The Stone Within

It had surprised him. He had always thought that jolt—that moment when one went outside one's body and turned, looking back;—

destructive. And so it was if one thought in pure terms. Yet if one cheated—if one made the fiction work for you—if one embraced the suprareal. . .

He laughed softly, remembering those days, recalling how his father would watch him, fascinated, his eyes burningly alive in that wasted face. His father-brother. Amos's seed.

"Ben?"

He let the moment fade—let the intensity wash from him—then turned, looking up at his sister's shadowed form.

"I thought you were tired?"

She sat beside him, leaning back, her arms out behind her. "1 was," she said quietly. "But then I saw you out here and I thought. . ."

He turned, looking at her. It was dark, her face in deep shadow, and yet he had no need for light to see her. He had only to close his eyes and he could see her, as a child, a girl, and now—these last few years—a woman.

"You're tired, Ben. All this . . . it's too much. You need help. More than I can give you. Technicians. Someone to help you with the setups. Someone to take some of the basic programming work off your hands." She paused, then, exasperated by his silence, added, "You think you can do it all, Ben, but you can't! It's wearing you down. I see it day by day."

He laughed, but as ever he was touched by her concern. "I'm all right, Megs. Really I am."

Ben lifted his face to the night. From where he sat he could smell her; could almost taste the salt-sweet scent of her skin, feel the silk-smooth warmth of her beneath the soft cotton of her dress.

He turned, kneeling, facing her, for a moment content simply to be there in the darkness with her. Then, gently, he pushed her down, onto her back, one hand lifting her dress, his fingers tracing the smooth length of her inner thigh until they met the soft warmth of her sex, the small noise she made, the tiny shiver in her limbs, enflaming him, blinding his senses, making him jerk like a puppet and push down against her urgently, thrusting at her even as she struggled to unfasten him.

And then darkness. Violent, searing darkness.

IN THE FAINT LIGHT of dawn he woke. The house was still, silent, and yet he lay there stiffly, as if alerted, not knowing why.

He went out, into the corridor, standing in the deep shadow, looking toward the far end of the long, low-ceilinged space. The door to his mother's room was closed. To the right, beside it, light from the casement window fell onto the wall, illuminating the portrait there.

Slowly he went toward it.

Every day he passed it. Every day he glanced at it, giving it no more thought than he would a blade of grass or a leaf fallen on the path. But now he stood, studying it intently, trying to see beyond its familiar shapes and colors to the feelings that had formed it—that had here been channeled into canvas, oil, and brush. He closed his eyes, letting his fingertips explore the surface of the canvas, then stood back, squinting at it, trying to see it fresh.

It was himself. Or, rather, Catherine's vision of him. He stared at the dark, fragmented face, at the flecked and broken flesh and nodded gently. She had seen the doubleness in him. Had seen and captured it perfectly. For a moment he let his vision dissolve, admiring the abstract play of red and green and black, deriving a rare aesthetic thrill from the composition; then, focusing again, he saw it whole once more. No. Even Meg didn't know him this well. Even Meg.

Catherine . . . They had been students together at Oxford. Friends and, ultimately, lovers. He had not thought of her in some while; had shut her out, choosing not to remember. But now it all flooded back. The way she rested, like a cat, in her chair, her legs drawn up beneath her. The way her hair fell, a cascade of golden red, each strand a fine, clear filament of flame. The touch, the taste, the smell of her. He closed his eyes, the memory perfect, overwhelming, then, shivering, he turned, going down the narrow twist of stairs.

Downstairs the curtains were tightly drawn, the darkness intense. He made his way blindly to the door and raised the latch, stepping out into the freshness of the new day, his bare feet treading on the dew-wet grass.

Bird calls sounded from the trees across the bay, and then silence.

He moved out across the close-cut lawn, then turned, looking up at the window to his mother's room. The quartered space was dark, the curtains drawn, like a lid over an eye.

For a moment he stood there, thoughtful. She had seemed much happier these past few days, as if, at last, she had come to terms with Hal's death. No more did he wake to hear her crying in the night. And at breakfast yesterday morning he had been surprised to hear her singing softly in the garden.

He turned suddenly. There had been a noise. A high, keening noise that came from the darkness on the far side of the bay. It could have been an animal, but it wasn't. No, for there was nothing in the Domain that made a sound like that.

He shivered, a strange excitement filling him. It was the sound that had woken him, he realized. A strange, unearthly noise.

"Intruders . . ." he said quietly, a faint smile lighting his features. There were intruders in the valley.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Intruders

HE SAT at his father's desk, his great-great-grandfather Amos's keyboard—a strange, semicircular design—resting in his lap. The curtains were drawn, the door locked. Across from him, pulled down in front of the crowded, untidy bookshelves, a huge flatscreen showed a view of the lower valley; of a tree-covered hillside, a wide expanse of sunlit water.

Ben had sent out the remotes an hour ago; a dozen tiny, insectile "eyes" that even now scoured the valley from the creek in the far north to the castle at the river's mouth, searching for signs of intrusion. On one of two small, desk-mounted screens to Ben's left the remotes appeared as pinpoint traces on a map of the Domain, following preprogrammed search patterns. Ben sat there patiently, switching from view to view, alert for anything unusual, but as yet there was nothing.

As if he'd dreamed the sound. But he hadn't dreamed it. And that meant one of two things. Either there'd been an unprecedented breach of security, or someone high up in Security had let the intruders in.

The obvious course of action was to call Li Yuan and ask him to send someone in. Karr, perhaps. But that was the last thing Ben wanted, because it would be a shame if he didn't find a way to use this—to harness it for his art.

Behind him the brass doorknob half turned, then rattled.

"Ben? Are you in there?"

It was his sister, Meg. He glanced at the timer. Six fourteen. She was up early. Very early, considering they had been working so late.

"I'm working," he called out, knowing even as he said it that it wouldn't satisfy her. "Make breakfast. I'll be down in a while."

He could sense her hesitation, could almost feel her curiosity through the wooden door, then there was the creak of floorboards as she made her way back down the passage.

He sat back, considering his options. If Meg knew what was going on she would want to call in the troops. She would be frightened, concerned for their safety. And there was no need. He could take care of this himself.

He stared at the map a moment, then, looking back at the keyboard, began reprogramming the remotes, one by one sending the tiny eyes shooting southward, out over the town and its tiny harbor, out past Warfleet Cove and the ancient castle, and on, toward the sea.

Out there, they'd be. Somewhere out there. At the Blackstone, maybe, or Castle Ledge, or sheltering by the Mew Stone . . .

No. He dismissed the thought. There wasn't shelter for a family of mice out there, let alone a human settlement. Not a single island or outcrop from Start Point in the south to Exmouth in the north, only the smooth, white walls of the City, towering over the land and dropping sheer into the sea. There was the odd rock, of course, jutting a dozen yards or so above the rough waves' surface, but there was no chance they might have settled one of those. The first high tide would have washed them away. Even so, he had to look, because the intruders must have come from somewhere.

He looked up at the screen once more, watching as the remote skipped above the surface of the wind-ruffled water. Slowly, like a shadow looming at the back of things, the great Mewstone grew, its jagged spine silhouetted sharply against the morning sky.

For a moment he was struck by the simple beauty of the scene; by the interplay of light and dark; the exhilaration of pure movement. He could use this, maybe. Tie it in somehow.

Sunlight winked, winked again, then flooded the screen with light. And then darkness. Sudden, absolute darkness, as the remote went beneath the wall of rock that rose forty yards above the water.

He slowed the eye, widening the aperture to let in as much light as possible, getting the computer to enhance the image, but there was nothing. Nothing but sea and rock.

He switched, impatient now, picking up one of the remotes he had sent south past the Dancing Beggars. At once he saw it, there, some two or three hundred yards off, slightly to the left. A boat. A strange, incredible boat.

The deck was a broad, ungainly raft of railway sleepers lashed tightly together, the weight of the hull—more a decorative border than a true hull—making the craft dip dangerously low in the water.

He moved the remote closer, scanning its length. Broken TV sets and car fenders, refrigerator doors, hubcaps and radios, their innards gutted, had been tied together with electric cable. Computer keyboards and anglepoise lamps, vacuum cleaner hoses, video machines and coffee percolators, satellite receiver dishes, steering wheels and electric toasters, all had been welded into a single mass that formed a low wall about the raft.

It was like a collage, a great collage of once-familiar things. Things from that great, sprawling, dynamic, intensely technological world that had existed before the City.

Ben laughed softly, delighted, then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he gave the eye full power, skimming it quickly past the raft and on.

Out here it was. Somewhere out here. But what? A man-made island, perhaps? An ancient sailing vessel? Or was it something else?

To his right the City dominated the skyline, a smooth wall of whiteness following the coast in a long, staggered zigzag, its unnatural cliffs towering two li above the breaking waves. To his left the sunlit sea was calm and empty. As the seconds passed, excitement dulled to uncertainty. What if there were nothing but the raft?

And then he saw it, low and far to the left, its outline glinting in the sunlight, a faint wisp of smoke going up into the brightness. He slowed the remote, changing its direction, sending it out on a path that would skirt the vessel to its south.

Again he felt his heartbeat quicken, his mouth grow dry with anticipation. A raft, it was—a raft! But bigger, much bigger than the other. So big, in fact, that he sat back with a small laugh of surprise. And not just one, but several. Huge things, bigger than anything he'd ever seen or imagined could exist. Slowly he lifted the remote, climbing the sky, until he was hovering high above the strange armada, looking down.

There were five of them: massive constructs, perfectly hexagonal, like patches from a giant quilt, a li to each side, loosely stitched together by rope bridges in a dozen places. Moored here and there at the edges were a number of smaller rafts, like the one he had seen in the estuary.

Ben stared, fascinated, at the nearest of the rafts, taking in its details. Earth had been piled onto the raft, covering its surface to some depth—tons, thousands of tons, of earth. Dark, fruitful earth that was covered now in places by lush green grass, in others by orderly rows of plants and vegetables. At the center was a tiny settlement of thirty huts, clustered in a circle about a central meetinghouse. Paths went out from the settlement; paths dotted here and there with storehouses and water storage towers.

He tilted the remote, looking. All five of the rafts were organized on the same ancient principle, the only distinguishing feature being the size of the meetinghouse of the central raft.

There, he thought; that's where I'll get my answers. And, moving his hand gently, carefully over the controls, he sent the remote down, in a long, lazy spiral, toward the broad, low ceiling of the meetinghouse.

MEG STOOD on the bottom lawn, looking out across the bay, angry with him. Two hours had passed since he'd said he'd come and still there was no sign of him.

The tide was in. Beneath her feet, at the bottom of the tiny runged ladder that was set into the concrete bank, the tiny rowboat bobbed gently. She had been tempted to take it out and damn him, but beneath her anger was a burning curiosity. For almost a year now he had included her, at every stage and in every decision, but now—for no apparent reason—he had locked her out again: physically, the door barred against her entry.

She looked about her at the wooded slopes, the cottages, and beyond them all the Wall. Some days she felt so lonely here, so isolated, and yet it never seemed to touch Ben. Never. It was as if he enjoyed the empty streets, the lifeless simulacra that, apart from the three of them and the guards, were the sole inhabitants of the Domain. As if this were enough for him. But she had realized, long ago now, that she was missing something.

She touched her top teeth with her tongue, then shook her head. It was as if she couldn't even think it, for to think it would be close to saying it, and saying it would seem a betrayal of Ben. And yet the thought remained.

She wanted someone else to talk to. Someone less harsh, less forbidding than her brother. Someone to share things with.

A tiny shudder passed through her at the thought. Someone to share things with. She had been sharing things with Ben all her life. Had learned to see the world through his eyes. But suddenly it wasn't enough. Not that she was unhappy as things were. She enjoyed Ben's company and loved to see him working. It was just. . .

She smiled, realizing that she had come to the edge once more, both literally and metaphorically. Beneath her naked feet the ground fell away sharply, the water ten feet below where she balanced. Another step and she would have fallen.

The thought of it brought back to her the day he'd saved her life; the day he had dived into the cold, incoming tide and dragged her unconscious body from the waves, then had breathed the life back into her. Without him, she realized, she was nothing. Even so, she wanted something more than him. Something different.

She turned, walking back slowly to the cottage, enjoying the sun on her back, the faint, cooling breeze on her neck and arms. Back in the kitchen she cleared the table, scraping Ben's breakfast into the garbage, then busied herself tidying the place up. She was preparing the dinner, peeling the potatoes, singing softly to herself, when Ben finally appeared.

She didn't hear him. The first she knew was when he put his arms about her and turned her to face him.

"I'm sorry," he said, kissing her brow. "I wanted to try something out, that's all. A new idea ..."

She smiled, relieved that he was back with her; yet at the same time she knew he was withholding something from her.

"And the next scene? I thought we were going to start on it early."

"Ah. . ." He looked past her; out through the latticed window toward the bay. "I thought we might leave that for a while. This new thing . . ." He looked back at her, then kissed her nose. "Let's go out, huh? On the river, maybe. It's been some while since we took the boat out."

"I'd like that," she said, surprised how, as ever, he seemed to anticipate her mood; to read her better than she read herself.

"Good. Then leave that. I'll help you later. Let's pack a picnic. We can go to the old house."

She looked at him strangely. "Why there, Ben? It's an ugly place. There's nothing there now. Even the foundations . . ."

She stopped, realizing that he wasn't listening; that he was staring past her again, his mind elsewhere.

"Why there?" she asked again, softer this time.

"Because," he answered quietly, then laughed. "Just because."

BEN STOOD in the brilliant sunlight, his feet on the dark and glassy surface where the old house had once stood, looking about him. On every side of the broad, dark circle nature had proliferated, but here the green had gained no hold. He crouched, then brushed at the surface, wiping away the layer of dirt and dust. It was over eight years since he had lost his hand, here, on this spot. Beneath him the fused rock was mirror smooth. He stared into the polished darkness, trying to see his face, then turned, looking across at Meg.

Meg had laid the cloth down on the edge of the circle nearest the river, beneath the overhanging branches. She moved between sunlight and deep shade, the dark fall of her hair and the mottling of leaf shadow on her arms reminding Ben of childhood tales of wood nymphs and dryads. He stood there a while, watching her, then went across.

She looked up at him and smiled. "I was thinking of the last time we came here . . . before the accident."

"The library," he said, anticipating her. "And the secret room beyond."

"Yes." She looked about her, frowning, as if surprised not to find it all there, surrounding them.

"Where does it go, Ben? Where does it all go?"

He was about to say, "Up here," and tap his skull, but something in her manner stopped him. It was not a rhetorical question. She wanted to know.

"I don't know," he answered. Into the darkness, maybe.

She was still looking at him, her brown eyes wide with puzzlement. "Is it all just atoms, Ben? Atoms, endlessly combining and recombin-ing? Is that all there is, when it comes down to it?"

"Maybe." But even as he said it he realized that he didn't really believe it. There was something more. That same something he had felt only last night, in the flames and afterward in the darkness beside the water. Something just beyond his reach.

He shivered, then looked about him again, conscious of the old house, there, firm in his memory. He had only to close his eyes and he was back there, eight years ago in the spring—there in the room with the books; there in Augustus's secret room, reading his journal, and after, in the walled garden, standing beside Augustus's tomb.

His brother, dead these eighty-eight years. Part of old man Amos's experiment. Amos's seed, his son, like all of them.

"Oder jener stirbt und ists."

Meg looked up at him, curious. "What was that?"

"It's a line from Rilke. From the Eighth Elegy. It was carved on Augustus's gravestone. 'Or someone dies and is it.'" He nodded, finally understanding. Augustus saw it too. He too was in search of that same something—that terrible angel of beauty.

Ben sat, facing his sister, then reached across and took a bright green apple from the pile. As he bit into it, he thought back over what he had seen that morning, remembering the dark, wind-tanned faces of the raft-dwellers. Savage, barbarian faces, the teeth black or missing in their mouths, their long hair unkempt, their ragged furs and leathers greasy and patched. Some had worn ancient metallic badges with faded lettering, like the names of ancient tribes.

He had assessed the speed of the raft armada and estimated that it would be at least eleven hours before they reached the headland at Combe Point. That would bring them there roughly at sunset. Until then he could relax, enjoy the day.

He finished the apple, core and all, then reached across to take another.

"Ben. . ."

Meg's look of admonishment, so like his mother's, made him withdraw his hand. For a moment he was silent, watching her, then he laughed.

"IVe decided to change things," he said. "I've been thinking that maybe you were right. Maybe the Han should live."

Her face lit with delight. "Do you think so? Do you really think so?"

He nodded, then leaned closer, conspiratorially, including her again. "IVe been thinking through a whole new scenario. One in which Tong Ye is kept prisoner in the inn after the fight. He's badly injured, close to death, but the girl nurses him. And afterward. . ."

SHADOWS WERE lengthening in the valley as Ben sat down at his father's desk once more, the curtains drawn, the door locked tight behind him. It was dark in the room, but he had no need for light. Memory guided his fingers swiftly across the keyboard. At once twin screens lifted smoothly from the desktop to his left, glowing softly.

He called up the map of the Domain, homing in on the four grid squares at the mouth of the estuary. As he'd thought, the raft armada had anchored off the Dancing Beggars, just out of sight of the guard post at Blackstone Point.

He turned, facing the big screen as he brought it alive. It brightened, then settled to a dull reddish-brown, littered with small, ill-defined patches of darkness. The camera eye of the remote was looking directly into the portico of the meetinghouse, but in the late evening shadow it was hard to make out what, if anything, was happening.

He switched between the three remotes quickly, then returned to the first image, widening the aperture and enhancing the image until the dull orange haze to the right of center resolved itself into an ancient iron brazier filled with coals, the long, dark-barred shape behind it into the struts and spars of the meetinghouse. In the last of the daylight a dozen elders stood about the darkened doorway, talking animatedly. In the space before them, a large crowd had gathered, waiting cross-legged on the dark, smooth earth.

Ben eased back, breathing shallowly, his eyes taking in everything.

It was perfect. Just perfect. His fingers moved over the surface of the keyboard. There was the faintest click as the tape began to run. At the top left corner of the screen the "record" trace began to wink redly.

The sun was low now, to the west, above the hills of Combe Point. Moment by moment the light decayed, until, at a signal from one of the elders, torches were brought—ancient oil-soaked rags on poles— and lit from the brazier. At once the scene took on a different aspect.

In the unsteady flicker of the torchlight, the faces in the crowd seemed suddenly strange, almost demonic. Turning the remote slowly, he panned across the sea of faces, noting how drawn, how emaciated each seemed. Thin lips parted like a wound, neck muscles tensed. An eye moved shiftily, uncertainly in a sunken orb, the pupil flickering darkly like an insect on a pale egg. Beyond it a jaw lowered, exposing blackened canine teeth that snarled and then laughed. Ben stared, fascinated. It was as if the half-light brought out the truth of these faces. Reduced them to a cipher to be read. Again he was conscious of how unlike the faces of the City-dwellers these faces were. Inside, the face was a mask, a wall, built to conceal. Here, in these savage, simple faces, all was offered at a glance. One had only to learn the language.

He was panning back across the crowd when the picture swung about violently. A moment later the screen went black. At once Ben switched to the second remote, turning it to focus on the malfunctioning eye. For a moment he searched fruitlessly, then he saw it, there in the hand of one of the guards. The man had plucked it from the rafters of the hut where Ben had set it; had crushed the soft-cased machine as one would crush an insect. Now, however, he was staring at the thing in his hand, realization dawning in his savage, bearded face that it was not a living creature.

Cursing softly, Ben tapped out the auto-destruct sequence. As he watched, the remote glowed hotly in the guard's hand. With a small cry, the man dropped it, then went to tread on it. But even as he did, the remote caught fire, scattering sparks like a falling cinder.

For a moment there was commotion. A small crowd formed about the tiny, melted shape, their voices briefly raised, before one of the elders shooed them back to their places.

Ben sat back, relieved. If, even for a moment, they suspected he was watching them, it would all be undone. His whole plan depended on the advantage his eyes gave him; on his superior information. It was the only real edge he had.

He switched between the two remaining remotes, testing each in turn, boosting the image, the sound, almost to distortion. It was too late to reposition them. He would have to trust now that whatever happened next took place within sight of them, which meant outside, in front of the meetinghouse. He daren't risk a second incident.

He had barely finished when there was a faint humming in the air—a sound which grew by the moment. It was an aircraft; a Security cruiser by the sound of it. He tilted the first remote, searching the darkness above Combe Point.

He saw it at once, there, coming in from the east, flying low, its headlamps cutting a brilliant path across the dark waters. He cut to the now standing crowd, to the elders gathered on the portico—seeing the awe, the feverish anticipation in every face—then switched back. The cruiser was coming in noisily, ostentatiously it seemed, making enough of a display to be seen clearly from the guard post.

Ben glanced at the empty screen to his left, then keyed in his father's access code. All was ready now. He had only to see who it was. To find out why and what they wanted. Then he could act.

The cruiser slowed, passing over the raft armada once and then again, its searchlights playing on the crowd below, figures peering down from within the craft. Then, slowly, it descended.

As it came down, the crowd moved back, away from the sleek black shape that settled in their midst. A gun turret swiveled about, then was still. A hatch hissed open skyward, like a wing unfolding. A moment later, six masked and suited guards came down the ramp, heavy automatic weapons held close to their chests.

Whoever it was, he was taking no chances. He knew better than to trust this rabble. His men fanned out, taking up defensive positions about the ramp, eyeing the crowd warily, as if expecting an attack. A moment later he appeared at the top of the ramp. As he paused, looking about him, Ben focused in, until the man's head filled the screen, his features so close that the image had almost begun to break up.

Ben clicked, taking a copy of the image, then clicked again,

transferring it. The computer search took less than a second. On the screen to Ben's left, the boxed image from the large screen was relocated at the top right of the picture, a second image—the official file copy, updated only eleven weeks back—dominating the screen, the name of the officer printed underneath in English and Mandarin.

Major Per Virtanen.

Virtanen. Ben nodded, understanding. The face had meant nothing to him, but the name . . .

Ben returned his attention to the big screen, watching the man come down the ramp, then turn, looking about him, conscious of the impression he was making. He was a tall, silver-haired officer in his mid-fifties, his features strong, decisive, his eyes a penetrating blue. His magnificent azurite-blue dress uniform was cut elegantly, the embroidered silk patch on the chest—that of a third-ranking military officer—depicting a leopard snatching a bird from the air. All in all, he seemed the very picture of refined strength—the perfect representative of the T'ang's authority—but Ben knew better.

Eight years ago, when Virtanen had first come before the Appointments Board to be considered for the post of Major, only one man had opposed his promotion, Ben's father, Hal. In normal circumstances, Virtanen would have been appointed, for there was no need for the Board's decision to be unanimous. But Hal Shepherd had gone directly to Li Shai Tung, the present T'ang's father, and had the appointment nullified.

Ben remembered it vividly. Remembered how angry his father had grown when telling his mother of it. How he had stood there in the kitchen, his fists clenched, his dark eyes blazing.

It was not unheard of for officers to "buy" their appointments— indeed, it was more the rule than the exception—nor was the use of family connection really frowned upon. No. What made Virtanen's case exceptional was his use of Triad connections, the illicit drug money, to buy influence. That and the suspected "murder" of a rival for the post, hacked to pieces in his sedan by a tong assassination squad. Nothing could be proved, of course, but the circumstantial evidence against Virtanen was considerable. In the words of the old Han saying, Virtanen was a toad masquerading as a prince. A man unsuited for the task of upholding the T'ang's law.

Accepting Hal's advice, Li Shai Tung had upheld the objection and refused the appointment, giving no reason. For Virtanen, confident of his promotion, it had been a severe loss of face—not to speak of the expense—and it was rumored that he had raged for days, cursing Hal Shepherd to anyone who'd listen.

And now, eight years on, Virtanen had finally been appointed Major. Eleven weeks ago, to be precise, in the wake of Li Yuan's deal with the Triad boss, Fat Wong.

Ben scrolled the file quickly, scanning Virtanen's orders for the past eleven weeks. Under the guise of restructuring his command, he had removed all of those officers familiar with the running of the Domain and replaced them with his own men, leaving the foot soldiers—the actual guards who served in the Domain—until the very last. At the same time he had had all Security reports for the Western Isle—for what was once called Great Britain—routed through his office.

Ben let his breath out slowly, watching the elders come on, their heads bowed, their eyes lowered before the great man.

Everything made sense. All but one thing. Were Virtanen successful then there was sure to be an inquiry; an in-depth investigation under Li Yuan's direct control. And, as things stood, the finger would point directly at Virtanen.

And that didn't make sense. A man like Virtanen, used to dealing with snakes—to making deals and covering his ass—had to have some kind of get-out.

Ben sat back, pondering the problem; considering what he would do in Virtanen's place. The man looked so confident, so totally at ease. He had to have a plan. He wasn't the kind to sacrifice himself simply for revenge. No, not after waiting so patiently to bring it about. He had had eight years now to brood on the question, so what had he come up with? What devious little scheme was he hatching?

Ben waited. One moment there was nothing, the next. . .

Of course, he thought, his eyes widening as, up on the screen, the elders knelt before Virtanen.

Two of the guards came across, moving between Virtanen and the elders, their guns raised threateningly. There was a moment's angry murmuring and then the elders backed off. As they did so there was a movement behind them, in the doorway of the meetinghouse. A man emerged, half hidden in the shadows; a tall man, maybe a full foot taller than Virtanen and broad at the shoulders. He wore dark silks and his hair was braided. In his hand was a slender silver rod.

Ben smiled, recognizing what it was. It was a piston. A piston from an old combustion engine.

As the man stepped down, a chant began from among the crowd. A low, almost bestial sound that filled the flickering darkness.

"Tewl. . . Tewl. . . Tewl. . ."

Ben switched between the remotes, setting one to track Virtanen's face, the other to focus on the newcomer. Halving the screen, he watched as the two approached each other. Finally they stood there, face to face, no more than an arm's length between them.

The chant died.

Seen from close up, Tewl was an ugly bastard. His broken nose seemed overlong, while his mouth, paralyzed on the left side, seemed to form a perpetually crooked smile. His eyes, however, were hard, and the look he gave Virtanen was like the cold, calculating gaze of a deep ocean predator.

Virtanen, clearly unused to such fierceness, looked aside momentarily, then forced himself to meet that unflinching stare.

"Tewl. . ."

The crooked smile widened, and then Tewl moved closer, embracing Virtanen.

"You came," Tewl said, moving back. And Ben, watching from the darkness miles away, mimicked the sound, the shape that twisted mouth made.

Virtanen's smile was forced. "Your people are ready, Tewl? They know what they have to do?"

Tewl looked past Virtanen at the crowd and nodded. "We know what we have to do. But you? You will keep your promise to us? There will be no more trouble from your forces?"

Virtanen lifted his chin slightly, clearly put out. "You keep your part of the bargain, Tewl, and I give my word. No one will trouble you. The valley will be yours."

Ben nodded. Yes, and as soon as Tewl and his people had taken the Domain, Virtanen would send in his troops. Too late to save the Shepherds, of course, but the intruders would be punished. Conveniently eradicated, down to the last man, woman, and child.

There would be "suicides" among the ranks of those who had served in the Domain; a serious fire at the Central Records Office. Crucial pieces of information would go missing. And a culprit from among the staff of Security would be found, his records conveniently doctored. And he too would be found to have swallowed cyanide rather than face questioning.

And in the end, the T'ang's inquiry would show that Virtanen had acted swiftly and correctly. That he had done all he could to try to save the Shepherds. A slight taint of suspicion would remain, but not enough to spur the T'ang to action. At least, not now when Virtanen's connections with the Triads were so important.

Ben studied the man. There were small signs of tension and unease, but no more than would be natural in such a situation. No. You might take Virtanen at face value. If you knew no better, you might even believe that his word was worth something.

If you knew no better.

Leaving the first remote focused on Virtanen, he switched to the second, turning it slowly, panning across the crowd, the guards, the elders. He was about to pan back when a movement on the far side of the clearing—in the doorway of one of the surrounding huts—caught his attention. He zoomed in.

The girl was standing just inside the door, one pale and slender hand resting on the upright. For a moment he wasn't sure whether it had been a trick of the light, but then, as she emerged again, he saw that he had not been mistaken. That same flame-red hair. Those same green, catlike eyes.

He caught his breath, astonished by the likeness. She was thinner and a good few inches shorter; even so, she could easily have been her sister.

"Catherine . . ." he whispered, staring into her face as if he stood directly before her.

It was as if she was staring past him. Looking out past his shoulder at what was happening on the far side of the clearing. Then, as if dismissing it from her mind, she turned away.

For a moment Ben stared at the empty screen, then he leaned forward, activating the remote, lifting it high above the clearing, then settled it, there on the upright of the doorframe where her hand had rested only moments before.

Across the clearing the two men were still talking. As the tiny, insectlike remote crawled slowly into the dark interior of the hut, Ben tapped into the audio output from the other eye.

Virtanen's voice seemed calm, but there was a tightly restrained anger underlying the words.

"You shouldn't have done it, Tewl. Sending in the raft ... It could have been dangerous. If you'd been seen . . ."

"I had to see," Tewl answered gruffly. "I had to be sure. Besides, my men were careful."

"Maybe so, but you must do what I say in future. One wrong move and all is undone. You understand me, Tewl?"

Inside, the darkness was intense. Ben boosted the image. Slowly the shadows took on a grainy, reddish form. The girl was in the far comer, seated on a low camp bed, her hand up to her neck. As he watched, she shook out her hair and, stretching her head forward, began to comb it through.

Silence. As the comb draws through the flamelike hair, Ben sits there in his father's study, watching, the past alive, vividly alive—in him.

And then darkness. A violent, searing darkness.

the BANGING woke him. Ben turned his head, then winced, the pain intense just above his left ear. Slowly he raised himself, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. The chair lay close by, the keyboard dangling from its arm. He pulled himself up, conscious of the tart smell of sickness in the room, the hiss of static from the neglected screens.

Like Time, bleeding from the darkness.

It was late. After eleven. He had been out for over two hours this time. It was over two weeks since the last fit, and then he had blacked out for two, three minutes at most. But this had been quite different.

Ben shivered, then put his fingers gently to the wound. The gash was deep, almost an inch long, but there seemed to be no real damage. The blood had clotted well. It felt more tender now than painful.

The banging came again. "Ben! Open up! Please!"

"Coming. . ."

He straightened up the chair and set the keyboard down on the desktop, then cleared the screens. He had no idea whether the remotes were still functioning, or whether anything had been recorded after his fall, but that would have to wait. First he had to see to Meg.

He unlocked the door and tugged it open. Meg was standing there, her face anxious.

"Ben! It's Mother. I don't know . . ." She stopped, seeing the blood matted in his hair. "God Almighty, Ben . . . what happened?"

"I had a fall," he said, coming out into the hallway and pulling the door closed behind him. "I blacked out a while, that's all. Now what's all this about Mother?"

"I can't find her, Ben. IVe looked everywhere. IVe even been down to the meadows and called, but there's no sign of her. And that's not like her, Ben, is it? I mean, she always says where she's going."

"Okay . . ." He put his arms about her, drawing her close, reassuring her by his touch. "Okay. Now tell me when you last saw her. She was there when we got back from the old house, wasn't she?"

Meg looked up at him. "Yes. In the rose garden."

"Right. And that was shortly after seven. So she can't have gone far, can she? You say you've looked everywhere?"

"Three times at least. I even took a torch down to the bay."

"Okay." He kneaded her shoulders. "There's probably a perfectly good explanation. Look, why don't you go down to the kitchen and make us some supper while I check the house again. And don't worry, Meg. It'll be all right."

She nodded and turned away, happy to have something to occupy her mind, but Ben, watching her go, felt a tightness at the pit of his stomach. What if he was wrong about Virtanen? What if he'd miscalculated and the man had taken her? What if he had her now?

He began, searching the upper rooms. In his mother's room he stood there a long time, staring into her wardrobe, trying to work out what it was that was missing. Her robe. The red silk ankle-length bathrobe that she used to wear before his father's death. Everything else was there. All of her dresses, every one of her coats and long jumpers.

He turned, looking about him at the smooth white surface of the quilt, the jars of creams and perfume bottles on the dressing table, surprised by how tidy, how orderly the room was. If Virtanen had taken her there'd be some sign of a struggle, surely? Unless he'd come upon her in the meadow. But then, why would she be wearing her bathrobe in the meadow?

He went down. Down, past the old dresser in the hallway, and left, ducking under the low lintel and into the lounge where he and his father had entertained Li Shai Tung on that spring evening eight years past.

On the far side of the long oak table was a small, black-painted door, set back into the whitewashed wall. Ben went across and put his ear to it, then gave it a gentle push.

It swung back noiselessly, revealing a flight of steps, leading down. It ought to have been locked. In fact, it had been locked. He had locked it himself, only yesterday.

He turned, listening, hearing Meg at work in the kitchen, then turned back. He went down five steps, then reached back to pull the door closed behind him. Ahead was the faintest glow of light, like a mist over the blackness.

At the foot of the steps he stopped, his pulse racing. He had known. Yes, even as he had been entertaining those absurd notions about Virtanen kidnapping her, somehow he had known she would be here.

He looked about him at the shadowy rows of standing shelves that filled the cellar workplace; at the crowded racks and gaunt machinery that stood untended on every side.

She was here. Her scent was in the air. He walked on slowly, silently, moving between the shelves toward the source of light at the far end of the cellar. Turning the comer, he stopped, taking in the scene. Ten feet away, the morph was slumped in its metal frame, just as Ben had left it yesterday. But about its shoulders now Was draped a red silk bathrobe.

Ben moved on, slower now, more reluctantly, knowing now what he would find; knowing, even before his eyes confirmed it, why his mother had been so happy these past few days. Why she no longer cried in the night.

He stopped, letting his fingers move absently across the smoothly lacquered surface of the Shell. He had made changes to it since his father's time, but it still looked like a giant scarab beetle, its dark, midnight-blue lid not quite opaque. Peering close, he could just make out her form, there inside the coffinlike interior; could see from the rise and fall of her breasts as much as from the flicker of the control panel just below the catch, that she was living out the dream.

He looked down at the panel. She was more than halfway through the three-hour sequence. It would be another hour, maybe more, before she was back with them again.

Ben turned and went across to his desk. Seated there, he took a notepad from the drawer and tore two sheets from it. The first note was to his mother. "I'm sorry," it read. "I didn't realize. I hope it brings you comfort, Love, Ben."

He folded it and set it aside, then began the second. On one side of the paper he wrote "Ben &. Meg" in a small, neat hand that was unlike his own. On the other side he quickly penned a note from his mother, telling them that she had gone to see an old friend and that she would be back after midnight. He signed it with a flourish, then folded it lengthwise, the way his mother always folded her notes to them.

Satisfied, he got up and, setting the fake note in his pocket, he took the other across and slipped it into the pocket of the bathrobe, ensuring it would be seen.

He had never told his mother about the Shell he and his father had made for her. In the wake of Hal's death he had thought it best to keep it from her, lest it upset her even more. But he had been wrong. Just looking at her through the darkness of the glass, he could see how happy she looked, how at peace.

Ben stood there, staring at the Shell, understanding, perhaps for the first time, just how powerful this was. The Shell could heal. Could turn misery to song and make whole the wound of death. It was a powerful medium—the most powerful the world had ever seen—and it had been trusted to him to make it work.

He touched his tongue to his top teeth, the way his sister Meg did, then, with a tiny laugh, he went back up, pulling the door to behind him. As he came out into the dining room, he called out to her.

"Meg! Meg! IVe solved the mystery!"

She came to the kitchen door, her face half smiling, half anxious, then took the note from him.

"Thank God!" she said, looking back at him. "I knew it had to be something like that. Even so, it's odd, don't you think? I mean, it's not her way to go off without telling us."

"Maybe she's got herself a lover," Ben said mischievously. "A dark-eyed soldier with a waxed mustache."

Meg looked at him, surprised. "Ben!"

He laughed. "No. I'm serious, Megs. I mean, haven't you noticed how she's been these last few days? Haven't you heard her singing in the garden?"

Meg went silent for a moment, her eyes thoughtful. "Yes, but. . ."

Ben reached up and lifted her down the four steps, twirling her about. "Besides, while she's away, I could make love to you. Upstairs. In her bed. She'd never know. She'd never ever know."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Hole in the Dark

HE ROSE EARLY and went to his father's room to survey the tapes. The meeting was interesting, but it was what had happened after Virtanen had left that had Ben on the edge of his seat.

The elders, silent throughout the exchange between Tewl and the Major, had gathered about the big chieftain, gesticulating wildly, their faces filled with a fierce passion. But it was not their animation that fascinated Ben, so much as the language they used; a crude, alien tongue that he had never heard before. For a while he had sat there, letting the strange music play in his head, sending ripples down his spine. Then, calling up Amos's Universal Lexicon, he requested an aural trace on four words that had cropped up often during their exchanges: Omma, Gwayteea, Nans, and Golaw.

At once a list of close matches in more than fifty languages appeared beneath each word, the spellings as varied as the meanings given, but in only eight instances did all four appear within a single language set. He cleared all but those, then fed in a fifth: the word the crowd had chanted; the word engraved on the pendant that hung about the chieftain's neck.

Tewl Ben smiled. Of course . . .

For the next hour he worked patiently through the file, learning the basics of the language, giving himself enough of a vocabulary to go back to the tape again and listen, this time with an ear attuned to what the elders were saying.

Today. They wanted to attack today. This very afternoon. To go from here—ammo,—into the valley—nans—while it was still bright—golotv. But there were those who wanted to wait—gwaytya— until it was dark—tewl.

And Tewl, the dark man himself, what did he want?

Ben watched the chieftain consider what had been said—watched him a second time, understanding this time why his eyes narrowed, why his frown intensified. And then that tiny, hesitant nod of the head. They would go in early, before Virtanen's men, and consolidate their position, because Tewl, like many there, did not trust the Major.

And because they were warriors, unbowed beneath the sky; ashamed to skulk like rats beneath the cover of darkness.

Meg touched his arm, drawing him back from his reverie. "And the Shell, Ben? Are we going to work on it today or not?"

He looked up at her, the image of the tall, dark-robed chieftain still vivid before his eyes, then nodded.

"Yes," he said, a smile forming on his lips. "But there are a few things I have to do first. Some preparations."

"Preparations?" she said, eyeing him warily.

"Trust me," he said, his smile suddenly like the Cheshire Cat's, dark and enigmatic. "Just trust me."

MEG SAT on the turn of the stairs, eating an apple while she slowly turned the pages of the book. Beside her, the tiny casement window was open, the late morning sunlight filtering down through the leaded squares, misting the dark fall of her hair with gold. It was a warm, still day, the air filled with birdsong and the low hum of insects, while from below came the sound of Ben, moving from room to room.

It was a perfect day. A day for thoughtless dreaming. But in that instant Meg was unaware of it. For a moment she was there, outside herself, the weather cold and bleak, the hillside bare, exposed to the harshness of the elements. For a moment she saw the faces of the villagers clearly, etched starkly in the fierce light of the great bonfire, like wooden masks, moving from dark to light, from light to dark.

Catching her breath, she looked up, one hand resting briefly in her tightly braided hair, then called down to him. "Ben?"

There were footsteps, and then his face appeared at the foot of the stairs. "What is it?"

"This book IVe found. It's wonderful. Listen."

She looked down at the page, then began to read, tracing the words with a finger.

"Not a plow had ever disturbed a grain of that stubborn soil. In the heath's barrenness to the farmer lay its fertility to the historian. There had been no obliteration, because there had been no tending."

His voice cut in, low but resonant.

"It seemed as if the bonfire-makers were standing in some radiant upper story of the world, detached from and independent of the dark stretches below. The heath down there was now a vast abyss, and no longer a continuation of what they stood on; for their eyes, adapted to the blaze, could see nothing of the deep beyond its influence."

She stared at him, then nodded. "You know it, then."

"And the rest," he said, smiling up at her. "But it does give me an idea. Maybe we could use Hardy's scene. Rework it and use it as a kind of counterpoint to the burning of the inn."

She looked down. Something was going on. The very vagueness of his suggestion told her as much. Why else would he want to distract her?

"The preparations ... are they done?"

He laughed. "No. Not all of them."

"So what were they for? What's going on?"

She saw his lips begin to form the shape of the word; saw him hesitate, then look away, and knew she had been right. Nothing, he'd been about to say, but, faced by her, he had been unable to lie to her. She looked down, smiling.

"It's like this . . ." he began. Yet even as he said it, the air was rent by the sound of an explosion; a low, reverberating noise that shook the house and rattled the casement window.

She stood, dropping the book. "What in God's name . . . ?"

But Ben was smiling, grinning almost, with delight. "It's begun," he said, turning away from her. "It's finally begun."

BEN STOOD in the sunlit meadow, the glasses to his eyes. To the far left, where the valley tapered to a point, a plume of smoke rose slowly, dark against the pearled whiteness of the City's walls.

"What is it?" Meg asked, leaning gently against his back.

"The seal," he answered. "TheyVe blown the seal."

"Who?"

Ben shook his head, then laughed. "I'm not sure. But I'm going to find out."

She watched him turn and walk back toward the house, knowing he was holding something back. But why? She looked back at the slowly climbing coil of smoke, frowning at it, then, knowing she had no choice, she turned back, running up the slope after him.

Ben was upstairs in their father's old room, staring down at the flatscreen, his fingers flying across the console.

She stood there a moment, looking across at him, conscious of a strange, almost feverish excitement in the way he crouched there over the keyboard, then went across. "What's happening, Ben? Come on, you have to tell me!"

He turned. "It's happened, Megs. After all these years, it's finally happened. Someone's come for us."

"Come . . . What do you mean, come?"

"WeVe been invaded, Megs, that's what. The communication lines to the guard houses are dead, the seal's been blown, and there are intruders at the river's mouth."

She stared at him, appalled. "Then you must let the General know. He must get someone here, at once."

"No." He said it clearly, firmly, then turned back to the screen, beginning to tap out a new sequence on the keys. "I want to deal with this myself."

She let out a tiny moan. "For God's sake, Ben, what do you mean? There are intruders in the valley. They have to be dealt with. We can't do that. We don't know how!"

"1 didn't say 'we.' I want you to lock yourself in the cellar."

"You want. . ." She stopped suddenly, another thought dislodging what she'd been about to say. "Where's Mother, Ben? Where in God's name is she?"

"IVe sent her away," he said, concentrating on the message he was typing onto the screen. "I asked her to get me something from the City. She left two hours back. So you don't have to worry . . ."

"Don't have to worry?" She gave a high-pitched, nervous laugh, horrified by what he was saying. "Don't you understand what's happening, Ben? We're being attacked! The Domain is being invaded!"

"I know," he said calmly. "And I promise I'll be careful. But you needn't worry. I'll deal with it."

She shuddered, looking at him as if she didn't recognize him, then shook her head, for the first time in her life surprised, genuinely surprised at him. "So what are you going to do?"

He turned slightly, tapping the SEND button as he did so. "I'm going to fight them, Meg. That's what I'm going to do."

"Fight them? How?"

He looked away, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "Something like this doesn't happen every day. IVe got to take advantage of it."

She stared at him, sudden understanding dawning on her. So that was it. He was going to film it all. To make a great adventure of it. She shook her head. "No, Ben. You can't."

"No?" He cleared the screen, then turned back to her, his eyes piercing her with their intensity. "Just watch me."

For a moment she thought of fighting him, of going behind his back on this and letting the General know, but standing there, looking back at him, she knew she wouldn't.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Fight them, if you must. But you have to let me help you, Ben. You have to."

"Good," he said, smiling, squeezing her arm gently, as if that was what he had wanted all along. "Then come quickly now. WeVe a lot to do."

THEY LAY in the long grass, a hundred ch'i from the opening in the wall, the ground firm beneath them. Where the seal had been was now a perfect circle of darkness, five times a man's height, the pearl-white wall surrounding it smoke-blackened and misted. The seal itself was broken. It lay on the grass beneath the great hole, its perfect circularity shattered like a broken mirror, long shards of pure white ice fanned out upon the green.

It was still and warm. From the woods on the far side of the creek a blackbird called, its piping song echoing out across the open space between the walls. But from the hole itself there came no sound, no sign of movement.

The field glasses lay on the earth beside Ben's elbow. For the past few minutes he had been silent, listening to the receiver he had cupped against his right ear.

Meg watched him a moment, then leaned closer, whispering. "What are they doing, Ben? Why aren't they coming out?"

"It's too bright for them," he whispered. "Tewl wants them to come out, but they won't. It hurts their eyes, so they're going to wait until it's dark."

She stared at him, bewildered. "Who, Ben? Who are they?"

"The Clay," he said, pronouncing the word as if it had some mysterious significance. "The men from the Clay."

She looked down. The Clay! Wild savages they were. Vicious, ugly little brutes. And they were coming here!

"How do you know?"

He handed the small black cup of the receiver to her. She stared at it, reluctant to place it to her ear, hearing the tiny, growling voice that buzzed like an insect in the dark interior.

"TheyVe been talking," Ben said quietly. "Communicating back and forth. Tewl. . . he's the chief of the raft people... he wants them to attack at once. But they're refusing. And without them he won't commit his own forces. Which is good. It gives us time. Another twelve hours. It ought to be enough."

"Sure, but what's happening, Ben? I mean, why don't they just come in anyway? If there's only us . . ."

He smiled. "They're not interested in us. We're only small fry. No. They want to take the town."

"The town?" She almost laughed. "But there's nothing in the town."

"You know that. And I know that. But they don't. Don't you understand, Meg? They think it's all real."

Real. She shivered. Never had anything seemed so unreal as at that moment.

"Meg . . ." He nudged her, pointing toward the seal, then handed her the glasses. "Look!"

She looked. Two of the creatures could be seen now, leaning across the lip of the seal, their dark, misshapen forms like something glimpsed in a nightmare. She shuddered and handed the glasses back to Ben.

"So what are we going to do? How are we going to fight them?"

Ben lifted the glasses to his eyes, focusing on the naked figures that crouched there, shading their eyes, peering reluctantly into the brightness of the valley. Compared to the men from the raft, these were smaller and more wiry, their bodies flecked with scars, their eyes large and bulging in their bony heads. He had seen their like before, fattened up and dressed in the fine silks of the Above, but never like this; never in their natural state.

Even so, it was not that that excited him, looking at them. It was something else. Ben shivered, then nodded to himself, knowing that it was true what had been said. Sealed into the darkness, the Clay had reverted, its inhabitants regressed ten, twenty thousand years, to a time before cities and books. In these Clay-men there was no refinement, no culture, unless pure instinct was the ultimate refinement.

They were like animals. Thinking animals. Or like some strange genetic throwback. Ben grinned, the old words coming to his lips.

Man . . . who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law—

Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shrieked against his creed.

"What is that?" Meg asked, pulling him down, afraid he would be seen.

"Tennyson. Though what the old bugger would have made of this. . ." His voice trailed off. "Look. They're going back inside. Good. For a moment I thought Tewl might have persuaded them, but they're going to sit it out after all."

He turned his head, smiling at her, then began to get up. "Come on, then, Megs. There's no time to lose. Twelve hours weVe got. Twelve hours to do it all!"

THE GRASS had grown tall before the old barn. Huge swaths of nettle and wildflowers blocked the entrance, forming a barrier fifteen feet wide in front of it. Ben threw the sack down and knelt, pulling out the ancient scythe and testing its edge on a nearby blade of grass. Then, stripping to the waist, he set to work.

Watching him, Meg was reminded strongly of her father. How often she had watched him standing there, just so, his body moving effortlessly from the hips, like one of Adam's sons in the early morning of the world.

She studied him, seeing how he moved, like some mindless, perfect automaton. Saw the green fall before the silver, and frowned.

He turned, throwing the scythe down, a broad path cleared in front of the big double doors.

"I don't understand," she said, looking past him at the dilapidated old building. "If weVe only got twelve hours . . ."

"Illusions," he said, meeting her eyes. "Surely you of all people should know how fond old Amos was of illusions. This. . ." he turned, indicating the barn, "is just another of them. Come . . ."

Ben went up on tiptoe, placing his eye against a dark whorled knot in one of the wooden planks, as if trying to see inside. There was the faintest sound, like the soughing of the wind through the grass, and then he stepped back, lifting the rusted latch and easing one of the huge doors back.

Inside was brightness, cleanliness. She stepped past Ben, wide-eyed with astonishment. It was a storehouse, a huge storehouse, packed with all manner of things. Six broad shelves lined the wall opposite, while at the far end, to her left, a number of large machines squatted on the white-tiled floor.

She went across, the smell of machine oil and antiseptic strong in that big, high-ceilinged room. Under the glare of the overhead lights she pulled one of the plain white trays from the second shelf. Inside, sealed in see-through plastic and neatly labeled, were a dozen mortar bombs. She glanced at one of the labels, noting the familiar oak tree logo and the date, then looked closer, surprised to find Ben's handwriting on the label.

Ben's? No. She noted the initials—"A.S."—and understood. Amos. Great-great-great-grandfather Amos.

Quickly she looked, going from tray to tray. Rope ladders, absailing harnesses and power-packs, land mines, mortars and ammunition, handguns and rifles, rocket launchers, flash bombs and hunting knives, decontamination suits, bulletproof vests and gas masks. And more. Much, much more. The supplies of war, all of it neatly parceled in see-through plastic with Amos's neat handwriting on the label.

She turned. Ben was standing by the door, looking through a hard-covered file marked "Manifold."

"What is this, Ben?"

He hung the Manifold back on the peg by the door, then looked across at her. "This? This is the intestines of the beast."

He walked across, his boots clicking on the dust-free tiles, and pulled down two sleds from where they hung on the end wall, bringing them back across.

"Here," he said, handing her the smaller of the two. "1 want a rocket launcher, a dozen shells, two handguns, one rifle with ammunition—better make it two hundred rounds—two lightweight gas masks, a dozen flash bombs, and two of those vests."

She stared at him in disbelief. "What are we doing, Ben? What in Christ's name are we doing?"

"We're being Shepherds, Meg, that's all. Making preparations. Now come on. You said you'd help."

She watched as he drew the big sled across and began to load it, pulling down things from the shelves as if he knew where everything was.

"YouVe been in here before, haven't you?"

"No."

"Then how did you know about all this?"

He reached up and took a long, dark package from the shelf, placing it in the sled, then looked back at her. "This place has defenses no one knows about but us. We Shepherds have been preparing for this for near on two hundred years now."

It was not the words so much as how he said them. That "us"

seemed to exclude her. Seemed somehow masculine. "We Shepherds . . ."

She turned away from him, facing the shelves once more, doing as he'd asked, filling the sled with guns and bombs and bullets, her mind strangely detached from what she was doing. She had read the passages in Amos's journal: had read about his preparations for the Great Third War he believed was coming, but never for a moment had she thought all this existed.

The intestines of the beast. . .

She shuddered, then looked down again, checking the handwritten label, ensuring she had the right ammunition for the rifle.

THE CUT TURF was laid neatly on its back, beside the dark square of earth. Nearby, forming a staggered line across the lower garden, a further five patches showed black against the green.

Meg stood over Ben, watching him take two of the small devices from the bag at his shoulder, noting how carefully he embedded them in the earth. Earlier he had shown her how the flash bombs worked, going through the remote-trigger sequence twice, to make sure she understood.

"Hopefully we won't have to use them," he said, setting the turf back firmly and looking up at her. "The speakers should do the trick. But if you have to, don't hesitate. And remember, the object is to take the little buggers alive. We use force only as a last resort."

She looked back at the cottage. It was late afternoon now, but most of it was done. Using special panels from the storehouse, they had sealed the kitchen end and the dining room, and blocked the stairway, leaving only the entrance to the living room free, the door down to the cellar open. Helping Ben fix the screens over the doors and windows, she had understood for the first time what all the fastenings on the frames were for. From childhood she had thought them merely decoration, but now she knew. It was as Ben had said. Amos had prepared thoroughly for this day.

We Shepherds. . .

He handed her the bag. "Here. You do the rest. I'll finish off in the cellar."

She nodded, standing there a moment, watching him return inside, then turned back, facing the water. It was only three hours now until sunset. The thought of it made her throat constrict, her stomach muscles tighten with fear, but she had said nothing to Ben. Not that it would have made any difference.

"Well, fuck you, Ben Shepherd," she said quietly, moving across to the next of the cut squares and kneeling down, the awkward shape of the handgun pressing into her side. "Fuck you and Amos and all your pigheaded breed."

"Ben?"

He turned, looking back at her from the saddle of the old green bicycle. "What?"

"What if they come while you're gone? What should I do?"

"They won't," he said, reaching back to check the towrope. "Besides, I'll be back before it's dark. But if it makes you feel any better, why don't you go up to the old church and sit on the wall. You get a good view of things from there. And if they do come, you can hide in the tower until I get back. Okay?"

She nodded reluctantly, watching him draw the pedal back, preparing to set off. "Ben. . . ?"

He laughed. "What now?"

"Take care."

He smiled, then was gone, his strong legs powering him up the steep slope between the hedges, the tightly packed sled rattling along behind him on its casters.

Ten minutes later he was on the level above the ferry road. Resting the bike against the wall by the old postbox, he unfastened the sled and, letting it run on in front, made his way down to the landing stage.

The rowboat was where he had left it ten days before. Loading the sled into the middle of the long, narrow boat, he pushed it out into the shallow water, then jumped aboard, picking up the oars and setting to, pulling himself across the narrow strait.

The path up to the old railway track was difficult, the stone steps slippery, overgrown in places. The sled seemed to grow heavier as he climbed, more awkward, but finally he was there, fifty feet above the river, the ancient track stretching away between the trees.

He set the sled down, slotting the groove in its base onto the rail, then squatted down, taking the slender case of the comset from his back and unfolding it. Activating the screen, he quickly checked on the remotes. In front of the breached seal there was no activity. Out on the raft armada, however, there was plenty. Five of the smaller, steam-powered rafts were being prepared, stockpiles of precious fuel being loaded on board, along with great stacks of weapons—crude spears, swords, and clubs for the main part.

Satisfied, he switched the comset off and secured it to his back. Then, attaching the towrope to his belt, he set off once more, running between the tracks, heading south toward the guardhouse, the sled sliding smoothly along behind him.

THESLEDLAYto his right, hidden in the dense undergrowth. Above him, some twenty-five feet up the embankment, was the blockhouse, its windows lit up brightly. From where Ben lay, the assault rifle held against his chest, he could see that one of the windows was open. From within, music spilled out into the air. It was the Yueh Erh Kao, "The Moon on High."

For a moment he found himself distracted; found himself wondering what it was like to be a guard—a Han—here in this strange land, listening to this most Chinese of melodies, and thinking of home. Of China, half a world away. What did that feel like?

He listened, knowing that he was wasting time, but unable to move, the music touching him as it had never done before. Breaching him. He looked up, his eyes finding the pale circle of the moon, there, like a ghost in the early evening sky.

The moon. He closed his eyes and saw it, full and bright, like a hole in the darkness, and saw, at the same moment, its negative, there at the valley's far end, the Clay-men huddled beyond it, waiting to emerge.

The moon...

Opening his eyes, he felt a pain of longing pass through him. A longing to be something else—something other than he was. To be a Han, a river pirate, a Clayborn. To be ...

To be other than he was . . . Yes, that was it. That was what drove him on.

He turned slightly, looking out across the valley, for the briefest moment held by the beauty of what he saw. In the fading light, a flock of birds seemed to float in the air above the river, the tiny specks of their bodies folding back upon themselves time and again, like a veil fluttering in the breeze. How many times had he seen that? How many times had he looked and not seen the beauty in it?

The music ended. He turned back, beginning to climb. In the sudden silence he could sense the stillness of the valley all about him. Could feel it waiting, like a lover, for the darkness.

There was the murmur of voices from above. Han voices. And then music, the sound of strings and flutes—of p'i p'a, yueh ch'rn, ti tsu, and erhu—echoing out across the English valley, reminding Ben of that moment, eight years before, when Li Shai Tung had sat at table with them, his carved ivory face in strong contrast with the simple English-ness of everything surrounding him.

The world we've made, he thought, edging toward the open window.

He pulled himself up, slowly, carefully, until he stood there, his back to the wall, the window to his right. Again he waited, listening, letting the song play itself out. Then, in the silence that followed, he moved closer, looking in at an angle through the open window.

The voices came again, but he understood now. A radio rested on the cluttered desk beside the window. Beyond it the room was empty.

Slowly he moved his head around, looking in, searching the big room with his eyes, the gun raised, ready.

No, not empty. There, on the floor in the far corner, lay one body, and there, behind the table to the right, was another. But there were five guards in all. Where were the others?

Coming around the comer of the blockhouse, he had his answer. A trestle table had been set up in front of the main doors. A jug of wine rested at its center. Chairs and broken wine bowls lay scattered all about it.

One guard lay slightly down the embankment, on his back, his mouth open in surprise. Another still sat in his chair, a neat hole through his forehead. Nearby, in the doorway itself, a third was slumped against the wall.

Ben walked toward the scene, his eyes taking in everything. He had known these men. Only yesterday they had sat behind the barrier and applauded him. And now they were dead.

He stood before the man in the chair, looking down at him. His name was Brock and he had been shot from close range. Ben put the rifle down and crouched, studying the wound, then moved behind the dead man, examining the mess the bullet's exit had made, putting his fingers into the shattered cranium. The flesh was cold, the blood congealed.

He went through, examining the bodies in the guardhouse, then came out again, looking about him, picturing it in his mind. The duty guard, Cook, had been strangled at his desk, the other, Tu Mai, had been knifed in the back. Had one man done that? An officer, perhaps? Someone they had no reason to suspect? Whoever it was, he would have had to have killed the duty guard first, quickly, silently, and then Tu Mai, gagging the young Han with a hand, perhaps, as he dragged him down.

Ben turned. Yes, and he would have needed to have had the door closed while he did it, too, else he'd have been seen by the men at the table.

He closed his eyes, seeing it clearly. The officer had come out and turned, facing Brock, drawing his gun, giving Brock no time to get up out of his chair. He had fired once, then turned to shoot the second guard, Coates. The last of them, the young lieutenant, Mo Yu, had backed away, stumbling back over the embankment. He had been shot where he fell.

Ben frowned, wondering why he had not heard the shots, then understood. He and Meg must have been down in the cellar, getting things ready. Which meant this had happened two, three hours ago at most.

But why? Unless, perhaps, Virtanen knew that Tewl planned to go in early. Knew and was using that to firm up his alibi. Ben had checked. These five were all that remained of the old guard. The others—in the guardhouses in the town and at the mouth of the river—were Virtanen's men.

Yes, it all made sense. This was the communications post for the valley: the Domain's main—if not only—link with the outside. Vir-tanen, questioned by an inquiry, would claim that Tewl's men had attacked and overrun it. Which meant in all probability that Virtanen intended to delay only long enough for Tewl's men to be successful before he counterattacked, sweeping the intruders from the valley, strengthening the evidence in his favor.

AH of which put pressure on Ben to tie things up quickly. The question was, how long would Virtanen delay? An hour? Two?

He went back inside. The duty officer's log lay there on the communications desk in the comer. It was open, the last entry noted but not initialed. Frowning, Ben scanned the record quickly. It was as he'd thought. They had to call in every four hours.

Every four hours . . . And yet the last message had been sent out thirty minutes back.

Virtanen? Had Virtanen himself been here? It was unlikely. No, in all likelihood Virtanen was at dinner right now, somewhere public and in the company of important people—ch'un tzu of the first level. Some place where he could be reached "urgently" and summoned back to deal with this. Where he might make a great show of his concern, his "anxiety" for the Shepherds.

No. Not Virtanen, but one of his servants. One of his Captains, perhaps. Someone who could sit there for two hours with the bodies of the men he'd butchered, waiting to send a signal.

Ben closed the log, then set to work, doing what he'd come to do. Moving back and forth between the sled, he positioned a dozen of the big flash bombs along the shore beneath the guardhouse, setting their remote-trigger combinations. Then, climbing up onto the roof of the blockhouse, he set up the two wide-angle cameras, focusing one upon the quayside, the other on the mouth of the river, looking out beyond the anchored junks.

Finished, he looked up, noting how high the moon had climbed since he'd last looked, how bright it had become. The light was dying. In thirty minutes it would be dark.

He turned, looking back at the silent figures on the terrace outside the blockhouse. It was strange how little he felt. He had liked the men, enjoyed their company, but now that they were dead he felt no sadness, no sense of outrage. It was almost as if ... well, as if they were merely machines now, like the morphs he used, or like Amos's automatons that peopled the town across the river. Whatever had animated them was gone. Had flown, like frightened birds.

No, what he felt wasn't sadness, or pity, but a fascination with their newly transformed state. A curiosity that was as powerful as it was new.

What was it like to be dead? Was it simple nullity? Or was there more to it than that? Placing his fingers within the guard's shattered skull, he had felt something wake in him; something dark and ageless.

He laughed, a strange, uncertain laugh, then bent down, picking up the rope. Darkness, he thought, setting off once more, making his way back down the slope toward the track. Ultimately there is nothing but the dark. > . , -

THE MOON was high. Ben stood among the gravestones in the churchyard, looking out past his sister at the broad sweep of the valley. Beneath them, the houses of the village fell away, following the steep curve of the road in a jumble of thatched roofs and chimney pots, their pale white walls gleaming brightly beneath the circle of the moon. Beyond lay the river, a broken sheet of silvered blackness, flanked by the soft roundness of the hills. Hills overshadowed by the vast, glacial presence of the City.

Meg sat on the old stone wall, her feet dangling out over the drop, her dark hair lustrous in the moonlight. It had been dark now for almost fifteen minutes, but still there was no word from Tewl, no sign of the intruders in the valley.

"What do you think it's like in there?"

"I don't know," he answered quietly. "Like hell, I guess."

She half turned, looking back at him. "I mean, what do they eat? Nothing grows in there. So how do they survive?"

"Insects," he said, smiling at her. "And slugs and other small things that crawl in from the outside." And one another, he thought, but didn't say it.

"It must be awful," she said, turning back. "The most awful thing there is. To be trapped in there. To know nothing but that."

"Maybe," he said, but her comment made him realize just how much the Clay was like his Shells. There, too, one was confined, cut off from normal life. In such conditions the senses grew hungry for stimulation—for the sweet water of dream and illusion. The mind was thrown inward. Untended, it fed upon itself, like the monsters of the deep.

He rested his good hand on the stone beside him. A tall, leprously pale stone, its tapered surface spotted with mold. "I wonder what they dream about?"

"Do you think they dream?"

He nodded, his fingers tracing the weathered lettering on the ancient stone. "I'm sure of it. Why, the darkness must be filled with dreams. Vivid, lurid dreams. Imagine it, Meg. Eternal night. Eternal blackness. Waking they must see their dreams. Live them."

"I'd go mad," she said quietly.

"Yes . . ." But there were many kinds of madness. And was the City really so different? In some ways the Clay seemed far healthier. There, at least, they dreamed. Up above, in the glare of that eternal artificial light, they had forgotten how to dream. Or when they did, their dreams were pale and powerless; had shrunk to a ghostly insubstan-tiality, worn down by the relentless onslaught of a thousand cheap illusions, ten thousand bright distractions.

One needed darkness. One needed the respite of dream. Else life was but a mechanism.

He shivered, Shakespeare's words coming suddenly to mind. If I must die, 1 wiU encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in mine arms.

Meg turned to him, suddenly impatient. "Why don't they come? What are they waiting for? I thought you said they'd come when it was dark."

"Soon," he said, soothing her, his good hand reaching out to touch and hold her cheek. "They'll come here soon." And even as he said it he heard the insect buzz of voices in the earpiece, the gruff sound of Tewl giving his instructions.

"Wait," he said, his hand going to her shoulder and squeezing it. "At last. They're coming out."

Moving past her, he jumped up onto the wall and, spreading his arms, leapt out into the darkness as if embracing it, landing in the long grass a dozen feet below.

"Come on!" he called, turning to her, his moonlit face alive with a strange excitement. "Quickly now!" And, turning away, he began to run full tilt down the steep slope of the meadow, heading for the seal.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nature Red in Tooth and Claw

HE watched them come out from the darkness, a dozen tiny, hunched figures, running across the short grass to the creek, their naked bodies silvered by the moonlight, two crudely fashioned longboats carried between them.

As they ran, they glanced up fearfully at the bright circle of the moon, astonished to find it there, and, gritting their teeth, fought down the urge to flee from its all-seeing glare.

They set the boats down at the water's edge, then crouched, huddled close together in the space between the canoes, staring back at the hole. A full minute passed and then a second, larger wave of Clay-men emerged, slowly, hesitantly, looking anxiously about them at the silvered darkness of the valley. Some turned and tried to flee, back into the dark, but one of their number stood before the hole, a dagger in one hand, a whip in the other.

"There," Ben said softly, pointing him out to Meg, who was crouched beside him behind the low stonewall, the glasses to her eyes. "That one there. He must be the chief. Look how he's gathering them up. And see, at his waist. There's the handset he was using."

"They're all so ugly," Meg whispered, lowering the glasses. "There's one there has had half his face eaten away. You can see the shape of the skull. And there's another who's got only a stump for an arm."

Her voice fell silent. In the silvered dark below, the Clay-men moved slowly across the open ground between the wall and the creek, their shadowed forms like broken fragments of the darkness.

For a moment the silence was complete. Then, from the center of that shadowy host came the crisp chatter of the handset. Standing toward the back of the group, the chief froze, surprised by the voice at his waist. He twitched, then, looking about him, lifted the handset to his ear, holding it there as if, at any moment, it would bite. All about him, his men had stopped, crouched low, as if to press themselves into the earth. There was a moment's silence, and then the chief answered, his voice low and guttural.

"It's Tewl," Ben whispered, leaning toward his sister, translating what he could hear of the exchange. "He's telling the Clay-men to get a move on. But the chief's not budging. He's saying they didn't know there'd be a moon. It's spooked them. They thought it would be black, like inside. He's telling Tewl his men need time, to get used to it."

"So what's going to happen, Ben? Are they going to attack?"

"Yes. But this makes things tight. It looks like Tewl's boats have set off already. The tide's against them, fortunately. Even so, unless we deal with this end of things quickly, we won't get to the harbor in time."

"In time for what?" she asked, staring at him, curious now.

"For the show," he said, looking back at her, the moon's bright circle reflected clearly in the liquid darkness of his pupils. - "The show?"

"I. . ." Ben fell silent. Down below, the chief had finished talking and had tucked the handset back into his belt. Looking about him, he picked out six of his men, then pointed up the hill toward the cottage.

"A'Uiarthal" he said fiercely, thrusting his hand out once again, as if to emphasize what he was saying. "An chy. Kherdes! Tenna dhe an chy!"

"What is it?" Meg asked, a ripple of fear passing down her spine at the sound of that awful, bestial tongue; at the threat implicit in that thrusting, grasping hand. "What did he say?"

But it was as if Ben hadn't heard her. "Come on," he said, touching her arm. "Quick now. We've work to do." And, ducking down, he turned and started back toward the cottage, his body hunched, his movements almost furtive, mimicking the figures who, even as Meg looked back, peeled off from the main body of the Clay-men and started up the slope toward her.

THEY CAME ON slowly, sniffing the air like dogs, their short, wiry bodies hunched low and twitchingly alert as they approached the cottage. In the shadows of the lower garden they stopped, huddled together, the low growl of their voices carrying to where Meg lay in her perch above the potting shed, watching.

Like a pack, she thought, as one of them—a bull terrier of a man— leaned over one of the others, his head twisted slightly, as if to bite the neck of the creature. Nearby, the rest looked on, making cringing gestures of abasement, like the young wolves she had seen in the film Ben had shown her.

She shivered, her hands trembling as she widened the angle of the shot. It was a wonder they still used language, their gestures were so eloquent. It was just as Ben had said. Their bodies spoke.

Do as I say, the leader seemed to be saying. Don't have any ideas of your own.

She watched the other stoop and lick the creature's hand subserviently, then straighten up, his face filled with a pathetic eagerness.

"Ena. . ." The terrier-man said, pointing at the cottage. "Ena ha ena!"

There was a moment's hesitation, and then they came on again, spreading out as they approached the earth border of the rose garden. Two more steps, she thought, remembering what Ben had said. Two more steps . . .

The whispering began.

At first it was like the wind rustling through the leaves of an ancient, autumnal forest; a dry, soughing noise that seemed half-articulate. Yet if there were words amid that sound, they were as much imagined as discerned. Then, as the noise grew slowly louder, the clear hard shape of words formed from the confusion, like seeds falling to the earth.

"Ofanccw. . ."

The Clay-men froze, half turned toward the sound, their eyes wide with sudden fear.

"Ofancow. . ."

A low moan rose from the dark, huddled shapes on the slope. Yelping, they threw themselves down, burrowing into the earth, as if to merge with the darkness, but the moonlight was unrelenting; it beat down on them mercilessly, pitilessly, forcing them to turn their heads and look back at it.

"Gwelafwhy gans ow onen lagas . . ." the voice whispered, as if from the air itself. "Ow golow lagas dewana why!"

There were barks of fear and whimperings and a long, low moaning that was horrible to hear, like the sound of an animal in pain.

"On; enawy a-vyn podrethes agas eskem..."

At that the whimpering grew frantic. The Clay-men were baying now, in tonnent, their fear so great that Meg could sense it from where she lay; could smell its sharp, distinct odor in the air. Their squat, ugly faces were distorted now, like the faces of the mad she had glimpsed in her brother's sketchbooks. Fear had given way to something else—to some darker, more primeval force.

For the briefest moment she hesitated, filled with a sudden, unexpected sympathy for the creatures, then, quivering slightly, not knowing what to expect, she pressed the switch.

The air beyond the Clay-men shimmered. And then, as if forming from the air itself, four massive figures stood there, palely outlined against the dark. Four ancient, ghostly warriors, their armored breastplates glinting in the moonlight, long, wicked-looking blades in their mailed fists. And their faces . . .

Meg shuddered, recognizing them. Ox and lion, they were, man and eagle, their features harsh and unforgiving. AngeZs, she thought, glimpsing the great wings—six in all—that rose from their broad, muscular backs. Ben has conjured up the angels . . .

Briefly they stood there, powerful and malevolent, and then, as one, they stepped forward, raising their swords.

"Dyesk'ynnal" said the Ox-faced angel, beckoning the Clay-men, his voice booming like thunder in the silence. "Dyesk'ynna!"

Until that moment the Clay-men had crouched there, paralyzed by the sight, but now, their nerve broken, they turned and ran, shrieking, toward the safety of the cottage.

And Meg, watching, ran with them in her head, her spine tingling with a fear she had never, ever thought to feel.

"I know your works," she said softly, fearfully. "You have the name of being alive, and you are dead."

MEG sat at the bottom of the cellar steps, watching through the tight-fitting mask as her brother bound the last of the unconscious Clay-men. Beyond him stood the morph, inactive now, the nozzle of the empty gas cylinder dangling loosely from its polished hand.

Ben turned, smiling up at her through his mask. "There," he said, the words muffled. "All we have to do now is get them upstairs, into the small barn, then we can get down to the town."

"Upstairs?" She shivered. Even the thought of touching one of the grotesque, childlike creatures horrified her, let alone lifting and carrying one. "Can't we leave them here?"

He shook his head. "I can't risk it, Megs. Think of the damage they'd do down here if one of them got loose. Up there it doesn't matter. The small barn is secure, and there's nothing they can damage."

"Isn't there something you can give them to keep them out a bit longer? You know ... a drug or something?"

"And if it killed them? No, Megs, I can't risk that. I want these . . . these men, I need them for my work. That's why I bothered with all this, so as not to harm them."

She looked away, finding no words to explain her aversion.

He smiled. "Look, I'll put them in sacks, if you like. If that makes it any easier. But it has to be done. And the sooner the better. Now, are you going to help me, or do I have to do it all on my own?"

"I'll help," she said, finally, meeting his eyes again. "But not this, Ben. I can't. I simply can't."

He studied her a moment, then, with the tiniest little nod, turned away. Bending over one of the limp Clay-men, he lifted it, balancing it over his left shoulder. Then, stooping to lift another, he draped its wiry frame over the other shoulder before turning to face her again.

"The keys are hanging by the door. Go ahead and open up, then get your brown waist-length coat and a bicycle from the shed. Wait for me by the postbox above the ferry road. I'll be there as quickly as I can."

She nodded, knowing he was disappointed in her, but for once there was nothing she could do. Nothing in heaven or earth would make her touch one of them. Nothing. Not even Ben's disapproval.

"Okay," she said. "But don't be long, Ben. Please. I couldn't bear it if they attacked me. I just couldn't."

"No," he said, his face softening. "Nor I."

MEG stood there on the veranda of the old naval college, looking out across the river. At the foot of the hill, the water stretched away to either side, a broad, uneven sheet of moonlit darkness, its reflective brightness framed by the solidity of the hills. To her left, beyond the scar of the Old Mill Creek, the dark flank of the land hid any sign of the village and the cottage beyond. It was there, on the far bank, that the darkness was most intense, the primal blackness of the woods pressed against the water's edge threateningly. To the south—to her right as she turned, looking out across its sprawl—the lamps of the old town glowed in the dark, each point of light distinct. Beyond it the castle was dour and solid on its rock foundations, guarding the river's mouth. Fishing boats were clustered in the old harbor, their masts like winter saplings. Close by, lying alongside the cobbled quay, the big merchantman rested at anchor, its sails furled, the oil lamps that ringed its hull forming a necklace of light in the surrounding water.

All seemed well. All seemed . . . familiar. And yet, just beneath where she stood, on the far side of the river, the Clay-men were waiting, their log canoes tucked in against the bank, beneath the overhanging trees.

She turned back, looking to see how Ben was getting on. He was standing before the middle of the three big control panels, the portable harness he was wearing making him seem strangely inhuman— more machine than man. To his right, concealed from the river by the wall of the veranda, a bank of screens—four wide, three deep—gave a dozen different views of the valley.

In many ways it was all as before. The cameras were in place, the tapes rolling. Lights winked and flickered on the boards. Nearby, on the flat top of the tape-storage unit, one of the big notebooks lay open, Ben's neat hand covering the pages. Outwardly there seemed little difference between this and other times. Yet what she felt was different. Was as distinct as it could possibly be.

And why was that? Why was the thought of this—of using this situation—so disturbing? Was it simply personal fear, or was it something much deeper than that? Something she couldn't face without questioning all that Ben did, all he was¹.

She studied her brother, as if to discern some difference in him, something she had never noticed before that moment, but there was nothing. He had always been like this: a lens, taking it all in. Assimilating and transforming it. Recasting the world in his own dark image.

As now.

"That's it," he said, straightening up. "All we need now is to position the cameras properly and we're ready."

She nodded, yet for once she felt herself distanced from him, out of sympathy with what he did. Before it had all been a game: endlessly fascinating, yet a game for all that. Now it was real. Real men would be hurt down there. Real blood spilled. And yet Ben acted as if the game went on. As if there really was no difference.

"Take number three," he said, not even glancing at her, his eyes fixed on what was happening on the screens. "I want a tight focus on the quay in front of the inn."

She went across, adjusting the position of the camera until she heard him grunt his satisfaction.

"Good. Now two."

"Ben?"

He looked across at her, distracted. "What?"

"What are we doing, Ben? Why do you need this?"

His eyes met hers, then quickly moved away. It was the briefest of contacts, but it was long enough for her to understand. He didn't know. And the not-knowing was why. Was a reason in itself.

She shivered, then looked past him, noticing for the first time the rocket launcher that lay on the grass beside their bicycles, its brutal heaviness emphasized by the thick leather strap.

"Two," he said again. "Please, Meg. We don't have much time."

She did as she was told, focusing in on the tiny crowd that stood in front of the old Castle Hotel, drinking.

Drinking... Or pretending to drink. Just as they pretended to think and breathe and talk. It was all one vast pretense. And Ben behind it all, working his dead puppets for all he was worth.

Dead, she thought. It's all dead. And maybe that's why he needs this. To bring it alive. To give it breath, and substance. But somehow the explanation didn't satisfy. Her unease remained, and with it a growing feeling that she should have defied Ben and called Tolonen in. But now it was too late.

"Look," Ben said quietly, pointing up at the top right-hand screen. "There, beyond the junks."

She went and stood behind him, watching as the first of the steam-powered rafts came into view, laboring through the water, its deck packed with dark and threatening shapes. Seeing it, she felt her fear return; a sharp, cold thing that seemed to sap her will. How could they fight these creatures? How prevail against such odds?

"Let's hear what they're saying," Ben said, reaching out to touch one of the pads on the panel beneath the screens. At once a soft, guttural murmuring began. Hearing it, Meg shivered and turned her head, looking up at the moon. What if it all ends here? she thought. What if it all goes wrong⁷.

But Ben was clearly harboring no doubts. "Okay," he said, turning to her. "It's just as I thought. They're going for a frontal assault on the town. The Clay-men have been told to land just upriver of the merchantman, the raft people farther down, by the steps of the old Customs House. Tewl plans a pincer movement. He wants to herd all of the townspeople into one place, then deal with them there."

"So what's going to happen? What will you do?"

Ben smiled. "My morphs are going to fight."

"Fight? But how can they? They're not programmed to fight!"

"Of course they are. WeVe choreographed more than eighty different moves."

She stared at him, astonished that he couldn't see it. "Yes, but. . . well, those others won't be programmed, will they? They'll do things that are ... unexpected."

"That's right."

"But they'll cut them to ribbons!"

"Maybe. Some of them, anyway. But not all. I'll be working some of them through the harness here. The big tar, for instance, and the Han with the limp. And others too. Switching from body to body. Hitting back where they least expect it."

Meg frowned, trying to understand, to work out what he wanted from this madness, but there wasn't time. Ben had turned and was leaning across the central board, making minuscule adjustments to the settings, while across the river, in the deep shadow beneath the overhanging trees, two canoes were pushing off from the bank, moving with silvered quickness across the darkness of the water.

THERE WERE SHOUTS in the valley. Hideous, unearthly sounds. On the cobbles outside the ancient coaching inn, the crowd fell silent, looking across the harbor toward the quay beyond. There, in the shadow of the three-masted merchantman, two figures were struggling beneath the lamp, as if locked in an embrace. For a moment there was only that, and then, like demons crawling from a gap in hell itself, a dozen of the Clay-men appeared over the lip of the river wall, whooping and screeching, their dark, stooped figures making for the town.

There were shouts, the first murmurings of panic, and then the crowd broke, some running toward the merchantman, but most to the right and the safety of the Customs House. These last had not gone far when a group of savage-looking creatures—maybe half a dozen in all—burst from the shadows of one of the seafront houses, confronting them. Big, crudely armored men with notched swords and vicious-looking clubs.

"Back!" someone shouted. "Get help from the inn! There's weapons there!" But even as the shout went up, the invaders rushed the front of the crowd, laying about them savagely. Screams filled the air. Awful, pitiful screams, like the sounds of real men dying.

At first the crowd was forced back by the viciousness of the onslaught, several of them falling beneath the rain of blows, their limbs hacked from their bodies or their skulls crushed by hammer blows, but then, encouraged by the efforts of the young watchman from the castle, they began to fight back. Using whatever weapons they had at hand, they began to push the raft-men back step by step toward the Customs House. Yet even as they did, more of the raft-men joined the raiding party, swarming up the steps and out onto the lamp-lit quay.

Observing it all from the safety of her vantage point above the town, Meg set the glasses down and turned, facing her brother.

For a moment she watched as Ben kicked and swung, then ducked and came up sharply, aiming a vicious punch into the air, his eyes never leaving the screen in front of him. Down below, she knew, on the cobbles before the Customs House, the morph of the watchman would have kicked and swung, then ducked and come up quickly, aiming a vicious punch, his movements the perfect duplicate of Ben's.

She shivered, frightened by the sight; by the sheer physicality of it, the uncompromising violence of each movement. "There's too many of them," she said quietly. "Your plan will never work, Ben. They'll overwhelm the morphs before there's time."

"Wait," he answered, moving back slightly, his eyes never leaving the screen even as his hands made small adjustments to the control panel at his side. "It's far from over yet."

She saw him lift his arm, as if to ward off a blow, then duck and twist, as if he threw a figure through the air. From the town below, the shouts and screams continued.

The screens were alive with activity. Close-ups of flailing arms and agonized faces were juxtaposed against long-range shots of tiny figures struggling beneath the harbor lamps. Metal bit deep into flesh—some real, some made—while blood flew like the spray of some dark fountain.

Close up and context, she thought, swallowing, recalling the number of times they had done this kind of thing with the morphs. But this time it was different. This time it was real. Or half real, anyway.

She studied the varied images of the struggle. The Clay-men had been held on the quay beside the merchantman. In the opening moments of the fight, Ben had had the crew pour down the wooden ramps and throw themselves at their attackers, the morphs lashing out in a frenzy. At first they'd been successful and several of the Clay had gone down, badly hurt, but things were turning fast. More than thirty of the morphs lay there on the quay now, inert or badly damaged,

while a dozen or more floated facedown in the water below. Less than half their number remained standing. In a minute or two, they would be overwhelmed, the left flank lost.

Meg turned back, lifting the glasses to her eyes, trying to make out what was happening elsewhere. One of the strange, steam-driven rafts was docked beside the Customs House steps. Out on the river, four more of the rafts formed a staggered line across the water, their dark shapes drifting slowly in toward the shore. The second was no more than fifty yards out now, yet unless the first raft moved it would be hard for the raft-men to disembark.

Unless they used the ferry ramp.

She turned slightly, focusing on the raft. There was feverish activity on board; a great deal of pointing and shouting. As she looked, one of the warriors—the steersman, maybe—slapped one of his fellows down, then, jabbing his finger in the direction of the ramp, forced the two rudder men to bring the unwieldy craft hard about. She watched as the raft swung slowly around, avoiding the moored craft narrowly as it made for the gap in the wall.

For a moment it glided in, the prow perfectly positioned for the ramp, then, suddenly, there was a huge explosion.

Meg felt her chest tighten. In the echoing silence that followed she could hear the splashing of things falling back into the water. Could see the tiny shapes of stone and metal, flesh and splintered bone, falling, tumbling through the broken darkness.

On the quay beside the Customs House the fight had stopped. The raiders staggered back, staring out at the falling wreckage, horrified.

"What happened?" Meg asked, thinking for a moment that the raft's boiler must have gone up. But when she turned, she saw that Ben was smiling, and understood. He had mined it. Mined the ferry ramp.

Sympathy, that was it. That was what he lacked. That was the thing her father, Hal, had had, and he, Ben, did not. The thing she had looked for and not found in him, that moment before the old bam, watching him use the scythe. Simple human sympathy.

Ben clenched his palm, briefly breaking the circuit that connected him to the watchman as he took three paces back. Then, unclenching, he let out a bloodcurdling yell, and half ran, half lunged at the screens.

From the town below, she heard the echoing yell the watchman gave, the high, chilling scream of a badly wounded man, and turned to look. One of the raft-men was down, on his knees, the watchman's sword embedded to its hilt in his chest.

"Ben . . ." she whispered, feeling a shiver of pain pass through her. "What in God's name are you doing, Ben?"

But he was unaware of her. As she watched, the sky lit up again. The junks moored in the middle of the river had burst into flames and were swinging around into the path of the last of the rafts. She heard the shouts of panic, the splashes as some of the raft people threw themselves over the side, but for most of them it was too late. As the first of the junks collided with the raft, a rain of embers and burning cloth fell over it, smothering the craft in a great sheet of roaring flame.

Meg groaned, appalled.

On all sides the morphs were getting up from where they lay, crawling and limping, hobbling or simply dragging themselves toward their foes, ignoring the blows that rained down on them as they threw themselves at their attackers, struggling to subdue them.

In front of the Customs House, the young watchman had sunk to his knees, his head hacked cleanly from his shoulders. Yet even as he toppled over, another of the townsfolk took his place—a big, corpulent-looking fellow that Meg recognized instantly as the innkeeper. With a bellow, the innkeeper swung his sword about his head and brought it down savagely, an inhuman strength cleaving the astonished raft-man from temple to waist.

At that a great cry went up. Until moments before it had all been going well for the attackers, but now two of their rafts were lost, and instead of timid townsfolk, they found themselves faced by demons. Men who did not lie there, as the dead were supposed to, but stood and joined the fight once more, not heeding the frightful wounds they'd suffered.

Out on the river, the rafts were turning, heading back toward the river's mouth and the safety of the sea. They had seen with their own eyes how things were shaping. Even Tewl, who had stood there on the prow of the third raft watching, gave a small shudder and turned away. "Nog-us genys," he was heard to mutter. "Ny harth o rnlath nag'iis genys."

The unborn . . . We cannot fight the unborn . . .

"Enough!" Meg said, angry with him suddenly. "For God's sake, Ben, enough!"

But Ben could not hear her. Ben jumped and kicked and spun, fighting the air, his eyes transfixed, chained to the images on the screens.

IT was over. The captives were huddled in the space before the ruined inn, sixty or so in all, a cordon of battle-scarred sailors forming a loose circle about them. Coming this close to them, Meg shivered. The scent of them was strong, almost overpowering. A musty animal smell. Looking down at the dark, painted faces of the raft-men, the bowed heads of the Clayborn, she could remember how hard, how viciously they had fought. Just now, however, they were frightened and subdued, especially the Clay among them. The sight of the scarred and mutilated dead rising from the ground had unnerved them. As well it might. Ghosts they had been fighting. Yes, and one dark, form-shifting spirit, who had fled each time they'd tried to cut him down, only to return, renewed and twice as deadly.

And now that spirit stood before them, his human form encased in a shimmering, silver mesh. A powerful magician, who commanded the unborn and spoke their language with a skill not one of them possessed.

Ben leaned toward them, his voice soft, conciliatory now that he had won, their strange and ugly language transformed in his mouth so that it was almost beautiful. Above his head floated three of the remotes, their lens-eyes taking in each detail of this scene, each twitch and furtive gesture of his captives.

On tape, she thought. You'd have it all on tape if you could, wouldn't you, Ben? Yet the sourness she had been feeling earlier had drained from her. What she felt now was a kind of tiredness, a dreadful weariness that was in the bone itself. She had to get away. Far away from all of this.

It began to rain. Out on the river there was a loud hissing as a mist of steam rose from the smoldering junks. A low, fearful moan rose from the Clayborn, who hunched even tighter into themselves, trem-

bling, but the raft people merely looked up, as if greeting an old, familiar friend.

It was only then, as they looked up, their faces tilted to the night sky, their weather-sculpted features revealed in the lamplight for the first time, that Meg noticed. There were women among them. And not just one or two, but a number of them, maybe eight or nine in all. Meg narrowed her eyes, the shock she felt profound.

Her brother had been fighting women. Killing and maiming women. She wondered if he had known that.

And if he had?

She looked down, suddenly frightened by what she was thinking, what feeling at that moment.

There was a noise. A grunt of surprise. She looked up, and saw that Ben had moved, had gone right up to the captives and was crouched there, his hand reaching out to lift one of their chins and turn the face toward him.

"Jesus!" he said, lifting the strap and tugging the battered helmet from the warrior's head.

Long, red hair spilled out from within the helmet's crest. Green eyes looked up past him, meeting Meg's. Green eyes in a pretty, Slavic face.

Meg caught her breath. Catherine! It was Catherine! Or someone so like her as to be her twin.

Ben stood, shaking his head, then turned, looking back at Meg. "I saw her," he said, frowning, trying to piece things together. "I picked her up on one of the remotes. In the village on the big raft. But I never thought. . ."

He turned back, staring down at her, then put out his hand, as if the woman should take it. But she drew back, her fear of him mixed with a natural defiance.

"Dos, benen!" he said, ordering her. But the words were barely uttered when the sky to the south of them lit up, the old castle silhouetted briefly against the brilliance. A moment later, two loud explosions rent the air.

"The rafts," Ben said, facing the fading glow. "Virtanen has destroyed the rafts."

How do you know? she wanted to ask, but she was sure he was right.

Besides, she could hear die cruiser's engines now, could feel the faint vibration in the air.

"Over there!" Ben said urgently, pointing past her toward the steps. "In the gap . . . the ferry ramp!" And, not waiting to see whether she obeyed, he went across, lifting the rocket launcher from where he'd left it on the wall and slipping it over his shoulder.

He turned back, facing the captives. Some had stood. Others were glancing nervously at the sky, as if they knew what was to come. From the look of them, they would try to run at any moment.

"Tryga!" Ben said, his voice powerful, commanding. "Tryga amma!" Yet even as he said it, there was a shadow on the moon and the dark shape of a cruiser swept across the sky above the river, the sound of its engines reverberating in the sudden stillness.

There was a murmur of fear from among the captives. The cruiser had been unlit; had been like a giant beetle, whirring across the sky. A dark, malignant thing, heavy with threat.

"Go!" Ben said, turning to her again, and shooing her away. "For God's sake get out of sight! It'll be back any moment!"

This time she went, crouching between the sloping walls, halfway down the cobbled ramp, the dark edge of the river only yards below. But what about Ben? What was he going to try? To bargain with Virtanen? To make him confess to what he'd done?

Madness, she thought, not for the first time that day. Ail of this is madness. Our lives are in danger, and all because my brother wants excitement!

It was not strictly true. Virtanen had started this. But Ben could have wrapped things up much quicker if he'd wanted. If what she suspected were true, he had gotten his evidence against Virtanen long ago. All this was simply games.

The murmur of the cruiser's engines had faded, now it came back, stronger than before, and, from the disturbance of the water below her, she could tell that it was hovering out there, above the river.

Slowly she crept up the ramp again, until she could poke her head above the brickwork and look across.

The captives were still there, huddled together tightly now, every head turned to face the threat of the cruiser. All about them, the morph-sailors stood impassively, their weapons raised, their faces vacant.

There was no sign of Ben.

She turned her head, trying to make out the cruiser. At first she couldn't see it, then, with a suddenness that surprised her, it turned its searchlight full on, the beam's brilliance startling her, making the captives cry out with fear.

For a moment everything seemed superreal, picked out in stark relief, heavy with shadow.

"Shepherd!" a voice boomed down. "Ben Shepherd! Are you there?"

Don't answer, she pleaded silently, staring across at the cruiser as if mesmerized. For God's sake, Ben, don't answer.

"I'm here, Major Virtanen!" came a voice from the far side of the river. "Down here at the water's edge!"

She watched, her heart hammering, as the cruiser slowly turned, its lamps sweeping across her and out, searching the far bank. And as it did, she noticed a tiny speck—one of Ben's remotes?—float up, away from the passageway beside the Customs House, lifting rapidly toward the hovering cruiser.

Slowly the cruiser turned back, the brilliant light from its searchlight scouring the quayside. "Why the games?" the voice asked from within that glare. "We came to help you, Shepherd. To save you from the raft-men."

There was a moment's silence, a moment's utter stillness, and then laughter. Laughter that grew in volume until it seemed to fill the Domain, echoing back and forth between the hills. Ben's laughter.

The detonation was unexpected. She felt herself thrown back; found herself rolling, tumbling down the slope until she hit the coldness of the water. Heat... the air had been full of heat. And the light. For the briefest moment the light had intensified, as if...

Her ears were ringing. She sat there, waist deep in the water, and understood. Virtanen had fired a missile.

And Ben? Where was Ben?

She pulled herself up and hurried up the slope. Through the swirl of smoke she could see that the quayside was a ruin, as if a great chunk had been bitten from the stone. Beyond that, where the captives had been, was nothing. Nothing but a charred depression. She stared at it, numbed, then sank down, her knees giving way beneath her.

"God help us. . ."

Smoke swirled in the beams of the cruiser's lights. From the darkness beyond that great circle of light, a figure emerged, moving slowly through the veils of smoke until it stood there, at the center of the charred and smoking depression, its arms and legs, its chest and head, encased in shimmering silver. It was Ben, the rocket launcher held loosely in his artificial hand, as if it weighed less than an old man's cane.

No.' she wanted to scream, but her mouth was dry, her throat constricted with fear. No! She could barely look she was so afraid for him.

"Virtanen!" Ben called, his voice cold, unlike she had ever heard it before. "Why don't you come down here and face me? Or are you afraid of that? Do you always prefer to kill people without warning?"

There was silence, and then a background muttering, which cut out quickly.

"Rockets not working?" Ben inquired, coming forward a few paces, and hefting the launcher. "I wonder why that is?"

From the craft there was silence. A heavy, brooding silence.

Ben was looking down, studying the launcher, then, slowly, almost lovingly, he lifted it to his shoulder, eyeing along the sights. "It's a little trick of mine. Or should I say ours. You see, we Shepherds have been expecting this for years now. Preparing for some evil-minded bastard like you to come along."

Meg stood, knowing what he was about to do, knowing also that even if it were justified, it was wrong to do it this way. Trying to keep calm, she began to walk toward him.

"Ben! You can't!"

"Stay there," he said, raising a hand to stop her. "I wasn't going to do this. But the bastard killed her. Without a moment's thought. He just went and killed her."

She stood there, in the shadows, looking across at him, surprised by the intensity of emotion in his voice. It was as if Virtanen had killed the real Catherine. As if...

She licked at her lips, then spoke again, trying to keep her fear for him out of her voice; to bring him back from the darkness where he suddenly was. "Maybe so, Ben, but this isn't right. Let Li Yuan sort this out. Let him make the decision."

He looked at her, meeting her eyes in a long, clear gaze, then returned his left eye to the sight, tilting the mouth of the launcher up toward the cruiser.

"Be-enn!!"

The explosion knocked her off her feet, throwing her back against the low wall that surrounded the ferry ramp. No, she kept thinking as she lay there. No, it wasn't the way. But in that last clear meeting of their eyes she had understood. He was mad. Her brother Ben was mad.

PART 3 SUMMER 2210

The Coast of Darkness

Thither he plies

Undaunted, to meet there whatever Power Or Spirit of the nethermost Abyss Might in that noise reside, of whom to ask Which way the nearest coast of darkness lies Bordering on light; when straight behold the throne Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread Wide on the wasteful Deep! With him enthroned Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things, The consort of his reign; and by them stood Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name Of Demogorgon; Rumour next, and Chance, And Tumult, and Confusion, all embroiled And Discord with a thousand various mouths.

—John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book II [^954-67]

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Circles of Light

IT WAS DAWN in Kamak and Wang Sau-leyan, T'ang, mler of City Africa, stood on the broad and deeply shadowed balcony, his back to his two companions, looking out across the wide, slow river toward the Valley of the Kings. Early sunlight lay like a stain on the clifrtops opposite, a band of reddish-gold atop the blackness below. To the south lay Luxor, ancient Thebes. There the City began again, its walls, smooth white cliffs of ice, lifting two li into the morning sky. On the river a bird circled low above the surface, dark against the dark, then dropped soundlessly into the water.

Wang Sau-leyan turned, leaning lazily against the rail. Chi Hsing, T'ang of the Australias, was to his right, staring downriver toward the City. Hou Tung-po, T'ang of South America, stood in the arched doorway, looking back at him, smiling. They had been talking all night, but now it was done; the matter agreed among them. Tomorrow they would begin their campaign.

Wang returned Hou's smile, then tilted back his head, enjoying the freshness of the morning. It was simple really. Li Yuan had begun the process a year ago, when he had presented his package of changes to the Council. Now he, Wang Sau-leyan, would push things farther, letting his "friends" in the Above know that he supported their demands for new, more extreme changes to the Edict. At the same time, Chi Hsing, Hou Tung-po, and he would finance a faction in the newly reopened House to press for those changes: changes which Li Yuan could not afford to grant.

"What will he do?" asked Hou, coming out onto the balcony.

Chi Hsing turned, looking back at them. They were all equals here, yet it was to Wang Sau-leyan that they looked for guidance.

Wang's moon face looked away as he spoke. "Li Yuan will oppose us." Then, turning back to face them, he added, "He and his friends Tsu Ma and Wu Shih."

"And then?" Chi Hsing asked, concerned. They had gone over this ground three times already, and yet still he wanted it fixed. "With Wei Chan Yin sure to support them in Council, they could simply overrule us, four to three."

"Maybe so. But I think our cousins will think twice before being so hasty. Much has been said about the autonomy of the new House—of it not being an instrument of the Seven. Well, we can use that, neh? The people will be watching things closely in those first few weeks. They shall want to see whether the Great Promises will be fulfilled, the bargain between People and Seven properly made. The last thing our cousins want is for their words to seem empty. A demand for further changes, made publicly—constitutionally—in the House, will be a great embarrassment to them. They will have to oppose it, of course—they have no choice but to oppose it—but they will find it awkward doing so."

Wang smiled, looking from one to the other. "Our purpose is not so much to oppose Li Yuan as to make him show his hand in public. To force him to intervene. For our part we must cultivate a reasonable air, conceding the difficulty of change while acknowledging its necessity. That way we might, at first, lend tacit support to the idea while not committing ourselves to it."

He paused, then pushed away from the rail. "As for Li Yuan, we must find other ways of isolating him from his allies in Council. We must make him seem unreasonable, his schemes harebrained, disastrous in their consequences. Tsu Ma, perhaps, might stay with him, but Wu Shih is his own man and might be swayed. As for Wei Chan Yin, he is his father's son and, like his father, will vote to maintain the stasis. Within the year things will have changed. It will no longer be four against three, but two against five. And then we shall use the Council itself to bridle our young cousin."

Hou nodded enthusiastically, but Chi Hsing was still hesitant. In spite of his fears he liked and respected the young T'ang of City Europe, and his blood had sung with satisfaction when Li Yuan had acted against the rebellious sons of the Above. Yet what he wanted most of all was peace. Peace, so that his sons might live and grow to be men. And Li Yuan, for all that he liked him, threatened that peace. Chi Hsing met Wang's eyes and nodded. "So be it," he said.

Wang smiled. "Good. Then I shall begin at once, wooing our cousin Wei. Rumor has it that something has been eating at him. Some secret inner grief, connected to Li Yuan. Perhaps a private meeting between us will reveal just what seed of bitterness he nurtures."

"And Wu Shih?" Chi Hsing pushed out his chin as he spoke. It was an almost belligerent gesture, one Chi Hsing himself was entirely unaware of, but to Wang Sau-leyan it was revealing. He knew that Chi Hsing disapproved of his lifestyle—particularly of the Hung Moo concubines he kept—but this was rooted elsewhere. Seeing that gesture, he understood that he would not be able to trust Chi Hsing completely. If it came to a crucial choice Chi Hsing might yet side with Li Yuan.

Again he smiled. "As I said, Wu Shih is his own man. He will vote as before. For tradition. And to preserve the functions of the Seven." He shrugged. "As for Tsu Ma, he is Li Yuan's shadow. But two against five cannot carry policy. Li Yuan will see this and, in his frustration, seek to circumvent us."

Wang Sau-leyan looked from one man to the other and smiled, a great feeling of satisfaction washing over him. Each had their role to . play. Hou Tung-po would placate the Minor Families, wooing them with new concessions—concessions that Wang Sau-leyan would draft and present to the Council of the Seven as legislation, principal among them a guarantee of posts in all the major Ministries—posts they had, in effect, been denied this last half century.

And Chi Hsing? He was to penetrate the higher levels of Li Yuan's administration—to buy and blackmail those nearest the young T'ang. For they must know for certain what he was thinking, what planning in the months to come.

Only reluctantly had Chi Hsing agreed. Yet he had agreed, and his agreement bound him to this conspiracy. As time passed, circumstance would bind him much closer to their cause. He would be shaped by his actions until he became what he acted. And all the time his actions would be against Li Yuan.

"Come inside," Wang said, embracing the two men. "Let's drink to peace. And to a freer, happier world than this."

Chi Hsing smiled and nodded, but before he went in, he turned, looking back at the darkness of the river, wondering.

LI YUAN leaned forward, spreading his hands along the cool wooden balustrade, and looked across the lake toward the distant hills. He had thought never to come here again, but here he was, not three years passed since his last visit, his heart hammering in his chest at the thought of the meeting to come.

The day was hot and still, unnaturally so, even for this southern climate, but where he stood, on the north balcony of Yin Tsu's summer palace, there was shade of sorts. Two body-servants stood behind him, their heads bowed, the long-handled fans moving slowly, indolently in their hands.

Li Yuan breathed deeply, trying to prepare himself, but there was no preparing for this moment. He heard her soft footsteps coming down the broad twist of steps behind him and turned, suddenly awkward, moving between his servants to face her. Fei Yen had stopped, six steps from the bottom, her head lowered.

"Chieh Hsia, I..."

Her hesitancy was a new thing. When she had been his wife there had been a natural arrogance about her which had somehow awed him. Back then he had always; felt inferior to her, but the years had changed that. He was older now and T'ang. And she was a cast-off wife, exiled from the Court. Twice exiled, he thought, remembering the two years mourning for his brother.

He took a step forward, holding out his right hand to her. She came down the last few steps and knelt, taking his hand and pressing her lips to the great Ywe Lung ring, her small, dark head bowed beneath his gaze. He bade her get up, then stood silently, staring down at her.

She was still as beautiful as ever. That same porcelain delicacy he sometimes dreamed of was still there in her, undiminished.

"How have you been?"

She had been looking down all this while, her eyes averted. Now she glanced up at him. "I am well, Chieh Hsia."

"Ah . . ." But he had heard otherwise. The man who had been here when he arrived was but the latest of a long line of lovers she had taken. As if there were some lack in her that she could keep no man for long.

"And Han?"

"He has grown, Chieh Hsia." She paused, then. "He is with his nurses just now."

Li Yuan sighed. This too he had heard. As if the mother shunned the son who had brought her fall from grace. The last time he had seen the child, Han had been barely nine months old. And now the boy was almost three. For a moment old feelings stirred in him. Looking at Fei Yen he frowned, wondering where he had gone wrong with her. But he had thought this through many times. The blame was not hers. The mistake had been marrying his dead brother's wife. All wrongness flowed from that.

He had come with no intention of seeing her, thinking her at Hei Shui in the north, but she had come here with the man only hours before his craft had landed, and so his scheme of seeing the boy without her had come to nothing.

"Can I see him?"

She tensed, silent a moment, then answered him. "I would rather not, Chieh Hsia . . ."

It was said softly, deferentially, but with a firmness that said much about her feelings on the matter. It was as he'd expected. Despite her unchanged looks, the last two years had hardened her. This new exile wore at her worse than the last. For her it was a kind of death, and she blamed him for it.

He looked away. "I have a gift for him."

"Leave it, then. I'll see he gets it."

He noted the impoliteness and turned on her, suddenly angry. "You will bring him here at once. I wish to see the boy, and I shall." He drew a breath, then, more gently, "I'd like to see him, Fei Yen. To meet him."

She looked up, her eyes burning, their relative status momentarily forgotten. "Why? You have your son, Li Yuan. What's my child to you?"

He bit back the words that came to mind, turning from her sharply, his hands clenched with anger and frustration. Finally, he looked back at her, his chin raised commandingly. "Just bring him. Down there, beside the lake. I'll see him there."

"As my T'ang commands."

The words dripped with bitter irony. Turning from him, she ran back up the steps, her own anger evident in her every movement.

He watched her go, touched strangely by the familiarity of that anger, then went down and waited at the lake's edge, looking across at the ancient orchard. It was some while before the child came. He had been changed and groomed. A nurse brought him down the steps, then left him there, at the edge of the grassy slope that led down from the summer palace to the lake.

Li Yuan turned, facing the boy squarely, and raised a hand, summoning him. The child came slowly, but not hesitantly. Despite his age, he carried his head proudly and walked like a little prince. His fine dark hair was neatly cut and combed, and he wore fine silks of gray and blue and black. Two ch'i from Li Yuan, he stopped and bowed low, then looked up again, not certain what was required of him beyond this formality.

The boy's dark eyes were proud but curious. He met Li Yuan's gaze unflinchingly and when the T'ang smiled, his lips formed only the faintest echo of a smile, as if maintaining seriousness were the greatest art. A lesson he'd been taught.

"I am Li Yuan, Han. Your T'ang."

"Yes," the boy said clearly. "Mama said."

"You know it is your birthday soon?"

The boy nodded, then waited, moving slightly on his feet.

"Good. And did your mama tell you that I've a gift for you?"

Again he nodded; a strong, definite movement of his neat and perfect head. Seeing it, Li Yuan shivered and pressed his teeth together. This was harder than he'd thought. Simply to see the boy was painful. So perfectly named. So very much like his murdered brother.

He nodded to himself, then took a pouch from the inner pocket of his jacket. Tugging open the leather cord, he spilled the tiny object into his other palm, then knelt, indicating that Han should approach him.

The boy stood close. Li Yuan could feel his breath on his forehead as he took the warm and tiny hand and slipped the ring onto the second finger. Moving back, Li Yuan noted how the boy was staring at the ring, puzzled by it.

"What does it mean?" Han asked, looking directly, frighteningly into his eyes from only a hand's width away.

For a moment Li Yuan felt overwhelmed by the depth of the child's eyes, by his closeness, the warmth of the tiny hand that rested in his own. He wanted to hold the boy close and kiss him. Wanted, for one long, almost unbearable moment, to pick him up and carry him from that place. To take him back with him.

The moment passed. The boy stood there, watching him, awaiting his answer.

He sighed, staring at the ring. "It's a kind of promise, Han. A promise I made myself. Each year I shall bring you such a ring. Until, when you're a man, full grown, there will be one final ring to keep. One final token of that promise."

Looking up, he saw that the boy had made nothing of what he'd said. Li Yuan smiled and patted his head. "Never mind. One day I'll explain it better to you."

He let go of the tiny hand and stood, looking back across the lake. "It's strange," he said, talking as much to himself as to the child. "It reminds me of the orchard at Tongjiang. I used to play there as a child, with my brother, Han."

For the first time the boy looked up at him and smiled. "Han? Like me, you mean?"

Li Yuan looked down and nodded, letting his left hand rest gently on the crown of the boy's head, his fingers in the dark, fine hair. "Yes, Han. Like you. Very much like you."

THE TWO visiting T'ang were about to depart when Wang Sau-leyan's Chancellor, Hung Mien-lo, appeared at the doorway, the Captain of Chi Hsing's elite guard two paces behind him.

"What is it, Chancellor Hung?" Wang asked, turning to him.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia," Hung answered, lowering his head first to his own T'ang and then to the others, "but it seems there is some trouble with the great T'ang, Chi Hsing's, craft. The preflight checks have shown up faults in the computer backup systems. I am advised that it would be unwise for the great T'ang to attempt the return flight until such faults have been rectified."

Wang turned, looking back at Chi Hsing. "Well, cousin, what would you like to do? You are more than welcome to stay here until the repairs are made."

Chi Hsing stroked his neck with one hand, considering, then shook his head. "No, Sau-leyan. It would be pleasant, most pleasant indeed, but I must get back."

"Then why don't you use one of my craft?"

Chi Hsing smiled broadly, delighted by Wang's offer. "I would be most honored, cousin. But what about my own craft?"

Wang turned, looking past Hung Mien-lo at the Captain. "I shall have a team of my best technicians aid your crew, cousin. As for the security aspect, your man, here, might stay, perhaps, to oversee the work?"

Chi Hsing beamed. "Excellent! But you are certain you can spare a craft, Sau-leyan? I can always send for my second ship."

Wang reached out and took his arm. "And waste four hours? No, dear cousin. You are right. I have already kept you from your business far too long. You will be missing your sons, neh?"

Chi Hsing laughed and nodded. "Even one night away from them seems too long, sometimes."

"Then let us part. Come, cousins, I will see you to your craft . . ."

HE was saying his farewells to his onetime father-in-law, Yin Tsu, when Fei Yen burst in at the far side of the hangar.

"Li Yuan!" she called angrily. "What is the meaning of this?"

Yin Tsu turned, aghast, trying at one and the same time to apologize to his T'ang and remonstrate with his daughter, but she swept past him imperiously, standing at arm's length from Li Yuan, her hands on her hips, glaring up at him.

"Come now, Li Yuan! I demand an explanation!"

He laughed coldly, taken aback by her outburst. It was years since anyone had spoken to him like this.

"An explanation? For what?"

"For what⁷." She laughed scornfully. "Why, for the guards, Li Yuan! Am I to be a prisoner in my own father's house? Am I to be followed and hounded every second of the day?"

Li Yuan looked to Yin Tsu, then back at her. "I have already explained to your father why the guards are here, Yin Fei Yen," he said patiently, but she would have nothing of his reasonableness. She moved closer, almost shouting the words into his face.

"Have I not been humiliated enough, Li Yuan? Have you not made me suffer enough for my mistake? Must you continue to hound me and meddle in my affairs?"

The word was unfortunately chosen, but still Li Yuan was patient. He would not, at this last moment, be drawn by her.

"You misunderstand me, Fei Yen," he said, leaning close, letting his voice carry only to her. "I know all about your lovers. But that is not why I am doing this. We live in troubled times. The guards are there for one reason only—to keep Han safe. As for you, my once-wife, I have no wish to meddle in your life. And you are quite wrong if you think I want you to suffer. No. I wish you only happiness."

For a moment she stood there, her dark eyes watching him. Then, with the faintest rustle of her silks, she turned away, walking quickly across the hangar and out into the early afternoon sunlight.

And Li Yuan, watching her go, felt a part of him drawn out after her, as if on a fine, invisible line, and knew, as he had not really known before, that he was not quite over her.

THE captain sat at a table, a bottle of Wang Sau-leyan's best wine open before him. A serving girl stood behind him, her fingers gently massaging his shoulder muscles while he watched the men at work on the far side of the hangar. The two craft looked identical from where he sat and, not for the first time, he found his thoughts turn uneasily to the question of why the T'ang of Africa should want a perfect copy of Chi Hsing's craft.

While servants set out the meal, the Captain turned his head, looking across to where Wang Sau-leyan was deep in conversation with a tall, odd-looking Han. The Han seemed central to all of this somehow. It was to him that the technicians came with their queries, and it was to him alone that they would defer, as if the great T'ang were invisible to them. That intrigued him—that absence of any mark of respect for Wang Sau-leyan. When he'd first seen it, he had been shocked, for it went against all instinct. But now he thought he understood.

He returned his eyes to the men, busy at work inside the right-hand craft, Chi Hsing's original. They had been at work now for over three hours, and in that time they had been most thorough. A team of six technicians had taken the control panels apart and painstakingly rebuilt them. Meanwhile, two of their colleagues had broken down the access codes to the craft's computer records and stripped them bare, making copies of everything—of security keycodes, pilot transmissions, field distortion patterns, and all. He had listened to their excited chatter and felt his unease grow. The copy craft would not simply look like Chi Hsing's, to all intents and purpose it would be Chi Hsing's. And Chi Hsing himself would know nothing of its existence.

Unless. . .

He felt the tension return to his muscles and tried to relax, to let the young girl's fingers work their magic spell, but it was difficult. Too much was going on inside. He looked at the bowls of delicacies that had been set before him, conscious of how, at any other time, he would have fallen upon such rare culinary delights, but just now he had no appetite. When Wang's agent had brought him, he had not expected any of this; had not really asked himself why Wang Sau-leyan should wish to delay his cousin's craft, accepting the man's reassurances. But this...

He shivered, then reached out to take some of the duck in ginger, forcing himself to eat; to act as if nothing were wrong. But beneath the outward mask of calm, he felt a sense of panic, knowing he had got himself in out of his depth. Why should Wang Sau-leyan go to such lengths to copy his cousin's craft unless he wished to use it? And why should he do that?

Moreover, the presence of these men—political terrorists, he was certain, if only from the way they pointedly refused to bow to the great T'ang—added a whole new dimension to things. To find such men here, at the heart of the T'ang's palace, what did that mean?

Across from the Captain, Wang Sau-leyan leaned back, nodding his satisfaction, then turned and came across. The Captain rose at once and bowed low, keeping his eyes averted.

"You have everything you need, Captain Gustavsson?"

He kept his voice calm, clear of the fear he felt deep down. "All is well, Chieh Hsia. I am honored to be of service to you."

It was not what he had meant to say, but it would do. Moreover, it reflected something true about the situation. He had not understood before, but, in taking Wang Sau-leyan's money, he had become Wang's man. There was no turning back from this. No way of excusing himself. Inadvertently he had committed himself to whatever was being done here.

If I had known . . .

But it was too late now for such thoughts. And when Wang put out his hand, he took and kissed the great ring of power, knowing that it was this or death, and there was his family to think of—his sons and baby daughter, his wife Ute, and his invalid mother. Wang knew that. He was sure to know it. It was why they had chosen him. Why it was even possible that Wang's agents had been in some way responsible for his money troubles. Certainly, he had never had so bad a night at Chou as that session six weeks back when he had lost eight thousand yuan at a single sitting. Even so, it had been his decision, and now he must live with it.

"If there is any further service I might offer, Chieh Hsia."

Wang smiled, his plump, moonlike face taking on an air of great benevolence. "Maybe there is something. For now, however, you have my gratitude, Captain. And my protection."

The Captain looked up, surprised, then quickly lowered his head once more. "I am deeply honored, Chieh Hsia."

"Well... let me keep you no more. Enjoy your meal while it is hot, Captain. Such pleasures are rare in life, neh?"

Rare indeed, he thought, looking through his lashes at the back of the retreating T'ang. He sat, his skin strangely cold, a new tightness at the pit of his stomach. Eat, he told himself. Enjoy the feast that's spread before you. But though there were dishes there he had never dreamed he would taste, things that only a T'ang might afford, he found himself picking at them dispiritedly, chewing the richly flavored foods listlessly, as if they were but tasteless copies of the things they purported to be.

He looked about him, as if waking, seeing the men working on the craft, the odd-looking Han standing nearby, supervising them, and nodded to himself, understanding. Lifting one hand, he put the fingers gently to his mouth, feeling once more the cold, hard pressure of the Yu>e Lung—the Wheel of Dragons—against the warm softness of his lips, then drew them back, as if the flesh were bruised.

WANG SAU -LEYAN stood at the rail, the dark stillness of the Nile beneath him, and looked up at the full and shining circle of the moon. For so long now he had held himself in check, containing his natural impulse to oppose and destroy. But now—finally—his patience would be rewarded.

He smoothed his hands over his ample stomach, then smiled broadly. It was strange how far he had come these past few years. Stranger still that he had not seen this in himself from the first. But it had always been there, since his first conscious moments.

They had never understood him. Not one of them. His father had disliked him from the start, repulsed by the pudgy little creature he had sired. His mother had persevered for a time, but had thought him a stubborn, willful child. Dismayed by his behavior and unable to control him except by the strictest measures, she had cast him from her side before he was three, having nothing further to do with him. Her sudden death, when he was seven, had left him curiously unaffected, unable to share in the general grief, but it had given him a strange, unchildlike understanding of his nature. From that moment on he had known it was his fate to stand outside that bright circle of human connectedness; to be an onlooker, cut off from kith and kin. A Han, a son, but really neither; more some alien creature born into a fleshy form. And from that moment's realization had come the urge to oppose, the impulse to destroy all that he touched.

No, and no one, not even Mach, understood how deep that impulse ran in him; how strongly that urge to destroy tugged at him, sweeping him along, like a smooth white stone caught in the dark ocean's undertow. It was not power he wanted, but the opportunities that power brought: the chance to meddle and corrupt, to smash and overturn. To break . . . well, a whole world, if he so wished.

A whole world . . . No, not even Mach wanted that. Even he would stop short at some things.

The oxygen generators, for instance. Those huge pumping stations that reached down deep into the earth's mantle to tap the reservoirs of energy and convert the basic building blocks of life into the most precious thing of all—air. Mach knew of them, secret though they were. He knew that, since the destruction of the rain forests, life on Chung Kuo would have been insupportable without them—as intolerable as the icy wastes of Mars. But never—not even for a passing moment—would he have considered acting against them. Destroying them. It was unthinkable. No, what Mach wanted was an end to the old—to Seven and Cities and the stifling world of levels. And afterward? Well, to be blunt about it, Mach hadn't really thought it through. His vision of the new order was vague; a thin tissue of ideals, with no more substance than the words he breathed into the air. Necessarily so. For had he pictured what it would be like—what it would really be like—when the Cities fell, he would have quailed at the thought of the misery and devastation to come.

But he—Wang Sau-leyan, T'ang of Africa—had thought long and hard on the matter. Had pictured in his mind the long, straggling lines of skeletal figures stretching out across that bleak, unending wasteland. He had seen them, there in the clear, gray light of dawn, trudging from nowhere to nowhere, tongues black in their wizened heads, blank eyes staring straight ahead, while to every side, the dead were heaped in rotting piles, all trace of human warmth, of human connectedness, leached from their wasted forms. And at such moments his nostrils would twitch with distaste, as if sensing the overwhelming stench of putrefying flesh. And he would smile.

Yes. He saw it clearly. A dying world, its foul, unregenerated air filled with the darkness of corruption. And afterward, nothing. Nothing but rock and wind and salted oceans. Nothing for a million years.

He lowered his eyes, looking out across the dark surface of the river toward the ancient Valley of the Kings. Here death was close at hand. Was a dark companion, ever-present, more intimate than any lover. He could feel its breath upon his cheek, its hands caressing his softly rounded flesh, and shivered at the touch, not from fear but from a strange, inexplicable delight.

No. Not one of them knew him. Not one. Hung Mien-lo, Li Yuan, Jan Mach—each saw but the surface of him; the softly rounded mask of flesh. But beneath that—beneath the tissue of his physical self— was something hard and unyielding; something wholly inimical to life.

He turned, hearing the rush of wind, the beating of wings overhead, then laughed, delighted. Birds filled the air suddenly, returning to their nests on the far side of the river, their long, dark shapes swooping and circling high above the moonlit darkness of the Nile. And then, one by one, they plunged into the dark water, exploding in sudden circles of light.

Like messengers, he thought, and felt a strange unearthly thrill pass through him. Messengers.

it was a place of pools and paths and ancient stones, of pleasant bowers and gently flowing streams. Birds sang in the sunlit branches of time-twisted junipers while below, amid the lush green covering, cast-bronze statues of long-extinct animals—bright red pictograms cut into their flanks—lolled peacefully, as if shading themselves for the fierceness of the late afternoon sun. It was a scene of great tranquillity, of a long-cultivated harmony that was almost indolent in its nature. But today, the Garden of Reflective Quiescence gave Li Yuan no sense of inner peace as he walked along its paths. For once, his eyes skirted the surface of things, seeing nothing of the delicate balance of form and color and texture the garden's designers had striven so hard to create, focused only on the hard nugget of unrest deep within him.

Returning from T'ai Yueh Shan, he had ridden out, urging the horse on madly, as if to purge what he felt from his blood, but it had been no use. At the ruined temple he had turned, looking about him, seeing her image everywhere he looked.

And the child?

He stopped, realizing suddenly where he was. He had strayed from the path and was among the flower beds. Earth clung dark and heavy to his pale kid boots while his hand had closed upon a flower, crushing it, scattering the bloodred petals. He looked down, appalled, then backed away, turning, his hurried steps echoing off the flagstones as he ran back down the path toward the Southern Palace.

Li Yuan leapt the steps in threes, then ran across the grass toward the open doors of the Great Library. The ancient, Chu Shi-ch'e, looked up, startled, from behind his desk as Yuan burst into the room, and began to get to his feet.

"Sit down, Master Chu," Li Yuan said breathlessly, crossing the broad, high-ceilinged room. Behind, Chu, his assistant, twenty years his junior, looked on, wide-eyed, as the young T'ang dragged the ladder along the rail, then began to climb.

"Chieh Hsia . . ." protested Chu, coming around his desk. "Let the boy do that. . ."

"I am grateful for your concern, Master Chu, but it is a T'ang's prerogative to do exactly as he wishes."

"That may be so, Chieh Hsia," the old man answered, tugging at his long white beard, "but of what use is a servant who is not allowed to serve?"

Li Yuan turned on the ladder, looking across at the Pi-shu chien. Chu Shi-ch'e had been appointed Inspector of the Imperial Library by his grandfather Li Ch'ing, more than sixty years earlier, and in all that time he had never missed a day's service from ill health. Moreover, it was said that Chu Shi-ch'e's knowledge of the archives was encyclopedic. If his movements had grown slower with time, his mind had remained as nimble as ever. Li Yuan hesitated a moment longer, then relented, coming down, letting Chu's assistant—the "boy," a stoop-backed old fellow of a mere sixty-four years—climb in his place.

"What was it you wanted, Chieh Hsia?" Chu asked, coming alongside, his bent head a sign as much of age as of respect for his T'ang.

Li Yuan drew a long breath. "There is a tape I saw once, years ago. It was of my brother Han, when he was a child. A very young child. In the orchard with my mother, Lin Yua."

Chu stared at him a moment, his eyes narrowed, then turned away, firing two rapid phrases of Mandarin at his assistant. Almost at once the "boy" was clambering down the steps again, a long, narrow case with a golden cover in one hand.

The case was part of the official archives—the daily record of the Li Family, dating back more than two hundred years. Here, stacked floor to ceiling on these walls, were the complete holographic records of the Family, each case embossed with the great Ywe Lung, the Moon Dragon, symbol of the Seven.

Li Yuan watched as the assistant handed the case to Chu Shi-ch'e, then backed off, bowing deeply. Chu opened the case, checking the contents, then, clicking it shut, turned, offering it to Li Yuan.

"I think this is what you want, Chieh Hsia." Again the old man's eyes seemed to pierce him; to see through to the innermost depths of him. And maybe that was so, for of all the Family's retainers, no one knew half as much about his masters as Chu Shi-ch'e. The old man gave a wintry smile. "If you will forgive us, Chieh Hsia, we will leave you to view the tape."

"Thank you, Master Chu," Li Yuan said gratefully. "I will summon you when I am done."

He watched them go, then turned, facing the black, lacquered platform at the center of the room—a big circular stand six ch'i in width, its surface carved in the form of a huge Ywe Lung, the whole thing resting on seven golden dragon heads. Here he had come, long years ago it seemed, to sit at his father's feet. And, as his father talked, telling him of his long and dignified heritage, the ghostly images of his ancestors would walk the earth once more, their words as strong and vibrant as the hour they had uttered them. It had always seemed a kind of magic—much more so than the computer-generated trickery of the ancestral figures in the Hall of Eternal Peace and Tranquillity, for this was real. Or had been. Yet it was some while since he had come here. Some while since he had let himself be drawn back into the past.

It was a weakness, like the business with Fei Yen, yet for once he would indulge it. And then, maybe, the restlessness would go from him, the dead mouth of the past stop speaking in his head.

He looked down at the case in his hands, studying the date embossed into the hard plastic beneath the Ywe Lung, then flipped the catch open, taking out the hard green disc of plastic that held that day's images. For a moment he simply stared at it, reminded of that moment in the tomb, twelve years before, when he had carried the first of the ritual objects to his father. That had been the pi, symbol of Heaven, a large disc of green jade with a small hole bored at its center. This here was like a smaller pi, lighter, warmer to the touch, yet somehow related, even down to the tiny hole at the center.

Li Yuan looked about him at the layers of gold-bound cases that lined the walls, a tiny shiver passing through him at the thought of all that time, all those memories, stored there, then crossed to the garden doors. He pulled them closed, then tugged at the thick silk cord that hung from the ceiling, drawing down the great blinds that shut out the daylight.

He went across, leaning across the platform to place the disc onto the spindle at the hub of the great circle of dragons, then stepped back. At once the lights in the room faded, a faint glow filling the air above the platform.

"I am Li Yuan," he said clearly, giving the machine a voice recognition code, "Grand Counselor and T'ang of Ch'eng Ou Chou."

"Welcome, Chieh Hsia," the machine answered in a soft, melodious voice. "What would you like to see?"

"The orchard," he said, a faint tremor creeping into his voice. "Late morning. Lin Yua with my brother, the prince, Han Ch'in."

"Chieh Hsia. . ."

The air shimmered and took shape. Li Yuan caught his breath. The image was sharp-edged, almost real. He could see the dappled shadow of the leaves on the dark earth, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, yet if he reached out, his hand would pass through nothingness. He walked about it slowly, keeping to the darkness, looking through the trees at his mother, her skirts spread about her, her face filled with sunlight and laughter, his brother Han, nine months old, crawling on the grass beside her. As he watched, she leaned out and, grabbing Han's tiny feet, pulled him back to her, laughing. She let Han get a few ch'i from her, then pulled him back again. Han was giggling, a rich baby gurgle of a laugh that brought a smile to Li Yuan's face even as his chest tightened with pain. No, he had not been mistaken. This was what he had remembered earlier, deep down, beneath the level of conscious thought. This moment, from a time before his time, and a child—his brother—so like his own that to call them different people seemed somehow wrong.

He stared into the magic circle of light, mesmerized by this vision of that distant yesterday, and felt a kind of awe. Could it not be so? Could not a person be reborn, a new vessel of flesh fashioned for the next stage of the journey? Wasn't that what the ancient Buddhists had believed? He closed his eyes, thinking of the ruins in the hills above the estate, then turned away.

Weakness, weakness ...

He shook his head, bewildered. What was he up to? What in the gods' names was he doing? Yet even as he turned back, meaning to end it—to kill the image and get out—he stopped dead, staring into the light, bewitched by the image of his mother cradling his brother, by that look of love, of utter adoration in her face. He groaned, the ache of longing so awful, so overpowering, that for a moment he could not breathe. Then, tearing himself free of its spell, he breached the circle of light and lifted the disc from the spindle.

As the room's lights filtered back, he stood there, trembling, horrified by the ease with which he had been seduced. It was as he had reasoned that time, in those final moments before Ben Shepherd had come. This longing for the past was like a heavy chain, binding a man, dragging him down. Moreover, to succumb to that desire was worse than the desire itself. Was a weakness not to be tolerated. No, he could not be T'ang and feel this. One had to go on, not back.

He let the disc fall from his fingers, then turned, going to the door. There was work to be done, Ministers to be seen. The unformed future beckoned. And was he, its architect, to falter now? Was he to see it all come to nothing?

He threw the doors wide and went out, hastening down the corridor, servants kneeling hurriedly, touching their heads to the floor as he passed. Back in his study he took his seat behind the great desk while his servants rushed here and there, summoning his senior officials. But it was neither Nan Ho nor his secretary, Chang Shih-sen, who appeared in the doorway moments later; it was his eldest wife, Mien Shan.

He looked up, surprised. "Mien Shan. . . What is it?"

She came two steps into the room, her head lowered demurely, her whole manner hesitant. "Forgive me, husband, but might I speak with you a moment?"

He frowned. "Is something wrong, Mien Shan?"

"I. . ." She glanced up at him, then, lowering her head again, gave a small nod. There was a faint color at her cheeks now. She swallowed and began again. "It is not for myself, you understand, Chieh Hsia. . ."

"No," he said gently. "But tell me, good wife, what is it?"

"It is Lai Shi, husband. This hot weather . . ."

He leaned forward, concerned. Lai Shi, his Second Wife, was four months pregnant. "Is she all right?"

"She . . ." Mien Shan hesitated, then spoke again. "Surgeon Wu says that no harm has been done. She was unconscious only a short while. The child is unaffected."

"Unconscious?" He stood, suddenly angry that no one had told him of this on his return.

Mien Shan glanced at him again—a timid, frightened look, then lowered her head once more. "She . . . fainted. In the garden. We were playing ball. I..." Again she hesitated, but this time she steeled herself to say what she had to say, looking up and meeting his eyes as she did so. "I begged Master Nan not to say anything. You are so busy, husband, and it was such a small thing. I did not wish you to be troubled. Lai Shi seemed fine. It was but a moment's overexertion. But now she has taken to her bed ..."

Li Yuan came around the desk, towering over the tiny figure of his First Wife. "You have called Surgeon Wu?"

She bowed her head, close to tears now; afraid of her husband's anger. "He says it is a fever, Chieh Hsia, brought on by the air, the heat. Forgive me, husband. I did not know . . ."

"I see ... and this fever—is it serious?"

"Surgeon Wu thinks it will pass. But I am worried, Chieh Hsia. The days are so hot, and the air—the air seems so dry, so lacking in any goodness."

Li Yuan nodded. He had noticed as much himself. For a moment he stared at her, conscious of the simple humility of her stance; of how different she was from Fei Yen in that. Then, touched by her concern, he reached out and held her close, looking down into her softly rounded face.

"Go now, Mien Shan, and sit with Lai Shi. I shall finish here and come as quickly as I can. Meanwhile, I shall give instructions to Nan Ho to have the Court removed to the floating palace. I cannot have my wives troubled by this heat, neh?"

Mien Shan smiled broadly, pleased by the news. Yet her smile, which ought to have warmed him, merely made him feel guilty that he could not return it with a matching warmth.

He sighed, suddenly tired of everything. "Forgive me, Mien Shan, but there is much to be done."

She drew back, bowing her head. "Husband . . ."

He watched her go, then turned, shaking his head, angry with himself. Why was he so cold with them? Weren't they, after all, the best of wives—kind and loving, solicitous of his health? Why then should he show them such disrespect? Such indifference?

Or was it simpler than that? Wasn't it just as Ben had said that time? Wasn't he still in love with Fei Yen?

For a moment he stood there, breathing deeply, conscious that, for the first time since he had cast her from him, he understood. He loved her, yes, but that meant nothing now. His duty was to his new wives. He had not faced it before now. Not properly. He had let things slide, hoping that time would cure him, that things would come good of their own accord, but they never did. It was that simple—he had not worked at things. He had lacked the will. But now . . .

He nodded, determined. From now on it would be different. From this moment on he would work at things. Would make them right again. Beginning this evening, at Lai Shi's bedside. And in time . . . in time these feelings would subside and the dark, hard stone of pain would be washed from him.

He unclenched his hands, letting the past go, letting it fall from his fingers, then went back behind his desk, making a start on the pile of documents; selecting only those that needed his urgent attention.

FEI YEN stood on the terrace beside the lake, barefoot and alone. It was late now and the day's heat had finally dissipated, but the air was still warm and close, and as she paced the cool, lacquered boards, she gently fanned herself.

His visit had disturbed her deeply. At first she had thought it simple anger and irritation at his meddling, but it was more than that. Even after she had calmed herself—after she had bathed and had her serving maids rub scented oils into her back and legs to relax her—she had felt that same strange tension in her gut, and knew it had to do with him. She had thought it finished, all emotion spent between them, but it wasn't over yet; she knew that now.

She turned her head. To her right, on the far side of the lake, there were lights on in the hangar. Faint noises carried across the dark and silent water, the sounds of her father's servants preparing the craft for her departure in the morning.

She sighed and, pushing away from the rail, descended the narrow steps that led down to the shoreline. There, beneath the brilliant circle of the moon, she paused, staring down into the dark mirror of the lake. Beneath her feet a huge, white polished stone gleamed in the moonlight, making her reflection—darker, less discernible than the stone—seem almost insubstantial.

Fading away, she thought. I'm slowly fading away, like a hungry ghost.

She shuddered and turned, trying to push the thought away, but it persisted, nagging at her until she had to face it. In a sense it was true. The life she should have had—her "real" life, as wife to Li Yuan and mother of his sons—had ended years ago. She had killed it, just as surely as if she had taken a knife and slit her throat. And this life she now had—this succession of empty days, which she filled with passing lovers and idle pursuits—was a kind of afterlife, lacking all purpose and all reason.

A pang of bitterness—pure and unalloyed—struck her at the thought. It was all her own fault. And yet, what would she have changed? What would she have done differently, given the choice? She took a long breath, then turned, confronting her reflection once again, leaning forward to study the image closely.

She had changed a great deal these past few years. Gone were the excesses of former years. She wore no jewelry now. Likewise her clothes were simpler—a plain chi poo was all she ever wore these days. As for her hair, that was brushed back severely from her face; plaited tightly and secured in a tiny bun on either side of her head.

I look like a peasant girl, she thought. Yes. And so she had dressed that morning, three years ago, when she had broken the news to him.

For a moment she was still, remembering. What would you say if I told you 1 had fallen? she had asked him, thinking he would understand. But he had looked back at her blankly, puzzled by her words. And she had had to make it clear to him. A child. A son. And for a time they had been happy. But that time had been brief. As brief, it seemed, as an indrawn breath.

She knew now she had been wrong to take Tsu Ma for a lover. But it had been hard being alone all that time; hard to be a woman and to be ignored. In any case, she had been beside herself. Tsu Ma . . . just the thought of him had swayed her from her senses. Those afternoons, stretched out beneath him, naked on his blanket in the ruins of the ancient temple . . . that had been sweetness itself. Had been a taste of Heaven.

Yes, and though it had been wrong, it was as nothing beside what Yuan had done. To kill his horses . . . She shivered, the memory of it still fresh. How could he have done that? How could he have killed those wonderful, sensitive beasts? She had never understood.

And now he had returned; older and more impressive than he had been. A T'ang in every word and action. Yes, it was true. The child she had known was gone; dead, almost as if he'd never been. And in his place was a stranger. Someone she ought to know but didn't.

She turned, looking back toward the terrace. A figure was standing there; a small, hunched figure that she recognized after a moment as her father.

"Fei Yen?" he called softly. "Is that you down there?"

He came down the steps and joined her beside the water.

"Father," she said gently, embracing him. "I thought you had gone to bed."

"And so I shall, but not before you, my girl. What are you doing out here? It's late. I thought you were leaving early in the morning?"

"I am. But I had to be alone a while. To think."

"Ah. . ." His eyes met hers briefly, then looked away. "I too was thinking. Han needs a father. This life is no good for him, Fei Yen. He needs a stronger hand. Needs balance in his life."

It was an old, familiar lecture, and as ever she smiled, knowing that her father wanted not to judge her, but only what was best for the child. She studied him a moment in the moonlight. He was old now, his gray hair receding, his powers as a man waning, yet when he was with Han it was as if the years fell away. No, she had never seen him laugh so much as in the past few weeks.

She leaned close, kissing his brow tenderly. No one else in the world loved her as her father did. No, and no one else forgave her, whatever she did.

"He has his uncles," she said, as if in answer, but Yin Tsu gave a dismissive snort.

"And a fine lot of good they are." He laughed; a short, sharp sound, full of disappointment. "I had such hopes, Fei Yen. Such plans for them. And what have they become? Drunkards and wastrels. Drains on the family purse, one and all."

It was harsh, and, to a degree, unfair, but she let it pass. Her brothers could fight their own battles. Right now there was Han to think of. Han and herself.

"And these guards?" she asked tentatively. "You think Li Yuan was right to do that?"

Yin Tsu considered it a moment, then shrugged. "I do not know, nu er. It is ... unusual. But Li Yuan has his reasons, I am sure, .and if it helps set his mind at rest, then that must be good, neh? He carries a heavy burden, that young man, and carries it well." His eyes shone with admiration. "Would that he were a son of mine. . ." Then,

realizing what he had said, he looked away again, but not before she saw the regret, the brief flash of bitterness that had crossed his features.

She looked up. In the distance, above the hills, two geese flew slowly across the sky, their wings beating silently as they headed south, toward the sea. The sight made her clench her fists, remembering that time on the lake at Tongjiang with Li Yuan, Tsu Ma, and her cousin Wu Tsai, on the tiny island, beneath the colored lanterns. The night she had played the p'i p'a for them and sang the refrain from "Two White Geese."

And now she was alone. Like grass on a lonely hill, knowing it must wither and die. The words made her shudder, then turn back, facing her father.

"Come," she said, laying her hand gently on his arm. "Let us go back inside."

After kissing him good night, she returned to her rooms; to the faint, enchanting flicker of aromatic candles and the sight of her maids busying themselves, finishing the packing for the morning. Waving them aside, she went through to where Han slept and stood there, looking down into the cot.

It was only at moments like these, when Han lay there, his limbs spread idly in sleep, his dark hair tousled, that she realized just how much she loved him. Not mildly, or casually, but with a fierce mother love that was as protective as the mother wolf's for her cubs.

She reached down, brushing the hair back gently from his eyes, then pulled the blanket up about his chest. She was selfish, she knew. The men who came to pay court to her—hollow clowns and dandies all—took up too much of her time. Kept her from him. But that would change. She would spend more time with him.

She took her hand back, slowly, reluctantly, then blew a silent kiss. Let him sleep, she thought. Let him dream his pleasant, childish dreams. For tomorrow would be a long day. A long, long day.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Distant Thunder

Kim reached across and took the ink brush from the stand. Inking the brush, he drew the document toward him and signed his name at the bottom of the final sheet. "There," he said, sitting back. It was the final touch; the last of the formalities. Now he was theirs.

He looked up and saw how Reiss was smiling. SimFic's Chief Executive, more than any of them gathered there, had wanted this. To rebuild the Company's reputation and put it back up there among the Hang Seng's top ten. Yes, and he had paid more than twice what Kim's broker had estimated to bring Kim back into the fold.

And so here he was again. In Berdichev's old office, nine years later and ninety-nine years wiser. Or so it felt.

"Welcome back to SimFic, Shih Ward," Reiss said, bowing his head and offering Kim both his hands. "I am delighted that we've signed you."

Kim stood, forcing himself to smile and take the man's hands. Two years, he was thinking, was that it all it was¹. And yet, strangely, it didn't feel like it had before. Back then, he had had no prospect of being free, whereas now, at least, he had a contract. Five years—six, if he took up the bonus option—and he would be free again. And rich.

He turned back, watching as one of Reiss's men "sanded" his signature, then removed the papers into a special folder. It was a long document, twenty-four pages in all, and he had gone through it carefully with his broker yesterday, but in essence it was simple. He was their slave now. For the next five years he would do what they said when they said. That was, as long as it did not endanger his life or seriously threaten his health. And providing it was legal. Not that they had any intention of placing him in any danger; not after the fee they had paid to sign him.

He touched his tongue to his lower teeth thoughtfully. Twenty-five million yuan had been placed in an account in his name already. And there was more to come. Much more. Fifteen million a year, for five years, and a further twenty-five if he stayed on that extra year. And then there were the performance bonuses, the two percent cut on any inventions subsequently manufactured from his original patents, and the sliding scale payments for developing any of SimFic's existing patents to "manufacturing standard."

All in all, he could come out of this exceedingly well. Rich enough, if things worked out, to start again; older, wiser, and with the capital, this time, to expand. Rich enough, perhaps, to marry a Marshal's daughter.

He looked back at Reiss and smiled; a gentler, more relaxed smile. "I'm pleased to be with you, Shih Reiss," he said, conscious of the dozen or so senior executives ranged at the far end of the office, watching their exchange. "I hope our partnership will be a fruitful one."

His echo of Reiss's words from earlier that day brought a smile to the Chief Executive's lips. "I hope so, too, Kim. I really do. But come, let's go through. It's time."

Kim nodded, then allowed himself to be turned about, a faint sensation of heaviness in his limbs. In the next room the technician was waiting beside his machine. Kim, entering the room, studied it with a detached interest, conscious of the sudden feeling of hollowness—maybe even a trace of fear—at the pit of his stomach. The machine was a kind of gantry, attached by a thin coil of wire to a slim, black-cased comset. On the surface it looked fairly harmless, yet it would provide them with the means of controlling him for the next five years.

A slave, he thought. I'm going to be a slave again. A thing that thinks. A puzzle-solver. Not a person but a commodity. To be used as the Company desires.

He shivered, then stepped forward, letting the technician help him into the brace.

It took only seconds. Then he stepped back, the collar pulsing gently about his neck. He could feel its warmth, its energy, almost as if it were alive, and, though he had meant not to, he found his left hand had traveled up, unbeknownst to him, to touch and gently tug at it.

"It'll not harm you in any way," Reiss said, as if to reassure him. "We'd have preferred not to, but the legal formalities . . ." His voice trailed off, then, "Look on it as a safeguard. Company life can be hard and very competitive, as you know." He laughed awkwardly. "Well. . . it'll help us take good care of you. That way we'll all be happy, neh?"

Kim nodded, giving Reiss the best smile he could manage; but suddenly the reality of it was on him. This was his life for the next one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six days. This . . .

Reiss turned and took a folder from one of his assistants, then turned back, handing it to Kim. "Here are the details of your first assignment. We thought we'd give you something familiar to begin with. Something you can get your teeth into straightaway."

Kim took the folder and opened it. Inside were four flimsy sheets of paper. On the first were four handwritten equations. On the second was a tiny, neatly drawn diagram, the notations in a different hand from the first. The third sheet was filled with notes, some by the author of the equations, but most of them by whoever had drawn the diagram.

"Molecular switches," Kim said quietly, feeling a pulse of excitement pass through him. "It's what I've been working on."

"I know," Reiss said, watching him carefully. "We've been working on the same lines for some time now. And this is the closest weVe got. They're unstable . . ."

"Yes," Kim flicked back, studying the equations a moment, then looked at the final sheet. It was headed up with SimFic's double helix logo. Beneath it, in a neat printer face, were the details of his assignment.

"Sohm Abyss," he said, looking up at Reiss, wide-eyed. "You're sending me to Sohm Abyss!"

THE PHILADELPHIA NIGHTCLUB was almost empty. It was just after seven in the morning and the four young men sat about one of the central tables, the top buttons of their pan loosened, their jackets on the backs of their chairs. It had been a long night but a successful one and they had raised more than a million -yuan. Enough, for now, to keep the movement from bankruptcy. Kennedy had left more than two hours back, more tired than usual, the new security men he'd hired shadowing him closely. That was but one of the changes they had noticed. Small things that made them think back to what Kennedy had said to them that first time and reassess. Overnight, it seemed, the mood of things had changed.

It was four days to the first round of voting and things looked good. Michael Lever was up even on the more dubious EduVoc polls, and talk was that his father's man, Edward Gratton, would be lucky to pick up more than a third of the vote. All night people had been coming up to Michael and slapping his back, congratulating him, as if the count were a formality. It had made him uneasy. It felt like tempting the gods.

"You worry too much, Michael," Kustow was saying. "What can Gratton do in four days? TheyVe flung every last bit of dirt at you they could find and it still wasn't enough. It's our time, and nothing can prevent it. The tide has turned against the old men. People want change. And by the gods, they're going to get it!"

Parker and Fisher laughed, but Michael was silent, brooding. His own seat looked safe, it was true, but things weren't going quite so well across the board. Indeed, if things didn't improve, they'd be lucky to take four of the thirty seats they were contesting. But he was also thinking of something Kennedy had said—something he had whispered to him earlier that evening—about the possibility of a deal. He had warned Michael to be careful. To be very careful.

"A lot hangs on this one, though," said Fisher. He turned in his seat to summon a waiter for more ch'a, then turned back. "You know, there's a whole clutch of seats that are vulnerable in the second round. Forty or more, I reckon. And each and every one ripe for the picking."

"That's provided we get a good vote first time out," Kustow added more cautiously.

"Sure . . ." Fisher leaned forward, looking from one to another. "I think we will. I think we'll do better than the poll showings. Much better. That's why I've asked Kennedy if I could run for one of those seats."

Michael looked up. "That's good, Carl. What did he say?"

Fisher laughed. "He said yes."

All three congratulated him at once. "Damn the ch'a," Kustow said, getting up unsteadily from his chair. "This calls for another bottle of that special wine!"

"Where are you going to run?" Michael asked, pulling Kustow down from his feet.

"Miami Hsien. Against Carver."

Miami was Fisher's home stack. The place where his father's Company was registered. Like Michael, he was going to be running directly against his old man's candidate.

Michael looked down. "Is that wise?"

Parker and Kustow were watching Fisher closely now. Both knew what Lever meant. The day after Kennedy had been nominated to run in Boston, Fisher's father had disinherited him: had frozen the funds to all three of his son's companies. Fisher had been forced to lay off his work force. Some had found other jobs, but more than a hundred families had "gone down." The local media had had a field day, and Representative Carver had returned from a business trip in City Europe to fly back and be interviewed in the home of one of those families that had suffered through, as he termed it, "the irresponsible management of a young and untried man." Going down—with all its social stigma—was the one thing all voters feared in common, and in the minds of the voters of Miami, what Carl Fisher had done was unforgivable.

"I want the chance to put my case," Fisher said. "I want the opportunity effacing Carver and telling him to his face that he's a liar and a cheat. That for eighteen years he's been in the pocket of my father."

Kustow whistled. "You'll say that to his face?"

"He'll sue," said Parker.

Fisher smiled. "Kennedy's hoping he will. He wants to fight the case himself. I've given him all the stuff I had. Accounts books, file numbers, memory copies of conversations."

For the first time since the crowds had left the club, Michael sat forward and smiled. "YouVe got all that stuff?"

Fisher nodded. "I got it all together first thing. After I'd first met Kennedy. Thought I might need some insurance."

Slowly, but with gathering force, Michael began to laugh. And in a few moments they were all laughing. The waiter, when he brought the ch'a, looked around at them, then shrugged and walked away, keeping his thoughts to himself.

EMILY TURNED, looking about her, trying to estimate the scale of the problem at a single glance, but it was hard to take it all in. The eye was drawn constantly to the smaller details: to the distressed face of a wheezing ancient, or the empty, hopeless eyes of a silent, uncomplaining child; to the weeping sores of a young blind beggar or the mute suffering in the face of a mother who yet cradled her cold, long-dead baby. In the face of all this individual misery the greater picture just slipped away. This much suffering was, quite literally, unimaginable. She had thought Europe bad, but this . . .

She was down at Level Eleven, immediately above the Net, at the very foot of Washington Hsien, here to publicize the newly launched "Campaign for Social Justice." It was their plan to fund and build fifty "Care Centers" across the City to try to deal with the problem of low-level deprivation, but from the moment she had stepped out into Main here, she had known how pathetic, how woefully inadequate their scheme was. It would take a hundred times what they proposed even to scratch the surface of this problem. Why, there were more than fifty thousand people crammed into this deck alone—fifty thousand in a deck designed to hold eighteen thousand maximum!

When she had been voted Chairwoman by the committee of Young Wives, she had thought that this might^just might—be a way of getting something done. For the past six months she had thrown herself into the task of organizing meetings and raising funds. But now, seeing it for herself, she understood. She had been fooling herself. There was only one way to change all this. From the top. By destroying those who allowed this to go on.

She walked among the crowds, feeling a thousand hands brush against her, or tug briefly at her silks, a thousand eyes raised to her in silent supplication. Feed me! Relieve me! Free me from this Hell!

Above her the tiny media cameras hovered close, capturing the scene, focusing in on the expression in her face. And as she returned to the great platform, with its banners and waiting guests, a reporter pressed close, clamoring for a statement.

"Just show it," she said. "And let everyone in the Mids know that this is how the people down here have to live. Every day. And"—she steeled herself to say the lie—"and that they can help. That if they give only a single yuan to the Campaign, it'll help relieve some of this suffering."

She turned away quickly, lest her anger, her bitterness, made her say more. No, It would help no one for her to speak out in public. Least of all these people. What it needed now was action. Action of the kind she had held back from until now.

It was time for her to organize again. To adopt the false ID DeVore had prepared for her all those years back and become someone new. Rachel DeValerian. Terrorist. Anarchist. Leveler.

Yes, it was time for the Ping Tiao to be reborn.

FROM WHERE KIM STOOD, high up on the viewing gallery, two U above the great ocean's surface, the events of the great world seemed far off, like the sound of distant thunder. The night was calm, immense, the darkness stretching off in all directions. Without end. Literally, without end. He could move forever through that darkness and never reach its limit.

Darkness, he thought. In the end there's nothing but darkness. And yet, all his young life, he had sought the light. Had striven upward toward it, like a diver coming up from great depths.

Far off, the waves broke in a staggered line of white along the encircling breakwater. That line seemed frail and inconsequential from where he stood, yet he had flown over it earlier and seen the great ocean's swell; had seen waves fifty ch'i in height smash with ferocious power against the angled breakwater, and had felt more awe in him at that than at the sight of the great mid-ocean City they had built here over Sohm Abyss.

He turned. Above him, beyond the great spire of the central block, the night sky seemed dusted with stars—a billion stars that burned incandescently, like nothing he could ever have imagined. That too—so different somehow from the simulations—awed him. The reality of it. Until now it had all been in his head, like some complex three-dimensional chart. But now, seeing it with his own eyes, he understood what had been missing. Its vastness; its awe-inspiring vastness. It was something he had known but never grasped. Not until now.

He turned back, conscious of the faint yet discernible motion of the viewing platform. Down below, among the levels, one felt nothing, almost as if one were on dry land, but here the tidal swell of the great ocean could be sensed, despite the breakwaters, the huge chains of ice that kept the City anchored to the ocean's floor, ten ti down.

He looked down thoughtfully. Something in him responded to that: to the thought of those vast, unlit depths beneath the fragile man-made raft of the Ocean City; to all that weight and pressure. Something dark and antithetical to his thinking self, that looked back at him sometimes in the mirror, sharp-toothed and snarling.

He placed his hands flat against the thin layer of ice that separated him from the vastness outside and shivered. Darkness and Light. How often it came back to that—the most simple of all oppositions. Darkness and Light. As in the great Tao. And yet, ultimately, he did not believe in the Tao. Did not believe that dark and light were one and the same thing. No. For it seemed to him that the dark and light were locked in an ageless, unending struggle for supremacy: a struggle that could end only when one canceled out the other, in a blinding flash of searing light or in the abnegation of total nothingness.

And then?

He stepped back, amused. So what had existed before the universe? And what would be there after it was gone? These seemed logical enough things to ask, and yet, at the same time, they were nonsense questions. A grasping after straws. What pertinence did they have on the here-and-now of daily life? What use were they as tools?

No use at all. And yet he felt the need to ask them.

"Shih Ward?"

Kim turned. A Han was standing in the shadows beside the open door to the service elevator, his shaven head slightly bowed. His green SimFic one-piece was emblazoned with the number four, indicating his status within the SimFic hierarchy at Sohm Abyss.

"Is it time?" Kim asked, finding himself suddenly reluctant to leave the safety of the darkness.

The Steward looked up, meeting his eyes. "They are waiting below, Shih Ward. You must come now."

Kim bowed, then went across. Yet at the safety gate he stopped, looking down into the brightly lit heart of the Ocean City. Sohm Abyss was typical of the mid-Atlantic Cities. The thick outer wall formed a giant hexagon, linked by flexible walkways to a central hexagonal tower, topped by a slender communications spire. From above it had seemed like a bright and gaudy brooch cast thoughtlessly upon the darkness of the waters, but from where he stood it was more like a vast cat's cradle, the silvered walkways like the threads of a giant spider's web . . .

"Shih Ward!"

The slight sharpness in the Steward's voice reminded him of what he had become that morning. A thing. An entry on the SimFic Corporation's balance sheet. Turning back, he bowed apologetically, then stepped into the narrow cage. Obedient. Their servant.

Yet even as the gate irised shut, he realized suddenly that what they had purchased was but a part of him, and that that same unknown, uncharted darkness that lay beneath this great man-made artifact lay beneath all things, large and small alike.

Yes, and as for consciousness itself, what was that but a brightly lit raft, afloat upon the dark waters of the subconscious? A tiny, fragile edifice of man-made reason.

As the elevator began to descend, Kim turned and, looking up, studied the smooth curve of the Steward's shaven head, the folds of the green cloth covering his back, and wondered briefly whether the man was ever troubled by such thoughts, or whether status and material standing were his only measure of things.

If so, what was it like to be like that? To be content with how things seemed and not to question how things really were? What deep pool of inner stillness did one have to tap to become so inured to the greater mysteries? How did one let go of thinking and just be¹. Or was it that? Was it not so much "letting go" as never properly grasping hold?

For a moment longer he picked at the problem, like a monkey poking inside an ant's nest with a twig, then he relented.

Curse or blessing, it was what he was. What SimFic had paid him for. To question it was pointless. No, what he had to do over the next five years was to find a way to use it without using himself up. To keep from becoming the thing they thought he was—a mere puzzle-solver and generator of ideas. In doing so, he would have to give them what they wanted, but at the same time he would also have to keep back something for himself. One thing, perhaps. One pure and singular vision.

The elevator slowed, then stopped. As the door irised open, admitting the babble of conversation from the room beyond, Kim recalled the silent, star-spattered darkness up above and smiled, knowing what it was.

KUSTOW walked back with Michael to the apartment he had hired on the south side of the stack, overlooking the fashionable Square. On the way they talked of many things—of Kennedy's new bodyguards and the significance of the new set of changes to the Edict—but mainly about whether Kustow too should run.

"Is that what you want, Bryn?"

"I guess so," Kustow answered. "Anyway, it doesn't look like there's much else open to me now. We're all out of favor as far as the Market is concerned, and we can't live off moonshine."

Michael turned, facing him. "That's not what I asked, Bryn. Is it what you really want?"

Kustow looked down, considering. "If I hadn't wanted to get involved, I guess I wouldn't have taken the first step, would I?" He looked up at Michael ruefully. "I think we both knew where this would lead. And Joseph Kennedy didn't pull any punches or tell any lies, did he?"

"I guess not."

"So that leaves me two options, to be precise. Both of them political. I can remain behind the scenes, as a shaper, or I can put myself up front."

"And you want to be up front?"

Kustow took a deep breath. "I'm not sure. IVe liked what weVe been doing. I mean, IVe enjoyed working with you and Carl and Jack. We make a good team. But going it alone, with a new team . . ." He shrugged. "I just don't know."

Michael was silent a moment. "People will expect you to run. As the party grows you'll lose status unless you're a Representative. You'll lose whatever you currently have. No, if you don't run you might find yourself muscled out, Bryn. At least, that's how I see it."

Kustow dropped his head, then nodded. He was frowning, looking down at his feet. When he looked up again there was a painful indecision in his face. "You know what it is, Michael? I'm afraid."

Michael laughed shortly, then frowned. Kustow was the biggest of them. The strongest. The most extroverted. It wasn't possible that he could be afraid. "Afraid of what?"

"Of the whole business, I guess. Of power and politics. I don't want to become another Carver, or Gratton, or Hartmann."

Michael shook his head. "You won't! Goddamnit, Bryn, isn't that what we're about? To get rid of the old guard and bring in new ways— better ways?"

Kustow shivered. "Maybe. I don't know. I just looked at things from the outside tonight, that's all. Looked at all that backslapping and fund-raising and the bodyguards and the whispering between friends, and I wondered if we were really going to be any different from the rest."

There was a moment's silence between them, then Michael took his old friend's arm. "Come on. My apartment's only up the corridor. Let's get a few hours' sleep, then talk again."

Kustow smiled gently and nodded. "Okay. Lead the way."

Outside his door, Michael turned and looked at Kustow again.

Maybe Bryn was right. Maybe it would turn out just as he feared. But if they didn't try, if they just left it, that, surely, would be just as bad?

Michael thumbed the lock and touched out the combination with his other hand. As the door began to open, Kustow smiled drunkenly at him and stumbled past.

The explosion was deafening. Michael was thrown back across the corridor and fell awkwardly, blacking out. When he came to, what seemed only a moment later, there were Security guards everywhere and two medics were leaning over him, doing something to his legs. His legs were numb.

"Where's Bryn?" he asked, trying to sit up. But he couldn't sit up and the words came out as a kind of dry cough. He realized then that his chest hurt. One of the medics leaned close to his face and told him to relax, it would be okay. What would be okay? he wanted to ask, but his hold on consciousness was weak. He kept slipping back into blackness. Each time he woke things seemed to have jumped. Bit by bit he began to piece things together. He was strapped to a trolley, his head propped up slightly by cushions. To his right a big blunt-faced man was talking into a handset and listening to the responses. He was muttering something about a bomb. Someone had been killed.

It was only later that it hit him. Someone had been killed. Bryn. But by that time he was lying in a hospital bed, under armed guard, and there was nothing he could do. Again and again he saw Bryn smile and stumble past him, unsteady from the wine he'd drunk. He wanted to put out his arm and stop him. To call him back. To warn him somehow. But there was nothing he could do. Bryn Kustow was dead.

KIM STOOD at the head of the steps, looking out across the sunken floor of the reception hall, surprised by the sight that met his eyes. The air was cool, the lighting a subdued shade of blue that seemed to fill the huge, high-ceilinged room with moving liquid shadows.

He smiled, amused by the effect. It was like being at the bottom of a pool. A huge pool filled with the soft, slightly echoing murmur of voices. There were three, maybe four hundred people down there, gathered in groups between the pillars. The Steward, two steps down from Kim, turned and looked back at Kim impatiently, then continued down the steps. A moment later, Kim followed.

A group of about thirty people—men for the main part—were gathered beside what seemed like a large glass table set into the floor. The Steward made his way across to them, then stepped back, beckoning Kim to come forward.

At the center of the group stood a big, bearlike man in his early sixties with an unfashionable goatee beard, neatly trimmed ash-white hair, and an elegant cut in silks. He was William Campbell, SimFic's Regional Controller for the North Atlantic Cities and, as he greeted Kim, he leaned toward the young man.