The Stone Within

Chung Kuo. The words mean "Middle Kingdom, "and since 221 B.C., when the first emperor, Ch'in Shih Huang Ti, unifieH the seven Warring States, it is what the "black-haired people," the Han, or Chinese, have called their great country. The Middle Kingdom—for them it was the whole world; a world bounded by great mountain chains to the north and west, by the sea to east and south. Beyond was only desert and barbarism. So it was for two thousand years and through sixteen great dynasties. Chung Kuo was the Middle Kingdom, the very center of the human world, and its emperor the "Son of Heaven," the "One Man." But in the eighteenth century that world was invaded by the young and aggressive Western powers with their superior weaponry and their unshakable belief in progress. It was, to the surprise of the Han, an unequal contest, and China's myth of supreme strength and self-sufficiency was shattered. By the early twentieth century China—Chung Kuo—was the sick old man of the East: "a carefully preserved mummy in a hermetically sealed coffin," as Karl Marx called it. But from the disastrous ravages of that century grew a giant of a nation, capable of competing with the West and with its own Eastern rivals, Japan and Korea, from a position of incomparable strength. The twenty-first century, "the Pacific Century," as it was known even before it began, saw China become once more a world unto itself, but this time its only boundary was space.

"For every one of us it is the same. Worlds end or open as we go."

Wasps and ants have a mean fate: how could their power be enduring?

—Turn Wen ("Heavenly Questions") by Ch'u Yuan, from the Ch'u Tz'u ("Songs of the South"), second century B.C.

Can't teach a true peach being a prisoner Skin all round and stone within

—Jukka Tolonen, Last Quarters, 1972

PROLOGUE SPRING 2209

In the Space Between Heaven and Earth

Heaven and earth are ruthless, and treat the myriad

creatures as straw dogs; the sage is ruthless, and

treats the people as straw dogs.

Is not the space between heaven and earth like a

bellows?

It is empty without being exhausted:

The more it works the more comes out.

Much speech leads inevitably to silence.

Better to hold fast to the void.

—LAD TZU, Too Te Ching, sixth century b.c.

WU SHIH , T'ang of North America, stood at the top of the ruined, pitted steps, looking down at the men. Behind him, headless, the huge statue sat, embedded in its chair of granite. Overhead, spotlights set into the floor of the Above picked out the figures at the foot of the broad white stairway. Five men. Five old, gray-bearded men, well-dressed and senatorial. Company Heads. Americans. Wu Shih studied them, his contempt barely concealed. His left foot rested on the statue's fallen head, his right hand on his hip.

One of the men, taller than the rest, stepped out in front of the others and called up to him.

"Where are they? You said you'd bring them, Wu Shih. So where are they?"

Dead, he would have liked to have said. Your sons are dead, old men. But it wasn't so. Wang Sau-leyan had saved their lives. There had been an agreement in Council and the traitors were to go free, unpunished, the price of their treachery unexacted. It was foolishness, but it had been decided.

"They are here, Shih Lever. Close by. Unharmed."

Wu Shih paused and looked about the ruins of the old city. From where he stood, high above it all, the floor of the Above was less than fifty ch'i overhead, a dark and solid presence, stretching away to every horizon. Facing him, beyond the darkly shadowed outline of a toppled obelisk, could be glimpsed the wreckage of the Capitol building, a huge, silvered pillar thrusting up through its ruined dome—one of many that rose to meet the smooth, featureless darkness of the City's underbelly.

He had brought them here deliberately, knowing the effect it would have on the old men. Overhead, its presence vast and crushing, lay the City that he ruled—a City that rose two Ii—almost a mile by their ancient measure—into the air, stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the coast of Labrador to the Gulf of Mexico in the south. While here below . . .

Wu Shih smiled. Here, in the darkness beneath the City's piles, lay the ruins of old America—of Washington, once capital of the sixty-nine States of the American Empire. And these men—these foolish, greedy old men—would have the Empire back; would break a century of peace to have it back. Wu Shih snorted and looked down at the massive granite head beneathrthe foot.

"You have signed the documents?"

A moment's silence greeted his words, then Lever answered him, the irritation in his voice barely restrained. "It's done."

Wu Shih felt a ripple of anger pass through him. It was the second time Old Man Lever had refused to address him properly.

"All of you?" he demanded. "All those on my list?"

He looked up from Lincoln's head and sought Lever's eyes. Lever was staring at the fallen stone, his face suffused with anger, his expression so eloquent that Wu Shih laughed and pressed down on the heavy stone, forcing the nose firmly into the dust that lay everywhere here.

"You haven't answered me."

Wu Shih's voice had changed, grown harder, its flattened tones filled with threat. Lever looked at at him, surprised by the command in his voice—unaccustomed, clearly, to another's rule. Again this spoke volumes. These men were far gone in their dissent—had grown fat and arrogant in the illusion of their power. Li Yuan had been right to see them as a threat—right to act against them as he had. There was no respect in them, no understanding of their true relationship to things. The old man thought himself the equal of the Seven— perhaps, even, their superior. It was a dangerous, insolent delusion.

Lever turned his head away sharply, spitting the words out angrily.

"WeVe signed. Everyone on your list." He beckoned to another of his party, who came forward and handed him the document.

Wu Shih watched, his eyes half-lidded, seeing how Lever turned back to face him, hesitating, as if he expected Wu Shih to come down the steps and take the paper from him.

"Bring it," he said, and put out his left hand casually, almost languidly. Wang Sau-leyan may have forced the Council -to make this deal with their enemies—this "concession," as he called it—but he, Wu Shih, would show these men exactly where they stood. He saw how Lever turned, uncertainty in his face, looking toward the others as if for guidance, then turned back and began to climb. Each step was a small humiliation. Each a belittling of the man. Then, when he was only three steps from the top, Wu Shih raised his hand, commanding him, by that gesture, to stay where he was.

Lever frowned, but did as he was bid.

"Kneel," Wu Shih said, his voice soft, almost gentle now.

Lever turned his head slightly, as if he had not heard properly. "What?"

"Kneel"

Wu Shih's voice had been no louder, no harder, but this time it was command not reminder.

Again Lever hesitated, half turning, the muscles in his face twitching, conscious of his fellows down below, watching him. Slowly, huffing as he did, the old man knelt, his face raised, eyes glaring at Wu Shih. This was a protocol he had clearly thought he could avoid. " But Wu Shih was unrelenting. He was determined to have the form of Lever's respect if not the actuality, knowing that in such forms lay power. Real power. The bowing of one man before another: it was a gesture as old as it was profound. And even if true respect were not forthcoming here, he could still insist on one of its components— obedience. Simple obedience.

Leaning forward, Wu Shih plucked the paper from Lever's outstretched hand and opened it. Its original—verified by retinal print and scan—was already on file. Yet there was more power in this—this written paper, signed by the hand of each and given here at this place where the dream of America had died—than in the purely legal form of their agreement. It was little understood by them, but ritual was more than empty show. It was power itself. Was what gave form to the relationships of men.

Wu Shih folded the paper, grunting his satisfaction. Half turning, he made a signal. At once, a brilliant light fell on a nearby building. For a moment there was nothing, then a door opened in the plain white face of the building and from the darkness within stepped a group of young men. The Sons. Gaunter, less proud for their fifteen-month incarceration. But dangerous. More dangerous than Wang Sau-leyan would ever contemplate.

Wu Shih raised his hand, dismissing the old man.

Lever backed away, moving slowly down the steps, then, at the bottom, turned and went among his fellows, making his way across the littered wasteland toward the building where the young men stood. Wu Shih watched a moment, then turned away. In his hand he held their guarantee of good behavior—their pledge to govern themselves better than they had. But he had seen the hate, the irreverence in Lever's face. Was such a guarantee worth having in the face of such open defiance?

He smiled. Yes, for it would give him the excuse to act, without the intercession of that meddler Wang.

As he made his way from there he knew for a certainty that this was not the end of this, only a temporary respite. There would come a time when he would have to face these men again.

"Americans . . ." he said beneath his breath, then laughed softly, looking back at the headless statue, silhouetted against the lights from above. The Supernal, they called themselves. Dwellers in the Heavens. Supremely great and excellent. Exalted.

He laughed. So they might believe, but if they so much as spat he'd make it hell for them.

* * *

LEAF shadow fell on the pale, slatted rocks on the far side of the pool. Li Yuan, T'ang of Europe, stood on the low, humped bridge, listening to the sounds coming from the rooms across the water. Low trees obscured his view of the courtyards and the house, but the sounds came clear to him: laughter, light-headed with relief; the chatter of excited female voices; and beneath both, unremitting, the bawling of a newborn child.

He stood there, in perfect stillness, looking down at his dark reflection in the lotus-strewn water. It was a child. A son—of course a son—there would not be laughter if it were otherwise. He stood, unmoving, not knowing what to think, what feel at that moment, the world—the tiny world of tree and stone and water—suspended all about him.

A son ... He shook his head, frowning. There should be more than this, he thought. I should be glad. I too should laugh, for today the chain is forged anew, the Family strengthened. But there was nothing—only an empty space where feeling ought to have been.

Across from him one of the nurses stepped out onto the balcony of the birth room and saw him. He looked up in time to see her turn hurriedly and go back inside; heard her warning to them and the sudden silence that followed, broken almost at once by the high-pitched cries of the newborn. He stood there a moment longer, then moved on slowly, his heart strangely heavy, for once totally unprepared for what lay ahead.

Mien Shan lay there, a tiny figure in his grandmother's huge bed— the same bed where his father, Li Shai Tung, had come into the world. She was propped up on pillows, her dark hair tied back from her sweat-beaded brow. Seeing him she smiled broadly and lifted the tiny bundle in her arms, offering it to him.

"Your son, ChiehHsia."

He took the child from her, cradling it carefully, conscious of the others in the room watching him. With one hand he drew back the blanket and looked down at the child. Dark hair lay finely on its long, pale scalp, glistening wetly in the overhead light. Its eyes were screwed shut and its thin lips formed ugly, awkward shapes as it yelled incessantly, one thin arm and tiny hand reaching blindly, repetitively into the air. It struggled against him as he held it, as if sensing his unease. Even so, he laughed, feeling how small, how light it was. So fragile and yet so determined. His son. Once more he laughed, and sensed the mood in the room change, growing more relaxed.

He looked down at Mien Shan and smiled. "Good. You have done well, my love." He glanced across, seeing how his other wives, Lai Shi and Fu Ti Chang, blushed with Mien Shan at the endearment, and felt an unexpected warmth. They were good, kind women. Nan Ho had chosen well for him.

He sat beside Mien Shan on the bed and turned to face her, holding the child in one arm. Behind her, on the wall above the bed, was a copy of the Luoshu diagram—the "magic" numbers used as a charm for easing childbirth. Normally the sight of such superstitious nonsense would have angered him. But this was no moment for anger.

"Was it hard?" he asked, lifting her chin gently with one finger, making her look at him. She hesitated, then gave the slightest nod, remembered pain in her eyes.

He took a deep breath, trying to imagine it, then nodded, his lips and eyes slowly forming a smile. "I honor you, sweet wife. And thank you, both for my son and for myself."

For a moment he looked at her, an unusual tenderness in his features, then, giving the slightest bow, he leaned forward and kissed the wetness of her brow.

He turned, facing the others in the room. Besides wives, nurses, and doctors, several of his Ministers were present—witnesses to the birth. Li Yuan stood up, still cradling the child, and took a step toward them.

"You will announce that the Families have a new heir. That Kuei Jen, first son to Li Yuan, was born this morning of his wife, Mien Shan, in good health and in a state of physical perfection."

He nodded vigorously, holding the child firmer, seeing how they all smiled at that. "A strong child. Like his grandfather."

There was a murmur of agreement and a nodding of heads. But then Li Yuan lowered his head in the sign of dismissal and, with bows of respect, the others left, leaving Li Yuan alone with Mien Shan and the child. The babe in his arms had settled and was no longer crying. Now it looked up at him, open-eyed. Huge, dark eyes that peered out from the mystery of birth. And, lowering his face gently, he kissed brow and nose and chin with a tenderness that took him by surprise.

"Kuei Jen," he said, smiling down softly at the child. "Welcome, my son. May the world be kind to you." And, looking up, he saw that Mien Shan was watching him, tears trickling down her cheeks.

THE ROOM WAS DARK, ill-ventilated. The old man in the bed coughed, a dry, hacking cough, then sniffed loudly. "Draw the curtains, Chan Yin. 1 want to see you all."

His eldest son went to the far side of the room and drew the heavy silken curtain back a fraction. Brilliant light spilled into the room, cutting a broad swath through the shadow.

"More," said the old man, leaning forward from his pillows. "And open the doors. It's like a sweatbox in here."

Chan Yin hesitated and looked across at the doctors, but they simply shrugged. Pulling the curtain back fully, he pushed open the bronze and glass doors that led out onto the balcony, then stood there, feeling the freshness of the breeze on his face and arms, looking out across the gardens toward the distant mountains. After a moment he turned back, facing his father.

In the sudden brightness Wei Feng was squinting at him, a faint smile on his creased and ancient-looking face. "Better," he said, easing himself back onto the pillows. "It's like a tomb. Each night they tuck me up and bury me. And yet, when the morning comes, I am still here."

Chan Yin looked at his father with concern and love. He hated seeing him like this, so old and powerless. His memories rebelled against this image of Wei Feng and would have had his father strong and vigorous again. But those were childhood memories and he himself was older, much older now. Forty this next birthday. He sighed, then crossed the room to stand with his brothers at the bedside.

Hsi Wang stood there in his Colonel's uniform, ill at ease in this situation, his usual good humor subdued. Since his father's stroke he had been only half himself, his normally untroubled face overcast. Tseng-li, the youngest, stood right beside his father, his hand resting lightly on the old man's shoulder, his beautiful face looking down into his father's. From time to time Wei Feng would turn slightly and look up at him, smiling.

The stroke had almost killed Wei Feng. Only expert surgery had saved him. But pneumonia had set in shortly afterward. Now, a month from the first heart attack, he was much better, but the experience had aged him greatly. The left side of his skull was shaved bald and his right arm lay useless on the covers. There had been a blood clot and certain areas of his brain had died, among them those which controlled certain of his movements. Not even expert prosthetics could bring back the use of his right arm.

"My sons," he saidjsmiling, looking from one to the other, the simple words heavy with emotion. For a moment the coughing took him again, and Tseng-li bent his huge, tall body, kneeling, holding the old man's hand more tightly until the spasm passed. Then Wei Feng spoke again, looking mainly at his heir, Chan Yin.

"The doctors tell me 1 shall live." He smiled sadly, then nodded. "Even that seems strange now . . . the thought of living." Retook a long, shuddering breath, then spoke again. "But being such a friend to death these last few weeks, I have had the chance to study him—to look him in the face and come to know him. Like an enemy one comes to respect for his great skill and cunning."

Hsi Wang laughed shortly and Wei Feng looked up at him, smiling, indulging his laughter. "It is good to hear you laugh, Hsi. I have missed your laughter." He licked his lips slightly, then carried on. "I have stood beside him, you see, and looked back. Into the light. Looked back and seen the shape of things, here, in this shadow world of ours."

Chan Yin narrowed his eyes, listening, watching his .father's face, and saw how the old T'ang's eyes seemed to look out past Hsi, as if he really could see something that was denied to their vision.

"For the first time I saw clearly. How things are. How they will be."

Wei Feng turned his head and looked at his eldest son once more. "Which is why you are here. You especially, Chan Yin. But you also, Hsi and Tseng. As witnesses. Custodians, if you like."

They waited while Wei Feng took his breath. From the open doors came the sound of the wind in the trees and the buzzing of insects. A faint breeze moved the curtains gently, cooling the air in the room.

"There is something I want from you, Chan Yin. Something no father ought to ask of his eldest son. But I have«een what is to come. And, because I love you, I want you to swear to me that you will do what I ask of you."

Chan Yin shivered, seeing the strange intensity in his father's eyes, and nodded. "Whatever you ask, Father."

Wei Feng was quiet a while, watching him; then he sighed and looked down at his useless arm. "I want you to swear to me that you will support Li Yuan. Support him in whatever he asks, and for whatever reason he gives. Whatever he asks of you, do it."

He paused, a sudden ferocity in his face, as if he was seeing things again from the side of death. Looking back at the world of shadows and light.

"Do it, Chan Yin! You must! For upon Li Yuan's shoulders rests the fate of us all. Deny him and the Seven will fall, as surely as I will someday die and you inherit."

For a moment Chan Yin was silent, thoughtful, then he looked up and met his father's eyes, smiling, understanding the full import of what was being asked of him.

"I swear to do as my father wishes. To support Li Yuan, whatever he asks." He bowed low, then turned, facing his brothers. "This I swear as a sacred trust, which you, my brothers, bear witness to."

Wei Feng lay back again, relaxing, looking up at the three faces of his sons. "You are good men. Good sons. A father could not ask for better sons."

Leaning forward, Tseng-li kissed his father's brow. "It isn't chosen, Father," he said softly, smiling at him once more. "It simply is."

LI YUAN sat at his desk, beneath the portrait of his grandfather. Across from him the face of Wu Shih, ten times its normal size, stared down at him from the wall screen.

"You talk of troubles to come, Yuan, but things have been quiet for some time now. The Lowers have not been so placid these past ten years."

"Maybe so, but things are happening down there, Wu Shih. I can feel it. We are sitting on a powder keg."

"And more powder every day, neh?" Wu Shih moved back a fraction, his features formed into a frown. "Then maybe it is time, Yuan. Time to implement what we have already decided."

Li Yuan sat there a moment, then nodded slowly. The decision had been made the day before, in Council, the terms for the "new deal" agreed among the Seven. It remained only to put it before the representatives of the Above.

In principle the package was fairly straightforward. Five changes to the Edict of Technological Control, in specialized areas. Stricter monitoring controls. Changes to the Personal Liberty Act. More money to be spent on low-level health care and maintenance support. Minor concessions concerning space travel. The reopening of the House of Representatives at Weimar. And in return, the House would set up the legal machinery for population controls.

Wu Shih sighed deeply and tugged at his plaited beard. "My instincts cry out against giving those bastards anything. But as youVe rightly argued, we have a problem and it will not go away. So .1. ." He shrugged and raised his hands, as if in surrender.

"We go ahead then? We ratify the document?"

Wu Shih nodded. "I see no point in waiting, Yuan. Even our cousin Wang is in agreement. Indeed, his amendments to the Edict changes were most thoughtful. It is clear the problem worries him as much as you or I."

"Perhaps . . ." Li Yuan looked away a moment, stony-faced, deep in thought, then turned back, facing the giant image of Wu Shih, meeting those platelike almond eyes. "We should have done this sixty years ago. Now . . . Well, maybe it is already much too late. Maybe we are only building walls of sand against the tide."

"Yet we must try, neh? We are Seven, after all."

The tone of irony in Wu Shih's voice did not escape the young T'ang. Li Yuan laughed, then fell serious again. "These are uncertain times, dear cousin. But whatever happens, remember that I count you as my friend. As brother to my father."

Wu Shih stared back at him, his expression giving nothing away, then he nodded. "You have my support, Li Yuan, in whatever you do. And yes. I will be an uncle to you in all things." He smiled, relaxing. "Well, so much for business. Now how is that child of yours? How is Kuei Jen?"

Li Yuank face lit from within. "He is . . ." He hesitated, seeking the correct word, then laughed, finding nothing better than what had first come to mind. "He is beautiful, Wu Shih. Simply the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

michael LEVER stood there on the balcony overlooking the ballroom of his father's mansion, remembering the last time he had been there, fifteen months before, at the great Thanksgiving Ball his father had thrown for the Supernal. Outwardly, things seemed to have changed very little; the pillars and balconies of the great hall were festooned as before with red, white, and blue banners, while at the far end of the hall, beside a full-size replica of the ancient Liberty Bell, a twelve-piece band, dressed in the dark blue military uniforms of the Revolution, played the battle tunes of the old American Empire— forbidden tunes that spoke eloquently of another age, when the Americans ruled their own land and the Han were safe within their borders. Looking about him, it was easy to believe that this evening and the last were somehow connected, and that the fifteen months that had elapsed between were merely a dream, a dark delusion. But there was no connection, and those days—four hundred and sixty-three days, to be precise about it—had been no dream.

He pushed back from the edge, a feeling of hollowness, a tiredness that went beyond mere physical exhaustion, making him feel giddy for a moment. There had been a breach. Whereas, before, he had looked at this with casual, accepting eyes, now he saw it clear.

It was the same, and yet it was wholly, utterly different.

Like himself. Oh, he knew how he looked. He had stood there for a long time, earlier that afternoon, staring at himself in the full-length mirror. He was gaunter than he'd been back then, and there was a haunted, slightly melancholy look about him that had not been there before, yet otherwise he seemed the man he'd been. But he was not that man.

From the beginning they had kept him—as they'd kept all the Sons—in isolation. At first he had not been frightened, but had nursed his anger in silence, expecting his release at any moment. Yet as the days wore on, he had found his mood changing as no word came.

For several days he had bellowed at his guards and refused the food jhey brought. Then, changing his tack, he had adopted a more civil air, demanding firmly but politely to see whoever was in charge. Unexpectedly, his request had been granted.

He could still remember how it had felt, kneeling before the man in that tiny, awful cell. Even thinking of it made him feel cold, apprehensive. Before that moment he had never felt fear, never had to bow his head before another man. But now he knew. And that knowledge had changed him. Had made him a different man. Now, when he looked at things, he saw not a world that was his to make and shape, but a world in thrall to power and desire, a world corrupted by the dark currents of domination and submission.

In the light of which, his father's anger, earlier, at Wu Shih's treatment of him had seemed childish, almost laughable. What, after all, had he expected? Gratitude? Respect? No. For the relations of men were flawed—deeply flawed—as if they could not exist without the brutal mechanisms of power.

And now this. This celebration of his homecoming . . .

He shuddered, then turned, making his way down, knowing he had no choice; that this evening had to be faced and overcome, if only for his father's sake. Even so, he did not feel like celebrating.

I have been on my own too long, he thought, feeling a faint uneasiness as the murmur of the crowd below grew louder. I'll have to learn all this again.

At the turn of the stairs, he paused, trying out a brief, apologetic smile, conscious of how awkward it felt, of the way the skin stretched tightly across his face. Then, reluctantly, like a prisoner being taken to the place of punishment, he moved on, down, into the body of the hall.

CHARLES LEVER stared at his son, a broad grin splitting his face, then drew him close, holding him in a bear hug for the dozenth time that evening.

All about them, pressed close on every side, the pack of friends and relations laughed delightedly and raised their glasses to toast the two men, their joy unbounded.

"Have you told him yet, Charles?" one of them called out.

"Not yet," Lever called back, holding his son's head between his hands and staring once more, as if he could not have enough of the sight.

"What's this?" Michael asked quietly.

"Later," the old man answered. "There's plenty of time."

Much had changed, but he knew that tone in his father's voice. It was the tone he used when he wanted to avoid something awkward. Michael pressed him, softly but insistent. "Tell me. I'd like to know."

Lever laughed. "Okay. I wanted to keep it a while, but I guess now's as good a time as any." His smile broadened again. "I've asked Ted Johnstone about Louisa. He's given his consent to bring things forward. I thought we could announce it tonight—make it a double celebration."

Michael felt himself go cold. Louisa Johnstone... He looked down, licking his lips, then looked back at his father. "No," he said softly, almost inaudibly.

"What did you say?" his father asked, leaning closer.

"I said no. I don't want that."

"No?" Old Man Lever laughed, as if at a good joke. "Hell, Michael, you can't say no. YouVe been betrothed to the girl fifteen years now. All I'm saying is that we bring the wedding forward."

Michael looked about him at the expectant, joyous faces, then looked back at his. father. Charles Lever had grown more solid by the year. His head rested like something carved upon a bull-like neck, the close trim of his ash-white hair accentuating the robust power of his features.

That is how I will look, forty years from now, he thought. But do I have to be like him as well?

"Not now," he said, wanting to let the matter drop; to save it for some quieter, less public moment. But his father was insistent. He slapped Michael's shoulder, as if encouraging a fighter.

"No, come on, Michael! It's a great time to announce it! It'll give everyone something to look forward to. And it'll help us put this thing behind us."

Michael stared at his father, then shook his head. "Please, Father. I'm not ready for it. Let's talk about it tomorrow, neh?"

Even that, that attempt at the old, father-son tone, had been hard; had stretched his resources to their limit. But it was as if Charles Lever hadn't heard. He shook his massive head and gripped his son's arm firmly.

"Don't be silly, Michael. I know how you feel, but this'll help you snap out of it. A woman, that's what you need! And sons! Plenty of sons!"

"Help me?" The sharpness in Michael's voice made Lever jerk his head back, surprised.

Michael glared at his father, something breaking in him. "Don't you understand? Don't you fucking understand? I don't need help. I need to be left alone. Sons . . . What use are fucking sons when I feel like this?"

The great room had gone deathly silent. A hundred faces stared at him, shocked and uncomprehending.

"There's no need . . ." Old Man Lever began, but Michael made a dismissive gesture.

"You push me, Father. You always did. But I mean it. I'm not marrying the girl. Not now, not ever, understand me?"

"Michael/"

But suddenly he was beyond words. He turned away, pushing through the crowd roughly, ignoring the shouting at his back; seeing only the floor of the tiny cell, the guard above him, that ugly mouth leaning close, shouting abuse, teaching him about how things really were.

PARTI I SPRING 2209

Monsters of the Deep

Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, King Lear, Act IV, Scene II

Go into emptiness, strike voids, bypass what he defends, hit him where he does not expect you.

—TSAO TSAO [a.d. 155-220], Commentary on Sun Tzu's The Art of War

CHAPTER ONE

Earth

IN THE CLEAR, golden light of dawn the seven "gods of the soil and grain" stood at their places on the huge earthen mound. Dressed in dragon robes of imperial yellow, each held an ancient ceremonial hand plow, the primitive wooden shaft curiously curved, the long blade made of black roughcast iron. Here, at the Temple of Heaven, at the very center of the universe, the New Year rites were about to be enacted, the furrows plowed, the sacrifices made to Hou T'u, "He Who Rules the Earth," and Hou Chi, "He Who Rules the Millet," as they had been since the time of T'ang, the founder of the Shang dynasty, three thousand seven hundred years before.

For a moment longer they stood there, while ten thousand blue-cloaked servants waited silently about the foot of the mound, the seven gold-clothed figures forming a single burnished eye at the center of the dark circle of earth, and then it began, the pure tone of the bell sounding in the silence, followed by the low, monotonous chanting of the officials.

As one they bent, moving outward, pushing the plows before them, seven black furrows forming in the earth like the spokes of a giant wheel.

Turning, Li Yuan looked across the circle of the mound, seeing his fellow T'ang spread out along the rim, their dark, silhouetted figures like pillars holding up Heaven itself, their yellow-gold silks fluttering like banners in the early morning breeze. For a moment the illusion was perfect. For the briefest moment he was back a thousand years, at the very center of the ancient Middle Kingdom, the offerings made, the harvest guaranteed. But then, raising his eyes, he looked beyond his cousins, beyond the pleasant arbors and orchards of the Temple grounds.

The veil fell from his eyes. There, like a vast glacier dominating the skyline, lay the City, its pearl-white walls surrounding them on every side, towering over the lush greenery of the ancient gardens. For a moment he felt almost giddy. Then, checking himself, he stood straighter, listening to the chant, to the ancient words that spoke of the harmony between the ruler and the earth and of the balance of forces that must be maintained if the Kingdom was not to fall. For a moment he let himself be comforted by the ancient formula—by the thought that they might yet keep that age-old bargain and maintain the threefold link between Earth and Man and Heaven. But it was hard to concentrate. His eyes kept returning to the whiteness. To the giddying whiteness that encircled the tiny, earthen mound.

It was like death. Death on every side. And when, for the briefest moment, he let his attention stray, he grew conscious of the lie that lay behind their apparent unity. For in that moment of vertigo he had seen the Great Wheel break and spin aimlessly, like a cartwheel tumbling down a cliff face.

He shuddered and closed his eyes momentarily, wishing it were over, then looked down, noting the earth that clung to his boots and stained the hem of his silks. As on another day, eleven years before, when they had laid his brother, Han Ch'in, in his tomb.

Later, in the sedan returning to the Chi Nien Tien, the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests, he thought of all that had happened since that day. Of the War-that-wasn't-a-War, of his father's death, and of the failure of his marriage to his dead brother's wife, Fei Yen. All had left their scars. And yet he had come through; had endured all that pain and suffering, to reach these calm heights from which he might look back. This hilltop of contentment.

Yes. And that was the strangest thing of all. For there was no doubting how he had felt these past few weeks. His child, his wives— these, more than anything, had become his comfort, his delight.

Outside the small circle of his family the storm clouds were gathering. There would be War again. Or worse. And yet he was happy. When he sat there, bouncing Kuei Jen on his knee, or carrying him against his shoulder, feeling his soft warmth and hearing the soft pattern of his breathing close by his ear, he would feel his cares fall from him. For a while there would be nothing but himself and the child, as if all else were a dream. And even afterward, when he had to go out from that magic circle and face the problems of his world, he* would carry that warmth—that light—within him, like a charm against the world's darkness.

The sedan swayed gently, tilting slowly backward as the carriers climbed the broad, white marble ramp that led up to the great three-tiered tower.

Happy. Yes, he was happy now. And yet it was not enough.

Climbing down, he looked about him, attending closely to all he saw, as if this were the last time he would witness all of this. It was that thought—that strange and frightening glimpse of finality—which made him look away as Wu Shih came across.

"What is it, Yuan?" Wu Shih said softly, speaking to his ear.

He turned back, smiling, taking the older man's arm. "It's nothing, cousin. Just a fleeting thought."

Wu Shih nodded, understanding. "Then come. Let us make our sacrifices."

The Seven stood in line before the great altar, their offerings held out before them. A bell sounded, high and pure in the silence, and then the chanting began again. Candles flickered in the shadows. New Confucian officials came forward, their saffron robes whispering against the stone floor, and took the offerings from the T'ang, turning back to lay them before the statue that crouched, thrice life-size, on the altar.

Shang Ti, the Supreme Ancestor, looked down on his seven sons with blind, impassive eyes. He was Yang, Male, the personification of Heaven itself and the great arbiter of the weather. Appeased by sacrifices, he would provide good harvests; would look after the black-haired people. Neglected he would spurn them. Would bring plague and desolation. And death.

Or so it was said. So the officials chanted.

Li Yuan, standing there, was conscious suddenly of the great line of kings and emperors who had preceded him. Of that ghostly throng who stood with him, in his person, before the altar. Had they felt as he felt now? Or was he alone in doubting the efficacy of laying paper offerings before a blank-eyed statue?

It was not the first time he had questioned his beliefs. Often, in the past, he had looked squarely, critically at the rites and customs he, as T'ang, was obliged to perform. Yet this morning the ritual seemed more hollow than before, his actions sheer pretense. And though he had questioned things before, he had never experienced so profound a mistrust of his own words and actions.

What, after all, did they mean? What did any of it mean?

Oh, he could see the beauty in it. Could even feel some part of him stir, responding to the powerful sense of tradition, to the great weight of years that the rituals evoked. But beyond that—beyond that simple, almost aesthetic thrill—there was nothing. Nothing at all.

He watched it all happening, distanced from himself, and tried to fathom why. These three things—the darkening clouds of circumstance, the great, enduring chain of tradition, and the bright yet tiny circle of his own, individual happiness—how did they come together? Where did they meet and make sense?

As they bowed and backed away, he looked to either side of him, but on the faces of Wu Shih and Tsu Ma, of Hou Tung-po and Chi Hsing, on the broad moon face of Wang Sau-leyan and the Regent Wei Chan Yin, there was nothing but a solemn certainty. Whatever they thought of this, it was hidden from him behind the walls of their faces.

They descended the steps in silence, slowly, almost casually now that the ritual was over, making for the great tent and the breakfast that had been laid out by their host Wei Chan Yin's servants. It was there, beneath the golden awning, that Wang Sau-leyan came across to Li Yuan, addressing him for the first time since his son had been born.

He faced Li Yuan, smiling, seemingly at ease, a tumbler of ch'a cradled in the palm of one hand. "Well, cousin, and how is the child?"

It seemed an innocuous question—the kind of politeness one might have expected from a fellow T'ang—yet it was as if a shadow had fallen over Li Yuan. He felt a sudden tightening in his chest and—briefly, absurdly—experienced a powerful, overwhelming fear for his son. Then it passed. He was himself again. He forced a smile, lowering his head the merest degree, acknowledging his cousin's query.

"Kuei Jen is fine. He is a strong and healthy child. Heaven has blessed me, Wang Sau-leyan."

Wang smiled, no sign of calculation in his face. "I am pleased for you, cousin. A man should have sons, neh?"

Li Yuan stared back at the young T'ang of Africa, surprised by the almost wistful tone in Wang's voice, thinking to see something in his eyes, but there was nothing. Wang nodded and turned away, his business done. And Li Yuan, left to watch his back, stood there a moment, wondering, that small, hard nugget of fear returning, like a stone within his flesh.

MAIN WAS packed. Thirty, maybe forty thousand people were crammed into the broad two-Zi-long concourse, banners and streamers of bright red er-silk waved energetically above their heads. At the northern end of Main, before the bell tower, a raised podium had been constructed. There the crowd pressed thickest, held back by a double line of green-uniformed Security guards.

As ninth bell sounded from the tower, the lights dimmed, a hush falling on the great gathering. A moment later, cloaked in a veil of brilliant white laser light, the huge statue of the goddess descended slowly onto its pedestal.

As the figure settled there was a strong murmur of approval. Kuan Yin, Goddess of Mercy and Fecundity, sat Buddha-like on a giant lotus, a newborn baby cradled lovingly in her arms. Her face in the brilliant white light was benign, radiant with compassion.

There was a moment's silence, then, with a great popping of crackers on every side and the creaking of rattles, the crowd began to celebrate. The sick and lame, held back by the crush, now renewed their efforts to get to the front, to receive the goddess's blessing.

On the podium nearby, separated from the crowd by a wide corridor of armed guards, the dignitaries looked on, turning in their high-backed chairs to talk among themselves. The guest of honor—the man whose money had paid for the giant statue—was a squat, balding Hung Mao named May Feng. His company, EduCol, had benefited from GenSyn's relaxation of food patents and—developing one of those patents—had increased food production significantly over the last twelve months, perhaps by as much as four percent throughout City Europe, winning the praise of both T'ang and people. After years of ever-stricter rationing and growing discontent, it had reversed the trend and brought new stability to these levels. But what most of those gathered in Main to celebrate EduCol's generosity didn't know was just how poor, nutritionally, the new product was, nor the amount of profit the Company had made on their new soy-substitute; foB while the new process cost only one sixth of the old, the product price was roughly the same.

To May Feng's right sat a big, slightly corpulent Han named K'ang A-yin, a local gang leader, operating this and the surrounding stacks under the protection of the Kuei Chuan Triad. Behind K'ang stood two of his henchmen, their eyes shifting uneasily in their faces as they surveyed the massive crowd. K'ang himself was studying the merchant, noting the fashionable cut of his silk pau, the absence of rings on his fingers. K'ang looked away, tucking one hand under the other in his lap. He, at least, knew how much profit EduCol was making. Five hundred percent, if reports were true. And he could use a cut of that, to buy himself more muscle and finance a few schemes. But May Feng knew nothing of that yet. As far as he was concerned, K'ang was simply a businessman. The man to deal with at these levels.

K'ang smiled and looked past May Feng at his friend, the local Wei, or Commandant of Security, who was standing off to one side of the podium. "Well, Captain Franke. It's almost time ..."

Franke bowed his head, then turned, calling down to his lieutenant. A moment later the great curtain which was draped across the width of Main behind the bell tower twitched, then began to draw back. From the tunnel beyond, a procession of carts, heaped with the latest range of EduCol products, began to make its way out into Main toward the crowd.

At the far end of Main, on a balcony almost two li from where the dignitaries were sitting, a tall, bearded Hung Mao lowered the field glasses from his eyes and turned, making a curt hand signal. At once the group of men and women gathered about him turned, making their way down the steps and out into the crowd below.

Mach watched them a moment, seeing how they went among the crowd, handing out the leaflets, their voices murmuring old slogans, the catchphrases of ancient discontents. And after they'd moved on, he saw how those who had glanced at the leaflets now held them out to their neighbors, angered by what they'd read, their own voices raised.

He smiled, then turned away again, moving out into the corridor. Two guards were standing there, staring up at one of the public service screens.

"You'd best get downstairs," he said, showing them his ID. "It looks like trouble."

They looked at his badge, then nodded, moving past him quickly, the noise from the crowd growing by the moment.

Mach stood there a moment longer, looking up at the screen. Li Yuan was talking to his citizens, telling them about the committee that had been set up to investigate the possibility of changes to the Edict and the reopening of the House. Mach moved closer, spitting up into the face of the young T'ang, then, drawing his gun, he turned, following the guards down.

On the podium May Feng was standing now, concerned. The noise from the far end of Main was growing all the while, -ising above the sound of the firecrackers. People at the front were turning their heads, anxious, conscious that something was happening back there.

"What is it, Shih K'ang?" the merchant asked, fingering his girdle-pouch nervously.

K'ang frowned, trying to conceal his own concern. "I'm not sure. I..."

His words were drowned out as deck communications cut in, the voice harsh and accusing.

"Death to all profiteers and thieving First Level bandits! Death to all those who would steal the rice from your children's mouths! Death to those who profit from the misery and need of others! Death . . ."

The litany went on, fanatical, endless, stirring up already excited passions into a frenzy; turning fear into a sudden blinding panic that spread among the masses like a brushfire. K'ang watched as the thin line of green gave and the crowd spilled out toward the podium and the giant statue. Without thought, he turned and, his henchmen close behind, leapt from the back of the platform, making for the safety of the tunnel. It was not a moment too soon, for the front edge of the crowd, impelled by the pressure of bodies from behind, broke like a wave against the podium, bringing its supporting stanchions crashing down.

For a moment May Feng kept his balance, then he went down, his mouth formed in a perfect O of surprise before he was lost to sight, trampled beneath the stampeding crowd. There was a steady roar within the great space now, like the sound of a great wind blowing from the north. As if caught in the grip of that wind, the great statue shuddered, then, with a slow, soundless motion, it fell, crushing more than two dozen people beneath it.

All was chaos now. There was gunfire from the far end of Main and the sound of small explosions, of falling ice. And over everything was the voice, chanting its litany of death, death, death.

there were THREE of them, not counting the stallholder. Becker was standing at the back of the partitioned room, browsing the shelves of secondhand tapebooks that crowded the walls. Haller lounged in a chair nearby, staring up at the overhead FacScreen, one hand lazily holding a squeezetube of prawn-flavored protein paste.

Lehmann was talking to the owner, Pai Mei, his back to the doorway. "Don't worry," he was saying. "Just get down behind the counter when things start. And remember—no one will harm you. I guarantee it."

Pai Mei, a thin-faced, hard-looking man, hesitated. K'ang A-yin was a bastard, but who knew what this one was like? Yet if the albino failed, K'ang might think that he, Pai Mei, had put him up to it. He shuddered, then gave a reluctant nod. It was a no-win situation.

Just then the ragged curtain was tugged back and two men came in. One was tall, going to fat, the other smaller, lither, but more dangerous-looking altogether. His bare arms were heavily muscled and his head was shaved, the skull painted in an intricate pattern of red and green that indicated he was a chan shih, a fighter. They were K'ang's men.

The fat man stopped and looked about him. Glancing sourly at Pai Mei, he touched the chan shih's arm. "Move them. I want to speak to Shih. Pai in private."

The small man tapped Haller on the shoulder, indicating that he should go and quickly. Smiling, apologetic, Haller got up and went. Becker, turning, saw how things stood and, shoving the tape back hastily, scuttled out after Haller. Only Lehmann remained, his back to the newcomers.

"You," said the fat man, coming up behind him. "Out of here! IVe business with Shih Pai."

Lehmann turned, facing them. The chan shih seemed easier now that there was only Lehmann in the room. He relaxed, looking about the room, for that brief moment inattentive. The fat man, meanwhile, was staring at Lehmann curiously, as if he ought to know him. But even he, for that instant, was off his guard.

Lehmann struck. With one quick movement he kicked the chan shih beneath the chin, then turned to face the fat man. Panicking, K'ang's lieutenant tugged at the gun in his pocket, trying to free it. He had just leveled it when Lehmann punched it from his hand, breaking the man's wrist with the downward blow. His second punch floored the man. Lehmann stood over him, looking down, his fist raised, waiting to see if he would try to get up.

Haller and Becker stood in the doorway, smiling. They had seen already how Lehmann operated. Becker looked across at Pai Mei and laughed. The stallholder had gone white. He was staring at Lehmann in astonishment.

"I thought that all three of you. . ." Pai Mei left the sentence unfinished.

Becker stepped into the room and knelt down beside the chan shih, feeling for a pulse at the neck. The small man was dead. "Shame," Becker said darkly. "I would have liked to have seen his expression when I slit his throat." Haller, coming up beside him, laughed at that, but Lehmann was unmoved. He stood there over his wheezing victim, tensed, perfectly still, making sure.

"That's it, you see," Becker said, looking up at the stallholder, then drew a large, razor-sharp knife from beneath his tunic. "They never expect trouble from a single man. That's how they think. And in the moment that they least expect trouble, that's when they're at their weakest." He smiled again and looked across at Lehmann, as if to say, "Isn't that so, Shih Lehmann?" But Lehmann ignored him. Becker looked down again, shrugging, then got to work, cutting into the flesh at the neck, blood oozing out over the bare, unswept floor.

Pai Mei looked away, feeling sick.

He looked across. Lehmann was crouching now, talking to the fat man. K'ang's man was making hoarse, gasping noises, as if he'd damaged his windpipe, but he was listening very carefully as the albino spelt out what he was to tell his boss. At one point he laughed dismissively and turned his head away, but Lehmann grasped his chin in one long, pale hand and turned his head back savagely, forcing him to look up into his face. The fat man shut up at once, fear returning to his eyes.

Becker had finished now. He wrapped the head in a towel and dropped it into a bag. Haller, in the doorway, was looking past him, his attention on the FacScreen and the media speculation about what tomorrow's meeting of the Seven might bring for the people of Chung Kuo.

"Big things are happening up there," he said at last, looking down at Becker, ignoring the pool of blood that had formed about his feet. "Big changes are coming."

"As above, so below," said Lehmann, pulling the fat man to his feet. Then, taking the bag from Becker, he thrust it into the man's one good hand.

Watching him, the two men laughed, enjoying the fat man's discomfort. But Lehmann didn't smile. Lehmann never smiled.

THE tong BOSS, K'ang A-yin, sat back in his chair, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, then looked around him at the eight men gathered in the room. The Zwickau riot had shocked and angered him, but this latest news was too much. K'ang was trembling with rage. Only with the greatest effort did he keep himself from shouting.

"Okay. What the fuck is going on ? Who the fuck's this Hung Mao ?"

There was an awkward silence from his men, then one of them— Soucek, his lieutenant—spoke up.

"We don't know. I sent a runner to Pai Mei's. He only confirmed what Feng Wo said. The pale Hung Mao killed the chan shih. The others hacked his head off. Why, we don't know."

"And no one knows the bastard?"

Soucek shrugged. "You want I should do some asking?"

K'ang looked away a moment, considering, then shook his head. "No. I've a better idea. Chao, Kant... I want you to find out where he's staying and hit him. When the fucker's asleep. I want him dead, him and his two sidekicks. And I want their heads, back here, on my desk, by the morning."

Soucek made to say something, to insist, perhaps, that he be given the job of killing the Hung Moo, but K'ang raised a hand. "No, J iri. Not this time. I want you to go and see Whiskers Lu and find out all you can about what happened earlier. If the Yu are active again, it threatens us all. And if it's something else, I want to know, understand?"

Soucek nodded.

K'ang stood, looking about him, more at ease now that he was taking the initiative. "Good. Then let's get going. Let's sort these fuckers out, neh? Then we can get on with making money."

THEY CAME two hours later. Lehmann was expecting them. Haller's bunk was empty, Haller fifty ch'i down the corridor in the public washroom. Becker's was occupied, but by a dummy, while Becker crouched behind the false partition, gun in hand. Lehmann lay beneath the thin blanket on the upper bunk, masked and waiting. He too was armed.

There were no locks at these lowest levels, so it was easy for K'ang's man to pull the slide-to back a fraction and roll in the gas grenade. It exploded with a dull plop, followed instantly by the hiss of escaping gas. Lehmann counted, knowing they would make certain before coming through. Sure enough, on a count of thirty, the slide-to was heaved aside and two men came into the room, machine-pistols raised. A third waited outside.

He didn't give them a chance. Poking the muzzle of the rocket launcher from the blanket, he squeezed the hair trigger and watched the far wall explode. There was no sign of the two men. Wall, floor, and men had gone. A great, gaping hole had opened up, revealing the level below. Fractured cables sparked. There was screaming from below and the sweet stink of superheated plastics hung in the air, stronger than the gas.

From farther down the corridor two shots rang out. Haller had done his job. He appeared a moment later, gun in hand, looking across the gap into the room. "Messy," he said, grinning through his mask. "Maybe K'ang will talk now."

"We'll see," Lehmann said, sitting up and wrapping the big gun in the blanket. "Either way, he'll know now that we aren't so easy* He'll be more careful in future."

"That's good," said Haller, slipping the gun back in his shoulder-holster, "It was a bit too easy for my liking."

Lehmann said nothing. He simply looked at Haller and shook his head. They had a lot to leam.

FROM WHERE IT soared, high above the wood, the hawk could see the figures down below, among the trees. The leading group had stopped now in a clearing, resting their mounts, their necks strained back, hands shielding their eyes as they looked up at it. Farther back, part hidden by foliage, a second group waited. These last were smaller but more numerous, and in its dark, instinctive way, it knew these to be men; knew they were on foot.

It circled patiently, its keen eyes searching for that sudden, distinctive movement that would betray its prey. For a time there was nothing, then, as the wind changed, there was a flutter of sound and a brief blur, as a guinea fowl broke cover far below.

With a cry the hawk fell, turning, straining after its prey. For a moment it seemed as if the other bird might yet regain its perch, then, with a sickening thud, the hawk struck.

A roar of triumph erupted from the men below.

In the clearing the three men leaned forward, watching the hawk spread its wings wide, slowing its fall, the fowl held tightly in its talons, then settle on the ground among the trees to their right.

Tsu Ma leaned down, patting the dark neck of his mount fondly, then turned his head, looking across at his fellow T'ang. "Well, cousins, what do you think?"

Wu Shih placed one hand carefully on the pommel of his saddle and turned slightly, inclining his head. They were talking of their cousin, Wang Sau-leyan, T'ang of Africa. "I don't trust him," he said. "He has been too quiet these past six months. Too damned polite."

"He's up to something," Li Yuan added, sitting straighter in his saddle. "Something deep. Something we can't see yet."

Wu Shih nodded. "I agree. I am not certain about much in these troubled times, but of this I can be sure . . . Wang Sau-leyan has not changed his nature these past few months. He is still the same devious little shit-eating insect he always was."

Tsu Ma looked past them momentarily, watching his falconer run across to where the hawk had brought down its prey, his lure out, ready to draw the hawk off, then looked back at Wu Shih.

"I think you are right," he said. "But exactly what it is ... Well, it's very strange. My servants in his household have heard nothing. Or almost nothing . . ."

"Almost nothing?" Wu Shih stared at him intently.

"Just that there is a woman in his life. Or so it seems. A Hung Moo. He has her smuggled in. Late, when he thinks no one will see. I'm told he even visits her."

Li Yuan looked away. "How strange. I would not have thought it. A Hung Mao . . . And you think it is serious?"

Tsu Ma shrugged. "Maybe it is nothing. Or maybe this is why our cousin has behaved himself so well recently. Perhaps he has been distracted."

"In love, you mean?" Wu Shih roared with laughter. "The only one that ingrate will ever love is his own reflection. Love!" He shook his head, then reached down, slapping his horse's flank. "No . . . that moon-faced bastard is up to something. I guarantee it!"

"Chieh Hsia..."

A servant stood at the edge of the clearing, his head bowed.

"What is it, Cheng Yi?"

At Tsu Ma's summons, the man came across, his body bent double, and took his T'ang's foot, kissing it, before falling to his knees beside the horse.

"News has come, Chieh Hsia. There have been riots in City Europe. Many have died..."

"Riots . . ." Li Yuan urged his horse forward sharply. "What in the gods' names has been happening?"

The servant bowed his head lower, answering as if his own T'ang had spoken. "It began at Zwickau Hsien, Chieh Hsia, at the dedication ceremony for the new statue, and spread quickly to surrounding stacks."

"And many have died?" *

"That is so, Chieh Hsia. A great number. Tens of thousands, some say. Among them the merchant, May Feng."

Li Yuan looked across at Tsu Ma, alarmed. May Feng had been a leading figure in the new peace. Had sat on committees to discuss the proposed Edict changes and the reopening of the House. What's more, he represented a whole class—of powerful First Level merchants—who had been won back to the Seven and their cause. And now he was dead.

Li Yuan leaned toward the man, anxious now. "What happened? How did he die?"

The servant swallowed. "It is not clear how he died, Chieh Hsia. All we know is that his body was returned to his widow shortly afterward. He had been cut open, it seems, then stuffed with dirt like a sack and sewn up again."

Li Yuan shuddered and sat back. "Do we know who was responsible?"

"It is too early yet to know for certain, Chieh Hsia. Early rumors attributed it to the Yu, but General Rheinhardt believes that the Hun Mun had a hand in this."

Again, Li Yuan felt a ripple of shock pass through him. The Hung Mun—the Triads, or Secret Societies—had kept out of things before now. But that was clearly changing. If they were involved . . .

"I must get back," he said, turning his horse, looking from Tsu Ma to Wu Shih. "If the Hun Mun are involved, I must act."

"No, Yuan," Tsu Ma said, putting out a hand to him. "I would counsel against acting too rashly. Take some measures to calm things down, by all means, but consider before you take action against the brotherhoods. Your father's scheme, for instance . . ."

"Buy them off, you mean?" Li Yuan sat back, shaking his head. "No, Tsu Ma. I will not bow to them in my own City!"

"Nor am I asking you to, cousin. Pursue your father's scheme—offer them funds, assistance, power of a kind—while all the time undermining their position."

Li Yuan narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"The new force. Karr's shen t'se ..."

Li Yuan looked down, then he smiled. "You know of that?"

Tsu Ma nodded. "My cousin's business is my business. How can I know how I might help him unless I know his needs, his plans?"

Li Yuan turned, looking to the older man. "And you, Wu Shih?"

Wu Shih shrugged. "You have a special force, I take it. Good. Then use it. Do as our good cousin, Tsu Ma, says. Play a double game. Buy time. For it's time we need right now, not another war. Not yet."

Tsu Ma nodded. "Wu Shih is right, Yuan. Fight a war against the brotherhoods now and it would weaken us greatly. And who would benefit?"

"Wang Sau-leyan."

"Exactly. So do not be goaded into a futile war." Tsu Ma smiled bleakly. "Oh, the time will come—and not so long from now—when we must take on the Hun Mun. But let us pick that time, neh? Let us be prepared for it."

"Besides," Wu Shih added, coming alongside him, "we have problems enough already, neh? The Yu, the Younger Sons . . . Why add to them?"

Li Yuan was silent a moment, calming himself, then reached out, taking Wu Shih's arm. "Thank you, cousin. And you, Tsu Ma. But we must get back, neh? There is much to be done. Besides, watching the hawk has whetted my appetite for other sport."

Tsu Ma stared at him a moment, then laughed. "For once, Yuan, your meaning escapes me, but let it pass. You are right. There is much to be done. Nonetheless, we must meet more often, neh? Just the three of us."

"It shall be so," Wu Shih said, giving a brief, decisive nod. "We shall be like the three brothers of the peach garden, neh?"

Li Yuan, watching the two older men, felt the darkness subside a little. So it would be. So it had to be from now on. The Three, he thought, trying the term out in his head for the first time, and finding it not strange but strangely comforting. Yes, we shall be The Three.

There was a sudden flutter of sound. Behind Li Yuan, on the far side of the clearing, the hawk lifted, stretching its wings, then settled on its kill once more, ignoring the lure.

CHAPTER TWO

In the World of Levels

Jelka was stretched OUT on the sun bed, looking out across the brightly lit expanse of tiles to where her two school friends splashed noisily in the pool. Beside her on the chair lay the compact computer notepad she had been using, its display screen lit.

For a moment she watched their antics thoughtlessly, enjoying the warmth on her skin, the faint scent of jasmine and pine from the nearby rock garden. Then, with a tiny shiver, she returned to the matter she had been considering.

Yesterday had been the last day of school; the end of her childhood, of twelve years preparing for her adult life. Ahead of her, tonight, lay the ordeal of the College Graduation Ball, and beyond that the rest of her life—fifty, sixty years of it, maybe, needing to be filled.

But how?

She turned over, lying on her back a moment, conscious of how it felt to be herself, seventeen, in a young woman's body, the future open to her.

She stretched her legs, flexing her toes, exercising the muscles of her feet and calves and thighs, as if warming up for an exercise session, then relaxed again. The Marshal's daughter. . . that was how she was known. As if she had no separate identity of her own.

Jelka shook her head, exasperated, then turned onto her stomach again. The Marshal's daughter... If she had been his son, her future would have been mapped out long before today. Cadet school, a commission, and then the service. Fifty years of service: of dodging assassins' bullets and attending official functions; of investigating murders and pandering to the whims of some old Minister; of unearthing corruption scandals at First Level and tidying up after riots beneath the Net. Such was her father's life, and there were far worse ways of spending one's time, but it wasn't that. It was having a say in her future. As a son to the Marshal she would have had no say in things.

Not that being a daughter had made all that great a difference. Had it not been for Hans Ebert's duplicity—for the betrayal of his T'ang and the murder of his father—she would have been married now, her future set, determined. And no way out, except, perhaps, to kill herself.

She shuddered, recollecting her aversion for the young Major. That was something her friends had never understood. Something which, when she mentioned it, brought looks of incredulity. Hans Ebert. . . why, he had been every schoolgirl's dream, surely? A prince among men. She laughed sourly, remembering how often she had heard him called that. Moreover, as heir to the richest Company in Chung Kuo, she could have expected a life of idleness, of unremitting luxury.

Yes, but Hans Ebert was also cruel, and arrogant and devious.

She looked down, recalling her father's hurt when Hans had finally been exposed; a hurt mingled with grief at the death of his brother and his wife, and of his oldest friend, Klaus Ebert. She too had felt a similar grief, but also relief that Hans was gone from her life; a relief that was like a huge stone lifted from her chest. She sighed and shook her head. Maybe that was why it was so important now to get it right; to make sure that her life from here on was her own.

It seemed simple enough, but there was one small complication. She was a woman. For her friends that seemed to pose no problems. Only five of the sixty girls in her year were not yet betrothed, and of those, three were actively pursuing a husband. Eight were already married and two—her close friend Yi Pang-chou among them—had already presented their husbands with a child. Against which, only six of her year were going on to Oxford, and in each case it was not so much to fulfill their own needs as to make them the perfect companions for their high-flying husbands.

But so it was in this god-awful world of levels. To be a woman—an intelligent, capable young woman—it was unthinkable! One had to be a drudge, a whore, an ornament. . .

"Jelka?"

She hesitated, then turned, lifting her head lazily, as if she had been dozing. "Hi. . . What is it?"

Anna was crouched beside her, toweling her dripping hair. Beyond her stood the stocky figure of Yi Pang-chou. She was grinning, a faint color in her cheeks.

"You should have joined us, Mu-Lan. What have you been doing?"

She smiled at the use of her nickname, then sat up, stretching, conscious of how her friends were watching her.

"I was thinking. And making lists."

"Making lists?" Anna laughed. "Lists of what? Men you'd like to marry? Why, you could have any man you chose, Jelka Tolonen, and you know it."

Jelka shrugged. "Maybe. But it wasn't that kind of list. I was jotting down my options."

"Jotting down my options," Yi Pang-chou mimicked, then giggled.

Jelka smiled, good-humoredly. "I know how it sounds, but here," she handed the comset across to Anna. "Go on. Have a look. Tell me what you think."

Anna studied the screen a moment, then turned, passing it up to Yi Pang-chou. "I can't see the point," she said, looking at Jelka with a slightly puzzled frown. "It's so much effort. Why not simply enjoy yourself? Take a rich husband. It doesn't mean you have to be in his pocket. These days a woman has much more freedom."

Jelka looked away. Freedom! As if Anna had any understanding of the word's true meaning. What she meant was the freedom to go to countless entertainments; to drink and play to excess and to take young officers for lovers. Beyond that she had no idea. For her this world of levels was enough. But then, she knew no different. She had not seen how beautiful it was outside.

Yi Pang-chou had been studying her list. Now she looked back at Jelka, puzzled.

"This entry for Security. I thought they didn't accept women in the service."

"They don't. Or not yet. But I thought I'd apply. I'm as qualified as any cadet, after all. And I can fight. So why not? I thought I'd apply for the auxiliary forces, specializing in space operations."

Anna raked one hand through her long dark hair, then laughed. "You're strange, Jelka. You know that? If you really want to meet young officers, you should attend a few more parties. You don't have to sign up for the service!"

"And youVe a one-track mind, Anna Koslevic!" Jelka laughed, then grew serious again. "I know it's hard to understand, but I want to do something with my life. I don't just want . . . well, I don't want to waste it, that's all."

"Like us, you mean," Yi Pang-chou said, coming across and sitting beside her on the edge of the sun bed.

"No ... I didn't mean it like that. I..." Again she laughed, but this time her laughter was tinged with a certain desperation. "Look, I can talk to you two. I can say things without you being hurt by them. So when I say that I want something more than what I'm being offered, it's not to put you down. It's . . ." She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I want something that I simply can't have, but why not try for it?" She looked from one to the other. "Do you understand?"

"Sure," Anna said, nodding. "It's simple. You want to be a man. You want to go out there and do things. You want to break skulls and ride horses. Like your 'ex,' Hans."

Jelka shook her head. "No. I want only to be myself. But why should that be so difficult? Why should I be denied that?"

"Because it's how things are," Yi Pang-chou said, stroking the back of her hand. "There's us and there's them. Women and Men. Yin and Yang. And it's a Yang world." She smiled sadly. "Don't fight it, Mu-Lan. It'll only make you unhappy."

She looked down. Maybe so. But she would never be at peace unless she tried. Besides, there was always Kim. He, if anyone, would understand.

Anna leaned close, placing her hand on Jelka's knee. "Anyway. Let's forget about all that for now. It's almost six and our escorts are coming at eight, so we'd best get ready."

"Escorts?" Jelka looked up, eyeing her friend sharply. "You didn't say anything about escorts!"

"Didn't I?" Anna laughed innocently. "I guess it must have slipped my mind. Anyway, let's go through. I'll lend you one of my chi poo . . . the blue and gray silk with the black edging. And then I'll make you up. Maybe it'll take your mind off all this nonsense . . ."

Jelka sat there, looking from one to the other, then laughed. "All right. Just this once. But I hope you haven't said anything. Anything, well. . ."

"Anything true?" Anna put on an earnest face, mirroring Jelka's own, then burst out laughing. She leaned across, kissing Jelka's brow. "Come. Let's get ready. Before those big, hulking Yangs arrive!"

THE main building of the Bremen Academy for Young Women—a huge yamen in the old northern style—dominated the open space at the top of the stack. On the great terrace overlooking the lake, it was hot, the music loud. On the dance floor the press of young, well-dressed bodies filled the dimly lit darkness, the rich, cloyingly sweet scents of the dancers tainting the air, their drunken laughter echoing out across the water.

It was late now, almost midnight, and the Ball had reached a fever pitch of intensity. For the young women, the days of hard work were behind them, the long vacation ahead, while for the young men, cadets and commissioned officers alike, there was a sense of temporary surcease from the rigors of duty. Tonight was a night for celebration, for high spirits and wild excess. Some lay in the corridors leading off the terrace, slumped in drunken stupor, while others cavorted wildly at the edges of the crowd, howling manically, their formal jackets unbuttoned or cast aside. Most, however, had found partners and could be found pressed close in that central darkness, washed over by a heavy pulse of sound, willing victims of those old, insistent currents.

Jelka stood there at the center of that great crush, cradling an empty glass, alone at last and conscious, for the first time that evening, just how awful it was. The heat was stifling, the noise oppressive, while to every side the crowd pressed in on her relentlessly; a great tide of bodies, male and female, jerking and swaying to the ancient rhythms of the pipes and drums.

For a moment longer she stood there, hemmed in, wondering if she should wait for her escort to return from the bar, then she turned and began to make her way across. She was aware of the unnatural excitement in the faces that she passed; of the feverish brightness of their eyes, the sudden, excessive animation of their features. There was something strange and frightening about it all, a sense of primal urgency, almost of hysteria.

Outside it was cooler, quieter. Jelka stood there at the top of the steps, gulping in the cold, refreshing air and staring about her, as if waking from some dark and threatening dream. Overhead, a very real-looking moon shone down on her from the artificial sky, casting a painted light upon the distant mountains, while to her left a faint breeze rippled the dark lake's surface, scattering petals on the white stone arch of the bridge that led across to the island and the great watchtower.

Away, she thought. I have to get away.

She set her glass down on the steps, then made her way down, out onto the path that led to the bridge, half running now, as if pursued. Halfway down, however, she stopped and turned, staring back at it all, her mouth wide open, as if stupefied. Then, with a faint shudder, she went on.

At the foot of the watchtower she stopped again, staring up at its brightly lit face. It was two minutes to midnight. Twelve years she had been here at the Academy; twelve years, not including the time she had spent in exile with her father and that time she had been ill, after the attack. And in all that time she had never—not once—felt at home here. She had stood there earlier, listening to the other girls say how much they'd miss the dear old place; had heard them profess to a genuine love for its strange old ways and nonsensical rules, but for herself she felt nothing; only a strange relief that it was over. And a sense of emptiness—of something unfulfilled in her.

She turned briefly, looking back, wondering if she had been missed yet, then moved on quickly, climbing the broad yet shallow steps up to the open doorway. Inside, in the shadows just inside the door, a couple was leaning against the wall, kissing, her hand at his neck, his arm about her lower back. She hesitated, watching them a moment, then tiptoed by, making her way up to the first level and the little room at the front of the tower, above the clock.

She closed the door behind her, then went across and sat on the box beside the window, her elbows on the mock-stone of the window ledge, looking back across the lake at the crowded terrace. From a distance it seemed a kind of madness, a mass delirium. As if, for once, they had glimpsed the hollowness of it all. Glimpsed it and turned away, drowning themselves in this frenzy of thoughtless activity.

She rested her chin on her hands and sighed. Coming here tonight had been a mistake. She should have trusted to instinct and stayed at home. But now it was too late.

Too late? Too late for what!

That small, inner voice—that never-resting, ever-questioning part of her—was what kept her at a distance from it all; was what made her different from the others. At school she had always been something of an outsider, right from the first. Not that she had been unpopular; it was simply that she had never formed any of those close relationships that the other girls seemed to need. Some had tried, like Anna and Yi Pang-chou, but they could only get so close before she clammed up on them. "It's because of the attacks," Anna had said to her once. "It's only natural that you should mistrust the world after what happened to you." And maybe th&t was true to an extent. Maybe those experiences had shaped her. But the explanation was somehow insufficient, for she had always felt like this. From the cradle on. There had always been a space unfilled in her. A lack. But tonight it was different . somehow. Tonight the sheer intensity of what she felt was new to her.

Looking back at the dance floor, she saw not celebration and the joyous blossoming of new life, but a mechanistic orgy of self-denial; of deadness incarnate. It was pretense; pretense on a vast scale. It began with the great City in which they lived and spread like a virus to infect every pore, every cell of their individual beings. And now there was nothing. Nothing but meaningless activity and a desperate filling of the hours. A willful forgetting.

She turned her head, her eyes sweeping the familiar landscape of the College grounds, taking it all in. The star-filled sky, the moon, the distant mountains; it was false, every last tiny bit of it. The arched stone bridge, the lake, the ancient building. Manufactured, all of it; a substitute for life, conjured from nothingness.

Too late.

She shuddered. It was true. Never had she felt so alienated from it all. Never so alone.

I am trapped, she thought. Trapped in the world of levels.

On the steps beside the dance floor there was movement. A young cadet officer had stepped out onto the top step and now stood there, looking about him, a glass in each hand.

Jelka shivered and drew her head back, into the shadows.

He looked down and spotted the empty glass, then turned back, craning to see where she had gone. Then he came on, negotiating the steps smartly, elegantly, his manner—the very way he walked— assured and arrogant. Unquestioning. On he came, along the path and up onto the gentle arch of the bridge. For a moment he stood there, looking about him casually, as if taking in the view, then he walked on, glancing up at the watchtower, as if he could see her, there in the shadows beyond the window frame.

She moved back, then stood, looking about her. There was no way out. The floor above was locked. But maybe he would go away. The couple. . .

She heard noises from below; an angry grunt and then a murmured, "Excuse me, I. . . ," followed by the sound of booted feet ringing on the stairs.

She turned, facing the doorway, watching as it slowly opened.

"Ah, there you are," he said softly, smiling at her. "I thought. . ."

He held out her glass to her, as if she should take it, but she simply stood there, staring at him. He frowned, not understanding, then, stooping carefully, watching her all the while, he set the glasses down.

The jacket of his dress uniform seemed to glow in the light from the window. The rich scent he wore filled the tiny room.

He hesitated, then came closer. "You should have said," he said gently. "I thought you liked the music."

She could feel his breath on her cheek now; could smell the sweetness of the wine. As if in a dream she saw his right hand lift and press gently against her left shoulder, as if they were about to dance.

"Don't. . ."

"Just one kiss," he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. "Just one tiny, little kiss..."

She moved back, shrugging off his hand. "Phase ..."

She saw the movement in his face. The sudden anger, softening instantly.

"One kiss," he persisted. "You know you'd like to."

She laughed sourly. "You know that, do you?"

He laughed, the uncertainty in his eyes fading quickly. "Of course. That's why we're here, isn't it? Young girls like to be kissed. It's only natural. And you're a very beautiful young woman, Jelka Tolonen. Very beautiful indeed."

He made to touch her once again, to lift her chin and kiss her, but she pushed him back sharply, the palm of her hand thudding against his chest.

"No. Understand me, Lieutenant? Other 'girls' might well like it, but I don't wish to be kissed. I simply want to be left alone."

He looked down at where her hand had struck his chest, then back at her, angry now. "You shouldn't have done that."

Again she laughed. Who was he to tell her what she should or shouldn't do? She glared at him angrily, then made to push past him and go down, but he grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her about.

"You'll kiss me, understand?"

She stared at him, for that brief instant seeing things clearly. Here it was again. As in that moment when she had faced Hans Ebert in the machine, the day they had been officially betrothed. Yes, and as in that moment when the wall to the practice room had been ripped aside and the three assassins had burst in. To possess her or to kill her, there seemed no other choice for them, these half-men. Like the pure Yang they were, they had either to dominate or destroy.

Maybe so. But she would not acquiesce in it. Would not permit it.

She lifted her chin challengingly. "Are you drunk, Lieutenant Bachman, or just suicidal?"

His right hand was clasping her wrist. Slowly he increased the pressure on it, drawing her closer, his eyes watching her all the while, his smile brutal, unforgiving now. Slowly she moved closer, drawn in toward him, until only a hand's breadth separated them.

His left hand reached up and held her shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh, holding her there.

"Kiss me and I'll break your neck," she warned, her voice cold now, dangerous.

He laughed, unimpressed. "Oh, IVe heard the rumors, Jelka Tolonen. I've heard how you fought off the assassins that time. You're a real tigress, neh? A regular Mu-Lan. But you will kiss me. And you'll not break my neck."

There was a moment's softness in his face, a moment's relaxation, and then he tugged her toward him savagely, his face pushing out at hers, his mouth straining to find hers.

And then he was gasping, doubled up, groaning where her knee had come up hard into his stomach. Jelka stood back, breathing unevenly, looking down at him, then she turned and went down the stairs hurriedly, leaping the last four and barging unceremoniously past the couple in the doorway.

"Hey. . ."

Outside, she almost ran into her friends.

"Jelka . . ." Anna said, holding her arms and looking up into her face. "What is it?"

She drew herself up straight, then shook her head. "It's nothing... Really."

"Are you sure?" Yi Pang-chou said, concerned. "You look dreadful. Your face..."

"I'm okay," Jelka answered, rather too harshly. Then, relenting a little. "Look, it's all right. I've sorted things out. Let's go back now, okay?"

Beyond the two young women, their escorts looked on, not certain whether amusement or concern was the right expression. "Where's that randy bastard Lothar?" one of them called. "Don't tell me youVe worn the young ram out!"

"Enough!" Anna said sharply, turning to them. "Can't you see something's happened?"

"Too fucking true it has!"

The voice came from behind them. From the watchtower. Bach-man stood there in the doorway, one hand to his stomach, his face distorted with anger.

"You should ask the bitch what she's up to, leading me on and then kneeing me in the fucking stomach!"

Jelka turned, a cold, hard anger transforming her. If he said another word...

"She needs a fucking beating, that's what she needs, the spoiled little brat! She needs someone to knock some manners into her. . ."

"Lothar!" one of the young officers hissed. "Remember who she is, for fuck's sake! Her father . . ."

"Fuck her father!" Bachman snarled, then straightened up and pushed himself away from the doorway. "I don't give a shit if she runs and tells her father! That's the way of these bitches, neh? The least sign of trouble and they run and hide behind their father's skirts!"

If his words were designed to provoke, they seemed to have little or no effect. Jelka stood there, strangely relaxed, as if a weight had suddenly lifted from her.

"Lothar!"

"Don't worry," she said calmly, distanced from the words. "I fight my own battles."

"Jelka, come on, this is just silly . . ." Yi Pang-chou tugged at her sleeve, but Jelka shrugged her off.

She was half crouched now, facing him, watching him approach. He was clearly not so sure now. His hurt anger had been enough until now, but suddenly it was not so good an idea. Besides, a small crowd was forming on the steps beside the dance floor. It wouldn't do to make a scene . . .

"Ah, fuck it... she's just a girl."

Jelka's smile was like ice. "What's the matter, Lothar Bachman? Are you scared you might be beaten?"

Anger flared in his eyes anew. Slowly, his fingers trembling, he unbuttoned his jacket and threw it aside.

"Okay," he said. "YouVe had your chance."

"Why, you pompous little powder monkey!"

The reference eluded him, but the tone, cold and mocking, had its effect. With a bellow he charged at her, throwing himself forward in a kick which, if it had connected, would have shattered her lower rib cage. But she was too fast for him. As he fell, she turned, her whole body describing an arc, and kicked, the satin of her dress ripping, the hard edge of her foot smashing down into his shoulder. He cried out, but she was far from done. Savagely she kicked and punched, a kick, a punch, another kick...

"JeBca/"

She moved back, crouched, her bent arms raised before her as if to fend off another attack, her eyes flicking from side to side.

"Gods. . ." one of the young officers said, his face pale. "She's killed him! She's fucking well killed him!"

But Bachman wasn't dead. Not yet. Not unless four broken limbs and two shattered collarbones could kill a man.

"Kuan Yin!" Anna said, kneeling over the young man and looking back at her. "What have you done, Jelka? What in the gods' names have you done?"

Nothing, she thought, straightening up slowly. At least, nothing you d understand.

k'ano a-yin, gang boss of the Tu Sun tong, looked about him, then nodded, satisfied that all was well. His headquarters were four decks up from the Net, on Level 50. A respectable height for a man who, not so long ago, had had nothing but the strength of his hands and the wit he had been born with. He had bought and converted one side of a corridor, turning it into a suite of rooms, some of them interconnected offices, the rest—by far the greater part—his personal quarters. Between was one long room created out of three living spaces, which was where he held his meetings and greeted his guests.

It was an oddly luxurious room for this low level. The floor was carpeted and wall-hangings covered the bareness of the ice. A long sofa, made of ersatz leather, took up the whole of the left-hand wall. Nearby was a low table, and against the far wall stood a bar. To anyone born into the Lowers, as K'ang had been, it was impressive, yet underlying its apparent luxury was a basic shabbiness. The carpet was faded and worn, the leather scuffed and shiny in places; the bottles lining the glass frontage of the bar were genuine enough, but their sour contents had been distilled in vats not far from where they now rested.

K'ang A-yin, standing in the doorway, felt a profound satisfaction in what he saw. The walls were free of graffiti, the floor swept clean. It smelled good and in many ways it resembled those images of the Above that filtered down through the medium of the MedFac soaps. As ever when he expected someone new, he was looking forward to that first look of surprise in their face. Rubbing his hands together, he laughed throatily and turned to his lieutenant.

"Well, Soucek? What do you think the bastard wants?"

K'ang's lieutenant, Soucek, was an exercise in contrast to his boss. A tall, almost spiderish man, he had a face designed for mourning: long and bony, with slate-gray eyes that were like the eyes of a dead fish, and lips that seemed drawn by the finest of needles t» a tight slit. He was a man of few words.

"A deal. Maybe a partnership."

"A partnership . . ." K'ang laughed, but his eyes were cold, calculating. He had lost four men to Lehmann already, and there was the growing feeling among the rest that this new man was some kind of power. He cut his laughter off abruptly and turned away, sniffing in deeply.

He had toyed with the idea of bringing Lehmann here and killing him. That would be simplest, easiest. But something stopped him. He had failed once, and besides, maybe he could use him. Make him a lieutenant, like Soucek. The idea attracted K'ang. With such a man in harness who knew what he might achieve? He might even drive Lo Han back in the north and gain access to the lucrative drug trade that came down from Munich stack. And who knew what might come of that?

K'ang looked up again, meeting Soucek's eyes, a faint smile on his well-fleshed face. -"Okay. Set things up. Let's meet the bastard."

k'ang was sitting on the leather sofa, cradling a tumbler of wine in his left hand, when Soucek came in.

"He's here." Soucek laughed; a strange sound coming from that humorless face. "And he's alone. There's no sign of his two henchmen."

K'ang took that in, then nodded. "Good. Bring him in. And make sure there are three or four of our best men in here with us. I don't want to take any chances. Is he armed?"

"Maybe," said Soucek. "He said he'd kill the first man that tried to frisk him."

K'ang laughed uncomfortably. Waving Soucek away, he got up heavily and walked across to the bar. Refilling his glass, he went through what he knew of Lehmann once more, looking for a handle. The strangest thing was that Lehmann had no history. One moment he hadn't been there; the next, there he was. His two associates, Haller and Becker, were faces from the Munich underworld. They had worked for Lo Han before they'd crossed him. Somehow Lehmann had bossed it over them, then, without warning, had muscled in on his, K'ang's, territory. And that was it. The sum total. Except that Lehmann was trained. And, if the reports were accurate, he had heavy munitions. The sort Security used.

So was he a plant? A Security infiltrator? The possibility had made K'ang check through his contacts, costing him dearly for a simple "No." But even before he'd had it confirmed, he had ruled it out. Why should Security bother with the likes of him? They had bigger fish to fry. And anyway, he paid his dues—not light ones either—to keep their eyes turned aside.

Whatever he was, Lehmann didn't fit. And K'ang, who wanted some kind of peace in those stacks and levels the Kuei Chuan Triad allowed him to control, needed him to fit. A deal would be best, but if not a deal, then he'd try again. And again, until Lehmann was a corpse.

That thought was in his mind as he turned to face the door.

Soucek was standing there, one thin-boned hand on the jamb, his body turned away from K'ang, looking out into the corridor. From another door, behind K'ang and to his right, came three of his best men. Killers. Good men to have behind you in a situation like this.

K'ang sipped at his wine, then nodded to himself, knowing how he would play it. As he watched, Soucek backed into the room slowly and stood to the side. The shape of his gun showed clearly through the thin material of his trousers, his hand hovering close by. K'ang smiled at him, as if to say, "Leave this to me," then moved forward a pace.

At that moment Lehmann came into the room.

There was a sudden, perceptible heightening of tension in the room. Two things were evident at once. Lehmann was tall, taller even than the gangly Soucek. And he was an albino. Skin and hair were a deathly white—a pallor emphasized by the whiteness of his simple,

armless tunic and his close-fitting trousers. Even his gun, which he held loosely in his left hand, the barrel pointed at the floor, was painted white. White . . . the color of death.

K'ang heard the sharp indraw of breath of the men behind him. The muscle in his right cheek twitched, but he controlled it and slowly raised a hand in welcome, meeting the albino's eyes. He smiled, exuding confidence, but at the pit of his stomach he was experiencing something he hadn't felt in years. Fear. A plain, naked fear.

AT FIRST Lehmann let K'ang A-yin do all the talking, knowing that his simple presence there, silent among them, the big gun resting in his hand, was eloquent enough. He had seen at once how it was— saw where the real power lay—and, behind the solemn mask of his face, had smiled.

"I can use you," K'ang was saying for the third time. "With me you could go far. I'd reward you well. Look after you."

K'ang was a big man, broad at the shoulders and well-muscled, but some of that muscle had gone to fat and there were definite signs of a paunch developing. K'ang had grown lazy, self-indulgent. Like most of these low-level tong bosses he had grown accustomed to the small luxuries that surrounded him. Moving up, he had cut himself off from the immediacy of the Lowers; had forgotten what had given him his power. Soucek, his deputy, was the real power here. Neither knew it, but the time would have come when Soucek challenged him for control. Now there was no need, for he, Lehmann, had preempted that struggle.

He let his eyes stray a moment, letting no sign of his distaste for the drabness, the sheer ugliness of the room, register on his face. This was the worst of it, he sometimes felt; not the claustrophobic inwardness of everything here, nor the overcrowded poverty of life in the Lowers, but the ugliness, the unmitigated absence of anything that pleased the eye. More than that he missed the mountains, the cold, sharp freshness of the air. Missed the purity of the ice.

"All right," he said, the words so sudden, so out of context, that K'ang's face wrinkled up, not understanding.

"I said all right," he repeated, tucking the gun into the strengthened web holster inside the top of his trousers. "I join you as lieutenant. Equal to Soucek here." He indicated the tall, gangly man without looking at him. "My two men . . . they work with me still, right?"

He could see that K'ang didn't like that. It meant divided loyalties. For a moment K'ang hesitated, then he nodded and held out his hand to make the bargain. It was a large, strong hand, but warm and overfleshed. There were rings on three of the fingers. By contrast Lehmann's hand was like steel, inflexible and cold.

"One further thing," Lehmann said, extending the handshake unnaturally, seemingly oblivious of K'ang's unease. "Your man, K'ang Yeh-su." *

K'ang looked down at his hand, then back up at Lehmann. "What of him?"

"Get rid of him."

"Why?"

"Because he warned me. Sold me information about you."

There was a movement in K'ang's face that betrayed not merely surprise but shock. K'ang Yeh-su was his nephew. His sister's son. For a moment he said nothing. Then, "Why do you tell me this?"

"Because he's weak. Corrupt. He would sell anyone for the same price." Lehmann hesitated, then added, "And because I'm your man now, aren't I?"

For a moment longer he held K'ang's hand, then, as if he had tired of the game, released it. But K'ang hardly noticed. Freed, he turned away and signaled to one of his men. "Bring Yeh-su. Say nothing to him. Just bring him."

"Jelka? Is that you?"

Jelka turned, making her way back down the unlit corridor to her father's study.

"Yes, Papa?"

The Marshal sat at his big oak desk, a stack of papers to one side, a file open before him, his hands, one flesh, one golden metal, resting on the page. He looked tired, but then he always looked tired these days, and his smile at least was as strong as ever.

"How did it go?" ..••<

She hesitated. He would find out. He was sure to find out. But not yet. Not before she'd had time to think things through. "I don't know. . ." She shrugged and gave a little sigh. "It's not my thing, really. I..."

He laughed softly. "You don't have to tell me, my love. I know that feeling only too well. I used to think it was me, but I know better now. We're not party people, we Tolonens. Our ancestors were made of sterner stuff, neh? All that northern ice—some of it must have got into our blood!"

His laughter was warm, wonderful, and for a moment she simply stood there, basking in it. But in the morning he would be different— when he discovered what she'd done. So maybe it was best. . .

She moved closer, until she stood there, facing him across the desk, looking down at him. "I... I did something tonight, Papa. I... hurt someone."

"You hurt someone?" He frowned, trying to understand, then gave a short laugh. "What? You mean, you broke their heart?"

She shook her head. "No. One of the young officers, it was. My escort for the evening. Lieutenant Bachman. He tried . . ."

Tolonen sat forward, his face changed; suddenly stem, implacable. "What? What did he try?"

She looked away briefly, wondering how it had got to this point; why she had let it get out of control. "He tried to kiss me, Papa. Against my wishes. He . /. he was persistent."

He sat back, indignation and anger written large on his face. "Bachman, you say? Colonel Bachman's son?"

"Yes, Papa. But please . . . listen. I hurt him, you see. Hurt him badly."

"Badly? How badly?"

She swallowed. "I think I nearly killed him. If Anna hadn't shouted at me . . ."

He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. "You mean, you nearly killed a man, and all because he wanted to kiss you?"

"It wasn't like that, Papa. He ... he was awful. It was as if I didn't exist. As if he had the right. . ." She shuddered and looked down, realizing she had clenched both her fists. "Even so, in the end I provoked him. I made him fight me. I could have walked away, but I didn't. I don't know why ... I..." She stopped, looking back at her father. "Do you understand, Papa? Something snapped in me. Something . . ."

He stared back at her a moment, then nodded. His voice was soft now, almost a whisper. "I understand, my love. It's how we are, neh? Brittle. That time I killed Lehmann in the House. It was like that then. As if I had no choice. As if I'd lost control."

For a moment they were silent, staring at each other. Then, with a tiny shudder, Tolonen looked away, fixing his gaze on the file in front of him. "He'll live, I take it?"

"Yes."

He looked up again, a strange kind of pride in his face. "So what did you do to him? Kick him in the balls? Break his nose?"

"I wish it were that simple. I..." She shook her head, suddenly exasperated with herself. "It wasn't even as if I was angry at that point. It was like . . . like it was just something I had to do. I... well, you'll think this strange, but it was like it was Hans in front of me. Hans Ebert. And I had to stop him coming after me. That's why I broke both his legs, to stop him. And his arms."

He stared at her, astonished, then sniffed in deeply. "Aiya. . . And were there any witnesses to this?"

"Several dozen . . ."

For a moment he sat there, deep in thought, then, remembering something suddenly, he got up and went across to the other side of the room, where a long worktop filled the alcove.

"Something was delivered about an hour back," he said, searching among the papers there. "It wasn't marked urgent and I was busy, so I left it. It's here somewhere."

She watched him, wondering what was going on in his mind at that moment. Did he really understand why she had done it? Or was he only saying that? He would stand by her, certainly, because that was his way, but for once that was not enough. She needed him to understand. Because if he didn't understand . . .

"Here," he said, turning back to her and slitting open the package with his thumbnail. "If it's as you said. If it was a fair fight. . ."

He fell silent, reading through the brief report. She watched him come to the end of it, then read it once again. He nodded, as if satisfied, then looked back at her.

"We'll sit down, tomorrow, first thing, and make a report. In your own words, exactly as it happened. Then I'll go and see Bachman, sort something out about his son's medical expenses. The rest. . . well, I think it's straightforward enough. It'll teach the lad manners, neh? And maybe wake a few of them up, into the bargain." He Booked away, giving a tight bark of laughter. "They're growing soft, these young men. Soft . . ."

"Papa . . . ?"

He looked back at her, seeing how she stood there, close— suddenly very close—to tears, and came across, holding her to him tightly.

"It's all right, my love. It's all over now." He looked down into her face, then gently kissed her brow.

"You understand, then? You understand why I did it?"

He nodded, his grim smile fading into concern. "It's how we are, my love. Brittle. Easily angered. But strong, too, neh? Stronger than iron."

CHAPTER THREE

Fathers and Sons

LI YUAN stood inside the doorway, looking across to where the T'ang of East Asia lay in a huge, canopied bed. The room was bright and unexpectedly airy. A warm breeze blew in through the open doors that led out onto the balcony, the scent of apple blossom strong in the air. Yet underlying it was the faintest hint of corruption. Of sickness and age.

"Wei Feng. . ." Yuan said softly, his heart torn from him at the sight of his father's oldest friend.

The old man turned his head on the pillow, his voice faint, almost inaudible. "Shai Tung? Is that you?"

Li Yuan swallowed and moved closer. "It is I, cousin Feng. Shai Tung's son, Yuan."

"Ahh . . ." Blind eyes searched the darkness whence the voice had come, looking past the young T'ang of Europe. The voice was stronger now, more confident. "Forgive me, Yuan. I was dreaming. . . Your father and I were walking in the meadow.- We stopped beneath a tree. . ."

Yuan waited, but there was nothing more. "How are you, cousin?" he said gently, fearing the old man had drifted back into sleep.

"Ah yes . . ." Wei Feng's laughter was weak; the merest shadow of the great roar of delight Yuan remembered from his childhood. Yuan felt his stomach muscles tighten with pain at the thought. Was it all so quickly gone?

"Where are your sons?" Yuan asked, surprised to find himself alone with the old man. "Should I summon them, Wei Feng?"

The old man's head came round, his blind eyes staring up into Yuan's face. The hair had not grown back on the half of his skull that had been shaven, and the flesh there was a pale ivory, mottled, almost transparent. One could see the bone clearly.

"No, Yuan," the old man said determinedly. Old age and sickness had robbed Wei Feng of much, but his mind seemed as sharp as ever. "It is you I wished to see. I..."

The old man swallowed dryly, unable to continue. Li Yuan looked about him, then saw the jug and the cup on the table behind him and went across. He poured a little of the water into the cup, then brought it back, supporting Wei Feng's head while he sipped; then, setting the cup aside, he wiped his lips for him.

"Thank you, Yuan. You are your father's son."

Once again, it was painful to see the thin, watery smile the old man gave and recall the strength of former days. It made him feel that this ought not to be—that this great fall from health and potency was a kind of sin against life itself. He looked away momentarily, robbed of words. Why had he not felt this for his own father?

There was a moment's silence and then the old man reached out, his frail hand searching for Li Yuan's. Yuan took it, clasping it in both of his, holding it firmly yet tenderly, his fingers stroking its back.

Wei Feng's face looked up into his, the clouded eyes turned inward. It was a drawn and ancient face, creased deeply by time and care, the skin blotched and discolored like faded parchment.

"I am dying, Yuan. My surgeons tell me otherwise, but I know it is only days now before my time here is done and I go to join my ancestors. That does not distress me. Life has been good. I have been fortunate, both in my friends and in my wives and sons. I look back and see much happiness. But I am not sad to be leaving the world above, for I have seen what is to come. Dark clouds are forming, Yuan. A great storm is coming. A storm so dark, so fierce it will be like nothing ever witnessed by the eyes of man."

A faint shudder passed through him. For a moment his face was pained, then it cleared, a look of wonder filling those ancient features.

"I have been dreaming, Yuan. Strange, powerful dreams. Again and again I have seen it..."

"Seen what, cousin Feng?"

Wei Feng laughed as if amused, but the amusement quickly faded from his lips. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

"An egg it was, Yuan. A great egg nestled in the earth. They give painted eggs to celebrate a marriage, neh? Or to invalids, to wish them a speedy recovery. But this egg was different. It was like the great egg itself—the hun tun—from which the ten thousand things came forth. Moreover, it was purest white, like a great stone, polished and shining in the light that came from nowhere. It lay there, nestled in the dark earth, and the people came from all around to see it. .It was huge, Yuan. The biggest man seemed as a child beside it. I stood there, among the crowd, watching, waiting for the egg to hatch. Across from me, behind the bloodred curtains of her sedan, a bride sat waiting in a high-backed chair. I glanced at her, studying her in silhouette, then looked back at the eg|. Between my looking away and looking back it had changed. Now it was stippled with tiny cracks that ran from base to tip. Slowly they darkened. A bell sounded—a single, perfect note, pure and high. As if at a signal, the shell shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. And now a man stood there, clothed in darkness, his back to me. He was huge, taller than any man I had ever seen."

Wei Feng paused, getting his breath, his thin, darkly blotched tongue tracing the length of his lips.

"Shall I get you more water, cousin?" Li Yuan asked, but Wei Feng shook his head.

"Let me finish." The old man swallowed dryly, then went on. "I looked across again. The curtains of the sedan were drawn back now and I could see the bride. She was smiling. The kind of smile that lasts ten thousand years. Her wedding dress hung in tatters from her bones. Nails of black iron secured her to the chair. I looked back. The man was turning. Slowly, he turned. And as he turned, all those who fell beneath his gaze dropped to the ground, writhing in agony, as if smitten by some sudden, virulent plague."

Slowly the old man's grip on Yuan's hand had tightened. Now it relaxed, a look of puzzlement coming into that ancient face.

"And the man, Wei Feng . . . did you see his face?"

Wei Feng frowned deeply, then gave the tiniest of nods. "It was him, Yuan. It was DeVore. But changed somehow. Enlarged. Made somehow greater than he was in life." The old man shuddered, then turned his head away. "I have had this dream a dozen, twenty times and each time I wake before he turns to face me fully. But I have no doubt. It was him. That profile. I could not forget it. Yes, I can see him even now, smiling, his hands outstretched, facing his bride."

Li Yuan shivered. Dreams. Was this where the first signs appeared—in dreams? And was all that followed merely a working out of what was first glimpsed in dream?

"What time is it, Yuan?"

Li Yuan turned, looking out. "It is late, Wei Feng. The afternoon is almost done."

"Ahh . . ." Wei Feng nodded. Then, unexpectedly, he drew Yuan's hand to his lips and kissed the great iron ring—the ring of power Li Yuan had inherited from his father and his father's father, the great seal of the Ywe Lung, the wheel of seven dragons, imprinted in its face.

Li Yuan frowned, disturbed by the old man's gesture. This was not something done lightly, nor on whim; he could see that by the way Wei Feng stared up at him, his sightless eyes imploring him to understand. But he understood nothing; only that this dear, kind man—this confidant and ally, this strong and friendly presence from his childhood—would soon be gone from the world. Gone, as if he'd never been.

And afterward, outside in the cold and silent corridors, he stopped and looked down, noticing for the first time that there was earth on the hem of his gown. Earth ... He lifted his hand, staring at the great iron ring, then walked on, his movements stiff with regret, knowing he would never see Wei Feng alive again.

IT was LATE afternoon before Li Yuan got back to Tongjiang. Stopping only to shower and change, he went directly to his study and sat there at his desk, his Chancellor, Nan Ho, before him, Chang Shih-sen, his secretary, at his side. Outside, in the Eastern Garden, his three wives sat beside the lotus pool, laughing and talking, their maids in attendance. For a moment he looked out, watching them, the shadow of his earlier meeting with Wei Feng forgotten, his eyes drawn to the new maid—the wet nurse—seeing how she attended to the hunger of his eight-week-old son, Kuei Jen. She was a pretty young thing, well-formed and with a delicate, pouting mouth. He felt his sex stir at the thought of what that mouth might do and looked down, a faint thrill of anticipated pleasure rippling through him.

He turned back, facing his Chancellor again, a faint smile on his lips.

"You wish me to arrange something, Chieh Hsia?" Li Yuan laughed. "Am I so transparent, Master Nan?" "You are a man, Chieh Hsia, with a man's appetites. Besides, your First Wife, Mien Shan, suggested it to me only the other day. She too, it seems, has noticed your interest."

Li Yuan studied Nan Ho a moment, then nodded. "Arrange it, Master Nan. We have but one life, neh?"

"It is done, Chieh Hsia. Now ... if we might begin." It was the kind of gentle admonishment Li Yuan had come to expect from his Chancellor. Another might have viewed it as impertinence, but he knew better. Master Nan had been with him sine/ his sixth year, first as his body servant, then as his Master of the Inner Chambers. Recognizing his qualities, Li Yuan had sidestepped the usual channels when he had come to the dragon throne, eighteen months back, and promoted the industrious Nan Ho—a man without family connections—to his most senior administrative post. It had been a bold and unexpected move and had caused ripples at the time, but he had had no reason to regret his decision. Nan Ho had proved himself the perfect statesman, attending to Li Yuan's business as if it were his own. Indeed, there was no more loyal servant in Chung Kuo. Unless it was Tolonen.

Li Yuan sat back, staring at the great stack of state papers that were piled up to the right of his desk. This was his daily burden—the great weight he had taken on at his father's death. Reports from his Hsien Ling, commissioned studies on the effects of proposed legislation, warrants to be signed or queried, petitions from senior Abave citizens, preparatory drafts for Council, Security summaries, and more. Endless, it all seemed. Enough to keep a room full of clerks busy for a week.

He half turned, looking up at Chang Shih-sen. At this customary signal, Chang handed him the first paper. For the next hour or so the great pile slowly diminished, but they were far from done when Li Yuan sat back and, with a laugh, gestured for Chang to take the rest away. He turned, facing his Chancellor.

"Look at us, Master Nan, sitting here while the sun is shining outside! Let us deal with these tomorrow, neh?"

Nan Ho made to comment, then changed his mind. He could see that Li Yuan was determined not to work that day. Smiling, he bowed low. "As you wish, Chieh Hsia. But I must remind you that you have dinner at your cousin, Tsu Ma's, estate this evening. We must be there at nine. Wu Shih has confirmed that he will be attending."

"Good. . . Good!" The young T'ang clapped his hands. "Then come. Let us join my wives. It is a fine afternoon, neh?"

They went outside, Nan Ho sending a servant running to bring wine and tumblers. The women were beside the pool, laughing, sharing some secret joke. As the men came out, they turned, almost as one, their laughter fading, then stood, bowing their heads, the maids kneeling in their T'ang's presence.

"Where is my son?" Li Yuan asked, looking about him, surprised not to see the wet nurse there among the group by the pool.

"He is here, Chieh Hsia," a voice said from just behind him.

He turned, smiling, remembering suddenly what he had agreed with Nan Ho earlier. The girl handed the child to him, then knelt, the faintest color in her cheeks. She knew. He could tell she knew.

"Kuei Jen . . ." he said softly, transferring his attention to the child in his arms. "And how is my darling little boy?"

The child stared up at him, cooing softly, his dark eyes round with curiosity, his face the tiny image of his mother's. Li Yuan looked across, laughing, and saw how Mien Shan was watching him, her eyes moist with happiness, and for the briefest moment he thought of Wei Feng and what he had said to him on his sickbed. Life was good, if one let it be.

He turned, facing the sun. Then, as if compelled, he lifted the child, holding him up at arm's length, as if offering him up. And when he turned back, the child cradled against him once more, he saw how they looked at him, in awe, as at that moment when he had stepped down from the Temple of Heaven, wearing the dragon robes for the first time.

"My son," he said, looking about him, fiercely proud, seeing how his words affected them, even the seemingly imperturbable Nan Ho. "My son."

ON THE EAST COAST of North America it was dawn, and amid the low, flower-strewn screens of the Tea House of the Ninth Dragon it was busy. Maroon-cloaked waiters moved between the crowded tables, their faces impassive, the heavily laden trays they bore swept effortlessly above their patrons' heads. At the tables, wizen-faced graybeards sat there in their stiff-collared jackets, smoking and playing Chou or Siang Chi, ignoring the muted screens set high up on the pillars on every side. From two big speakers set either side of the long ch'a counter, the romantic strains of "Love at the Fair" drifted across the teahouse, competing with the babble of the old men. It was a timeless scene—a scene as old as history itself. For three thousand years old men had gathered thus, to smoke and talk and drink their bowls of ch'a.

Kim sat at a small table at the back of the tea house, up a level, on a narrow veranda overlooking the main floor, a white- and maroon-glazed chung of freshly brewed min hung—"Fukien Red"—in front of him, a small bowl of soyprawn crackers by his elbow.

He had first come here three months back, to kill an hour before a meeting, and had found himself still sitting there three hours later, his appointment forgotten, the tiny notepad he carried filled with jottings, his head bursting with new ideas. Now he came here most mornings at this hour, to sit and sip ch'a, and think.

Sometimes he would go down among the tables and sit there for an hour or two, listening to the homely wisdom of the old men, but mostly he would sit here, looking out across the busy floor, and let his mind freewheel. Today, however, was special, for earlier this morning—after a tiring all-night session—he had put the finishing touches to the first of the five new patents he had been working on: patents he had first conceived here at the Ninth Dragon.

He smiled, wondering what the old men would have made of it had he shared some of his ideas with them: whether they would have thought him sage or madman. Whichever, there was no doubting that they would have found them strange. His idea for a new kind of protein machine that could operate in space, for instance: that had been conceived here, at this table, while watching the old men blow their smoke rings in the air.

In one sense the problem had been a simple one. For the past two hundred years, most scientific engineering had been done at the microscopic level, using two basic "tools," NPMs and NPAs. The standard NPMs—natural protein machines—that companies like GenSyn used to engineer their products, while extremely versatile, were highly susceptible to heat variations, operating within a very limited temperature range. NPAs—nonprotein assemblers—made of harder, more predictable molecules, were stronger and more stable than the NPMs and were therefore used wherever possible in the manufacture of most technological hardware. However, when it came to the more sensitive areas of genetic engineering, most Companies still used NPMs.

In terms of cost it didn't matter which one used, under normal conditions, but these days an increasing amount of manufacturing was done in the great orbital factories, under sterile, zero-gravity conditions.

At present the potentially much cheaper conditions of manufacture that appertained in the orbital factories were applicable only to nonliving processes: for the production of basic "hardware." For all other processes—for food production, say, or biotechnology, where NPMs had to be used—the savings were partly offset by the need to maintain an atmosphere on board the factory ships and to keep that atmosphere at an unfluctuating and—relative to the surrounding cold of space— high temperature. Cut out that need and the savings would be the same as for those factories that used NPAs; that is, somewhere between fifteen and twenty percent of the total manufacturing cost.

It was a huge saving, and the development company that could patent a protein-based nanomachine that could operate in extreme cold and under vacuum conditions was certain to enjoy vast profits.

Kim drew the chung toward him and raised it to his mouth. Lifting the rounded lid he tilted it gently and took a sip of the sweet black ch'a.

It was a problem he had set himself a long time back—long before Li Yuan had given him the means to set up his own company—and for a while he had thought it insoluble. How could one make a living thing that operated in the absence of those very things that sustained it—heat and air? The two processes seemed and surely were inimical. Even so, he had persisted, and, sitting there, watching the smoke rings curl from those ancient mouths and climb the air, had glimpsed how it might be done. Now, three months on from that insight, he had finally worked it out—down to the smallest detail. He had only to write the process up and patent it.

He set the chungdown, smiling, the tiredness in his bones balanced against the sense of achievement he was feeling. Not only was his solution aesthetically pleasing, but it also kept well within the rigid guidelines of the Edict. The principles he'd utilized were old and well documented; it was merely the way he'd put them together that was new.

Smoke rings. He laughed, and took a deep swig of the ch'a. It was all so very simple, really . . .

"Shih Ward?"

Kim turned. The Head Waiter, Chiang Su-li, stood there, his head bowed, a few paces from the table.

"Yes, Master Chiang?"

Chiang bobbed his head, then handed across a message tab. "Forgive me, Shih Ward, but a messenger brought this a moment back. He said I was to place it directly into your hands."

"Thank you, Master Chiang." Kim fished in the pocket of his jacket for a five yuan coin, then held it out, offering it to Chiang.

Chiang made no move to take the coin. "I thank you, Shih Ward, but it is enough that you honor us with your presence at our humble tea house. If you will allow me, I will bring a fresh chung of the min hung."

Kim stared at Chiang a moment, surprised, wondering what he had heard, then smiled. "That would be most pleasant, Master Chiang. It is a most excellent brew."

Chiang bowed, pleased by the compliment, then turned away, leaving Kim alone.

For a moment Kim sat there, staring at the blank face of the message card, tempted to throw it away unread. Old Man Lever had made over a dozen "offers" this last year, each one more outrageous than the last. It was five weeks since the latest and Kim had been expecting something any day. So what was the old tyrant offering now? A partnership? A half share in his empire? Whatever it was, it wasn't enough. Nothing—not even the whole of ImmVac's vast holdings—could persuade him to work for Lever.

Kim looked out across the smoke-wreathed floor and sighed. When would Lever finally understand that he didn't want to work for him? Why couldn't he just accept that and leave him alone? What drove the old man that he kept on upping the terms, convinced that it was only a question of finding the right price?

Death, Kim thought. The fear of death, that's what drives you. And you think I can find an answer to that. You've convinced yourself that 1 can succeed where a hundred generations of taoists and alchemists have failed, and unlock that last great secret. Andmaybeyou'reright. Maybe I could. Or at least some counterfeit of immortality—a hundred years of youth, perhaps.

Yes, but the truth is that I wouldn't, even if I could. Not even if it meant that I too could live forever.

He shuddered, the strength of his aversion for the old man surprising him; then, curiosity overcoming his anger, he pressed his thumb against the release pad.

For a moment a combination of tiredness and false expectation made him sit there blankly, a look of incomprehension on his face. Then, with a laugh, he understood. Michael. . . The message was from Michael Lever, not his father.

Even so, it was fifteen months since he had last seen Michael Lever, that night of the Thanksgiving Ball, and though they had been friends, much had happened between times. He could not be certain that the man he had known was the same as the one who wanted to see him now. Indeed, if the rumors were true, he had changed a great deal. But for good or ill?

Besides which, Michael wanted to meet him tonight; at ten o'clock. Normally that wouldn't have been a problem, but after a night without sleep...

Kim smiled. There were pills he could take to keep him awake. Besides, it would do him good to have an evening off to see an old friend. And maybe Michael could give him some advice. He'd been out of circulation, sure, but things hadn't changed that much while he'd been away. What he knew about the market was still valid. So maybe. . .

Kim set the card down, watching the message slowly fade, then looked across. At the ch'a counter, Master Chiang was setting out his tray with careful, precise little movements that were characteristic of the man. Kim watched him a while, then looked down, smiling. Yes, it would be good to see Michael again. Very good indeed.

THE DOOR WAS OPEN, the tiny reception room empty save for a dust-strewn desk and an unpainted stool. Emily Ascher stood there in the doorway, holding tight to the stack of files and boxes that was balanced beneath her chin, wondering if she had come to the right place. For a moment she thought of checking the note Michael had sent her, but there was little point; she knew what was written there. Suite 225, it read; East Corridor, Level 224, North Edison stack. Turning, she nodded to her guide, dismissing him, then went inside, putting the files down on the desk.

She straightened up and looked about her, noting the shabbiness of the place. The walls were strewn with old posters, the floor bare, unswept in months. It had the look of a repossession.

"So this is it, neh?" she said softly and smiled to herself. She had expected something grander; something more in keeping with the Michael Lever she had worked with before his arrest. But this . . .

She went across and closed the door, then turned, hearing voices from beyond the inner door. Male voices, laughing.

She slid the door open and went through, into a big, open-plan office. Michael was sitting on the edge of a long laboratory-style desk on the far side of the room. Nearby, sprawled in a chair, sat a second man; a short-haired athletic-looking man of about Michael's age. Seeing Emily, the two men fell silent, looking across at her.

"Mary. . ." Michael said, pushing up from the desk and coming across, clearly delighted that she was there. "You found us all right, then?"

She smiled, barely conscious of the use of her adopted name. "It was no trouble. IVe been down this way before ... on business."

"I see . . ." He stood there a moment, simply smiling at her, then turned suddenly, as if he had forgotten, and put his arm out, indicating the other man. "I'm sorry . . . look, IVe forgotten hpw to do all this. This here is Bryn. . . Bryn Kustow. He's an old friend. He was at College with me. And. . . well, other things. And this, Bryn, is Mary Jennings."

Emily met the young man's eyes and gave a brief nod, understanding. By "other things" Michael meant that Kustow had been arrested. He too had been one of Wu Shih's "guests" these past fifteen months. She could see it in his eyes. Could see how much the experience had changed these young men.

"It's not much as yet," Michael went on, looking about him at the big, unfurnished room, "but we're going to make it something." He looked back at her. "That's if you're going to join us."

She narrowed her eyes. "Pardon?"

He took a step closer. "Look, I know how it is. It's a big decision. And you might think that you don't want to risk making an enemy of my father, but. . ."

"Hold on," she said, laughing. "You're not making sense. What decision? And why should I be making an enemy of your father?"

There was a moment's puzzlement in his face, and then he laughed. "Shit... I didn't say, did I?"

"No. You just told me to come here. Friday, first thing. And to bring what I'd need to start work at once. I thought. . ."

"You thought this was just another of my father's Companies, neh? You thought you'd still be on the payroll." He looked away, embarrassed now. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll spell it out. Then, if you don't like what you hear, you can just turn round and leave, and no one will be the wiser, okay?"

She stared back at him a moment, then looked across at Kustow, seeing how closely he was watching her; as if recruiting her for some secret brotherhood.

"You're setting up on your own, aren't you?" she said, looking back at Michael. "A partnership. You and Shih Kustow here. Is that right?"

He nodded.

"And you want me to join, right? As what? Personal assistant to you both?"

Kustow sat forward. "At first, yes. But hopefully it won't stay that way. We plan to run things differently. We'll match your present salary, of course. But you'll also be on bonuses. A share of profits. If things go well, you can buy in. Become a partner."

"I see. And all I have to do is break contract with ImmVac and make an enemy of the most powerful businessman in City North America?"

Michael reached out and gently touched her arm. "Look, it's okay. You can say no. And we won't blame you if you do. But just consider things a moment. It's a whole new venture. Something that won't come along twice in your career. To be in at the start of something like this . . ."

"And my contract with ImmVac? There's a hefty breach clause, you realize?"

"We've budgeted for that," Kustow said, matter-of-factly. He stood up and came across, standing next to Michael. "All you've got to do is decide whether you want in or not."

"And just what is this venture?"

Kustow smiled for the first time. "Near-space technologies. The kind of things our fathers wouldn't normally touch."

She laughed. "Too right. That field is sewn up tight."

"Right now it is," Michael agreed, "but change is coming. There are rumors that the Seven want to make a deal with the Above. A deal that'll mean a radical rewriting of the Edict of Technology. Things are going to open up, and when they do, we plan to be there, at the cutting edge."

"I see. And all I have to do is say yes."

The two men looked at each other, then back at her, nodding.

She was quiet a moment, considering. It was a big decision. If she took this step there was no turning back. Old Man Lever would make damn sure of that. No, she had seen how he'd reacted that night Michael had said no to him; had been witness to the private scenes afterward. You didn't cross swords with Charles Lever. Not unless you wanted to make an enemy of him for life. Common sense, therefore, told her to say no. To turn around and get out of there at once. But for once common sense held no sway. After all, she hadn't come to America to carve herself out a safe career. She'd come here to do something positive; to change things. It was time, then, that she stopped running; that she dug in and did something she, believed in.

She looked back at them. They were watching her; somberly, expectantly. How well she knew that look. How often she'd seen it, back in the old days, in City Europe. "Okay," she said, smiling broadly. "Count me in."

"Great!" Michael said, beaming, slapping Kustow on the back. "Bloody great! All we need now is a research scientist and a patents man."

"That and a lot of money," Kustow said, grinning, his eyes meeting Emily's briefly to thank her. "A huge pile of money!"

OLD MAN LEVER strode out onto the podium of the great lecture hall and looked about him imperiously. His gaze swept across the empty tiers, then returned to the two great screens that dominated the wall to the right of where he stood.

"I like it," he said finally, his voice booming in that great echoing space. "I like it a lot. It's exactly what I envisaged."

Behind him, the four-man design team looked among themselves with expressions of relief and triumph. It had been hard going satisfying the Old Man, but now it was done, the building finished to his precise specifications. And not before time. In three weeks the hall would be filled to bursting for the inauguration ceremgriy. Before then there was much to do: laboratory equipment had to be installed, personnel hired and trained, not to mention the countless items of decor—Lever's "final touches"—that had to be seen to between now and then. Even so, to have reached this stage at all seemed a miracle of sorts. Six months back, when things had been at their worst, not one of them had believed the project would ever see completion, not because what was asked of them was impossible, but because of Lever's constant meddling in their work—his abrupt changes of mind and irritating refusal to trust their judgment at any stage. The pay had been good, true, but he had ridden them hard.

Not that their experience was unique. In every area Old Man Lever had not only insisted that they hire the best in the field but that he be allowed to sit in on their consultation sessions. More than once he had overridden specialist advice, determined to stamp his own view on things, only to return, each time after a long, frustrating delay, to the very thing he'd first rejected, and with never a word that he'd been in the wrong.

But so it was with Lever. It was as if the man were obsessed. As if this one project, this single huge building and what it held, consumed him, blinding him to all else. And now, standing there at the center of his creation, he glowed with a satisfaction that seemed much more than the sense of achievement one usually got from a job well done.

"Where's Curval?" he said, half turning toward them. "Has anyone seen the man?"

"I'll bring him, Mister Lever," the Architect said, recognizing that tone of impatience in the Old Man's voice.

Fourteen and a half billion it had cost. Twice the original estimate. But not once had Lever balked about the cost. "Money's irrelevant," he had said at one point, to the astonishment of the Project Accountant. And so it had proved. Never once had he skimped to cut costs. No, the problem had been one of time. Of getting the thing done in time for the ceremony. As if it were a race . . .

Curval arrived, making his way between them, the great geneticist hesitating, glancing at them uncertainly before he walked out onto the broad platform. "Good luck," one said softly, almost inaudibly. "Poor bastard," another mouthed silently as they turned to leave, bringing a knowing smile to his colleagues' faces. So it was. Their dealings with Lever were, thank the gods, almost over; CurvaPs, poor sod, were only just beginning.

"Ah, Andrew. . ." Lever said, turning, smiling at the man and extending his hand. "I wanted to talk to you. To make sure everything's going to plan."

Curval bowed his head and took Lever's hand, allowing his own to be pumped and squeezed indelicately.

"It all goes well, Mister Lever. Very well indeed."

"YouVe signed the two men you mentioned last time we talked?"

The last time they had talked had been the day before, less than eighteen hours earlier, in fact, but Curval let it pass.

"I got onto it at once, Mister Lever. The contracts were signed and verified this morning. The men will be here tomorrow, first thing, ready to get down to work."

"Good." Old Man Lever beamed his satisfaction. "That£ what I like to hear. So you've got your team now? Everyone you need?"

Curval hesitated. He knew what the Old Man wanted to hear. He wanted to hear a resounding yes; that they had the best team possible—a team good enough to tackle the big questions and overcome them—but both he and Lever knew that that wasn't so.

"It's as good as we'll get, Mister Lever. If we can't crack it with this team, no one will."

Lever stared at him a full ten seconds, then gave a terse nod. "It's the boy, neh? You still think we need the boy?"

Curval took a long breath, then nodded. "I've looked over some of the things you showed me and there's no doubting it. You can't counterfeit that kind of ability. You either have it or you don't."

"And he has it?"

Curval laughed. "In excess! Why, he's head and shoulders above anyone in his field. He's quick of mind, and versatile, too. If anyone could make a quick breakthrough, it'd be Ward." Again he hesitated. "Look, don't mistake me, Mister Lever, the team we've got is good. Exceptional, I'd say. If anyone can find an answer, they can. But it'll take time. All I'm saying is that having Ward would give us an edge. It would help speed things up considerably."

"I see." Lever looked about him thoughtfully, then turned back to Curval, smiling. "Okay. I'll come and visit you tomorrow. It'll be good to meet the team at last. I can give them a little pep talk_s neh?"

Curval nodded, his face showing no sign of what he thought of the idea, then, with a low bow, he backed slowly away.

For a while Lever stood there, as if in trance, a deep frown lining his grizzled features. Then, abruptly, he turned about, marching off the platform and out through the open door, his silks flapping out behind him as he made his way through the maze of rooms and corridors to the entrance hall.

Beneath the great twist of stairs—that huge, unraveled double helix that filled the north end of the massive domed cavern that was the entrance hall—Lever stopped, looking about him, as if coming to himself again.

Waving away the two servants who had hurried across, he went over and stood before the blank partition wall that rested in the center of the floor between the stairway and the huge entrance doors. This, this great screen, was the first thing that visitors to the Institute would see on entering the building, and as yet he was still to find something to fill it. But fill it he would. And with something quite exceptional.

Lever lifted his chin, then turned away, feeling a sudden rush of pride at the thought of what he'd accomplished here. Here it was, the first stage of his Dream completed. He had brought it this far, by force of will and brute determination, and he would take it even farther, right to the shores of death itself. He smiled, all trace of the uncertainty he had felt back in the lecture hall gone from him. He had a right, surely, to feel proud of what he'd done? No Emperor or President had ever done so much.

He looked about him, then nodded, suddenly determined. For some reason, young Ward didn't want to work for him. A dozen times now he had turned down his offers. But that didn't mean that he had to give up. No. If anything it made him more determined. He was used to having his own way, and he would have his way in this eventually. Because this was too important not to give it his best shot. And if that best shot meant getting Ward, he would get Ward. Whatever it took.

Yes. Because here, at this place he had specially created for the purpose, they were ready to begin. In the days to come they would take on Death himself. Would track him down and face him, eye to eye. Yes. And stare him down.

kim pushed AWAY the empty starter plate and looked about him, noting how busy the restaurant had suddenly become, then turned back, meeting Michael Lever's eyes across the table.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Michael said, a faint smile on his lips. "I'd never have thought that I'd feel awkward in a place like this, but these days. . . well, I see it with new eyes, I guess. The wastefulness of it all. The excess. Being Wu Shih's guest made me realize how much I'd taken for granted, how much I hadn't seen."

Kim frowned, concerned. "You should have said. Look, I'll cancel the main course, if you want. We can go elsewhere."

Michael shook his head. "No. It's okay. Besides, I'll have to get used to this again if I'm going into business on my own accoimt. I learned that with my father. This is where the deals are made, in the restaurants and private clubs, with a full mouth and a swollen belly, over a plate of expensive delicacies and a tumbler of brandy."

Kim laughed softly, enjoying the new Michael Lever. There was a depth of irony to him that hadn't been there before his imprisonment; a sharp, self-deprecating humor that suited him perfectly. Before, he had been his father's shadow, but now he was himself; leaner but also stronger than before.

"Do you really hate it all that much?"

Michael looked down. "I don't know. It's like I said, it's hard to see it now the way they do. Being locked up all day ... it gave me the chance to do a lot of thinking. To look at our world afresh." He met Kim's eyes again. "My father can't understand that. To him it's as if I've been away at College or something. He can't see what IVe been through. He thinks . . ." He huffed out, hurt and exasperated. "Well, he thinks I'm just being awkward, willful, but it's not like that."

Kim leaned toward him, covering his hand with his own. "I understand," he said, thinking back to his own experiences of confinement. "It changes you, doesn't it? Throws you back upon yourself."

Michael nodded and looked up at him, smiling, grateful for his understanding.

"I'm sorry. This whole business with your father. It must be hard for you."

Michael shrugged. "It hurts, sure, but I've known worse. Besides," he said, brightening, "youVe not told me what you're up to. Have you made your first million yet?"

Kim laughed. "No, but it sure as hell feels as if IVe spent it setting things up!" He sat back, relinquishing Michael's hand. "You know how it is. Creatively we're strong, but financially. . . Well, to be honest with you, Michael, I could do with some outside investment, but it's a question of finding someone I can trust. Someone who won't attach too many strings."

"Ahh . . ." Michael looked away, thoughtful a moment. "You know, Kim, I thought I knew everything there was to know about business, I thought no one could teach me anything new, but I'm having to learn it all again, from scratch. Without my father's money, without the power that ImmVac represents, I'm just another face, fighting for my share of a hostile market."

"Hostile?"

"My father. He doesn't like the idea of me going it alone. He thinks I should be back home, running errands for him."

"You mean he's actively trying to stop you?"

"Actively, no. Or at least, not as far as I know. But you know how it is. The word's out that my father's angry with me, and it's a brave man who'll risk offending Charles Lever for the sake of trading with his son. I've been cut dead a dozen, twenty times these past two days alone by so-called 'friends.' But there are ways around that. Bryn and I have been working on making contacts in the East Asian marketplace. It'll cost us, sure, but at least we can do business. Here in North America things are dead as far as we're concerned."

"I see." Kim leaned back, letting the waiter who had appeared clear the plates. "So how are you funding all this?"

Michael smiled. "IVe personal accounts. Money my mother left me. About fifteen million in all. It's not enough, but it'll get us started."

Kim narrowed his eyes. "That sounds ambitious."

"It is. But tell me, Kim, how much do you need? A million? Two?"

"One and a half," Kim said, as the waiter returned, setting down a plate of steaming hash before him. "One point two if we trim back to basics."

"And that covers what? R and D? Production? Distribution?"

"R and D is covered. I do all that up here." Kim tapped his skull and smiled. "No. My costing is for the initial production run, manufacture to fitting, allowing for a three-month payment schedule. We start fairly small, keep borrowing to a minimum, and finance expansion from profits."

Michael leaned toward him, interested. "YouVe got something ready to go, then?"

"Pretty well. IVe been working on a few things this last year. Some didn't pan out, but two of them . . . Well, let's say that I'm hopeful."

"These are new inventions, I take it?"

Kim nodded.

"And you've patented them, I hope?" .

"Not yet."

Michael whistled through his teeth. "But that's madness, Kim! What if someone raided your offices? You'd lose it all."

Kim shook his head. "They could strip the place bare, but they'd get nothing. As I said, it's all up here, in my head. When I'm ready I'll set it all down and take it along to the Patents Office and register it. But not before IVe sorted out the practical details."

Michael smiled, impressed by the young man. "It sounds good. Better than good, in fact. Look, Kim, why don't we do business? You need funding, we need a bit of specialist advice. Why can't we trade? I mean, I'll have to talk to Bryn and get his agreement, but I don't see why we can't help each other out, neh?"

Kim stared at him, confused. "Wait a minute. Have I got this right? Are you offering to back me? To put up the funds?"

"Why not?"

"But I thought you needed that money for your own venture?"

"We need ten million to get us started, sure, but that leaves more than enough for what you want. And no strings. Or at least, just the one—that you look over our proposal and give us your technical advice on what we propose."

Kim was smiling broadly now, his dinner quite forgotten. "That's great. Really great. But just what is your proposal?"

"Near-space technologies," Michael answered him, looking past him momentarily, as if seeing something clearly in the air. "It's the coming thing, Kim. The coming thing ..."

wei feng LAY on the great oakwood bed, his eyes closed, his long, thin face at rest. His hands lay one upon the other above the sheets, the slender fingers stiff, paler than the white silk of the coverings, a kind of darkness beneath their pallor. At the foot of the bed stood his three sons, heads bowed, the white of their clothes in sharp contrast to the rich colors of the room.

The long illness had wasted the old man. He was a thing of bone beneath the frail white gown he wore. His right arm and shoulder had atrophied, as if death had taken that part of him earlier than the rest. His lidded eyes rested low in the pits of their sockets, and his thin-lipped mouth was a mere pale gash in the emaciated wasteland of his face. The hair on the left side of his face had not grown back, and the scars of the operations showed blue against the ivory of his skull. When Li Yuan entered the room his eyes were drawn to the stark ugliness of Wei Feng's head in death. He shuddered involuntarily, then turned to greet the eldest son, Chan Yin, with a silent bow.

Li Yuan stood at the bedside a long time, looking down at his old friend, recalling through misted eyes how this kind and lovely man had once twirled him around in the air, his eyes alight with the joy of what he was doing, and how he, Li Yuan, had squealed with delight at it. He glanced down at the narrow bones of the hands, the wasted muscles of the arms, and grimaced. Had it been so long ago? No . . . He shook his head slowly. Fifteen years. It was barely an indrawn breath in the long history of their race.

He turned away, leaving the tears on his cheeks, stepping back as if in a dream, then reached out to embrace each of the dead man's sons; holding Chan Yin longer than the others, feeling the faint trembling of the man against him.

Chan Yin stood back, a sad smile on his face. "Thank you, Yuan."

"He was a good man," Yuan answered, matching his smile. "I shall miss both his advice and his friendship. He was a second father to me."

The forty-year-old nodded slightly, for a moment seeming younger than the nineteen-year-old Li Yuan. Before this moment, power had reversed the traditional status of age between them, but now they were both T'ang, both equals. Even so, Chan Yin deferred. Li Yuan noted this and frowned, not understanding. There was no sign in his cousin that he had inherited. Only a puzzling humility and deference toward himself.

"What is it, Chan Yin?"

Chan Yin met his eyes. Beyond him his younger brothers looked on. "My father entrusted me to give you this, Yuan."

From the white folds of his mourning cloak the new T'ang took a letter. It was white silk, sealed with bloodred wax, the traditional instrument of the Seven. Li Yuan took it and stared at it, then, reluctantly, he prized the seal open with his fingernail.

Chan Yin reached out a hand to stop him. "Not here, Yuan. Later. When you are alone. And then we shall meet. Just you and I." He paused, and raised his voice as if to let it carry to his brothers. "But remember, Li Yuan. I am my father's son. His death changes nothing."

Li Yuan hesitated, then bowed his assent, his fingers pressing the hardened wax back into place. Then, with a brief, questioning glance, he turned and left the death chamber.

CHAPTER FOUR

Waves Against the Sand

IT WAS LOW TIDE. In the deep shadow at the foot of the City's wall, a flat-bottomed patrol boat made its way between the tiny, grass-covered islands that dotted this side of the river, the tight beam of its searchlight sweeping slowly from side to side across the glistening shallows. Just here, at the great Loire's mouth, the river was broad, almost three li wide. Downstream lay the Bay of Biscay and the gray-green waters of the North Atlantic. In the bright, mid-morning sunlight, one of the big mid-ocean vessels was making its way in the deep water channel toward the port of Nantes. On the far bank, beyond the perimeter fence and its regularly spaced gun turrets, could be seen the needle towers and blast pits of the spaceport, the pure white of the City's walls forming a glacial backdrop far to the south. As the patrol boat slowed and turned, making its way round the low hump of a mudbank, the water seemed to shimmer. Almost imperceptibly the vibration took form in the air, a low bass growl that grew and grew in strength. A moment later the sky on the far side of the river was riven by a long, bright streak of red.

On the roof of the City, two li above the river's surface, a group of officers watched the rocket climb the sky to the southwest. To their backs, close by, five craft were parked about an open service hatch: a big, black-painted cruiser, three squat Security gunships, and a slender four-man craft with the Ywe Lung and the personal insignia of the T'ang of Europe on its stubby wings. Uniformed guards of the T'ang's elite squad stood by the ramps of each craft, heavy semiautomatics clutched to their chests, looking about them conscientiously.

For a moment the small group of officers was still, their necks craned back, following the arc of the rocket, then, as the echoing boom of the engines faded from the sky, they turned back, resuming their talk.

Marshal Tolonen stood at the center of the group, his aide close by, clutching a small documents case. Facing Tolonen stood Li Yuan's new General, the fifty-two-year-old Helmut Rheinhardt. He and most of his senior staff had come out to Nantes to see the old man off.

"I admire your thoroughness, Knut," Rheinhardt said, picking up on what they had been saying, "but forgive me if I say that I feel you're taking on much more than you need. For myself I'd have let other, younger eyes do the spadework and saved myself for the fine sifting. From what you've said, there's plenty enough of that, neh?"

Tolonen laughed. "Maybe so. But it's a principle IVe stuck to all my life. Not to trust what I'm told, but to look for myself. I've an instinct for these things, Helmut. For that small betraying detail that another wouldn't spot. From here things look fine with GenSyn's North American operation, but IVe a hunch that they'll look a great deal different from close up."

"You think something's amiss, then, Knut?"

Tolonen leaned closer. "I'm damn sure of it! I've been working through the official records these past three months and things simply don't add up. Oh, superficially things look all right. The numbers balance and so forth, but. . ." He sniffed, then shook his head. "Look, Klaus Ebert was a conscientious, honest man. He kept a tight rein on GenSyn while he was in control. But things were different at the end..."

"Hans, you mean?" -,

Tolonen looked away, a shadow falling over his granite features. "It looks like it, I'm afraid. Most of the North American operation and its subsidiary companies were handed over to Hans for the eighteen months before Klaus Ebert's death. And it's in that period that almost all of the anomalies occur."

"Anomalies?" It was Li Yuan's Chancellor, Nan Ho, who made the query. He was returning to the group after briefly visiting his craft to take an urgent message. Rheinhardt and his officers bowed and moved back slightly, letting Nan Ho reenter their circle.

Tolonen hesitated, then nodded. "Accounting irregularities. Forged shipment details. Missing documents. That kind of thing."

It was a bland, almost evasive answer, but from the way Tolonen met Nan Ho's eyes as he said it, the Chancellor knew that it was more serious than that. Something else was missing. Something that, perhaps, couldn't be mentioned, not even in company like this.

"Besides," Tolonen went on, changing the subject, "it will be good to see old friends again. My work has kept me in my study this past year. And that's not healthy, neh? A man needs to get out in the world. To do things and see things."

Rheinhardt laughed. "It sounds like you've been missing the service, Knut! Maybe I should find you something to do once all this GenSyn business is finished with. Or maybe you would like your old job back?"

There was laughter at that; a hearty, wholesome laughter that rolled out across the roof of the City. Hearing it, Jelka Tolonen looked up from where she was sitting on the steps of the nearest gunship and frowned. How familiar such manly laughter was, and yet, suddenly, how strange, how alien it sounded. She stood, looking out past her father's men, toward the distant horizon.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was high and, to her back, the air fresh with no trace of wind. Cloud lay to the west, high up, over the shining ocean, a faint, wispy cirrus feathering the deep blue of the sky. It was beautiful, simply beautiful, yet for once she felt no connection to that beauty, no resonance within herself; as if some part of her had died, or fallen fast asleep.

A week had passed since the incident at the Graduation Ball, but she had still to come to terms with what had happened. When she thought of it, it seemed strange, unreal, as if it had happened to someone else, or in some other life. Yet what concerned her more was the constant, nagging sense of unease she had felt these past few weeks; that sense that things were wrong, seriously wrong, with the balance of her life.

As far as Lieutenant Bachman was concerned, her father had smoothed things over, just as he'd said he would. Even so, she had slept badly this last week, haunted by dreams in which she was a machine, a dreadful spinning thing with blades for arms, scything down whoever strayed across her blind, erratic path. .

And where was her softer self in these dreams? Where was the girl she knew existed beneath that hard metallic shell? Nowhere. There was no sign of her; of the girl she felt she ought to have been. Or was it true what her father had said that night? Was it simply that they were made of sterner stuff? Of iron?

Of all this she had said nothing. At home, she had acted as though nothing were happening deep within her. As if it were all done with and forgotten. Yet she knew it was far from over, for she was undergoing a change—a change as profound and as radical as any being suffered by the greater world beyond her. And maybe there was even some connection. Maybe the change in her mirrored that outer change—was some strange kind of recognition of the reality of events?

She looked down at herself, at the simple dark blue one-piece she was wearing. It was what she always wore when she accompanied her father, its neat, military cut fitting in with her surroundings. Yet today it felt different. Today it felt wrong. ' "Jelka?"

She turned, surprised, facing her father.

"I didn't hear you ..."

"No . . ." He smiled and reached out, holding her upper arm gently with his bright, golden hand. "You were miles away, weren't you? What were you thinking of, my love?"

She looked down. "That I'll miss you," she said, hiding behind the partial truth.

"And I you," he said, drawing her close and embracing her. "But it won't be long. Ten days at most. Oh, and guess who I'll be seeing?"

She shrugged, unable to guess.

"Shih Ward . . . you know, young Kim, the Claybom lad ... the scientist."

"You're seeing him?"

He held up a small white envelope. "I'm having lunch with him, it seems. Li Yuan wants me to deliver this personally. The gods know what it is, but it'll be nice to see the young fellow again."

"I. . ." She licked at her lips, wanting to say something, to give him some message to pass on, then shook her head. "I'll miss you," she said finally, hugging him tightly. "I'll miss you a lot."

He grinned. "Now, now. You'll be all right, my boy." Then, realizing what he'd said, he laughed. "Now, why did I say that, eh?"

"I don't know," she said quietly, burying her head in his chest. "I really don't know."

THE CANVAS filled the end wall of the studio, dominating the room. It was not merely that it dwarfed the other paintings—for the new piece was easily ten, maybe twenty times the size of the artist's earlier work—it was the color, the richness, the sheer scale of the composition that caught the eye and drew it in.

To the left of the canvas, what seemed at first glance to be a huge, silver-white mountain resolved itself into a tangle of bodies, some human, some mechanical, the metallic figures unexpectedly soft and melting, those of flesh hard, almost brutal in their angularity. Looking more closely, it could be seen that this great mound of bodies was formed of two great chains, linked hand to hand, like a gigantic coil of anchor rope, the whole thing spiraling upward into the blue-black darkness of deep space at the top right of the canvas: a huge double helix of men and machines, twisting about itself, striving toward a single, brilliant point of light.

In the foreground, beneath the toppling mass of bodies, was the great ocean, the Atlantic, incongruously calm, its surface shimmering in the sunlight. Yet beneath its placid skin could be discerned the forms of ancient ruins—of Han temples and pagodas, of stone dragons and palaces and the skeletal framework of a rotting imperial junk.

It was shan shui—"mountains and water"—but shan shui transformed. This was the new art. An art of symbiosis and technological aspiration that was the cultural embodiment of the old Dispersionist ideals: Futur-Kunst, or Science-Art, as it was called. And Hey-demeier, the artist, was its leading exponent.

Old Man Lever stood before the painting, some twenty ch'i back, his face creased into an intense frown. He had brought* Heydemeier over from Europe six months back and installed him here, giving him whatever he needed to pursue his art. And this—this immense vision in oils—was the first fruit of that investment.

He turned to Heydemeier and nodded. "It's good. Very good indeed. What is it called?"

Heydemeier drew at the thin black cigarette and gave a tight smile of satisfaction. "I'm glad you like it, Shih Lever. I've called it 'The New World.'"

Lever laughed briefly. "That's good. I like that. But why so big?"

Heydemeier moved past the old man, going right up to the canvas. For a while he studied the fine detail of the picture, brushing the surface of it lightly with the fingertips of one hand, then he turned back, facing Lever.

"To be honest with you, Shih Lever, I wasn't sure it would work, coming here to America. I thought it might be a step backward. But there's something very different about this place. It's more alive here than in Europe. You get the feeling that this is where the future is."

Lever was studying the young man hawkishly. "And that's where this comes from?"

"Partly." Heydemeier drew on the cigarette again. "Now that it exists I realize that this was what I was always striving for, even in the smaller works. What was lacking was a sense of space—of outwardness. Being here, away from the confinement of Europe, freed that. Allowed it, if you like."

"I can see that."

Heydemeier half turned, indicating the great swirl of bodies. "So. There it is, Shih Lever. Yours. As we agreed."

Lever smiled. "It's an important work, Shih Heydemeier. I don't need experts or advisors to tell me that. I can see it with my own eyes. It's a masterpiece. Maybe the start of something wholly new, wouldn't you say?"

Heydemeier looked down, trying to conceal his pleasure at the old man's words, but Lever could see that he had touched his weak point—his vanity. He smiled inwardly and pressed on.

"I mentioned my advisors. Well, to be frank with you, Shih Heydemeier, it was on their word that you came here. They said you were the best. Without equal, and with your best work ahead of you. So it has proved. And that's good. I can use that. I like working with the best. In everything."

Lever went across, standing there face to.face with the artist. "You're a clever man, Ernst Heydemeier. You understand how things are—how they work. So you'll not take offense when I say that my interest in you was strictly commercial. A Company like mine—like ImmVac—needs its showpieces, its cultural totems, if you like. And the more prestigious those totems, the better. They give a Company great face. But this. . ." He reached out and gently touched the surface of the painting, a look of genuine awe in his face. "This goes beyond that. This transcends what I asked of you."

Heydemeier turned, looking back at his work. "Maybe. But it makes you wonder sometimes . . . Whether you'll ever create anything half as good again. Whether you can ever make something more . . . original."

He turned back, meeting Lever's eyes. "But that's the challenge, neh? To surprise oneself."

Lever watched him a moment, then nodded. "It's yours, Ernst. The painting, I mean. Keep it."

"Keep it?" Heydemeier gave a laugh of surprise. "I don't understand . . ."

Lever looked past him, enjoying the moment. "On one condition. That you paint something for me."

Heydemeier looked down, then gave the tiniest shake of his head. His voice was apologetic. "I thought you understood, Shih Lever. I thought we'd discussed this already. I don't undertake commissions. This . . ." He looked up, meeting Lever's eyes unflinchingly. "This was different. Was my rent, if you like. Repayment of your hospitality. But what you're talking of... that's different again. I have to be free to paint what I want. It just doesn't work, otherwise."

"I understand. But look at that. Look at it again, Ernst Heydemeier. That's a moment in your life—in your career—that you won't repeat. Oh, you may paint things which are better technically, but will you ever recapture that one moment of vision? Besides, I could resell this tomorrow and make, what, five, maybe ten million ;yuan. As to what it'll be worth ten years from now . . ." He paused, letting that sink in. "And what am I asking for in exchange? Three, maybe four days of your time."

Heydemeier turned away, his discomfort and uncertainty evident in every muscle of his long, gaunt body.

"I don't know, Shih Lever. I..."

"Okay. I won't force the issue. Keep it anyway. Let it be my gift to you. But let me tell you what it was I wanted. Just hear me out, okay?"

Heydemeier turned, facing the old man again. Whatever he had expected from this meeting, it had not been this. He stood there, bemused, his earlier composure shattered. "All right," he said resignedly. "I'll listen, but that's all. . ."

"Of course." Lever smiled, relaxing now he had brought him this far. "It's a simple little thing really . . ."

Twenty minutes later, as Lever was climbing into his sedan, a messenger came. He tore the envelope open impatiently, knowing even before he glanced at it who it was from. This was the second time in the last twenty-four hours that his son, Michael, had written to him about the freezing of his accounts.

"Damn the boy!" he said, angry at being chased up in this manner. "Who the hell does he think he is! He can damn well wait. . ."

He held the letter out stiffly, waiting for his secretary to take it, then, changing his mind, he drew it back.

"No. Give me brush and ink. I'll give him his answer now."

"There," he said, a moment later. "Maybe that will teach him manners!"

He stepped up into the sedan again, letting the servant draw the curtains about him, but the satisfaction he had felt only moments before had gone, replaced by a blinding fury at his son. Well, Michael would learn just how decisive he could be when pushed to it. It was about time he understood how things really were.

He shuddered and sat back, reminding himself of the days successes—of the unexpected thrill of the auction that morning, the pleasant and productive lunch with Representative Hartmann, and his "negotiations" with Heydemeier. But this last—this final matter with his son—had taken the bloom off his day.

"Damn the boy!" he said again, turning the heavy ring on his left-hand index finger, unconscious that he was doing so. "Damn him to hell!"

JELKA CRUMPLED UP the note and threw it down, angry with herself. Angry that she couldn't find the words to express what she had been feeling that night.

Or maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe it was simply that she had wanted to hurt the young lieutenant; that, in a funny way, she'd needed to. But if that was true, what kind of creature did that make her?

She sat back, taking a long breath, trying to calm herself, but there was so much darkness in her; so much unexpressed violence. Why, she couldn't even write a simple letter of apology without wanting to hit out at something!

She stood, looking about her at the chaos of her room. Sketches of uniforms and weaponry, of machines and fighting soldiers, cluttered the facing wall, while to her left a number of old campaign maps covered the face of her wardrobe. A combat robe hung over the back of the chair beside her unmade bed, while nearby, in a box in the corner, a selection of flails and staffs and practice swords reminded her of how long she had spent perfecting her skills with each. Above the box, high up on the wall, was a brightly colored poster of Mu-Lan, dressed in full military armor. Mu-Lan, the warrior princess, famed throughout history for her bravery and skill.

Mu-Lan . . . the name her girlfriends called her.

She swallowed, her anger turned to bitterness. He had made her this. Year by year he had trimmed and shaped her. Year by year he had molded her, until she was this thing of steel and sinew.

Or was that fair? Was her father really to blame? Wasn't it true what he had said that night? Wasn't it simply that she was of his blood, Tolonen, with the nature of their kind? Hadn't she glimpsed something of that on the island that time? Hadn't she seen her own reflection in the rocks and icy waters of that northern place? So maybe it was true. Maybe he wasn't to blame. Even so, if she had had a mother...

She caught her breath. Slowly she sat again.

If she had had a mother. . . What then? Would it all have been different? Would she have turned out normal?

She laughed; a strange, bleak sound. What, after all, was normal? Was "normal" what the others were? For if that was so, then she didn't wish to be normal. But to be as she was, that was dreadful, horrible.

Unbearable.

She went through to the kitchen and took a refuse sack from the strip beside the freezer, then returned to her room. She stood there, looking about her numbly, wondering where to start.

Mu-Lan, perhaps . . .

She went across and ripped the poster from the wall, stuffing it down into the sack. Then, in a frenzy, she worked her way around the walls, tearing down the pictures and sketches, the posters and the maps, thrusting them all down into the sack, grunting with the effort. Finally she emptied the weapons box into the sack and tied the neck.

She stood back, looking about her at the bare walls. It was as if she had been dreaming all these years; sleepwalking her way through the days. Oh, there had been moments when she had woken—like the time she had defied him over the marriage to Hans Ebert—but for the most part she had colluded in her fate. But now all that must change. From here on she must be mistress of her own destiny.

Lifting the sack she went back through, into the kitchen. Waving the serving girl away, she stood there, over the portable incinerator, half in trance, thinking of her mother.

In some other world, perhaps, it was different. There, beneath an open sky, she was herself, complete. For an instant she pictured it; imagined the log house on the hill beside the forest, the stream below;

turned and saw, as if in memory, her father standing in the doorway, her mother—the image of herself—beside him, his arm about her shoulder. Felt herself turn, her skirts swirling out about her naked legs, her bare feet running on the sunlit grass . . .

She closed her eyes, the pain of longing almost overwhelming her. In some other world ...

The click of the incinerator brought her back. She looked about her, as if coming to from the depths of sleep, then shuddered, the tension in her unabated. What wouldn't she give to be able to live like that. To be like that, open and whole.

Maybe so. But that was only dreams. This here was the world she inhabited. This massive, brutal world of levels. This Yang world, heavy with the breath of men. And what were her dreams against the weight of that reality?

Nothing.

And yet she would become herself. She would. For to be like them—to be "normal" in the way that they were normal—would be a living death for her. A slow and painful suffocation. And she would rather die than suffer that.

She had been running from it. All her life she had been running from it. But now, suddenly, she was awake. That moment at the Graduation Ball . . . she understood it now. That—that awful moment when she had turned and goaded him—had been the moment when she had stopped running. The moment of awakening, when she had turned, quite literally, to confront the very thing she hated.

"I'm sorry." she said softly. "It wasn't you, it was . . ."

She shivered, understanding finally what had happened to her that evening. It wasn't Lieutenant Lothar Bachman she had meant to hurt. It was what he represented. He ... well, he had been like . . . She looked about her, her eyes coming to rest on the figure of the kitchen god, squatting on the shelf above the cooking utensils, and nodded to herself.

Yes. It was as if she had been confronted by the clay figurine of an evil demon; a figure that she had had to smash to be free of its enchantment.

And was she free? „

Jelka looked down at her long, slender hands, seeing them clearly, as if she had never seen them before. No, not free. Not yet. But she would be. For she was awake now. At long last, she was awake.

"Mary? Have you got the file of old MemSys contacts?"

Emily looked up from behind the desk screen and met Michael Lever's eyes, conscious of the slight edge in his voice. This business with his father was getting to him, especially since the Old Man had frozen the accounts.

"It's here," she said, reaching into her top left-hand drawer and taking out the bulky folder. "Not that it'll do you any good. None of them will talk to us, let alone contemplate trading with us. They're all scared as hell of taking on your father, Michael. You'd be better off trashing this and starting anew."

"Maybe." He hesitated, then came across and took the folder from her. "Even so, I'm going to try each one of them again. Someone's got to give."

"Why?" There was a strange hardness in her eyes. "Your father holds all the cards. Every last one of them. And you've got nothing."

"Maybe," he said again, not challenging what she'd said. "But I've got to keep trying. I can't go back. Not now."

"No." She said it softly, sympathetically, knowing how much pressure he'd been under these past few weeks, and how well he'd coped with it. The old Michael Lever wouldn't have coped, not one tenth as well. "As for the other matter. . . I'll let you know if we hear anything, okay?"

He smiled uncertainly. "Okay. I'll get to it."

When he was gone, she sat back, combing her fingers through her short blond hair. The other matter—the freezing of the accounts— was what lay behind his current tenseness. If the Old Man refused . . . She took a deep breath, trying to see ahead. What would she do if Michael gave up and went back to his father? She'd be out of a job, for a start. Worse than that, Old Man Lever would make sure she'd never work again. Not in North America, anyway. And maybe other places too. Wherever his long arm reached.

But strangely enough her own fate didn't concern her half so much as the prospect of Michael giving up. Of him succumbing after coming this far. She'd survive. She always did. But Michael... If he gave up now it would destroy him—cripple him emotionally. If he gave up now he would be tied—tied forever to his father's will, whether his father lived or not.

She shuddered and looked about her at the room in which she sat. In three short weeks they had built this thing from scratch. And though it was as nothing compared to MemSys and the great ImmVac Corporation, it was at least something. New growth, not an expansion of the old.

Yes, and left alone it would have grown and grown. Michael and Btyn were a good team. Innovative, capable, resourceful. As good as any she had worked for these past three years. The Company would have been big. As it was, it was likely it would be dead, and probably within the hour.

"NuShih Jennings?"

She looked up again. It was Chan, the guard. He'd slid back the outer door and was looking in at her.

"What is it, Chan Long?"

"There's a messenger here," he said quietly, ominously. "From ImmVac. I think it's an answer."

She nodded. Chan knew as well as anyone what was going on. That was his business. And like her, he knew what it was likely to mean. She smiled tightly, feeling sorry for the man.

"Okay. Search him and show him through. But show the man respect. It's not his fault."

Chan gave a small bow and slid the door closed again. A minute or so later the door slid fully back and Chan came through, ushering in a tall, dark-haired Hung Moo in the bright red uniform of ImmVac's messenger service. From the way he glanced at Chan as he passed, it was clear he had not welcomed being body-searched, but Emily was taking no chances.

She stood, coming around the desk. "You have a message, I understand? From Shih Lever."

He hesitated, then gave the slightest nod of his head. Inwardly Emily smiled ironically. If she had been a man, his bow would have been low, to the waist, perhaps, but as she was merely a woman . . .

"I have a note," the man answered, looking away from her, as if he had dismissed her. "It is to be given directly into the hands of young Master Lever."

She took a long, deep breath. Young Master Lever. How clearly those words revealed Old Man Lever's attitude toward his son. How subtly and damagingly they placed Michael.

She moved closer, until her face was almost pressed against the man's. "I will tell Shih Lever that you are here. If you would be seated," she pointed past him, indicating the chair on the far side of the reception room. "He is a very busy man, but he will see you when he can."

As she turned away, she could see it in her mind. The thing to do was to keep the messenger waiting—an hour, two hours, maybe even to the close of business. That way the message would get back to Old Man Lever that his son was not to be treated like a troublesome infant, but respected as a man. That was what she would have done, anyway. But she was not Michael. Michael wanted an answer. Wanted an end to the tension and misery of not knowing.

She hesitated, then slid back the door. Inside she closed it behind her, then went across. Kustow was sitting to the left behind his desk, Michael to the right. They watched her cross the floor, their eyes filled with a tense expectation.

"It's here," she said simply.

She saw how the color drained from Michael's face. He closed the MemSys folder, then turned in his chair, looking across at Kustow.

"Well, Bryn, what do you think?"

Kustow sat back, eyeing his partner somberly. "I think he's given you the finger, Michael. That's what I think."

"But he can't," Michael said quietly. "Surely he can't? I mean, it's my money. Legally my money. If I took the matter to court. . ."

Kustow shrugged fatalistically. "You'd win, certainly, but not for several years. You, better than anyone, should know how expert your father's lawyers are at drawing things out. And in the meantime youVe got nothing. Not even this . . ." ,,

"Maybe, but . . . ach . . .what gives him the right, Bryn? What gives him the rucking right?"

For a moment all of the anger and frustration he was feeling was there in Michael Lever's face. Then, with a shudder, he took hold of himself again and looked across at Emily.

"Okay. Show him in. Let's hear the worst."

She went back and brought the messenger through, watching as Michael took the envelope from him and slit it open. He read it through, then, his hand trembling, passed it to Kustow at his side.

"Okay," he said, meeting the messenger's eyes, his whole manner suddenly harder, more dignified. "Tell my father that I note what he says and that I thank him for his generosity."

"Is that it?" the man asked, staring back at him.

"You may go," Michael said, letting nothing of what he was feeling enter his voice. "YouVe done what was asked of you."

When the messenger had gone, Michael turned, facing Kustow, his shoulders hunched suddenly, his eyes miserable, the pretense of dignified defiance cast off. "That's it, then. The end of things. . ."

Kustow studied the note a moment, then looked back at him. "Is that what you want?"

"No. But what are our options? There was seventeen million in those four accounts. Without it. . ."

"Without it we start again. Trim things down. Reassess our priorities. Work out what we can do. WeVe still got my money."

"Two million. Where will that get us?"

"It'll get us started, that's what. As for the rest, we'll come up with something. We can borrow from the East Asian markets, maybe. Or from his major business rivals."

"But you said you didn't want to borrow. You said that that would make us vulnerable."

Kustow smiled. "True. But I said that before your father turned nasty on us." He handed Michael back the note, then put his arm about his shoulders. "Look at it this way, Michael. Your money would have given us a cushion—might have made the ride a little less bumpy—but it was never the main component of our strategy. Talent,

ability, innovative ideas, that's what this Company was going to be based on, and it still can be. But I can't do it alone, Michael. I need you. And you need me."

"But what about our plans . . . ?"

"As I said. We scale things down. Put a rein on our ambitions for a time." He shrugged. "Look, this'll set us back, I don't deny it, but it doesn't have to put an end to things, not unless you want it to. So what about it, Michael? Are you going to crawl back to him, your tail between your legs, after all weVe done and said, or are you going to spit in his eye and carry on?"

Michael glanced at Emily, then turned back, studying Kustow closely, his eyes recalling all they had been through those past few years. Gripping Kustow's arms firmly, he nodded.

"Okay," he said quietly. "We'll do it your way. If it fails we're no worse off, neh?"

"Not the tiniest bit. . ."

Again he nodded, a smile slowly returning to his lips. "Okay. Then let's do it. Let's spit in his eye."

IT was A DARK-LIT, shabby place that stank of cheap perfumes and sour liquor. The carpet underfoot was threadbare, the walls covered with inexpensive erotoprints. The girls, lined up against one of the walls, were in character; they too were cheap and worn, their faces overpainted, their bodies mere parodies of desire.

"Well?" said K'ang, turning to face Lehmann, a grin splitting his big face. "What do you want? It's my treat. I always bring my boys here, once a month. Gives them a break. A bit of fun."

Lehmann looked about him, letting no sign of the disgust he felt show in his face. "No," he said simply.

"Come on . . ." K'ang made to take him by the arm, then remembered how he felt about that and backed off. "You're sure ? I mean, if it's not your thing. If. . ."

The look on Lehmann's face warned him not to say what he was thinking. K'ang shrugged and turned back to the others.

"I'll have the fat one," said Ling Wo, K'ang's chief advisor.

"Which one?" said the Madam, coming across to him and winking.

She herself was grossly fat and, like her girls, wore little or nothing about her genitals, as if such crude display could make her more desirable. Ling Wo let her fondle him and leaned close to whisper in her ear.

"Have them both!" she said and laughed raucously, slapping his shoulder. "Shih K'ang here will pay, won't you, dear?"

K'ang laughed loudly and said, "Of course. Have both, Ling Wo!" But his eyes said something different, and Ling Wo chose between the girls.

Lehmann, watching, saw the Madam look from one man to the other, then turn to her girls and make a face.

One by one the others made their choices, K'ang's three advisors first, then Peck, the new man from the south who had joined, them only a week back.

Peck was an old acquaintance of Soucek's and had worked for K'ang A-yin years before. Now he was back, after some trouble with Security. He had come in as Lieutenant, to strengthen the tong. Or so the story went. To Lehmann it read otherwise. Peck had been brought in to counter him. To bring the odds back in K'ang's favor. Not that it mattered.

Then it was Soucek's turn.

"I'll pass this time, Shih K'ang."

K'ang laughed. "What do you mean, pass? Since when did you ever pass? You gone off girls or something?"

Soucek lifted his big, long head and met K'ang's eyes. "I'll pass, that's all."

K'ang went quiet. He looked from Soucek to Lehmann, then looked down at the floor. When he looked up again he was smiling, but his eyes, as ever, were cold. "You don't like the way I treat you, Jiri, is that it?"

Soucek shook his head. "You treat me fine, K'ang A-yin, but I just don't want it this time. Next time okay. But now . . ." His face was hard, expressionless.

K'ang looked across at the remaining girls, including the one he always had—the best of them, though it said little for her—and then smiled. "Okay. You sit here with Lehmann and chat, neh?" And at that he laughed. He turned to Lehmann. "Mind you, Stefan, you'd be better off fucking your brains out than trying to get a decent conversation out of Jiri there."

Then, laughing, the Madam on one arm, the girl on the other, he followed the others inside.

Lehmann waited a moment, then turned, looking across at Soucek. "Why didn't you go in?"

Soucek met Lehmann's eyes. "I was watching you. Seeing how you saw it." •

"And?"

"You don't like all this, do you?"

"What does it matter what I like? You're K'ang's man."

"That's not forever."

"Nothing's forever. But that isn't what you meant, is it?" ;,

Soucek was about to answer when the Madam came bursting in again. "You boys want anything? Drinks?"

Lehmann looked at her blankly, then, "Yes. Wine will do."

Soucek half-lidded his eyes, curious. He had never seen Lehmann touch alcohol before. The Madam left the room, then returned with two drinks, setting them down on a small table at the far end of the room.

"There. You'll be comfy over here."

Lehmann looked at her again, such hostility behind the blankness of his face that the Madam's smile faded momentarily, then came back stronger, as if to cover up the unease she felt in his presence. "If there's anything else you^need, just call."

They waited until she went, then sat, Lehmann with his back to the wall, Soucek facing him. The two drinks rested on the low table between them.

"Tell me about Peck," Lehmann said.

"Peck?" Soucek laughed coldly. "Peck is ying tzu."

Lehmann lowered his head slightly. He had heard of ying tzu— shadows—and their services. They were trained specialists, contracted out to gangland bosses. Like the chan shih they were a staple of the underworld here, though far more rare.

"That costs."

Soucek nodded and reached out to take his glass, but Lehmann put out a hand, stopping him. "Why are you telling me?"

"A warning."

Lehmann studied him carefully, his gaze penetrating. "Just that?"

Soucek smiled again, his thin-lipped mouth an ugly, lifeless thing. "No." He hesitated and then looked down. "Because you're strong."

"And K'ang isn't?"

Soucek looked up. "He's strong. In some ways. But you. . ." He shook his head.

Lehmann was silent a long time after that. Then he picked up his glass and sniffed at it. "I'm K'ang's man now."

Soucek watched him; saw him put the glass down untouched. "Now?"

Lehmann's eyes seemed to soften marginally, as if he was pleased that Soucek had understood him, but still he didn't smile. Soucek looked down at his glass and nodded to himself. In this as in all else from now on he would copy Lehmann. If Lehmann shunned women, he too would shun women. If Lehmann touched no drink, he too would do the same. For there was a secret in all this, he saw. A kind of strength. Macht, the others called it, in the old slang of these parts. Power.

"What do you want?"

Lehmann's question surprised him. To be like you, he thought, but what he said was different. "I don't want to be here forever. I..."

He stopped and turned in his chair. Six men had come into the room. Two of them had been talking when they came in, but on seeing Lehmann and Soucek there they had fallen silent. As Soucek watched, the Madam came out and, with a glance across at Lehmann and himself, leaned close to one of the newcomers and whispered something to him. Then, with a broad, false smile, she came across again.

"Well, we are busy tonight!" she said with an excessive gaiety that struck Soucek as rather odd. Then, looking at their glasses, her smile widened again. "You want fill-ups?"

Soucek turned and looked down at the glasses. They were empty. He looked up at Lehmann, surprised, but the albino's face was blank.

"Why not?" said Lehmann tonelessly, lifting the glasses and handing them to her.

Soucek watched Lehmann a moment longer, then turned in time to see the Madam usher the men out through a door she hadn't used before. She was the last to go through and as she did, she turned, taking an almost furtive glance back at them.

As soon as she was gone, Lehmann was on his feet and crossing the room toward the exit.

"What's happening?" began Soucek, jumping up. «

Lehmann turned suddenly, like an acrobat, his balance perfect. "Just sit there," he said softly. "Pretend nothing's happening. If she asks, tell her I've gone for a piss. And whatever you do, don't touch the drink. It's drugged."

at the door Lehmann paused, slipping to one side as it irised open. No one. He went through quickly, using the far wall of the corridor to stop and turn himself, his gun out and searching, then relaxed. The corridor was empty.

Crouching, he set the gun down, then took off his wristband and turned it inside out. Quickly he tapped out the contact code. At once the tiny screen came alight, bloodred. There was a moment's vague activity, then the screen's color changed and a miniature of Haller's face stared back at him.

"What the hell time . . . ?" Haller began, then saw it wasn't Becker. His manner changed at once. "What is it?"

Lehmann spelt out the situation, gave the location, and told him what was needed. "You've got eight minutes maximum. Bring Becker. Go in at the front. And remember, no noise."

He cut contact, put the wristband back on, and picked up the gun. Then, pausing only to look back along the corridor, he began to run. There would be a back entrance. Sealed maybe. Guarded probably. But he would face that when he got there.

It was a narrow side alley with three ceiling lamps. He stood in part shadow, looking down. There was one man, his back to him, expecting nothing yet. Unhesitant, Lehmann moved quickly between the distinct pools of light and came behind the man silently, wrapping the fine, hard wire about his neck with a graceful looping of his hands. The man's cry of surprise and pain was cut off sharply, almost before it fonned. Lehmann let the lifeless body fall, the wire embedded deep in the flesh.

He tested the door's frame for weaknesses, pushing at it, then leaning hard against it. Moving back from it, he took a breath, then kicked twice, in two separate places. The door fell inward, the crude latches snapped off.

Quickly he moved through the dust cloud, conscious of the noise he'd had to make. Almost at once he was facing one of the Madam's girls who had come out of her room to see what was happening. He grabbed her, one hand about her mouth, then pushed her back into the room, looking about him. She was alone. With a quick, strong movement, he snapped her neck and lay her down. Then, shutting the door behind him, he went back for the dead man.

He had been lucky so far. No one else had heard, and no one had seen the corpse lying there in the shadows by the door. Quickly, grunting with the effort, he dragged it inside, then set the door back in place behind him.

Would they be missing him yet? Getting suspicious? It was almost five minutes now since he'd gone for that piss. Was Soucek all right?

He put the dead man in with the corpse of the whore, then came out again. For a moment he stood there, listening. Things seemed okay. He took a breath, then went on, half running down the long, dark passageway, following it around. There was a door to the left. He paused, lifting the flap. Peck was inside, naked, on his back, a busty blonde riding him vigorously. Lehmann dropped the flap silently and went on.

At the door to the reception area he stopped again, listening. He could hear Soucek's voice, and the Madam's. All seemed fine. He went through.

He saw the relief on the Madam's face, and knew at once what she'd been thinking. "IVe changed my mind," he said, before she could say anything. "There's a girl down the end there, I..."

He saw her smile widen and again could read her thoughts. You like to watch. He looked away, as if he had been caught out, and stood back as she pushed past. Soucek had stood up. Lehmann nodded and signaled for him to come.

As she opened the door Lehmann came behind her and put his hand over her mouth so that she couldn't cry out. He felt her tense, could feel the sudden fear in every muscle of her body. She was staring at the two corpses wide-eyed.

"You can join them or you can help me," Lehmann said quietly. She nodded and he released his grip. She was breathing heavily, trying to control herself.

"Just do what you were going to do. Give us three minutes, then send them in."

She turned, surprised. Her mouth worked silently, its hideous rouge making ugly shapes, then she nodded. She made to step past him, but he reached out and held her. "Remember," he said, drawing her up with one hand until her face was just beneath his. "Say a thing and you're dead. Those others, they're dead anyway. My men are coming here now. But you . . . you can live. If you do what you're told."

She swallowed, then found her voice. "Okay. I'll do what you say."

He pushed her away, disgusted by the foulness of her breath, the painted corruption of her face. He would kill her when it was done.

When she was gone, Soucek turned to him. "What do you want me to do?" he said quietly. He had drawn his gun.

Lehmann reached out and took the gun. "No noise. Use your knife. Or this." He handed Soucek a garrote with short matt-black handles. "Or best of all, use your hands."

Soucek stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. Now no noise. Understand?"

"Why?"

Lehmann glared at him. "Just do it. Right?"

Soucek nodded, chastened by Lehmann's look.

They went out and down the passageway. At the turn, Lehmann stopped and pointed over to the right. "There," he whispered. "In that doorway. They'll not see you when they come around." He turned and pointed back a little way. "I'll be there, ahead of them. When they're past, you come up behind them. You should be able to take two of them at least."

Soucek's eyes widened, then, remembering what his informer, Mas-son, had said about Lehmann's ferocity, nodded and got into place in the doorway. He had only moments to wait.

One of them came through on his own and stood there, listening. Distinct sounds of sexual pleasure were coming from several of the rooms now. Soucek, from his hiding place, saw the man hesitate, then turn back to the door, beckoning the others through.

They moved quickly, as though this had all been planned and rehearsed. But as they turned the corner Lehmann came at them. One went down at once, a knife in his throat. A second followed a moment later as Lehmann kicked high and shattered his nose. From behind them Soucek moved quickly, thrusting with his knife, then swinging his blade high, catching the one who was turning back on him in the chest.

There was the faintest groan from one of the men, but otherwise it was a strangely silent struggle, a violent, desperate conflict, fought in the deep shadow of the passageway, as if in the blackest of nightmares. In less than a minute it was over.

Soucek stood there, panting, his arms shaking, and looked across at Lehmann, amazed.

"Mutes," Lehmann said, as if it explained everything.

Soucek laughed softly. "But they were talking. I heard them . . ."

"That one . . ." said Lehmann, pointing to the one who lay there, the big throwing knife deeply embedded in his throat. "And that one over there." The man he indicated was face down, a garrote wound tightly about his neck. "The rest had been operated on."