him of how his daughter, Ch’iang Hsin, had used to dress up when she was younger. Their faces were made up, their nails carefully manicured. First Level, that look said clearly: Supernal.

“Sao Ke, Andre, Christian—this is Kao Chen.” Chen realized he was frowning and tried to smile, but all he could do was grimace grotesquely and nod. Like the clod I am, he thought, conscious of how intently—how critically—they were watching him. “Kao Chen ...” Sao Ke repeated thoughtfully from where he sat on the far side of the table, then nodded to himself. He took a sip from his wine cup, then met Chen’s eyes. “You’re a student, I take it?” Hannah answered for him, pulling an empty chair out beside her as she did, indicating that Chen should sit.

“No. Kao Chen is an old family friend.”

Chen glanced at her, then looked back at the others, trying to keep the smile from slipping. The two Hung Mao—Christian and Andre—were silently assessing him. And dismissing me, no doubt, he thought, discomfort making him swallow drily. Yet even as he did, Hannah leaned close, her scent once again distracting him. “Are you drinking?” she whispered, her mouth against his ear.

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Good.” She smiled, then poured wine from the jug into the empty cup in front of him. A strong red sorghum wine that, when he tasted it, made him nod with appreciation.

He looked up and saw she was watching him, enjoying his enjoyment of the wine, and for a moment he thought how strange that was. It was a long time since anyone had done that; since anyone had worried what he, Kao Chen, was feeling. He looked down, a faint shiver passing through him. “Well. . .” one of the two Hung Mao said—Christian? Andre? he wasn’t sure. Chen glanced from one to the other. They smiled, and lifted their cups to him in a toast, but behind the smiles there was a coldness, an implacable dislike for his kind.

“So what do you do, Kao Chen?”

The speaker sat to Chen’s left, the other side of Hannah. “Kao Chen is a potter,” Hannah answered, before he could even think what to say. “As was his father and his father’s father. And before you ask, his pots are very good. Some say that their shape is too crude, the clay too thick, the design too simple, but that merely serves to demonstrate their ignorance. Besides, their glaze is the most delicate you’ve ever seen; the colors”—she turned and, smiling, winked at Chen, who was staring at her, astonished—“well, the colors are just perfect. There’s a blue he uses which is ... well, it’s like the blue of heaven itself.” Chen stared at her a moment longer, then, realizing what he was doing, he looked away, trying to compose himself. It was all invention, certainly—all part of some game she was playing—but why? What did she mean by it all?

“My own taste is for the funerary, of course,” Sao Ke said, leaning forward slightly, an interested gleam in his eyes, “but young Hannah here is a fine judge of artifacts. Praise from her is high praise indeed. But tell me, Kao Chen—“ Hannah interrupted him. “Forgive me, Ke, but it will do you little good asking Kao Chen. I should have said at once. My dear friend is dumb. A childhood accident. . .”

Dumb! Chen almost laughed. Was there no end to her audacity? And yet it all made sense of a kind. Knowing he was an artisan—if only of a lowly kind, a potter—they would be more inclined to talk freely in his presence. And his affliction, his inability to speak—again he almost laughed aloud at the thought of it!—it was the perfect excuse to simply sit there and listen. He glanced at her again, saw she was watching him, and looked down, smiling. There was more to her—much more—than he’d realized. Hannah leaned forward, smiling gaily around the table. “Well, anyway . . . We were talking of the changes, remember? Andre, you were saying something interesting about your father’s Company. About...” Chen half listened at first, struck more by the look of these young men, by the intoxicating atmosphere of the Golden Carp, than by anything they said. Andre and Christian, he realized, were brothers. Or, if not, then they ought to have been, the facial similarities were so striking. But it was not merely the look of them—the cosmetic outer shell of them—that he found fascinating, it was something in the language of gesture they used; something he had only vaguely noticed before that moment. They were arrogant, that went without saying, yet it was of a kind that was untempered by any kind of self-knowledge or self-consciousness. The arrogance of princes and great men, that Chen understood; but the arrogance of such little men—such hsiao jen— surprised him. What they knew, what they were: it all seemed like a thin veneer, covering up an inner emptiness so vast, so frightening, that they must keep talking to disguise the nothingness within. When they talked, they did not meet each other’s eyes but stared languidly at their own fingernails or into the air. They seemed completely insular—completely self-obsessed. Yet how could one be self-obsessed where there was no true self? It puzzled Chen as he sat there. Puzzled him that Hannah could bring herself to listen to these fools, these elegant, empty mouths. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was his own recently acquired habit of introspection, but Chen found himself wanting to voice these thoughts, these insights ... to tell them exactly what they were. But what good would that do? What could mere words achieve against such stultifying ignorance? Even so, the desire made him lean in toward them, as if in combat, to set aside his thoughts and listen, engaging for the first time in what they were saying.

Christian was talking now, turning the conversation away from the meal they had just eaten to something he had heard about the Lowers—about how they had been putting “chemicals” in the food all these years. “It’s not much,” he said. “Not even enough to register on the taste buds of the most sensitive gourmet, but, well ... it has its effect. It makes them . . . docile. It dampens down their natural aggressive instincts. Or, at least, it used to. Now that the food quotas have fallen they’re not getting enough, it seems, and the powers that be can’t add any more without it becoming . . . discernible. That’s why there’s more trouble down there these days. Why there are so many riots and disturbances. They’re waking up, you see. And they’re getting angry.” That’s true, Chen thought, but it’s not because of any chemicals in their food. He’d heard the rumors before. They were rife these days. But there was no proof. Besides, there were other reasons to be angry. More than enough reasons to riot.

“Maybe that’s why there are so many revolutionaries these days,” Christian added after a moment.

Sao Ke chipped in at once, his sardonic drawl the voice of Emptiness itself, his cultured Han face one long, consistent sneer. “Revolutionaries . . . there’s a hollowness at the center of them all when it comes right down to it. They’re fucked up, and because they’re fucked up, they want the world to be fucked up too. . . .” Hannah, as if sensing Chen’s sudden interest, cut in. “That may be true of some of them, even the majority, perhaps, but it can’t be true for them all. There must be some for whom the ideal of revolution is . . . well, a vocation.”

Sao Ke leaned back, showing perfect, pearled teeth as he laughed, his laughter a bray of pure scorn. “Well, I’ve heard it called many things, but never that. A vocation!” He shook his head, then reached out to pour more wine into his bowl. “Don’t be fooled, my young and beautiful friend. All that shit about the altruism of the lower levels, about the honest, hardworking peasant stock you’ll find down there . . . it’s all a myth!—a fiction, served up by the Trivee Companies to make us feel okay about it all. Besides, all this ideology they spout, it’s window dressing, that’s all, a cynical disguise the bastards use to justify killing and maiming innocent people. But have no illusions, it’s all Number One when it comes right down to it. Self, self, self, however prettily the ideas might be packaged!”

Hannah leaned forward, looking back at Sao Ke. “I’m not so sure. I think they must suffer down there. It must be dreadful—“ “Bullshit!” Sao Ke answered, making a dismissive gesture of his hand, as if the very idea were absurd. “They’re animals, that’s what they are! Less than animals, some of them! All they do is eat, drink, and fuck! We’d be better off without them.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Andre said, lifting his wine cup unsteadily. “If I had my way I’d gas the lot of them. Rig up something in the ventilation system and get the buggers while they’re sleeping. That’d solve all our problems, neh? There’d be food enough for everyone then.” Sao Ke, who had drunk little, looked down, smiling. “It’s a somewhat radical suggestion, I’d say. Then again, maybe it’s time for something radical. Something we’d have no need for in ... well, in better times. You know, they have a slogan down there, I’m told—‘Life is cheap, flesh plentiful.’ Well, maybe it’s time to put a higher value on life. Market rules, and all that.”

Christian turned, looking at Sao Ke. “What do you mean?” “It’s simple. The laws of the market say that if a products rare, its price is normally high. Likewise, if it’s a commonplace—easily acquired, easily replaced—then its value is minimal. And right now I’d say life has never been cheaper, neh? The problem’s a simple one. Too many bodies. Too many mouths to feed. The solution is obvious.” “And who decides?”

It was Hannah who had asked the question. She was smiling, leaning toward Sao Ke as if encouraging him, but behind the smile was a hardness Chen had not noticed before.

“Draw a line, I say,” Christian said, banging the table enthusiastically.

“Anyone below the . . . oh, the top hundred gets the chop.”

“Top fifty!’^Andre chimed in.

There was laughter; long, unhealthy laughter. But Chen, watching, saw how Hannah didn’t laugh but turned her face slightly toward him, as if conscious that he was watching.

“That’s more than eighty percent of the population,” she said. “Thirty-two billion people, or thereabouts.”

“Give or take a million,” Andre added, making them roar anew.

“So who’d get rid of the bodies?”

Sao Ke shrugged and sat back. “Oh, it’d all be planned, of course.

Everything thought through thoroughly.”

“Thought through thoroughly ... I like that!” Andre chirped in, and again they were off, their laughter filling that tiny corner of the Golden Carp. But Chen had had enough. There was a tightness at the pit of his stomach, a tension in his muscles, that was almost unbearable. He would have to say something, to answer them, or he would burst. He leaned forward, meaning to answer Sao Ke, to throw his vile obscenities back in his face, but Hannah was watching him. As he opened his mouth, he felt her kick his shin—hard—under the table. “There’s talk,” she said brightly, steering the conversation away from the abyss into which it had strayed, “that Huang Min-ye is to perform at the College Hall this summer.”

it seemed an age, but finally he was outside, breathing fresher, cleaner air. He stood there a moment at the foot of the steps, conscious of Hannah watching him; of the press of young, elegantly dressed people milling all about him, filling the great green that was at the heart of this First Level deck. Reluctantly, he let her take his arm and lead him through the crowd, across the green and toward the inter-level transit, keeping his thoughts, his anger, to himself; yet as soon as they were out of it—as soon as they were in a quieter, less public place, he turned on her. “Those are your friends?”

Hannah shook her head. “No, Kao Chen. Those are the people I’m obliged to spend my time with. My social equals.” She hesitated, her dark eyes boring into him intently. “I wanted you to see. To understand how they think up here. And I ... well, I want you to do the same for me. To take me down-level.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know. To understand how it is. Because”—she took a long, shuddering breath—“well, because 1 want to let people know. To be a voice. A still, clear voice, telling people how it is. How it really is.” He stared at her a long time, then shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

“It isn’t possible.”

“No?” She smiled, then reached out, touching his arm. “Maybe not. But I can try, neh? I can always try.”