The Stone Within

"Forgive the informality, Kim, but it's how I like to do things. You see, out of all eleven of SimFic's Regional Controllers, I have the biggest administrative area and the smallest staff. Like the plankton, there's a lot of me, but I have to spread myself very thin!"

Kim smiled, then took Campbell's offered hands, shaking them firmly. He stepped back, looking about him, conscious of how all eyes were on him.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Controller. And your friends, the ch'un tzu here ... are they all SimFic employees?"

Campbell looked about him, his casual ease contrasting strongly with the tenseness of the men surrounding him. "Not at all. We have these evenings 'once a week. Anyone who's anyone in Sohm Abyss comes along. But quite a number here are SimFic. I'll take you around in a moment. Put names to faces."

"Thanks," Kim smiled, warmed by Campbell's manner. Yet at the same time he was conscious of a strange tension in the air about him, as if things weren't quite as they seemed. He set the thought aside, determined to be sociable. "I was up on the viewing gallery just now. It's a beautiful place. I don't know why they don't build more of these Ocean Cities."

Campbell laughed. "Economics, Kim. Pure economics. The cost of the City itself is fairly negligible, but to site one of these little beauties—to carry out all of the necessary surveys and secure the seven great tether-cables—that costs a phenomenal amount. We just couldn't justify it these days."

Kim nodded thoughtfully. "And yet it^ias done."

"Oh, sure. But as far as SimFic is concerned we've a different strategy these days. I mean, why build these things new when you can acquire them? Take Sohm Abyss, for instance. Right now we own twenty-five percent of the facility. It's the most we can own under present legislation. But things are changing." Campbell looked about him. "It would be nice to fly the SimFic flag over one of these Cities, don't you think?"

There was a nodding of heads, a strong murmur of agreement.

"But enough of that." Campbell reached out, laying one large, bearlike hand familiarly on Kim's shoulder. "Let me take you around. Introduce you to the people you'll be working with."

Kim let himself be turned and led away. "Who were they?" he asked, glancing back at the group they had left.

"Company men," Campbell said quietly, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. "Administrators for the most part. By the way, would you like a drink?"

Kim hesitated. "I. . ."

Campbell stopped one of the waiters and took a wine cup from his tray. "Oh, that's right. You don't drink. That's good. Some of them out here drink far too much. And other things besides. They think I don't know what goes on, Kim, but IVe my own sources. Take the guy in the gray, for instance."

Kim turned, looking back, noting a tall, thin-faced man in gray silks.

"YouVe got him. Good. That's Bonnot. Alex Bonnot. He's the Scientific Supervisor here. Your direct boss. A good man according to the records. Reliable. Honest. But I've my doubts. So watch him, eh, Kim? And let me know if he oversteps the bounds."

Kim's eyes flicked up to Campbell's face and then away, not quite understanding what was meant. But this whole thing felt odd. Why, for instance, hadn't Campbell introduced him to them? "I don't follow," he said after a moment. "I thought you were in charge of things here."

Campbell smiled. "Overall, yes. But Sohm Abyss is Bonnet's. At least, the science side of things. The fish-farming, cold-storage, and star-gazing part, as we like to call it. The administrative side is run by the man standing next to l»iih, Schram. Dieter Schram. He fancies himself as a bit of a scholar, but he's hardly in your league, Kim. Dull, too, unfortunately. Which is probably why he got this posting. As for myself, I spend most of my time traveling between the Cities. I've eight in my region, though I'm actually based at Cape Verde."

"So I take my orders from Bonnot?"

"And Schram. But they take their orders from me." Campbell turned slowly, relaxedly, drawing Kim on through the crowd, ignoring the staring faces, moving toward a group who were standing beside one of the pillars. "Oh, I know what goes on in places like this. I also know what's happened to you in the past, Kim. IVe read your file thoroughly. But you can be sure that nothing like that will happen here. In fact, you have my word on it." He slowed, looking down at Kim. "Oh, I'll work you hard enough, Kim Ward, but I'll be fair with it. And if we get results, I'll be generous to you. Outside the terms of your contract, understand me?"

Again Kim wasn't quite sure that he did, but he nodded and, responding to Campbell's broad, generous smile, grinned back at him, reassured.

"As I see it," Campbell continued, "if I can keep you happy, you'll produce the goods. If you produce the goods, SimFic makes profits. And if SimFic makes profits we all grow fat. So it's in my best interest to keep you happy, neh?"

"I guess so."

They had stopped just before the group. The five men had turned to greet Campbell as he approached and now they stood there, their heads slightly bowed, waiting for the Controller to introduce them.

"This here is Hilbert, Eduard Hilbert. He's Head of Cryobiology and an expert in biostasis procedures. . . cell repair and the like. Our experiments are at an early stage, but we're hopeful, neh, Eduard?"

Hilbert bobbed his head. He was a thin, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties with the slightly haunted look of a man who preferred the laboratory to social gatherings. Kim extended his hand. "It's good to meet you."

"And you." Hilbert looked away, embarrassed, yet his brief smile had been friendly enough. Moreover, in turning he had revealed the pulsing collar about his neck. He too was a commodity slave.

"And this," Campbell continued, introducing a young Han in his early twenties, "is Feng Wo-shen. His background is in protein design, but he'll be working with you, Kim, as one of your assistants."

Feng bowed his head low in what was a very formal way. Straightening up, he met Kim's eyes, a natural enthusiasm burning in his own. "I am delighted to be working with you, Shih Ward. We are all very excited about the work ahead."

Kim returned his bow, then looked up at Campbell. "Assistants?"

The big man smiled. "Of course. We don't expect you to do all the experimental work yourself. You'll need assistants for that. To start with IVe allocated you four. If you need any more . . ."

Kim laughed. "No, no ... four's quite enough. It's just that. . . Well, I didn't expect to be treated quite so well."

Campbell looked genuinely surprised. "Why the hell not? Look, Kim, we've made a huge investment in you. It would be downright stupid not to get the best out of you. You're a theorist, right? That's what we bought you for, neh? Well then, it makes sense surely to free you to do what you're best at. To utilize your talents to their maximum capacity."

Kim thought briefly of geese and golden eggs, but merely smiled and nodded. "I take your point, Controller. Yet a great deal of my work is, of necessity, experimental. Feng Wo-shen and the others . . . they'll be of great help, but you must understand . . ."

Campbell raised a hand. "Whatever you want. And whichever way you want to do it. Just get me results, eh? Results." He turned back, putting out an arm to indicate the next in line. "Now, this here . . ."

For the next half hour Kim moved about the reception hall, meeting the people he was to work with, coming back, finally, to the group about the glass-topped table—a table which he saw, suddenly, was no table at all, but a huge display tank, its occupant, if occupant it had, hidden beneath a screen of greenery and rock. While Campbell went through the business of introducing him formally to Bonnot and Schram, Kim thought of the task ahead. At last he was to be given everything he'd been denied before: good equipment, well-trained staff, and whatever was needed to develop and manufacture a marketable product. The only real difference was in how the profit from the venture was distributed.

He smiled inwardly. What Campbell had said earlier was true. If he did well, they would all be happy. And who knew, he might even enjoy the work. Yet it wasn't quite as simple as that. He could see it in the way Bonnot and Schram looked at him, with a jealous hostility and a deep-rooted contempt for his stunted Clayborn body. Well, he could live with that. Besides, there was always Campbell's promise of protection.

As soon as was polite, he moved to one side of the group and leaned over the tank, looking down into its depths, his fingertips resting gently against the glass. The surface of the tank was cold, the ice thick, reinforced, as if the water within were being kept at a different pressure from the room.

For a time there was nothing, then, as if it had been waiting for him, it appeared, slowly at first, one appendage coiling like a snake about the rock, blindly searching with its tiny suckers. And then, with a dreamlike slowness that was mesmerizing, it hauled itself up through the concealing layers of weed, until its vast bulk seemed to fill the tank. . .

He stared at it, fascinated. It was like a spider. A giant aquatic spider, its long arms coiling sinuously along the restraining walls of the tank. As he watched, the mottled dome of its head turned through the shadows until it faced him, its huge eyes blinking slowly, then meeting his own in a cold, incurious stare that seemed to sum him and dismiss him.

Kim moved back, shivering. Once more mere knowing had failed him, for to be in the presence of such a creature—one of the ancient monsters of the deep—was to experience a sense of primal fear. Yes, simply to meet those eyes was to stare into something vast and dark and eternally alien, eternally withheld.

It was a deep ocean creature. How, then, had they trapped it? How brought it here? How kept it? As it turned, slipping back beneath the masking layers of weed and rock, he tried to estimate its length. Fifty, maybe sixty ch'i it was. Huge, even by the measure of its kind.

Kim turned, sensing another presence just behind him. It was Campbell. He stood there, one hand tugging at his goatee thoughtfully.

The Controller looked past Kim at the disappearing monster, then met his eyes again. "Well? What do you think of our pet? Impressive, neh? One of the deep-level units found him, more than a year back, some six li down in the center of the Abyss. They stunned him, then put him in a temporary capsule with a few tidbits while they decided what to do with him. In the end we had to build a special pressure chamber. Even then it took us almost two weeks to bring him up—a ch'i at a time, it seemed. But here he is. Our pride and joy." Campbell turned, looking back at Kim. "You're very fortunate, Kim. He doesn't deign to visit us that often. Most of his tank's down there, beneath the City. A huge thing it is. You can visit it sometime, if you want."

Kim gave a vague nod, then looked away. Six li. . . Which meant that the pressure in the tank had to be phenomenal.

"Has he a name?"

Campbell nodded. "We call him Old Darkness. Among other things. But look, let's talk about it later, eh? There's someone else I'd like you to meet. She'd have been here earlier, but her flight was delayed. Come, she's waiting over there."

Kim stared at the tank a moment longer, then followed Campbell across, giving the briefest nod of acknowledgment to Schram and Bonnot as he passed.

"Here," Campbell said, ushering him into a circle of people. "Bar-ratt and Symons you met earlier, but I'd like to introduce you to our new Commercial Advisor. I understand you know each other already . . ."

But Kim was no longer listening. At the first sight of the short, dark-haired woman, he had moved past Campbell and embraced her, holding her against him tightly, fiercely, his eyes brimming with tears. "Rebecca . . ." he said, amazed, moving his face back to stare at her, as if at a long-lost sister. "The gods forgive me, I thought you were dead. . ."

THINGS happened FAST. Within an hour of the attack, Gratton was on all channels, coast to coast, expressing his shock and sadness. His image was intercut with pictures looking down on the operating table as the surgeons tried to put Michael Lever back together again. Only the intercession of Kennedy got the floats out of there—under threat of expensive legal actions. Then, before three hours had passed, Kennedy himself spoke to reporters—calling a news conference in the anteroom at the hospital, a white-faced Carl Fisher standing at his shoulder as he talked.

Various terrorist organizations had been quick to disclaim the incident. The Black Hand had even gone so far as to condemn the action. A MedFac poll, taken half an hour after Kennedy's abrasive statement, expressed the general attitude: Gratton was sunk ... if Lever lived.

Kennedy had accused no one. He had stood there, red-eyed, genuinely moved by what had happened, and denounced violence as a political means. Eloquently, he had outlined what had happened to these young men who had only stood up for what they believed in. The disinheriting, the double-dealing, the embargoes by the old men. And now this. He phrased it cleverly, so that no one could accuse him of making too direct a link between the attack and the old men who were out to stop them, but the mere fact of juxtaposition gave his words a power that forced his listeners to consider whether this act had come from the same hands that had shaped the rest of it.

Charles Lever's writ against Kennedy was served an hour later. The floating cameras, following him all the while now, caught the moment and broadcast it, along with Kennedy's sad, regretful smile and his few words. "Tell Mr. Lever I'm sorry he's more concerned for his own political hide than for his son's life."

Those channels that hadn't had a camera there bought tapes and showed them repeatedly throughout the remainder of the night and for the whole of the next day. But by then they had fresher material to work on.

Security, conscious of how sensitive the matter was, had put two Special Services units onto the case and results were already coming in. Representative Hartmann had been taken in to Security Headquarters in Washington for questioning, and three men from his political entourage—all ex-Security—had been making statements all afternoon. Hartmann had smiled at the cameras gathered overhead, but the smile had been sickly—the smile of a man who knows the trap has been sprung. News soon leaked out that they had taken him from an off-planet shuttle in Denver.

After Kennedy's response to the writ, Charles Lever had locked his doors against the media. At the Cutler Institute, they refused to comment on the situation. Meanwhile, a southern network had followed up the Bryn Kustow connection and was showing an hour documentary on the dead man's life, together with an interview with his grieving mother. His father had shut himself away and was refusing to comment.

At eight thirty, three hours after he had come out of the operating theater, Michael Lever opened his eyes. Emily was seated at the bedside, leaning over him. On the far side of the room, Kennedy, Fisher, and Parker sat on hospital chairs, waiting. Overhead, a single camera captured the moment for later transmission.

At first there was nothing in Michael's face, only a vague disorientation. Then, as memory came back, he began to sob. Emily leaned closer, whispering words of comfort and holding his hand tightly. Behind her, the three men were standing now, tears streaming down their faces. The camera's second lens caught this also.

After a moment Kennedy came across and stood beside Emily, looking down into Michael's heavily bandaged face. He wiped his eyes and cheeks with a surgical rag, then moved back slightly, giving the camera a better view.

Michael shuddered. "Who did it, Joe? Do they know who did it?"

Kennedy shook his head. "Not yet." He said nothing about Hart-mann. Nothing about his father's writ.

Michael closed his eyes and swallowed. When he opened them again they were moist with tears. "I feel numb, Joe. From the waist down."

Kennedy glanced at Emily, then looked away. From above it seemed as if Kennedy were finding it hard to say what he had to. He turned his head to the side, his shoulders giving a tiny shudder; then he faced Michael again, bracing himself. "They say that there's nothing they can do about that, Michael. Fragments of the device passed through your chest and lodged in the base of your spine. You're paralyzed, Michael. From the waist down."

Michael's face was blank a moment, then he nodded. It was clear he was still in shock.

"They say you were lucky," Kennedy went on. "You'd be dead if you'd been alone."

Again Michael nodded, but this time a flicker of pain crossed his face. "I loved him . . ." he said softly, his voice ending in a tiny sound that tore at the listener like a barb. Then he turned his face aside. A single tear traced its way down his cheek, the camera lens switching to close-focus to follow its progress.

Bryn Kustow had taken the full brunt of the explosion. It had, quite literally, torn him apart. But his body had shielded Michael from the blast. Even so, the explosion had broken both of Michael's legs, cracked his skull, and caused extensive internal injuries. Fragments of hot metal as well as bone from Kustow's right arm had lodged in Michael's flesh, severing blood vessels, musculature, and nerves. His most serious injury, however, was his damaged spine. It was not impossible that he would walk again—bioprosthetics could cure almost anything but death itself these days—but it would be some while before he would be on his feet. And the election was only three days away.

One enterprising channel, having shown a diagram of the relative positions of Kustow and Lever, gave their viewers a full hologrammic reconstruction of the explosion. Billions watched as computer simulations looking remarkably like the two short-haired and handsome young men were blown apart by the explosion. Then, moments later, it showed it once again, varying the viewpoint and slowing the action.

Another channel, deploring the taste and, maybe, regretful that they had not had the idea first, set up a fund to pay for Michael Lever's bioprosthetic treatment, taking the opportunity to comment on the fact that, by rights, a certain Charles Lever should be footing the bill. They, too, found themselves served with a writ within the hour.

Hartmann was charged with conspiracy to murder on the morning of the election, but by then the damage had been done. Gratton had pulled out the night before. When the polls closed, Michael Lever had been elected almost unopposed, collecting ninety-seven percent of the votes cast. More significantly, the New American Party, buoyed up by the sympathy vote, had won no less than twenty-six of the thirty seats they had been contesting.

The cameras were allowed briefly into Michael Lever's hospital room to get his reaction. From his bed he smiled dourly up at the cluster of floats and made a short speech of thanks. Then, clearly tired, he lay back with the help of a nurse and, even as the cameras watched, he closed his eyes and slept. It was left to Representative Joseph Kennedy to read the prepared speech on Lever's behalf.

A thousand li northeast of where Michael Lever lay sleeping, Charles Lever stood in a darkened room, watching the image of his son. It had been a bad week, not least in the markets. But now, looking at his son lying there, so vulnerable, so badly hurt, the old man softened. "I didn't mean . . ." he said, in a whisper. At least, he hadn't wanted to push things quite this far.

He reached out to touch and trace the image on the big screen, his fingers following the strong line of Michael's cheek, just as once he'd touched the sleeping child.

Things change, he thought, turning away. And maybe there was a reason for that. A lesson in it. He shivered and stood there, facing away from the screen, then turned back, hearing the commentator mention his name.

". . . whose silence has been taken by many to be, perhaps, more meaningful than any words he could have offered."

He felt that same tightening in his chest, the anger coming back. None of them had the guts, the balls, to come out openly and say it. But the innuendo was clear enough. Lever spat out his disgust and took a step toward the screen. As he did so, the image changed and in place of his son's sleeping face was his own: a hard, uncompromising face; the face of an old man. He breathed in sharply, as if stung, then stormed across the room to the comset. Grunting with anger, he tapped out the code for his lawyer. Then, while he waited for the connection, he turned to listen to the commentary again.

". . . and while Hartmann's confession makes no explicit allegations, many leading figures on the Index are surprised that the Security investigations have ended with Hartmann and his close associates. Is vengeance the motive, as Hartmann claims? Or is there something deeper and darker behind this whole business?"

Even as the commentator finished, Lever was through.

"Dan? Is that you? Good. . . Look I want you to arrange an exclusive interview with EduVoc. Usual terms. We have the right of veto . . ." He listened a moment, then huffed out irritably. "You think that's wise?" Again he listened. "No. Of course not! There's no link whatsoever!" He took a deep breath, calming himself. "Look, Dan, all I know is that I'm sick to death of this shit . . . this innuendo. I want it ended, right? If you can't get veto, we go ahead without and sue the bastards if they play any tricks on us."

Kennedy's face was on the screen now, a kind of sad dignity in his expression as he read out Michael Lever's speech. But all the old man saw was its smug self-righteousness, its falseness. You, he thought. You're the bastard who did all this! Yes . . . the more he thought about it, the more he realized what had happened. And maybe . . . well, maybe Kennedy had even arranged this little stunt. To win support. To make martyrs of his young men and turn a losing position into a winning one.

As soon as he'd had the thought he was convinced of it. It made perfect sense, after all. Michael's death—like Kustow's—served no one but Kennedy.

Finishing his call, Charles Lever put the comset down, laughing sourly. He could prove nothing yet, but given time he'd make the charge stick. First, however, he had to clear his own name and turn opinion around. And if that meant canning his feelings of betrayal, he would do that. He'd act a part. And in time, maybe, he would get his son back. Not the son he'd had. No, nothing could bring that back now. But something. A son in name. Yes, he'd have that much.

KIMWOKESUDDENLY, kicking the coyer away from him, his naked body sheened in sweat. He had been dreaming. Dreaming of his time in Rehabilitation.

He had been back there, in the Unit, the night that Luke had died, feeling that same tightness in his chest, that same awful, devastating sense of loss.

He sat up, setting his feet down on the warm, uncarpeted floor, then took a long, shuddering breath. The memory was so powerful, so vivid, that he had to remind himself where he was. Rebecca. Meeting Rebecca again had brought it all back. She had been there that night, along with Will and Deio. And the bird. The dead bird . . .

Five of them, there'd been. Claybom. Escapees from that vast, uncharted darkness beneath the City's floor. Each one of them a product of the "Program"; an argument against the old saying that Clay was Clay and could not be raised.

Yes, he could see them even now as if they sat about him in the darkness. Deio, dark-eyed and curly-haired, to his left; the big, North European lad, Will, lolling beside him, the fingers of one hand combing through his short blond hair. Across from them sat Luke, his strong Latin looks reminiscent of an ancient Ta Ts'in emperor, a restrained, almost leonine power in his every movement. And finally Rebecca, silent, thoughtful, defensive, her oval face cupped between her hands as she stared back at Kim.

Slowly his breathing calmed. Slowly the ghosts faded from the room, until he alone remained. He leaned across, switching on the bedside lamp, then stood, looking about him, refamiliarizing himself with the tiny room. Anchoring himself to the here and now.

It was some time since he had dreamed so vividly. Some time since he had felt such fear, such loss, such longing. It was four years now since he had left the Unit, and in all that time he had never once looked back. Not that he'd forgotten those times. No, for it seemed he was incapable of forgetting. Rather, it was as if he had built a wall about them. A wall his conscious mind refused to climb.

Until now.

He went across to the tiny galley and stood at the sink, sluicing himself down, letting the cold water run down his face and chest and arms. And as he did he looked back again, remembering.

Rebecca. What did he remember of Rebecca?

Mostly her intensity, and the way she used to look at him, her dark eyes staring relentlessly, her whole face formed into a question. She had such a strong, intense face. A face perfectly suited for austerity and suffering. She was always the last to understand Deio's jokes; always the last to smile or laugh.

One would have thought that their shared experience would have bound them tight, yet she had always been the outsider among them,

even after what had happened. And yet he had felt drawn to her even then—to the vulnerability he had sensed beneath that facade of imperturbability. Forgetting nothing, he remembered her words clearly, as if she had spoken them only yesterday. Recalled how angry she had felt at being "cheated":

"It's all just as Luke said. A trade. A crude exchange. Our lives for what we can give them. And the rest—all that pretense of caring—is nothing but hollow words and empty gestures."

Did she still believe that? Or had she forgotten what had happened back then? Last night, talking to her, it had been hard to tell. She had seemed so different; so outward and self-assured. But was that simply another mask?

After Rehabilitation she had signed on for three years with the giant Cos Vac Company as a commodity slave, working as a Technical Design Consultant, but had bought out her contract six months early to take up an offer from SimFic. She had worked for fifteen months in their East Asian arm, then had moved here three months back, reporting directly to Campbell.

She had done well for herself. To all intents and purposes she was her own boss; a free woman, defining her own aims, carving her own path up the levels. Yet standing there, listening to her, watching her laugh and smile, Kim had felt that, beneath it all, something was missing. Or was it memory playing tricks? Was it simply that he remembered how vulnerable she had been that day they had taken Will and Deio? Was it simply that he could see her still, sitting there alone in the common room, desolate, her tiny, doll-like hands trembling, afraid that they would come for her too?

Kim straightened up, studying himself in the mirror above the sink. Maybe he was wrong. After all, he himself had changed a great deal since those days. Four years. It wasn't long, but a lot could happen in that time.

He turned slightly, frowning. Something, perhaps the play of light on the water, reminded him suddenly of how the dream had begun. He had been in the pool, floating on his back, staring up at the ceiling, at the red, black, and gold of the ancient Tun Huang star map.

He narrowed his eyes, remembering. Slowly the colors melted, fading into black, while all about him the edges of the pool misted into nothingness. And suddenly he was alone, floating on the surface of the great ocean, a billion stars dusting the darkness overhead.

There was a moment's peace, of utter, perfect stillness, and then it happened.

With a noise like a vast sigh the surface of the water shuddered and became a massive field of earth; of moist, dark clay that stretched to the horizon. He began to struggle in the soft, dark earth, but the more he struggled the more the clay clung to his limbs, tugging at him, slowly sucking him down into its black, suffocating maw.

He cried out, and woke, on his back at the bottom of a deep, dark well. It was still and silent. Far above him the moon sat like a blinded eye in the center of the sky. Lifting his hand, he saw it appear far above him, like a vision, floating there in the darkness, the fingers groping for the light.

There was a noise nearby. A scrabbling, scratching sound. Turning, he saw, part embedded in the curving wall of the well, the faces of his friends Will, Deio, and Luke. From the clay beneath each face a pair of arms extended, hands clawing blindly at the clay that filled each eye, each choking mouth.

He looked back. His hand had floated free, beyond his grasp, but it didn't matter now. Lifting his bloated body, he began to climb, flexing his eight limbs quickly as he climbed the wall. Up, into the light.

At the top he turned, looking back. His friends had freed themselves. They lay there now, exhausted, at the foot of the well. Seeing him, they called out plaintively. Save us, Lagasek! Save us from the darkness.'

He turned his great abdomen about, meaning to help them, to cast a silvered thread down through the darkness and let them climb to safety, yet even as he turned the earth heaved like a great sack and folded in upon itself. And they were gone.

He cried out . . . and woke a second time, back in the room, in Rehabilitation, himself again, listening to Will describe what he had seen on the plain below the ruins of Bremen. A tribe of men. Of blue-black men with teeth of polished bone.

Kim shuddered, remembering, then pushed back, away from the sink. He looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror, conscious suddenly of a faint pulsing glow from the other room. He turned. The comset in the far corner of the bedroom had come on-line, the RESPOND key flashing a dull, insistent red.

He went through, leaning across the chair to tap in his personal access code. At once the message spilled out onto the screen.

Meridian. Departing Titan: 15. 10. 2210 CKST Can route messages via SimFic's Saturn Rep.

[Campbell]

He pulled out the chair and sat, the dream forgotten. Jelka . . . Jelka was on Titan! He imagined her out there and laughed, astonished. The gods alone knew how Campbell had found out, but he had. Kim shivered, a moment's doubt assailing him, then shook his head. No, he would grab this chance to speak to her—to let her know what had been happening. And to tell her that he would wait for her. However long it took.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

East Winds

You'RE FAMOUS now," Kennedy was saying. "People expect things of you, Michael. Big things. You've been close to death, and that means something to them."

Michael Lever smiled faintly and looked away. He was propped up in bed, a small hill of pillows behind him. It was a large, private ward and on tables to one side were dozens of sprays of flowers from well-wishers. He looked back at Kennedy, a warmer expression on his face. "I appreciate what you're saying, but. . . well, it's just that I don't want to think too much about it yet." He looked down. "Not yet. . . okay?"

Kennedy sat back. "I understand, Michael. I'm not here to push you. Just to let you know how things stand. Right?"

"Right."

Later that afternoon Kennedy was flying off to Chicago. There, this evening, he would be making a speech on the matter of the proposed new population legislation—in particular on what they were calling the "Euthanasia Bill." The attack on Lever had meant that more than the normal media attention would be on the speech. Already several channels had been clamoring for Michael's reactions and comments. Thus far Kennedy had fended them off, but they both knew that, denied some kind of response, the media could well turn hostile. Kennedy was here to try to persuade Michael to make a limited comment.

"I'm sorry that it had to happen this way, Michael. This kind of life. . . it's hyperreal. They want you to live every second in the lights. And they're hungry. Like sharks. Feed them some blood—the other guy's blood, if you can—and they're happy. But you can't keep them out of the water. And you can't make friends with them. Not in any real sense. So you have to deal with them on their own terms."

Michael looked up. He was less pale than he had been, but he still looked drawn. "I understand, Joe." He sighed and reached out to scratch at his useless legs. "Let's compromise, huh? Tell them I'm tired now—sedated, maybe—and that I'm going to see the playback of the speech in the morning and speak to them then. How about that? That way you could get back here, maybe . . ." He leaned back again, looking up hopefully at the older man.

Kennedy smiled. "Okay. We'll do it your way. And I'll try and get back for the conference."

"Try?"

"I'll be here, Michael. Okay?"

Michael nodded and let his head relax, closing his eyes. Kennedy, watching him, felt the weight of all the unsaid things press down on him briefly. The last week had been the hardest he had known, the demands on him exhausting; but it would all be worth it in the long run. For a moment he sat back and closed his eyes, pressing at his face and yawning. He needed sleep, a whole week's worth of sleep, but there wasn't time just now. This was a crucial moment: make or break time.

Only two days ago Charles Lever had come out of his self-imposed isolation and spoken to the media about his feelings of grief and anger at what had happened to his son. Kennedy had made sure that Michael hadn't seen it, nor heard anything of the rumor circulating that Charles Lever had organized the attempt on his son's life. But things were in flux. The bombing had acted as a catalyst— fragmenting popular opinion into two diametrically opposed camps. They had benefited from the initial public outcry, and their fortunes had risen dramatically on a tidal wave of emotional reaction, but in the week that followed the old men had fought back. The media stories about Kennedy and the other young men were vicious and often quite unabashedly libelous. To even try to answer some of the grosser charges was impossible. Cornered, their opponents were throwing mud. And some of it would stick.

Strangest of all that had happened that week were two separate and quite unexpected developments. First, two days back, at the same time that Charles Lever was talking to the media, Kennedy had been approached by an old acquaintance, a young man who claimed to be representing the "Sons"—the group formed from the old Dispersionist faction. Michael Lever and his friends had once been members of the group, but had broken with them when they had linked up with Kennedy. Now, it seemed, the Sons wanted to meet and come to some kind of arrangement.

Only an hour after that visit, someone else had come to see Kennedy—Fen Cho-hsien, Wu Shih's chief minister.

He had sat there for a long time afterward, wondering if the two events were somehow connected—were an elaborate setup, designed to trap and expose him to the media—but eventually he decided that it was a genuine coincidence; one of those tiny twists of fate that made life both unpredictable and interesting. The Sons had not said what they wanted, and he had committed himself only to a meeting. But Fen Cho-hsien had been specific. Wu Shih wanted a deal.

He had hoped to talk to Michael of this. To sound him on it. But Michael wasn't ready yet. Bryn Kustow's death was too close. He was still shocked; horrified by how personal this business was; astonished that someone—anyone—should want him dead. A veil had been torn aside and he had glimpsed what all of this was really about.

Kennedy opened his eyes and looked at the now sleeping Lever. He would be a better man for this personal knowledge. Harder, less easy to fool. Though the loss of Bryn was tragic, what they had gained might yet make up for it.

And for himself?

As a Kennedy he had always known how things stood. He had been taught, from his family's long history, how naked power was, and how frail the flesh that wielded that power. And now Wu Shih had made that history personal. If he said, "Come, make a deal," then he would need to go and do as he was told. What other choice was there?

He shivered and stood up, leaving Michael to sleep. Perhaps it was best that things were as they were. That way he alone could be blamed. He alone take the responsibility.

DEAD MAN YUN pulled a piece of steaming pork from the pot and popped it into his mouth, then turned, facing Fat Wong.

"Aren't they beautiful, Wong Yi-sun? Aren't they just peaches?"

Fat Wong smiled, looking across to where the three young boys sheltered in the skirts of their mother, Yun Yueh-hui's daughter.

"They are little emperors, Yueh-hui. If they were my grandsons I would want no more from life."

Dead Man Yun's face creased into a rare smile. He laughed, then slapped Fat Wong's back robustly. "That is so, Wong Yi-sun. I am a blessed man. The gods have truly smiled on me."

Fat Wong reached out, embracing his old friend briefly, touched by his words. One could not count on much in this life, but Yun Yueh-hui had been a staunch ally these past ten years. As safe as T'ai Shan.

"You know what to say?"

Yun nodded, his face impassive. "I know my part in this, Yi-sun, and I am happy with it. We have no choice. We must cleanse ourselves of this scourge before it overwhelms us."

"Indeed." Fat Wong moved back, watching as Yun turned, giving final instructions to his servants. Then, at Yun's signal, they went back into the dining room, the two of them following the servants and their heaped trays.

The others were waiting for them there: Ho Chin, Feng Shang-pao, and Li Chin, the three Bosses looking up from their places at the great oval table. It was a long time since they had met like this, and Fat Wong, looking about him, felt a vague sadness that this should pass. But pass it must. The Great Wheel had turned. Change was inevitable. And he could not let old friendships stand in the way of that. Not unless he wished his family's banner to hang in another's hall.

Fat Wong sat, smiling at each of his fellows in turn, then watched as the servants set out the bowls—thirty courses in all—at the center of the table.

"Why, this is excellent," Three-Finger Ho said, speaking for them all. "It is many years since I ate snake and monkey-brains."

Yun lowered his head slightly. "I am honored that you like my humble fare. But come, ch'un tzu. Let us begin. Before the rice grows cold."

They had met tonight to deal with Lehmann, to settle things, once and for all, but for a time their talk steered clear of the matter, as if it were a jagged rock. Fat Wong was happy with this, savoring the meal, the flow of casual pleasantries, but as the servants began to clear the bowls, he turned the conversation, bringing it directly to the point.

"So what are we to do about this upstart? How are we to rid ourselves of this pai nan jenl"

The term brought smiles from about the table; but they were tense, nervous smiles that faded quickly. "The white man." It was how they had come to talk of Lehmann among themselves, as if the term distinguished him from the other Hung Moo. Moreover, it was apt. For everywhere he went, death—the White T'ang—seemed to follow.

"Let us kill him," Three-Finger Ho said bluntly. "Hire a shoo lin to assassinate him."

"It has been tried," General Feng said, wiping his fingers on the wet cloth, then handing it to the servant behind him. "Whiskers Lu tried it, but our friend was too clever for him. No, if we are to strike, it must be through someone close to him. Someone he trusts."

"Difficult," Li the Lidless interjected, sucking at his fingers noisily. "He lets few come close to him, and those are fiercely loyal. I doubt we would find one among them who would take our blood money. No. We would be better off fighting him."

"A war?" Fat Wong asked, eyeing Li from across the table. "An all-out war, to the death?"

Beside him, Dead Man Yun looked down.

"Exactly," Li Chin said, leaning across to take the last few cashews from one of the bowls before the servant cleared it. "Five against one. How could we lose?"

Fat Wong looked down, suddenly apprehensive. If Li Chin's idea took hold he was in trouble. The agreement he had reached with Li Yuan—whatever its merits in the long run-—depended in the short term on him maintaining peace down here in the Lowers. Were he to break that agreement, who knew how Li Yuan might react? Had his preparations been more advanced he might have risked it. But he was not ready yet. He could not afford to antagonize Li Yuan.

"Is that wise?" he asked quietly, meeting Li's staring, egglike eyes with a show of apparent openness. "I have some sympathy for your view, Li Chin, but think of the cost, the disruption to our enterprises. Have we not always said that it is better to make money than fight wars? Is that not why we have thrived while others have gone under?"

"Maybe so," Li answered. "But when the east wind blows, the wise man bows before it. We must bow to the inevitable, Wong Yi-sun. We must fight the pai nan jen, before it is too late."

"Is war the only course left to us, brother Li?" Dead Man Yun asked, gesturing for his servants to leave the room. "Have we exhausted every other option?"

Li Chin turned, facing Yun. "Every day that passes makes him stronger. Can you not see it, Yun Yueh-hui? We can delay no longer. We must act. At once."

Yun nodded. "Of course. That is why we are here tonight, neh? To deal with this problem before it becomes insoluble. But we must think hard before setting out on such a venture. War is like a fire, easy to start, but hard to control. I do not rule it out. No. But we must save it for our final option, when all else has failed."

Li looked about him, seeing how the others were nodding in agreement and sat back, shrugging. "So what do you propose?"

Yun glanced briefly at Wong Yi-sun, then looked back at Li, his dark eyes staring back unblinkingly from his death-mask face. "I say we starve him out. Destroy his markets. Attack him indirectly, through his middlemen. Undermine him and make his rule untenable."

"And if that fails?"

"Then we fight him."

Li considered a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But how long do you propose we give ourselves? Six months? A year?"

"Six months," Fat Wong said, hiding his satisfaction. Yes, and then there would be war. But not against Lehmann. No. For by that time he would have swallowed Lehmann up, pearl-handled knife and all. "East winds . . ." he said, lifting his wine cup and looking about the table. "Here's to east winds!"

FROM WHERE THEY STOOD, high up on a Fourth Level balcony, overlooking the busy thoroughfare, the two men could see the loaded carts being wheeled back toward the interdeck transit elevator. Lehmann's men were everywhere, keeping the inquisitive at bay, making sure the operation went smoothly and without a hitch.

"You've covered yourself?" Lehmann said, not looking at the man beside him, his eyes taking in everything that was happening down below.

"Naturally," the Major answered casually. "It'll be weeks before they sort out the mix-up. And even then they won't be certain just what happened."

"And your Captains know nothing?"

The Major smiled broadly. "No more than the men. As I said, it's all a question of overlays. Of contradictory information. My man's good. One of the best when it comes to manipulating the records. When the T'ing Wei come to investigate the matter, they'll find two sets of information—two versions of events—and both will be corroborated."

Lehmann glanced at the officer. "And the money?"

"Don't worry, my friend. It's salted away where no prying eyes will find it. As I said, I'm a patient man. Six years from now I can take early retirement, if I want it, that is. When I do, I can look forward to a nice little nest egg, neh? And all this will have been forgotten by then. No one will notice if I live like a T'ang. They will think merely that I have invested wisely over the years."

He laughed, but Lehmann, beside him, was silent, thoughtful. He had paid the Major two and a half million to set this up. A further two and a half was due once this was done. In return he got munitions worth half that much, maybe even less. But it was worth it. Because this way no one would know they had them. This way no rival Boss would get to hear what he was up to.

Lehmann turned from the balcony. "Let's go," he said, touching the Major's arm. "I want to be out of here before those alarms start sounding."

The Major nodded, studying Lehmann a moment, an unasked question on his lips, then turned, following the albino back down the stairwell toward the waiting lift.

THE CROWD in the great hall had fallen silent. Only a faint murmur of silks could be heard as heads turned to see who it was had come among them. A thousand faces, Han, aristocratic, looked toward the giant, jade-paneled doors at the far end of the hall. Two men stood there.

The Hung Mao stood between the towering doors, looking about him. There was the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were keen, sharply observant. For a min he held himself well; proudly, as if he too were ch'un tzu. Beside him was the Chancellor, Fen Cho-hsien, looking impatient, clearly put out by the fact that he had to accompany the man. "Come," he said distinctly, and started forward, moving between the lines of guests. The Hung Moo walked behind him, looking from side to side quite openly, his head making small bows, his face lit by the mildest, most innocuous of smiles, as though he realized his presence was offensive and wished to minimize that insult.

When Chancellor Fen reached the smaller doors on the far side of the hall he turned abruptly, and signaling to the musicians, whose instruments had fallen silent with the rest, he spoke a few words in the mother tongue to those nearest him. At once heads turned back and conversation began to pick up. The orchestra started up a moment later.

"I am sorry to come among you thus," said the Hung Mao quietly.

Fen Cho-hsien studied him a moment, then nodded, placated by the modesty of the man. He was not like most of the others. There was a subtlety, a grace about him that was rarely found among them. Most were like apes, crude in the expression of their needs. But this one was different. Fen Cho-hsien bowed slightly and turned to face the doors again, knocking firmly on the carved and lacquered panel.

Two guards opened the doors and they went through, into an anteroom, then down a narrow corridor where a ceiling scanner rotated in its flexible cradle, following them. At the far end of the corridor, more guards were waiting. The Hung Moo had been searched already, but now they repeated the process, checking him thoroughly while the Minister waited, his eyes averted. Satisfied, one of them spoke into a handset and pressed out a code. Behind them, the doors to the inner sanctum opened.

Wu Shih came forward, hands extended. "Representative Kennedy, it is a delight to meet you at last. I have seen much and heard much about you." He took the American's hands and pressed them firmly, his eyes meeting Kennedy's with an expression partway between greeting and challenge. "I felt it was time that we met. . . and talked."

The room was a delicate blue, every piece of furniture chosen to complement its soft, relaxing shade. When they sat it was on low chairs with silk cushions of a rich, deep blue, speckled with petals of peach and ivory and bronze. Kennedy's dark business silks seemed intrusive, a foreign element. He sat there, trying not to feel discomfort. There had been no time to change. The summons had said "At once," and you did not argue with the word of a T'ang. Not yet, anyway.

Wu Shih leaned forward, the silk folds of his long, flowing gown whispering softly. He seemed soft, almost effeminate beside the big, hard-featured Hung Mao, but his eyes were like the eyes of a hunting bird and his hands, where they showed from the soft blue silk, were hard and dark and strong.

"I am sorry I gave you so little time. In such matters it is best to act quickly. This way no one knows you are here."

Kennedy made a small, turning movement of his head, as if to indicate the crowded hall outside, but Wu Shih simply smiled.

"No one but you and I. What I tell my people not to see they do not see."

Kennedy smiled, understanding, but remained on his guard.

"You wonder what I want. Why I should ask you here today."

"You'll tell me," Kennedy answered matter-of-factly.

Wu Shih sat up a little, reassessing things. Then he laughed.

"Indeed. I am forgetting. You are a realist, not an idealist. You deal with real things, not dreams."

There was truth as well as irony in the words. Wu Shih had been doing his homework. But then, so too had Kennedy.

"The attainment of real things—that can be a dream, can it not?"

Wu Shih gave a small nod. "Not like other dreams, neh?"

He was referring clearly to the Cutler Institute. To the dreams of the Old Men.

"Yu Kung!" Kennedy said. Foolish old men.

Wu Shih laughed and clapped his hands. "You know our tongue, then, Shih Kennedy?"

"Enough to understand. Perhaps enough to pass."

The T'ang sat back, studying him. "There's something that was not in your file. Where did you learn the Kuan hua?"

"My father had many dealings with your servants and your father's servants. A little knowledge of your ways was helpful. It was one of the great secrets of his success."

"And your father taught you?"

Kennedy smiled and nodded. At that moment he seemed his most boyish and charming and Wu Shih, looking at him, felt some element of warmth creep into his calculations. He liked this particular American. So unlike the crabby old men and their shriveled dreams of forever.

"Then perhaps my intuition is better than I first thought."

Wu Shih hesitated, then stood and turned away from the American. Kennedy, aware of protocol, got to his feet, waiting silently to find out why Wu Shih had summoned him. After a minute or so, the T'ang turned back to face him.

"I must choose to trust you, Shih Kennedy. And that is no light thing for a T'ang to do. We trust few to know what lies within our minds, and you are a stranger here. Even so, I will trust you."

Kennedy gave the slightest bow, his eyes never leaving the other's face.

"You are a clever man, Joseph Kennedy. You know how things are. Where the power lies in this City. And you know how to use power, how to manufacture the raw stuff of which it is made." The T'ang allowed himself a smile. "And no, not money. Not just that. Something deeper, more dependable than money. Loyalty. I see you and I see those about you and I recognize what it is that binds them to you." He paused. "You are a strong man, Shih Kennedy. A powerful man. My ministers have told me I should crush you. Find ways to dishonor you. To entrap you and buy you. They have proposed a dozen different schemes to break you and humiliate you."

Kennedy said nothing. He stood there, his head slightly lowered, listening, his watchful eyes taking in everything. Wu Shih, noting this, smiled inwardly. Kennedy was no fool. His strength came from deep within—from a self-confidence that, like his own, was innate.

"However, what I see of you I like. I see a man who thinks like a man ought to think. Who puts his people before himself. And I like that. I respect it. But as a practical man I must ask myself a question. Can there be two Kings in City America? If I let this man— yourself—continue thus, will I not, in time, fall prey to his success?"

He was quiet a moment, then, "Well?"

"I am the T'ang's man," Kennedy answered, no hesitation or trace of uncertainty in the words. "I speak not against the Seven, but against the Old Men."

Wu Shih narrowed his eyes a moment, then nodded. "So you say now, Joseph Kennedy. But what when America is yours? What when the people come to you and say, 'You, Representative Kennedy, are the man who should be King. You are American. Let us be ruled by an American!' How will you answer them? Will you turn to them and say, 'I am the T'ang's man'?" He laughed. "I like you, and I do you the honor of trusting you with these thoughts, but I am no yu kung, Shih Kennedy. I too am a practical man."

Kennedy was silent a moment. Then, with what seemed almost a sigh, he spoke again. "What do you want from me, Chieh Hsia? What can I give you to ensure my loyalty?"

Wu Shih came closer until he stood almost face to face with the American. "I want a hostage."

Kennedy frowned, not understanding.

"There is a new technique my friend Li Yuan has been perfecting. A means of control."

"Control?"

"It is a simple technical device. It does no harm, I assure you, and the operation is perfectly safe."

"And you want me to ... to undergo this operation?"

Wu Shih shook his head. "No, Shih Kennedy. I see you still don't understand. I want no martyrs. No, nothing like that." He smiled and reached out to lay his hand on the American's shoulder. "I mean your wife, your sons. That's who I mean."

EMILY CLOSED THE DOOR and turned, facing Michael, alone with him at last. She felt raw, her nerves exposed by all that had happened these past few days. The pace of events had left her no time to come to terms with what she felt, but now, facing him, it all came welling up; all the grief and hurt and naked fear.

She went across and stood there, looking down at him. He was asleep, his face pale and pinched, his left hand, where it lay above the cover, flecked with tiny scabs. She had seen the detailed pictures of his injuries, of the horrific damage to his legs and lower back; had stood there in the background while First Surgeon Chang had explained to Kennedy what needed to be done. And had felt nothing, only a sense of numbed unreality. Of shock that this should have happened now. Now when she had finally decided to commit herself.

She took a long breath, then shook her head, reminding herself that all of that had ended. To organize one needed anonymity, and in the space of twenty-four hours she had become famous coast to coast, a "face," "Michael Lever's wife." So now that option was denied her. If she wished to do something—to shape this god-awful world for the good—she must find another way.

She looked down at him and sighed, then put her hand out, touching his brow gently, reassured to find it warm.

His wife. But what had that meant so far? That she shared his bed. And beyond that?

Beyond that it had meant nothing. Kennedy had made sufe of that. Yes, for it was Kennedy who had made sure she stayed at home whenever Michael traveled about the City; Kennedy who had insisted that she sit with the other wives and girlfriends while the men discussed matters of moment. For, after all, wasn't this a man's world? And wasn't that her role—to be the quiet, dutiful wife?

She shuddered, realizing that she had been lying to herself this past year. Oh, she had been happy enough, even when Michael had been away, for their reunions were moments to savor, to look forward to with sweet anticipation. Yet it had never been enough. And now, faced with the prospect of living without that, she understood the price she had paid for her happiness; how much of herself she had denied.

Kennedy. It all came back to Kennedy.

Since the day she had married Michael he had made sure that she was shut out of things; her voice silenced, her views ignored. Almost as if he sensed that there was something that distinguished her from the women of his own social circle, his level. Something more than a simple question of breeding.

And Michael? Michael had accepted it all, as if there were nothing wrong with it. And maybe, in truth, he really couldn't see it, for he too had been bred to accept things as they were. But all that must change. She was determined on it. From now on she would be at his side at all times, offering advice and support, discussing each issue with him as it arose, challenging his inbred notions of the world and its ways, whatever Kennedy and the others thought of it.

She shivered, suddenly indignant, recalling all the times that Kennedy had snubbed her. "My dear," he called her condescendingly. Well, she would show him from here on.

"Fm ?"

L~>111 • * • •

Michael was looking up at her, a weak yet somehow radiant smile lighting his features. Seeing it, all thought evaporated. She reached down and hugged him, gently, carefully, laughing as she did.

"How are you feeling?" she said, kneeling beside him, her face close to his own, her hand clasping his.

"Tired," he said, "and a little numb. But better, much better than I was. I'm glad the cameras have gone, that's all. It was hard. Bryn's death. . ."

She smoothed his brow. "I know. Don't talk about it now. Let's talk about us, eh? About what we're going to do about all this."

There was a flicker of pain in his eyes, a moment's uncertainty, and then he spoke, his voice strangely quiet. "If you want a divorce . . . ?"

She shook her head, strangely moved by the directness of his words, by the blunt honesty of the man.

"It's still there, isn't it?" she said, a faint smile on her lips. "They didn't blow it off, did they?"

He smiled grimly. "Not that I know of."

"Shall I take a look?"

"Em!" He laughed, his laughter shading into a cough. "Behave yourself! The cameras!"

"Bugger the cameras," she said quietly. "Besides, it might give the bastards something to smile about, neh?"

For a time they were silent, looking at each other, then Michael turned his head aside, a slight bitterness, or was it self-pity, registering in his face.

"It'll be hard," he said. "Harder for you, perhaps, than for me. I've only got to get better. You . . ."

"I'll survive," she said, squeezing his hand. "Besides, I've something to do now, haven't I? Something to take my mind off things."

He looked back at her. "What do you mean?"

She smiled. "I'm your wife, Michael. That means something now. Much more than it did before this happened. It gives me a voice."

"And you want that?"

She considered a moment, then nodded. "I've seen things," she said. "Down there in the Lowers. Things you wouldn't believe. Suffering. Awful, indescribable suffering. And I want to do something about it. Something positive."

He stared at her a moment, then nodded, a smile coming to his face. "You're a good woman, Em. The best a man could have. And if that's what you want, then go ahead. Besides, I think you're right. Joe's looking at how this affects the elections, but it's bigger than that, isn't it? IVe been thinking, Em. Bryn's death ..." A flash of pain crossed his face. "Bryn's death has got to mean something. Something good has got to come out of it. So maybe you're right. Maybe we should use this opportunity. You in your way, me in mine."

"And Joseph Kennedy?"

"You don't get on, do you? I've noticed it. From the first, I guess. But it didn't seem to matter before now. He's a good man, Em. I'd vouch for it. But you do what you have to. And if he opposes you, tell me. I'll back you. You know I will."

She smiled, then leaned closer, kissing his brow. "I know. In fact, IVe always known it. But as you say, it didn't matter much before now."

LI yuan CROUCHED there in the shallows of the lake at Tongjiang, his silks hitched up to his knees, facing his fifteen-month-old son.

Kuei Jen was leaning forward as he splashed his father, giggling uncontrollably, his chubby arms flailing at the water, his dark small head beaded with bright droplets.

A ragged line of servants stood knee-deep in the water close by, guarding the deeper water, the sunlight gleaming off their shaven heads, their faces wreathed in smiles as they watched their T'ang playing with the young prince.

On the bank, a picnic had been set up. From beneath the gold and red silk awnings, Li Yuan's wives looked on, laughing and smiling at their husband's antics. Lai Shi and Fu Ti Chang were sitting at the back, on a long seat heaped with cushions, but Mien Shan, Kuei Jen's mother, stood almost at the water's edge, her laughter edged with concern.

Kuei Jen turned, looking across at his mother, then jumped, a funny little movement that brought laughter from all about him. The infant looked around, wide-eyed with surprise, then, seeing the smiles on every face, clapped his hands and, giggling, jumped again.

"That's right!" Yuan yelled delightedly, encouraging him. "Wriggle, my little fish! Wriggle!" And, throwing back his head, he roared with laughter.

But Kuei Jen was beginning to get overexcited, and this time, when he jumped, he stumbled, throwing out his tiny hands as he fell, a brief cry of surprise escaping him before he went under. Quickly, Li Yuan bent down and scooped the spluttering Kuei Jen up, holding him close against his chest, there-there-ing him, and kissing his face.

For a while Kuei Jen howled and howled, but slowly Li Yuan's gentle words had their effect and the child calmed, nuzzling in close to his father's chest.

"There!" Li Yuan said, lifting him and holding him up, above him, at arm's length. He laughed softly. "No harm done, eh, my little fish? No harm."

For a moment longer he hugged his son, kissing the dark crown of his head. "You're a good boy, neh?" he murmured. "A good boy." Then, turning in the water, he waded across to the shore and handed Kuei Jen to his mother.

Mien Shan took her son, looking past him at Li Yuan and smiling broadly. "Thank you, Yuan," she said quietly. "And you are a good father to your son. The very best of fathers."

She turned, summoning her maids. At once they were at her side with towels and dry clothing, tending to the child.

Li Yuan smiled, touched by her words, then stepped up onto the bank, letting one of his body servants towel down his legs while another brought a fresh tunic and fussed about him, dressing him. As they finished, he turned and looked across. Lai Shi and Fu Ti Chang were watching him, their heads close, talking. He smiled, then went across, planting himself between them, putting his arms about their shoulders.

For a moment he sat there, silently enjoying the day. Out on the lake the men had begun to play a game with a stuffed ox's bladder, batting it about and diving to catch it, throwing up great sprays of water, to the amusement of all. Even Kuei Jen had stopped whimpering and had turned to watch them, a smile of amusement lighting his tiny features.

Watching it all, Yuan felt a shiver of contentment pass through him. This was enough, surely? Enough for any man. To have this day, this sunlit, happy hour forever, that surely was enough?

He waited, silent within himself, but for once there was no dark voice to counter that first strong feeling of contentment. So maybe this was it—the balance he had been seeking all these years. Maybe it was simple after all. A matter of relaxing. Of letting go.

"Yuan?"

He turned his head, looking into the dark and pretty eyes of his Second Wife, Lai Shi.

"What is it, my love?"

Her eyes slipped away, meeting Fu Ti Chang's on the other side of him, then returned to his. "It's just that we were talking. Wondering . . ."

Something in her face, maybe the slightest hint of mischievousness in her mouth, told him at once what they had been talking of.

"Wondering whose bed I would come to tonight, is that it?"

Lai Shi nodded.

For a moment he studied her. Lai Shi was not the prettiest of his wives. No, for there was something about her features—some irregularity in that long northern face—that did not quite meet the conventional standard of beauty. Yet when she smiled, when her eyes sparkled with mischief, there was a sensuality to her face, a voluptuousness, that made her by far the most attractive of his wives.

Saying nothing, he turned, facing his Third Wife, Fu Ti Chang. She was the tallest of his wives but also the youngest; a long-legged willow of a girl with breasts like tiny pears and an elegance that, at times, he found intoxicating. She sat there, letting him study her, her large eyes meeting his openly, that modesty that was so ingrained a part of her character staring out at him.

"You wish for a decision?"

Fu Ti Chang nodded.

He turned. "And you, Lai Shi?"

"Yes, husband. But before you do, let me say something. That ten days is a long time for us to be without you. Last night you went to Mien Shan's bed. And before that..."

"Before that I was away." He laughed. "I understand, Lai Shi. A woman is a woman, neh? She has her needs."

Lai Shi smiled, while Fu Ti Chang looked down, a faint blush at her neck.

"Well, a decision you shall have. But first let me say what it is I most like about each of you. Why the choice is such a difficult one."

"Husband . . ." Lai Shi protested, but Li Yuan shook his head.

"No. You will hear me out. And then I shall tell you my decision."

He lay his head back on the cushions and stared out across the lake, considering a moment. Then, with a brief laugh, he began to speak.

"If we are to believe, as the ancient Buddhists once believed, that every soul has been upon this earth before, then Fu Ti Chang was once, I am convinced, a horse. A beautiful, elegant horse, with a good, strong rump, long, fine legs, and the stamina of a Thoroughbred. Many a night have I had her in the saddle until dawn, and never once has she complained of tiredness!"

There was a giggle from Lai Shi, but Fu Ti Chang herself was still, listening to his every word.

"But what I like most about my sweet Fu are her hands. For my youngest wife has the gentlest hands under Heaven. If Kuan Yin ever made love to a mortal man, then I am certain it was in the form of my darling Fu Ti Chang."

Fu Ti Chang gave a slight bow of her head, clearly touched by his words.

"Now, as for Lai Shi, well, what am I to say? That she is the naughtiest of my girls, the most willful?"

"Tell me what creature I was, husband. In my former life . . ."

He laughed. "Why that's easy, Lai Shi. You were a bird. A mischievous magpie, the bringer of good news and joy."

"A magpie!" She laughed delightedly.

"Yes," he said, smiling broadly, enjoying the game. "With a wicked, teasing mouth that, many a night, has settled in my nest." ' ,

She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling. "Can I help it if little niao needs to be fed . . ."

He roared with laughter. "Maybe so, Lai Shi. But eaten?"

He stood, then turned back, looking down at them. "Nan Ho chose well for me, neh? Too well, perhaps, for how am I to choose? Thoroughbred or magpie, which is it to be ? I feel as if I ought to have a copy made of myself."

"Two copies," Fu Ti Chang said, ever practical.

He turned, looking across to where Mien Shan was standing at the lake's edge, the now-sleeping Kuei Jen cradled against her shoulder. "Of course. I had not forgotten Mien Shan. But as for tonight . . . well, why don't you both come to my bed?"

"Both?" Fu Ti Chang stared back at him, shocked, it seemed, but,

beside her, Lai Shi was grinning broadly. She leaned close, whisper-ing something to Fu Ti Chang. For a moment Fu Ti Chang looked puzzled. She frowned intently. Then, unexpectedly, she let out a peal of raucous laughter.

"Yes," he heard her whisper, and found himself intrigued.

They turned back, facing him again, suddenly very formal, sitting up straight-backed in the long seat.

"Well?" he asked. "Is it a satisfactory answer?"

"Whatever our husband wishes," Fu Ti Chang said, bowing to him, her face cracking as Lai Shi began to giggle at her side. "Whatever our husband wishes."

He was about to comment, to ask them what was going on, when a movement to his right distracted him. He looked across. His Master of the Inner Chambers, Chan Teng, was standing there, his head bowed.

"What is it, Master Chan? Is something wrong?"

"No, Chieh Hsia. All is well."

"And the packing? That goes well?"

"We are almost done, Chieh Hsia."

"Good. Then it is something else, neh?"

Chan Teng bowed. "That is so, Chieh Hsia. Marshal Tolonen is here, for your appointment."

Li Yuan shook his head. "I did not expect him until four. Is it that late, already?"

"I am afraid so, Chieh Hsia."

Ah, he thought; then the afternoon is almost done. He looked about him, savoring the sights that met his eyes; the servants playing in the lake, his wives, his sleeping son. There must be more days like this, he thought. Days of ease and happiness. For without them, what is K/e?

Nothing, came the answer. Less than nothing.

He turned back, facing his Master of the Inner Chambers. "Thank you, Master Chan. Go now and tell the Marshal that I will be with him in a while. I must have a final word here."

Chan Teng bowed, then backed away, turning and hurrying off toward the great sweep of steps and the palace beyond. Li Yuan watched him go, then turned back, looking at his wives. It would have been nice to have gone with them tomorrow, to spend a few more days with them before duty called him back, but that was not to be. There was far too much to do, down here on Chung Kuo: the GenSyn Hearings were due to start shortly, and then there were the preparations for the reopening of the House.

A copy ... He laughed, remembering what had been said. Yes, it would have been good to have had a copy—a twin—of himself these past few years. One to work and one to play. Two selves to share the joys and burdens of this world.

He turned. Mien Shan was watching him, smiling, real love there in her eyes as she held the sleeping child. He went across and held her, kissing her brow, then, bending down, carefully took Kuei Jen from her.

For a moment he closed his eyes, lulled by the gentle warmth of his son pressed close against him, then, with a final, tender kiss on the infant's cheek, he handed him back, smiling at Mien Shan.

"Ten days," he said, a faint sigh escaping his lips. "Ten days, that's all, my love, and then I'll join you up above."

THIS far into United Bamboo territory, Fat Wong's runners seemed to outnumber the common people by two or three to one. Young men wearing the emerald-green headbands of the Triad moved past Lehmann constantly as he walked the packed corridors, while in the great thoroughfare of Main, groups of young affluent-looking Han, their green silks displaying the hand and bamboo cane symbol of the United Bamboo, sat around tables, relaxed, drinking and playing Chou or Mah'Jongg, for all the world like young aristocrats.

He had heard that Fat Wong was the biggest of his rivals and now, through the false lenses he wore to mask his true identity, he could see it was so. Here, in the cluster of stacks that formed the heartland of the United Bamboo, the wealth of the brotherhood was on open display. A dozen great cinnamon trees rested in massive ornamental bowls along the central aisle of Main, while to either side the balconies were festooned with bright red slogan banners and garlands of colorful flowers, as if in celebration. The shops along the central mall were full, the products cheap—a fifth the price you'd find anywhere else in the City—while everywhere he looked there was an underlying sense of orderliness he had seen nowhere else in the City at this low a level.

Indeed, if he had not known better, he might have thought himself a good twenty decks higher, up near the top of the City.

Lehmann looked about him as he went, his eyes taking in every-thing, the tiny cameras, implanted into the cornea of the lenses, recording every detail.

He had read the secret Security report the Major had obtained for him. At the last reckoning Wong Yi-sun's annual turnover had been more than one hundred and twenty billion yuan. It was a massive sum; one that, to be frank, had surprised him, for it dwarfed his own turnover by a factor of twenty to one. That was worrying, true, but no cause for despair. No, for if anything it made his task easier. Only the Wo Shih Wo and Dead Man Yun's Red Gang could compete with the United Bamboo in terms of market share and the two of them combined were only half Fat Wong's size. It was little wonder, then, that his spies had reported back that the other Bosses were growing a little wary of their erstwhile friend. Indeed, after what had happened to Iron Mu, they were right to be suspicious of Wong Yi-sun's motives.

So much so, in fact, that, after their dinner at Dead Man Yun's, three of the Bosses had met again, hours later, to discuss their own secret agenda. An agenda that, had he known of it, would have outraged the birdlike Wong.

At the gateway between the stacks, Lehmann waited at the barrier to show his documentation to one of the guards. As before, the regular Security men were shadowed all the while by United Bamboo officials who checked their work and made their own unofficial checks on who went through into their territory. Thus far Lehmann had passed through all five gates with only the minimum of fuss, but this time, as the guard made to hand him back his card and pass him through, one of the officials—a bald-headed Han with a deeply scarred chin and a short, slightly corpulent figure—took the card from the guard's hand and, pushing him aside, placed himself directly in front of Lehmann.

He glanced down at the card, then looked back at Lehmann, his whole manner hostile. "What are you doing here, Shih Snow? What is your business in this stack?"

Lehmann lowered his head, as if in respect, and held out the papers he had had prepared, offering them to the Triad official. "Forgive me, Excellency, but I have a routine maintenance call to make. The documents will explain."

From beneath his lashes, he saw how the man deliberately ignored the papers, disdaining to take them.

"Who asked you to come? Which official did you speak to?"

"It was Yueh Pa. He informed our office two hours back that there was a malfunction in one of the junction boxes. In the east stack, Level 34."

That much was true. Indeed, he had been waiting three weeks for something to go wrong so that he might pay this visit. But once in, he had no intention of putting the fault right. At least, not in the sense they wanted it done.

"Yueh Pa, eh?" The Han turned, offering a few words of Mandarin to his colleague, then turned back to Lehmann, letting the card fall from his fingers. "You can pass through, Shih Snow, but I will have one of my men assigned to you all the while you are here, understand? I do not like strangers. Especially Hung Mao. So keep your eyes to yourself, do your job, and go."

I understand, pig's ass, Lehmann thought, bowing low to retrieve his card, then maintaining the bow as he circled the man and ducked under the half-raised barrier. Not that it would help them, even if they attached a dozen runners to watch him.

He waited there, head lowered, while the official called across a young thin-faced runner and gave him his instructions. Bowing low to his Master, the young Han turned and, coming across to Lehmann, barked at him in Mandarin, showing him the same contempt his Master had shown. With a bow, Lehmann handed his papers across to the young brute, showing nothing of what he felt, then followed on behind the man. On into the very heart of Fat Wong's territory.

"Shih Kennedy! Shih Kennedy! Is it true what you said in your speech tonight about the so-called Euthanasia Bill?"

Kennedy stood on the rostrum of the Press Room, elegant and powerful, facing the crush of media men and reporters. Remotes buzzed about his head like giant bugs, hovering in the bright, overhead lights, their hungry lenses capturing his every word, his every gesture, but it was to the men below that he played, addressing them by name, leaning toward each questioner as he framed his reply, as if confiding in them.

"It's true, Ted," he said, his features stem, responsible. "They'll deny it, naturally, but we have copies of the study documents. Fascinating stuff it is too. Like I said, this is no brief memorandum we're talking about here, but a report of near-on six hundred pages, detailing every little circumstance. Moreover, they've costed the exercise down to the last fen. And why do that if it's merely—and I quote—'an option we're considering'?"

The reference was to the statement issued by the T'ing Wei, the Superintendent of Trials, immediately after the speech. Stung by Kennedy's accusations—or "caught out" as some commentators had put it—the T'ing Wei had backpedaled furiously, at first denying that there was any such document, and then, when it became clear that no one was going to accept that, putting out a revised statement, admitting the document's existence, but denying that it was anything more than a study.

As for the speech itself, that had been a sensation. A revelation. Not in living memory had an audience responded so enthusiastically, so passionately, to anyone. Kennedy had had them eating out of his hand. Throughout the ninety minutes of the speech there had been a kind of buzz in the great hall, a sense of something new happening right there before their eyes. Kennedy had stood there at the front of the stage, handsome, charismatic, like a king in exile. Scorning notes, he had addressed the great crowd from memory, his deep, resonant voice washing like a tide over their heads. And his words, simple yet powerful, had touched a raw nerve. You could see that. See it on the faces in the crowd; faces that filled the screens throughout the great City of North America. This was his moment. The moment when he came of age.

And afterward, the crowd had stood there, cheering wildly, applauding Kennedy for more than twenty minutes, bringing him back time and again to the stage, a great roar going up each time he reappeared, followed moments later by the chant:

"Ke-ne-dy! Ke-ne-dy! Ke-ne-dy! Ke-ne-dy!"

And all the while he had stood there, smiling and looking about him, applauding his audience just as they applauded him, his boyish modesty there for all to see.

"Shih Kennedy! Shih Kennedy!"

Kennedy leaned forward on the rostrum and pointed down into the crush of media men, singling out one of the many who were calling him. "Yes, Peter. What is it?"

"Are you aware that a number of surveys done over the last six months have revealed that quite a large percentage of people are actually in favor of limited euthanasia proposals?"

Kennedy nodded somberly. "I think limited is the word, Peter. I've seen those surveys—you're talking about the Howett Report and the Chang Institute paper, I assume . . . Yes? Well, all I can say is that one should look very carefully at the questions that were asked in those surveys and see how they actually relate to these new proposals. I think you'll find that there's very little correlation between them. What the new 'Study¹ reveals is that the actual proposals are far more radical, far more deep-reaching. Besides, there's a hell of a difference between thinking that something might just possibly be a good idea and actually going out and doing it. A hell of a difference. I mean, what we're talking about here is killing people. And not just one or two, but millions. Tens of millions."

Kennedy put his hand up to his brow, combing back a lock of his dark hair, an expression of deep concern in his steel-gray eyes.

"No, Peter, what I think those surveys show is that most people recognize that there's a problem. But this isn't the solution. At least, not one that any decent person should be contemplating."

There was a buzz of sympathy from the floor. But at once the clamor began again.

"Shih Kennedy! Shih Kennedy!"

"Yes, Ho Yang . . ."

The young Han, a reporter for the all-Han station, Wen Ming, glanced at his hand-held comset, then looked up, addressing Kennedy, an immediate translation going out across the airwaves.

"In your speech you seemed to imply that, as far-reaching as the Study document was in terms of the upper age group, this was merely the thin end of the wedge, and that we might expect such preliminary measures to be followed by a whole package of population controls. Could you amplify on that?"

Kennedy smiled. "Certainly. And, once again, this is not a matter of mere speculation. These discussions are going on right now, in secret rooms throughout the seven Cities. Deals are being made, proposals drawn up. Proposals that, if we're not careful, will be presented to the House and voted on by men whose interests are not necessarily ours."

"And what exactly do you mean by that, Shih Kennedy?"

Kennedy leaned forward slightly. "I mean that there are men— rich, powerful men, if you like—who put profit before family, individual gain before the common good. And it's these men—these hsiao jen, these 'little men'—who are at present dictating things. I don't know about you, Ho Yang, but I think that's wrong. I think that a matter of this importance should be debated publicly and decided publicly. Something must be done, yes. We all recognize that now. But it must be done openly, in the light, where all can see."

And so it went on, for almost two hours, until, with a smile and a wave, Kennedy stood down. But even then—even after the lights had gone down and the remotes had been packed away—Kennedy wasn't finished. After speaking with his advisors, catching up on the latest news, he went out among the media men, shaking hands and stopping to say a word or two here and there, suddenly informal, a friend, not just a "face."

"How's Jean?" one of them asked.

Kennedy turned. "She's fine, Jack. Fine. In fact, she's going off with the boys for a week or so, to escape all of this politicking. She's always complaining that I work her too hard, so I thought I'd give her and the boys a break, before things get really hectic."

There was laughter at that. All there knew just how hard Kennedy worked. Phenomenally hard. In that he was like his father.

"Okay, boys, so if you'll excuse me now . . ."

Kennedy went through, into the anteroom. There, in a great cushioned chair on the far side of the room, sat Jean, his wife, her arms aboufctheir two young sons. They were looking away from him,

unaware that he had come into the room, staring up at the big screen in the corner of the room.

He stood there a moment, looking across at them, torn by the sight. There was such pride in young Robert's face as he stared at his father's image. Such undemanding love. And Jean... He could barely look at her without thinking of the deal he had made with Wu Shih.

For a time out there he had almost forgotten. The deal had seemed as nothing. But now, facing his family once again, he felt the hollow-ness flood back into him, leaving him weightless, like a leaf in the wind.

He shuddered. What was it they said? When the east wind blows, the wise man bows before it. Well, he had bowed, sure enough. But not like a reed. More like a great tree, its trunk snapped and fallen in the face of the storm.

"Joe!" Jean saw him and came across, embracing him. Moments later he felt his two sons holding tight to him, one on either side. "Dad!" they were saying. "Dad, it was wonderful! You were brilliant!"

He steeled himself. "I'm sorry, Jean. If there was any choice . . ."

She drew her head back, looking at him, then reached out to wipe the tears that had come, unbidden, to his eyes. "It's all right. I understand. You know I understand. And I'll stand by you, Joseph Kennedy. Whatever you do."

"I know," he said. "Maybe that's what worries me most. That you're so understanding. If I could only . . ."

She put a finger to his lips. "There's no alternative. We both know that. Remember what you said, all those years ago, that night in your father's house, that year we first met? You said . . . that it didn't matter how it got done, only that it got done." She smiled. "That's still true, isn't it, Joe? And what you did tonight . . . that's a big step toward it."

"Maybe ..."

"No. No maybes about it. Tonight you started something. Something that even Wu Shih can't stop."

He looked down. To either side of him his sons were looking up at him, trying to understand what was going on.

"It's all right," he said to them, holding them tightly against him. "Everything's going to be all right. You'll see."

There was a knock. He freed himself, then turned and went across, pulling back the door.

A tall Han waited there. One of Wu Shih's men, the number seven—ch'i—embroidered in Mandarin on the chest of his powder-blue silks. Beyond him the press room was empty, except for two shaven-headed Han.

"Are they ready?" the tall Han asked.

Kennedy turned, looking at his wife, his sons, then turned back, giving a nod. "They're ready," he said, trying to keep the pain, the anxiety he suddenly felt, out of his voice. But the tears betrayed him.

He had had his moment. It was gone now. Ahead lay only hol-lowness.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Weimar

NINE YEARS . . ." the ancient murmured, tears forming in his watery eyes. "Nine long years I've waited for this day."

His companion, a distinguished-looking graybeard of seventy-five years, nodded somberly. He looked about him at the tiers of empty or sparsely populated benches that stretched away on every side of the House, then leaned closer to his fellow, placing a thin, fly-speckled hand on his friend's arm. "Do you remember the last time we were here, Johann?"

"Like yesterday," the ancient replied, a faint light appearing in his eyes. "That was the day we voted down the Seven's veto, neh? The day Secretary Barrow indicted the tai. . ." He sighed heavily, his deeply lined face filled with a sudden pain. "Ach, had we but known what sadness would follow . . ."

"Had we but known . . ."

For a moment the two were silent, watching as, below them, at the center of the Great Hall, the officials of the Seven prepared the central rostrum for the ceremony to come. Then, clearing his throat, the younger of the two spoke again, drawing his powder-blue silks about him as he did.

"They were sad years, true enough, but maybe they were meant to be. Maybe that day and this were foreordained." He smiled morosely and patted his companion's hand. "You know, the more I think of those times, Johann, the more I feel that the conflict was inevitable. That the War . . . well, that the War was necessary."

The ancient shrugged, then laughed; a dry, asthmatic sound. "Maybe so. But we survived, neh? We few."

The graybeard looked about him again, conscious that, of the three and a half thousand Representatives who had packed the House that day, nine years before, a mere handful—two hundred at most—had lived to see this day.

"Few indeed," he said, feeling a sudden weight—not bitterness, but a mixture of regret and the inexorable workings of fate—descend on him.

Once more silence fell. Far below them, out on the central rostrum where the Upper Council sat, a group of gray-haired dignitaries were seating themselves.

There was a moment's brief delay and then the ceremony began. At the central lectern the elderly Representative for Shenyang Hsien, Ho Chao-tuan, cleared his throat and began to read from the prepared statement, formally dissolving the House. Overhead, a dozen remotes hovered in the air, relaying their images back to the watching billions.

With the faintest rustle, Ho Chao-tuan set the statement aside and began to read from the list of standing members. As each name was read, a shouted "Yes" would come down from one or other of the elders scattered about the massive chamber. Eventually, all one hundred eighty-three surviving members had responded. With a terse nod, Ho backed away from the lectern, his part in the ceremony concluded.

As Ho Chao-tuan moved back, a tall, middle-aged Han with a plaited white beard stepped forward. This was Ch'in Tao Fan, Chancellor of East Asia. Looking all about him at the near-deserted tiers, he thanked the members, then, with a dramatic flourish, unfurled the official scroll and began to read.

On the benches high above Ch'in Tao Fan, the ancient placed his hand on his friend's arm and smiled sadly. "Our day is done," he said quietly. "It is up to others now to finish what we began."

"So it is," the graybeard answered, sighing, helping his fellow to his feet. "So it is."

Down below them, Ch'in Tao Fan spoke on, talking of the days to come, and of the great step forward, while behind him, on the far side of the great chamber, in the broad ceremonial corridor beyond the great double doorways, the first of the newly elected Representatives, more than eight hundred in all, waited silently in their powder-blue silks, ready to take their places at the empty benches.

THREE HOURS LATER, their business in the House done, three of the new Representatives stood in the doorway of the private dining rooms above the Great Hall. At their appearance one of the House Stewards came across, his maroon silks embossed with the number thirty-five.

"Ch'un tzu," he said, bowing deeply. "You are most welcome here. Your guest has asked me to apologize on his behalf. He has been delayed, I fear, and will be a few minutes late. Refreshments, however, have been provided. So, please, if you would come in."

They entered, looking about them and exchanging glances.

The room was large yet not imposing, the decor and furniture clearly chosen with great care and with the most exquisite taste. Four tall Ming dynasty officials' chairs dominated the left-hand side of the room. Close by, on low Ching dynasty tables, bowls of lychees, plums, and strawberries had been laid out. At the far end, in front of a huge picture window that overlooked the formal gardens, a high scroll-legged table was laden with porcelain jugs and bowls, while to the right of the room, beyond a long, head-height screen of carved mahogany, a table had been set for six, western silverware set at each place beside the cloth-wrapped chopsticks.

"What will you drink, ch'un tzu?" the Steward asked, turning to face them again. "Will it be your usual, Representative Underwood? Or would you prefer a cordial?"

Underwood laughed, intrigued. "I'll have my usual," he said after a moment.

"And you, Representative Hart? A cool black dragon wine? Or is it too early in the day?"

Hart lowered his head slightly, both amused and impressed. "That would be fine, thank you. But tell me, Thirty-five, is it normal for the Stewards to know what each member drinks?"

The Steward looked at them, smiling politely. "It is not always so, no. But my master is a meticulous man. He likes to do things properly."

"Your master. . . ?" Hart looked to the other two. This grew more curious by the moment.

The man had contacted them a week back, using an intermediary, and had "bought" a meeting with them. Each had been informed that the other two would be present, but beyond that they had been told nothing. Nothing but the man's name. Li Min.

The Steward brought their drinks, then bade them sit. He smiled and bowed to each in turn, then took two small steps backward. "As I said, ch'un tzu, my master will be a little delayed. But please, be at your ease until he comes. I must leave you for a short while to supervise the meal, but help yourself. The fruit is fresh from the Plantations this very morning."

With a final bow, the Steward turned and went.

"Well. . ." Underwood said, sipping at the ancient malt whiskey the Steward had handed him. "If that doesn't beat it all! What do you think our man, Li Min, wants?"

Munroe laughed. "What do they all want? Advantage. Someone to make deals for them. To give them face."

"And is that why we're here?" Hart asked, reaching down to take one of the large, blue-black plums from the bowl beside him. "To make deals? And to give some Han merchant face?"

"I'm told it's what politics is about," Munroe said, straightening up again. "But what do you think this one wants? I mean, it's odd, don't you think? A Han, asking three Hung Moo Representatives to a meeting on the morning that the House reopens. You'd think he'd choose three of his own kind, neh? You know what they're like, these Han."

"Only too well," Underwood said, setting his drink down. He picked up one of the lychees and sniffed at it, then bit deep, lifting his pocket silk to his chin to dab at the trickle of juice. "That's exactly what I meant. I mean, I've heard there's been a lot of this kind of thing going on these past few months, but this feels different. The fact that he went out of his way to buy our time, for instance. Now why should he do that?"

"To make sure we came?" Hart said thoughtfully.

"Yes, but why?"

Underwood had barely uttered the words when the door swung open and a tall, extremely pallid-looking Hung Moo came into the room, followed closely by two soberly dressed assistants, both of whom wore the telltale flashing collars of commodity slaves.

"Gentlemen," the Hung Moo began, putting out his hands to beg them to remain seated. "Thank you for coming here. I am Li Min."

Underwood set the half-eaten lychee down. Across from him Hart and Munroe looked equally stunned.

Munroe sat forward. "You? Li Min?" He shook his head. "But we were expecting . . ."

"A Han? Yes, well, forgive my little subterfuge, gentlemen. It was. . . necessary, let's say." The man turned, giving a curt hand signal to one of his assistants who proceeded to close and lock the door.

Underwood was on his feet. "Is that really necessary, Shih Li?"

The man turned, facing him. "If you wish to leave, Representative Underwood, you may, of course. I have locked the doors not to keep you in, but to keep others out."

"Then what the hell is going on?" Munroe asked, on his feet beside Hart and Underwood. "I want to know who you really are and why we're here, and I want to know it right now or I'm walking."

"That's right," Hart said.

"Please, gentlemen. I shall do as you ask. But be seated. You are at Weimar. In the great House itself. No harm can come to you here."

Mollified, the three men sat again, the tall Hung Moo taking the vacant seat facing them.

"All right," he said, looking from one to the next, his frost-white face expressionless. "You wish to know who I am and why I have asked you here today. Well, the answer to the first is that I am Stefan Lehmann, only son of Under-Secretary Lehmann."

Hart laughed, astonished. Beside him Munroe shook his head slowly. Underwood just sat there, his mouth open.

At Lehmann's signal, one of his assistants brought & case and handed it to him. He opened it and took out three files, offering one to each of the men.

"Inside those files you will find genetic charts and other material that will verify my claim. But as to what I want from you, that depends very much on what you yourselves want."

Lehmann fell silent a moment, watching the three men study the material; then, when it seemed they were convinced, he began again.

"You wondered earlier how it was that the Steward knew what each of you drank. Well, he knew that because I have made it my business to find out about each of you. Oh, you were no strangers to me, or at least, your fathers weren't. But I wanted to know a great deal more about each of you before I came and sat here facing you. I wanted to be sure."

"Sure about what?" Hart said, his composure regained somewhat now that he had had a little time to digest what was happening.

"About whether I could trust you." Lehmann paused, then, lifting his left hand casually, pointed at Munroe. "You, Wendell. Your father was disbarred from the House eight years ago and your whole family sent down fifty levels. He never got over that, did he? He died eight months later, some say of shame, others of poison." Lehmann turned slightly, his hand swinging around until it pointed at Underwood. "And you, Harry. All of your family property was confiscated, neh? If it hadn't been for friends, you'd have ended up below the Net. As it was, your father took his own life."

Lehmann let his hand fall back into his lap, his eyes on Hart once more. "As for you, Alex, you had to suffer the humiliating indignity of a pardon. Or at least, your father did. But it rubs off, neh? In this world of ours, what happens to the father happens also to the son." He paused again, nodding slowly to himself, knowing he had their full attention now. "But when I look at the three of you, what I see is not the sons of traitors but good, strong, hardworking young men. Men who, through their own efforts, have regained the positions of preeminence taken from them by the Seven. There is no doubting it. You are Great Men once more. And yet the taint remains, neh?"

Munroe let out a long breath, then leaned toward Lehmann, his hands clasped together in front of him. "So what's your point, Shih Lehmann? What do you want from us?"

To either side of him, Hart and Underwood were staring openly at Lehmann now, an intense curiosity burning in their eyes.

"As I said. It's not so much what I want, as what you want." He sat back slightly, looking from one to the next. "You are Great Men, certainly. Representatives. It would seem, to the outward eye, that each of you has everything he needs. Status. Riches. Power. Together with the Seven, you plan to make this world of ours great again. Or so the media tells us. But knowing you—knowing each of you as well as 1 do—1 would not have thought that there was any great love in your hearts for the Seven."

Munroe stared back at him a moment longer, then looked down. "So?"

Lehmann paused. "So this. I wanted to let you know that it's not over. That the War didn't end. That it's still going on, DeVore or no, Berdichev or no. That I am my father's son and that the things he stood for live on in me."

"Dispersionism . . ." Hart said, in an awed whisper.

Lehmann nodded. "Yes, Dispersionism. And something else. Something wholly new."

IT WAS DONE secretly, quietly. In the media the news was that his wife and children had gone away on a brief vacation while Kennedy worked on campaign details. Then, for a week, there was nothing. When Kennedy saw them again it was on the afternoon of the elections, at Wu Shih's private clinic on the West Coast. They had been treated well—like royalty—and he found them in the solarium, beneath the tiny artificial sun, the two boys playing at the pool's edge.

He went across and knelt beside her chair. "How are you?" he asked, kissing her, then searching her eyes for some sign of difference.

"I'm fine, love. Really. IVe never felt better." She laughed, and for a moment there really did seem nothing wrong, nothing intrinsically different about her. Her skull was shaved, yes, but otherwise she seemed her normal self—perhaps even bubblier than usual. "They're going to give me some injections to speed up hair growth. In the meantime I've been given the most delightful selection of wigs. I've spent the whole morning just trying out different colors and styles."

He smiled bleakly. "You're sure you're okay?"

She nodded. "Really. And the boys too." But now, in her eyes, there was the faintest intimation that she understood what they had done. "Don't. . ." she said softly, seeing the pain in his eyes. "It's better than having you dead. Much better."

He nodded and smiled, as much to reassure himself as her. Then, after kissing her again, he went and sat with the boys at the poolside, not fussed by the fact that their small hands left dark, damp patches on his silks, delighted simply to see them again.

Robert, the eldest, was babbling happily to his father, showing him the new scar beneath his ear where the input socket sat, more proud than fearful of its meaning. "Just wait till the other boys see this," he said. "I betcha they'll all want one! And the doctor says I could have a special unit put in so's I can see all the vids direct." The youngster looked away, laughing, then launched himself into the pool, not seeing the strange look of unease that crossed his father's face.

"Maybe . . ." Kennedy said to himself, hugging his youngest boy's head against his leg. But his heart was strangely heavy and, for the first time in his life, he was uncertain.

OLD DARKNESS stretched sinuously at the bottom of his tank, his great eyes closed, his long, gray-green tentacles coiling lazily in sleep. About the tank, a scattering of rock and plant gave the huge, glass-walled enclosure a false air of normality, the look of some giant display case. But things were far from normal here. Within the tough, reinforced layers of ice, the water was kept at a pressure that would crush a frailer, human form like powdered clay.

Nearby, looking into the tank at the vastness of the sleeping leviathan, Kim drifted, suspended in the water, his thoughts dark. To his right, some twenty ch'i distant, was Rebecca, her hands pressed tight against the outer glass.

Behind them, the early morning sunlight filtered down through the shadowed outline of the City overhead, forming broad shafts of gold in the pale blue water, while below them the endless depths stretched down, into dark, unseen realms of perfect blackness.

"He's beautiful," Rebecca said, her eyes, half glimpsed behind the face-plate of her mask, gleaming with a strange delight. "So strong and graceful, don't you think?"

Kim half turned in the water, moving back, away from the menace of the slumbering form. Powerful it was, and strong. But beautiful? He turned, looking back at it, then shook his head. No, even in sleep, Old Darkness was inimical. A deadly, hostile thing, lacking all warmth, all sympathy with human life.

Looking at it, at the dark, repulsive bulk of it, he felt the deep stirrings of unease. Inimical it was, and yet connected. The first time he had seen the creature he had recognized it, but here, alone in the water with the beast, that feeling was much stronger. Old Darkness ... it was aptly named, for the light of intelligence, of love or connectedness, had never touched this creature. It was a thing of nightmare. And yet...

He shuddered, then forced himself to formulate the thought. It was as if he were staring back at himself. Or not himself exactly, but a part of him: that part that was forever hidden from the light. Here, in the figure of Old Darkness, it was given solid form, cold and gargantuan.

Its hideous, he thought, and yet the thing exists. It has a purpose in the scheme of things. Like darkness itself, it exists because, without it, there would be no light, no warmth. Because, without it, there would be nothing.

"What does it eat?"

Rebecca's laughter came ringing through the earphones of his mask. "Anything we give it," she answered, turning toward him, smiling through her mask. "The deep survey teams bring it back tidbits from the deep. Strange things with glowing eyes and spiny fins, bloated things with heavy, scaly bodies and huge, hinged mouths."

Again he shuddered, imagining it down there in its natural element, and wondered whether it was like that in the deepest recesses of the mind; whether there were creatures there like Old Darkness, vast leviathans of the imagination, gliding silently, dark against the darkness, their long tentacles coiling and uncoiling as they preyed upon the deformed progeny of the undermind.

"Seen enough?" Rebecca asked, kicking up toward him, her right hand trailing lightly along the surface of the glass.

He nodded. Enough for thirty lifetimes. "You're right," he said. "In a strange way he is beautiful. But frightening too."

For a moment she was close, beside him in the water, her hand on his ami. "Maybe that's what beauty is. Something that frightens us." And then she was gone, moving up, past him, toward the hatch, some fifty ch'i above.

REBECCA SHOWERED and dressed, then came through to where Kim sat on the bench in the men's room, cradling a bulb of ch'a between his cupped hands. It was quite early—not yet nine—and they were alone there in the big, echoing room.

"Well?" she said, sitting on the bench across from him. "How's it going?"

Kim smiled. "Fine," he said. "Bonnet's a bit of a pain. Schram too. He can't keep his nose out of things, can he? Whatever I do, he has to know about it. But I've known worse."

She nodded thoughtfully. "You and I both."

"Yes . . ." For a moment he looked at her, realizing how lonely he had been, how pleased to see her familiar face. But it was more than that. They had come from the darkness of the Clay, he and she; had struggled to make their way in this world of light, failing once and yet surviving. Coming through. They both knew what it was to be a "thing," owned bone, blood, and flesh by another, their very existence subject to the whims of petty men. And that had formed them, just as much as their experience of the Clay. Yes, and made them different, separate from the rest. Physically and mentally different.

"Do you ever think of those times?" he asked quietly. "You know, back in Rehabilitation?"

"Sometimes." She looked down. "Do you remember the bird?"

He nodded. After Luke had defied them—after they had taken him away that first time—the powers-that-be had given the four of them that remained a bird. A strange, artificial thing, he realized now. Something made, not born. A product of GenSyn's labs.

The bird's eyes had been amber, the pupils black. It had gazed into the far distance, proudly, arrogantly, barely deigning to acknowledge their presence there outside its cage. Strong, three-toed claws had gripped the metal perch, the talons stretching and tightening as if impatient. And when it had spread its wings, the vivid emerald feathers unfolding like twin fans, it had seemed a gesture of dismissal.

Kim shuddered, remembering that first moment. Will, like himself, had thought it beautiful, and Deio had likened it to a song made flesh. Only Rebecca had not been moved by it. "It's too bright," she had said, and he had turned, staring at the bird, wondering how anything could be "too bright."

From that day on, Will had been obsessed. Each morning, the big North European lad had fed the bird, talking to it through the bars of its cage.

And each night he had pressed close to the cage, whispering to it. Always the same. Four lines of poetry in the ancient guttural tongue of his part of the Clay. Closing his eyes, Kim could still hear him saying it, even now, four years on.

Mit alien Augen sieht die Kreatur das offene. Nur unsere Augen sind wie umgekehrt und ganz un sie gestellt als Fallen, rings um ihren Freien Ausgang.

The words had moved him, thrilled him, long before Will had told him what they meant.

\

With all its eyes the creature-world beholds the open. But our eyes, as though reversed, encircle it on every side, like traps set round its unobstructed path to freedom.

So it was, for all of them, bird and Clay alike. And then Luke had died. Suddenly, awfully.

Will had been devastated. Kim remembered that too. Remembered the sight of him sitting on Luke's empty bed, still, dreadfully still, hunched into himself, his big, changeling's body forced into a much smaller area than it was used to, as if he was trying to fit himself into Luke's skin, into his smaller, subtler form.

Kim looked up, his eyes moist. Rebecca was watching him, her eyes wide, as if she too saw what he saw. "Why did he do it, Kim?" she asked. "I thought he loved the bird?"

He shrugged, but the memory was so strong, so vivid, it was as if he could see it there before him.

The bird lay at the bottom of its cage, its golden eyes dulled, unseeing, its soft neck broken. Emerald wing feathers littered the floor beside the damaged cage, evidence of a struggle, while in a chair nearby sat Will, dull-eyed yet breathing, his hands resting loosely in his lap.

"I don't know," he said, the image slowly fading. But it was untrue. He knew why Will had killed the bird.

She came close, crouching beside him, looking up into his face. There were tears in her eyes now, pain in the lines of her mouth. "I never understood it. Never. Luke, Will, Deio . . . there was no reason for their deaths. No point."

"No," he said, putting his hand over hers comfortingly. "It was awful." He shivered, the pain raw in him, as if it had been yesterday. "You know, I've blanked it out since then. I couldn't live with it. Couldn't face it until now. I feel guilty, you know that, Becky? Guilty that I survived and they didn't."

"Yes," she said, looking up at him again, grateful that he had said it, her hand squeezing his gently. "I know. I understand."

"Yes . . ." He wiped a tear away, then stood, pulling her up, holding her a moment. "But here we are, neh? We came through."

Her dark eyes stared back at him, momentarily intense, looking through the surface of him, it seemed, into the raw darkness beyond. "We did, didn't we?" she said quietly, resting her head on his shoulder. He felt the shudder that ran through her, the warmth of her lips as they gently brushed his neck.

She moved back, away from him, offering him a small, apologetic smile. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Tonight?" He shrugged. "My shift ends at eight, but after that, nothing. Why?"

Her smile broadened. "We're having a party, that's why. Election night, and all that. Why don't you come? It won't start until ten. You could pick me up then if you like. It should be fun."

He stared at her a moment, thinking once more how different she was, how assured this older Rebecca was, then nodded, smiling back at her.

"Why not?"

ALL day, right across City America, people had been voting to send Representatives to the newly reopened House. Almost a tenth of the seats were up for grabs in this round and there were already signs that the old status quo was about to be shaken. In Miami central stack a huge MedFac multiboard filled one end of the crowded, buzzing Main. Below it, more than twenty thousand people were packed in, staring up at the eighteen large screens. The scenes on most differed little from that in Miami. Large crowds jostled noisily beneath a thick mass of banners, and, from time to time, a huge cheer would go up as another local stack declared.

Over each screen was the name of the Hsien being contested, and at the bottom, superimposed on the screen, was a list of candidates and the number of votes polled for each. As the evening drew on these figures built up, and as they did the excitement in the crowd increased accordingly. Change was in the air.

Two central screens showed something different. On the left was a map of City North America, its distinctive, lopsided face divided up into the four hundred and seventy-six Representative districts, colored by party. To its right was a pie chart showing the relative strengths of the seven parties that currently dominated North American politics. Largest of these by far was the Reformers, who held eighty-seven seats. But all eyes were on Kennedy's New Republicans, who had begun the contest without a single seat in the old House and had won thirty in the first round of voting.

The campaign had been harder and, in some ways, dirtier than anyone could remember. Early on, Kennedy had declared that he would not put up candidates for the three seats held by Evolutionist incumbents. It was an unexpected but greatly popular move. Though the Evolutionists were a long-established party, they were a steadily diminishing power, and the New Republicans could have won the seats. Within a week, however, Evolutionist candidates for nine of the remaining contestable seats had withdrawn and urged their supporters to vote for New Republican candidates.

The Reformers had hit back hard. Questioning the reliability of the "new alliance," they had launched a campaign to discredit Joel Hay, the Evolutionist leader, using material they'd been holding for some time. It was vile stuff that struck at Hay's most intimate behavior. Even so, for a day or two Hay fought back. Then, realizing the damage he was doing to his party, he announced his resignation.

There was jubilation in the Reformer camp, but, only a day later, their smiles turned to frowns as Kennedy, who had maintained a strict silence on the matter, now stepped forward to announce a formal merger of the two parties under his own leadership. The press conference, with New Republican and Evolutionist candidates lined up behind Kennedy as he made his speech, went out worldwide. Overnight, without the need for an election, the New Republicans had become City America's third largest power, with forty-two seats.

It had not ended there. The next day the campaign against Carl Fisher had begun in earnest with the appearance on a nationwide network of two of Fisher's school friends, accusing him of homosexuality and a whole string of other perversions. Fisher, shaken and angry, had reacted with an unexpected bluntness that had done him no harm.

"Let them say it again to me, face to face, and I'll bust their jaws!"

Overnight it became his campaign slogan. Carl "Jaw-Buster" Fisher went up five points in the polls, while Carver, the Reformer incumbent, found himself the butt of a thousand cartoons, all depicting him rubbing at a loosened jaw. Few, looking at the athletically built and handsome Fisher, paid attention to the accusations. He was pictured everywhere, surrounded by good-looking women, punching a bag, knocking back a glass of beer after exercise. Carver, older, flabbier, showed poorly by comparison.

Reformer claims of inexperience and political naivete carried little weight, it seemed. Change was in the air, and the young men of the New Republican and Evolutionist Party, the NREP, were an attractive alternative to the old style Representative people had grown accustomed to. But it wasn't only image. Kennedy picked his candidates well. These new young men were the very cream of the emergent ruling caste; the sons of powerful men and bred to power themselves. They were well educated and quick in argument. And backing them up was an elite of political researchers and writers attracted by the promise of power. Reformer money couldn't buy such backing, try as it did.

As the night drew toward its climax, it grew clear that a minor political sensation was happening. With five seats still to be settled, the Reformer vote was in tatters. The NREP had gained nineteen districts. They needed only three of the four remaining Reformer-held seats to become the second biggest party in North America, passing the On Leong and the Democrats. In Carl Fisher's campaign suite, the Party leaders gathered, watching the EduVoc channel, excitement like wine in their blood. At the center of this small, select group, Michael Lever leaned forward in his wheelchair and pointed at the screen.

"Who's he?"

To the left of the picture, behind Greg Stewart, their candidate for Denver Hsien, stood a gaunt-faced, steely-eyed young man, some inches taller than Stewart. He was shaven-headed and had the look of a paid assassin.

Kennedy bent down beside Michael, speaking softly to him. "That's a guy named Horton. Calls himself Meltdown."

Michael narrowed his eyes, then nodded. Now that Kennedy had given him a name, he recognized him. "He was incarcerated, right? I never met him but I heard about it. He was on a hunger strike, wasn't he?"

Kennedy nodded. "That's right. His father is a friend of your father."

"And he's working for us now?"

"We've come to an agreement, let's say. They'll be working closely with us from now on."

Michael frowned. He wasn't sure about this. When Wu Shih had rounded them all up—that evening of the Thanksgiving Ball—they had all been outraged, but he saw now how dangerous the "Sons" had been. He had wanted change, but not by such means as some of them had subsequently proposed. Their tactics were the same as thpse that had killed Bryn. And he wanted no more of that.

"Are you sure we want this?" he asked quietly.

Kennedy smiled. "I'm sure, Michael. And listen, I know what I'm doing. We're in charge, not them. They need us, so they play by our rules."

"And if they don't?"

"They will. Don't worry."

Kennedy straightened up. On the screen there was news from two of the last five seats to declare. They had won Mexico City. Vancouver had stayed On Leong.

Parker, standing behind Michael, laughed. "So not a rout, then!"

Michael half turned and looked up at him. "No. And it'll be harder next time. They're learning from us all the time. There'll be new candidates next time around. Younger men. And they'll be tailoring their campaigns to look like ours. WeVe had it easy so far. They'll not be so arrogant in the future."

"And we will?"

There was a faint hint of annoyance in Parker's voice, and a number of people were looking down at Michael strangely, as if he were an uninvited guest. But Kennedy spoke up, calling for order.

"Michael's right. First time out we got the sympathy vote. This time we took them by surprise. They'd written off our first-round victories as a sentimental anomaly—a flash in the pan. But from now on they'll be on their guard. As Michael says, they'll change their ways. Same old policies, but new ways of presenting them. New faces too. Maybe even men who might have served us well. They'll be buying heavily."

He paused and looked around. The room had gone quiet. Only the sound from the screen went on. They were all watching Kennedy now as he stood at Michael's side, his hand on the invalid's shoulder.

"But we're not going to be stopped. The mood for change is genuine, and change itself is long overdue. It'll be harder to win in the future, and the contest will be much closer than tonight. But we'll win. And we'll keep on winning, because those we oppose are a dead force—an old, stinking corpse. WeVe got to show people that. But it'll get harder to do, I warn you, because the harder we push the more devious they'll get, the more disguises they'll use."

Again Kennedy stopped and looked around, nodding slowly. "We'll strip them naked, neh? To the bone. . ," And then he laughed^ showing his strong white teeth, and the suite was suddenly full of laughter. From the far side of the room came the sound of popping corks, and on the screen the news that they had won the last three seats.

Michael looked up at Kennedy. "And what of us, Joe? Will we be young forever? Will no one strip us bare?"

He said it softly, so that it carried no farther than Kennedy. For a moment Kennedy seemed not to have heard, then he looked down at Michael, his face different, more serious, perhaps more tired than Michael had ever seen it, and nodded. "To the bone." And his eyes, so dark and normally so strong, seemed filled with the pain and certainty of his words. As if he saw and knew.

KIM SAT at a table in the restaurant, his empty ch'a bowl set to one side, the letter he had been writing held loosely in his left hand as he read it through a second time.

It was an hour since he'd come off shift and he really ought to have gone back to his rooms to shower and change, but he had put off writing to Jelka far too long now. So first this. Even if he had to start it all again tomorrow, trying to get the words down right. To say all those things that kept bubbling up from deep within.

The restaurant was filling up. Already the tables nearest Kim were full, the talk alive with the news of what was happening in City America, but Kim's attention was elsewhere, thinking of Jelka out on Titan. In a year she would be on Mars, heading back in toward Chung Kuo. If he sent the letter there, it might reach her quicker, perhaps, than trying to get a message out to Titan in time. But first he had to get it right.

He sat back, thinking suddenly of Rebecca, and of that moment in the changing rooms earlier. He had said nothing of that to Jelka. Nothing of what he'd felt; of the pain he'd suffered at the reopening of that wound . . . nor of the catharsis. But why?

Maybe it was because it confused things. Because it would give her the wrong idea. He huffed, annoyed at himself, his fingers going to the pulsing torque about his neck, then, flipping back to the start of the letter, he began to read it through once more.

"Excuse me . . ."

The voice was soft-spoken, very polite. Kim looked up. A tall Han was standing there, holding a tray, his head slightly bowed. The man smiled, the smile vaguely reminiscent of T'ai Cho, then tilted his head, indicating the empty seat across from Kim.

"Would you mind?"

Kim shook his head, smiling back at the man. "No. Please do ... I'll be going in a while, anyway."

"Ah . . ." The Han bowed again, then began to set out his meal. "It is very kind of you. Some people, they. . ." He stopped, his face suddenly apologetic. "Forgive me. Am I disturbing you?"

Kim laughed, then folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. "Not at all. Kim Ward," he said, offering his hand across the table.

"Tuan Wen-ch'ang," the Han answered, bowing a third time. He took Kim's hand, shaking it vigorously. "I note we are both employed by the great SimFic corporation, and yet I have not seen you here before."

Kim nodded, noting for the first time the double-helix logo on the shoulder of the Han's light-green tunic. "That's not surprising," he answered. "I haven't been here long, and I've spent most of my time in the lab."

"Ah . . ." Again the Han smiled. Again the smile reminded Kim of his old tutor and guardian, T'ai Cho.

"Where do you come from, originally?" Kim asked, strangely drawn to the man.

"Originally?" The Han laughed, showing slightly imperfect teeth. Again that was like T'ai Cho, and the thought of it made Kim realize that he had not contacted his old friend since he had been at Sohm Abyss.

"Originally my clan is from Ning Hsia, in the northwest. We are Hui, you understand. Not Han." Again he laughed. A pleasant, warming sound. "As for me, I was born on Mars. In Tien Men K'ou City, in the south. My clan were settled there, you understand, after the Third Colonial War. We helped build that City. That and many others."

"Mars . . ." Kim nodded, his thoughts briefly returning to the letter and to Jelka. "It must be wonderful."

Tuan Wen-ch'ang shrugged. "Sometimes, yes. But mostly it is a bleak and desolate place. Life is hard there. Very hard. Here . . ." He laughed. "Well, let us say that life is much easier here. One need not fear the cold, for instance."

"No," Kim said absently, then, suddenly realizing what time it was, he leaned forward across the table. "Look, Tuan Wen-ch'ang. I'd like to talk more to you—it has been pleasant, most pleasant— but right now I have to go or I'll be late. There's someone I promised to meet."

"Of course." Tuan Wen-ch'ang stood, bowing low> as if to someone high above him in status, then looked back at Kim, smiling his imperfect smile. "I am here most nights, Shth Ward. If you see me, come and sit with me. It is good to talk, neh?"

"Very good," said Kim, smiling, and with a final shake of the tall Hui's hands, he left, stopping only at the door to glance back at the man, reminded, even in the way the tall Hui sat, crouched forward over his food, of T'ai Cho.

TUAN wen-ch'ang sat there a moment, waiting, watching the reflection in the glass beyond the table. He saw the boy turn and look across at him, then turn back, hurrying to his appointment. Tuan waited a second, then, leaving the untouched plate of food, made his way quickly to the door on the far side of the restaurant—the door Ward hadn't taken.

So far so good, he thought, taking the cast from his mouth, and slipping the false teeth into his pocket. It had been easy, winning the boy's trust. The softness of his voice, the simple mimicry of the boy's friend, had been enough. And the rest? Tuan Wen-ch'ang jabbed at the buttons of the interlevel elevator, then, as the doors slid back, went inside, a cold, malicious smile lighting his features. The rest was simple.

wu SHIH sat back and breathed in deeply, pleased with the way things had gone. The "State of the Parties" print-up was on the screen, and he looked at it with a sense of deep satisfaction.

Reformers 94

NREP 6₅

On Leong 53

Democrats 42

Hop Sing 22

Innovators IO

Ying On 4

In the last month Kennedy had come from almost nowhere to become the most important man in North American politics. Wu Shih had read the situation perfectly and had acted in good time. Now he might congratulate himself. Li Yuan, he knew, would be delighted. Unlike the Reformers and the Democrats, Kennedy was for Population Controls. His success would soften the others' attitudes, and that would mean that things would go much easier in the House. And that was good.

Young men, he thought. They think all things are new. Laughing, he stood up and walked across to where he had left the draft of the new Edict he had been working on. As if history were myth and men could change their natures. Again he laughed, and this time a servant came to the door at the far end of his suite, inquiring dumbly if there were anything he needed, but Wu Shih waved him away.

"We are bom old," he said softly to himself, picking up the corriset. "And perhaps that is bad. We do not hope for things the way these young men do."

It was true. He thought them naive, even a touch ridiculous at times. But he admired their hope, their optimism, their energy. Yes, the last above all. Confucianism had never really touched them here in North America. Elsewhere it had thrived, like some strange debilitating bacillus, but in North America it had been grafted on superficially. Like a mask, ready to be removed at any moment.

Which made them dangerous, though not uncontrollable.

A third time he laughed, thinking of what Li Yuan planned for them. To make their desire for change the vehicle for stasis, that was a stroke of genius!

It was crude as yet, and the tests were not yet complete, but it promised much. If this worked then nothing was beyond them. Why, they might yet spread out and take the stars.

He looked at the comset and smiled knowingly. The best designs were always the simplest, the most direct. Like a well-glazed dish, they pleased the eye immediately, yet satisfied more deeply with each reacquaintance. So with this.

Wu Shih sat again, his smile widening. Americans! He'd wire them all!

it was fifteen minutes after midnight when, beneath a barrage of bright lights, the leader of the New Republican and Evolutionist Party, Representative Joseph Kennedy, emerged from the count, smiling and waving to the crowds gathered in the Main below. Behind him, in the long, high-ceilinged room, he had left a shocked and somber group of people gathered about the losing Reformer candidate. Outside, however, beneath banners and awnings that stretched across the wide Main, there was no doubt of the popularity of the NREP's success. At the first sight of Kennedy a great roar of approval and delight went up from the crowd.

To the far right of the balcony, Kennedy's closest associates looked on happily. Like the crowd below, they cheered and clapped enthusiastically, carried away by the emotion of the moment.

Kennedy leaned over, looking out, shielding his eyes with one hand, the other arm about the shoulders of his pretty wife, Jean. Turning to his friends, he gestured for them to come across and share the spotlight. As the young men slowly made their way to him, Fisher pushing Michael in his wheelchair, a huge cheer went up, louder than the first. Kennedy greeted each in turn, introducing each to the masses below, hugging each of them to him delightedly.

They smiled, conscious of the floating cameras overhead catching every word, every nuance of expression. They had grown accustomed to it these past few weeks; even so, it wasn't easy, not knowing what was to come. As Michael turned his chair, he saw how Kennedy's wife moved back, out of the way, as if she understood.

This was the moment when they burned their bridges. The moment when they started something new. Michael eased his wheelchair back, watching as Kennedy stepped forward and, putting out a hand, indicated to the crowd below that he wanted to speak. On huge screens the length of Main, the cameras focused on his tall, handsome figure, panning in on his by-now-familiar features. For a moment the buzz continued, then, slowly, it subsided. Kennedy looked about him, smiling, then leaned toward the crowd.

"We are all, here in this great hall, Americans. And proud to be Americans. And Carl Fisher, our new Representative for Boston, is a fine American, from a fine old American family."

There was a huge roar of approval at that. Kennedy waited for it to subside, then carried on.

"Today, however, we did much more than elect a good candidate, though Carl Fisher is certainly that. Today we launched a new campaign. A new era. A new sense of ourselves as a people."

The cheering went on, beneath Kennedy's voice, greeting every sentence, growing more and more enthusiastic by the moment as the crowd worked itself up. Yes, and in tens of millions of households it will be the same, Michael thought, looking up at Kennedy. They know some' thing is happening here. And they expect something of him. Something. . . different.

Kennedy put his right hand up to his brow, sweeping back his hair with that characteristic gesture of his. "It might seem a small start," he said quietly. "A mere sixty-five seats in the House. But there is still another round of voting. There are still one hundred and eighty-six seats to be contested next month. And that's enough. Enough, if we can take a good number of them, to give us a firm foothold in government—to allow us to wield the kind of influence we need if we're to bring effective change to this great City of ours."

For a moment the cheering was deafening. Kennedy leaned forward again, raising a hand for silence.

"Carl Fisher, your candidate, elected by you here tonight, is more than just another Representative, however. He is one of the first of a new breed of men—good, committed young men—who are set to change the face of politics on this continent. Men who will kick out the old gang and their tired old ways. Men who pledge themselves to get rid of the wheeling and the dealing, the vested interests and the power groupings, and return us to a sense of our greatness as a people."

Kennedy smiled and, for the briefest moment, looked up into the overhead camera, as if he could see Wu Shih and the Old Men looking on.

"This is our time," he said, a sudden power in his voice. "A new time. Time for us all to realize what was once great about our country. What was truly great about America. It's time for us to call it all back. To have back what weVe been denied all these years. To grasp it and hold it and use it. For America. As Americans."

He paused, getting his breath. What he had just said had not been uttered publicly before. Indeed, his words had been close to treason. But no one made to gainsay him. He put out a hand, leaning out over the balcony, looking about him at the great mass of people below. The tension was palpable. When he paused this time he could feel all of them there below him, waiting for his words, powered, just as he was powered at that moment, by the great tidal flow of his rhetoric.

"Americans," he said simply, and felt the great ripple of emotion that the word conjured up roll out from him and roll back like a giant wave. "We are Americans."

He stood there silently a moment, then raised both of his arms, palms open, accepting the wild applause from below.

Michael, watching from his side, felt that great tide of wild emotion sweep over him, and found himself crying suddenly, in love with the man; with his sheer strength and vitality, and with the invigorating spirit of change he had brought to them all.

Change. It was coming. At last, after all these years, it was coming. And nothing—absolutely nothing—could stop them now.

KIM STOOD at the window, staring out across the bright-lit center of Sohm Abyss, the music pounding in his head, merging, it seemed, with the steady pounding of his heart. It was late and the celebrations were growing wilder by the moment. There was a sense of exhilaration in the air, a feeling that change had come at last, that a new age lay ahead for everyone.'

For once he had joined in with the party mood, accepting the drink his host—a plump, middle-aged Han he had met briefly that first night—had offered him. Three refills later he was feeling light-

headed, but also curiously lucid. Not that it mattered how he felt. Not now. Campbell's "decree" had come two hours back, announcing that tomorrow was to be a day of rest for all SimFic employees. In celebration of that evening's momentous events.

Kim smiled, staring out through his reflection at the great web of walkways that linked the outer hexagon of walls to the spirelike inner tower, their graceful arcs beaded with lights, then turned fractionally, sensing a movement just behind him. In the glass a face appeared beside his own, the head overlarge, the eyes slightly too big. A Claybom face. A moment later he felt a warmth against his back and, closing his eyes, breathed in the scent of jasmine.

"Becky. . ."

"I wondered where you'd got to," she said, her mouth close against his ear. "Don't you want to dance?"

"I'm tired," he said, turning his head so that she could hear him above the music, her face only a hand's length from his own. "I thought I might go soon."

"Tired? You tired?" She smiled, her eyes searching his own. "It's early yet. Besides, you heard what Campbell said."

"I know, but..."

"Here." She took his left hand, then pressed something small into his palm.

"What's this?"

"Something to help you loosen up. Go on. Just pop it in your mouth."

He stared at the tiny blue tablet a moment, then shook his head. "Thanks, but..."

She hesitated, then took it back from him. "Okay. But stay a little longer, neh? Another hour. I mean, what's the harm?"

"No harm," he said, mirroring her smile. "But no drugs, eh? I like to be in control."

"I know." She leaned close, kissing his cheek, then reached down and took his hand. "I remember well."

They danced. For a while he lost himself in the music and the rhythm, the flashing play of lights. Bodies crowded the center of the floor, moving in a strange abandonment on every side, like particles in violent motion.

Later, in a moment of lucidity, of sudden silence, he looked about him and found that Rebecca had gone. He was about to go and look for her, when she reappeared, two small, porcelain ch'a bowls held out before her.

"What's this?" Kim asked, sniffing at the faintly opalescent liquid.

"It's ch'a," she said, laughing. "What did you think it was? I thought you needed something to sober you up a bit before you went."

"Ah. . ." He let himself be turned about and led toward a small table in the far corner of the room. But even as they made their way across, the music began again, the people all about them erupting in a frenzy of sudden activity.

He squeezed through, holding the bowl up above his head, then sat unsteadily. Setting the bowl down, he leaned toward her. "I think IVe spilled some."

"Never mind," she said, moving around until she sat beside him on the heavily padded sofa. "Here, have some of mine."

He watched her pour some of the sweet-scented ch'a into his bowl, then, encouraged by her, lifted the bowl and drained it at a go.

"Good," she said. "You'll feel better for that."

"It's good," he said, looking past her, his voice raised to combat the assault of the music, the squeals and shouts of the celebrants. "I don't think I've ever . . ."

He stopped, sitting back, then put his hand up to his throat.

"What's the matter?" she asked, concerned.

"I. . ." He felt the bile rise in his throat and swallowed hard. For a moment he had felt nauseous, as if he'd eaten well and then someone had gone and punched him in the stomach.

"Are you all right?" she said, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. "Maybe you shouldn't have drained the bowl like that."

"Maybe," he said, but the nausea was passing, a strange feeling of euphoria washing over him. "I. . ." He laughed. "You know, Becky, I think I'm drunk. I think . . ."

She put a finger to his lips, silencing him, then leaned close, speaking to his ear once more. "I think I should get you home, that's what I think."

He nodded. Home. Yes, but where was that?

"Come on," she said, pulling him to his feet, then turning him to face her, her smile strange, enigmatic. "Now. While you can still walk."

he woke, feeling strange, disoriented, a bitter taste in his mouth, the scent of jasmine in his nostrils. It was dark where he lay. Whatever light there was came from a doorway at the far end of the room, to his right, while from beyond it came the sound of running water, the hiss of steam.

He turned his head; too fast, it seemed, for the pain that shot from the surface of his eyes to the back of his skull was fierce, as if a spike had been driven through his head. He groaned and closed his eyes, wondering what in the gods' names he had done to himself.

Not my room, he thought. This isn't my room. He made to grasp the thought and push at it, but his mind refused to push. The thought slipped from him and was gone. Dead, came the thought. It feels like I've died and gone to hell.

"Kim?"

He opened his eyes, slowly this time, turning his head a fraction at a time, until he could see where the voice had come from.

Rebecca was standing in the open doorway, the light behind her. A towel was draped loosely about her shoulders, but otherwise she was naked. In the half-light he could see a thousand tiny beads of water covering her flank, her breasts, the soft curve of her upper thigh.

"Are you awake?"

He made to answer, but his mouth was dry, his lips strangely numb. He groaned and closed his eyes, but he could still see her, standing there, her breasts small but prominent in the half-light, the nipples stiff.

For a while there was nothing, only silence; a silence that before had been filled with the sound of running water, the hiss of steam. Then, suddenly, he sensed a presence beside him on the bed, felt a small, cool hand brush his cheek. Gently, solicitously. The voice, when it came, was soft, like the touch of the hand. It lulled him.

"I didn't realize you'd drunk so much, my love. I'd have not given you it if I'd known."

The words passed him by. He felt himself gathered up, focused, in the touch of her hand against his cheek, the sweetly perfianed scent of her.

"Here," she said, lifting his head gently.

He felt something small and hard being pressed between his lips. A moment later, he felt the smooth edge of a glass against his lips. He swallowed reflexively, letting the cold, clear water wash the tablet down.

"There," she said, letting his head fall back. "You'll be all right in a while."

He lay there for a time, thoughtless almost, the warmth of her hand against his chest comforting, reassuring him. And then, slowly, very slowly, like waves lapping gently against the sand, thought returned to him.

The tablet. She had given him the tablet.

He opened his eyes, looking up at her, yet even as he did, the nausea returned, stronger than before, making him retch.

He turned his head, leaning out, away from the bed, as the spasms came, unable to help himself, the bile filling his throat, choking him almost.

Rebecca moved back sharply, turning from him, hiding her anger, her momentary disgust, listening to him retch. Then she turned back. "I'm sorry," she said, collecting herself, one hand combing through her short dark hair. "It's all my fault. I should have known."

"Known?" He stared at her, not understanding.

There was the strong, tart smell of sickness in the room.

She stood, looking back at him from the foot of the bed, then forced herself to smile. But it was a faint, halfhearted smile. "It doesn't matter. Look. Let's get you cleaned up. You can shower if you want. I'll sort this out."

Kim sat up, wiping at his mouth. "I'd better go. I. . ."

He stopped, staring at her, mesmerized, it seemed, by her naked form, as if he had not noticed it before that moment.

He looked down, suddenly embarrassed, but she had seen the movement in his eyes, the uncertainty in his face.

Letting the towel fall from her shoulders, she moved up, onto the end of the bed, moving toward him slowly, crawling on all fours, her breasts swinging gently beneath her, her eyes watching him all the while.

"Becky . . ." he said, the sound of it strange, almost pained, but it was too late. His need betrayed itself. She leaned over him, slowly unlacing his tunic.

"It's all right," she said softly, smiling down at him, her fingers caressing the smooth warmth of his chest. "You're home now, my love. Home."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Total War

0UT OVER THE GREAT northern ocean a storm was gathering. Air moistened and made lighter by the unseasonable heat began to rise rapidly, leaving behind it a low-pressure area that drew more air in along the surface of the ocean. That air in turn was moistened and warmed, rising in a great swirling chimney, spiraling in a counterclockwise direction, heading east on the North Atlantic Current, toward the great walled shores of City Europe.

From high above Chung Kuo, a satellite eye noted the buildup of cloud, the ominous shape, and passed impersonal warnings down to its land-based station. There, senior officials of the Ta Ssu Nung, the Superintendency of Agriculture, studied the computer-enhanced infrared images and consulted among themselves. It was a big storm, true, even at this stage, but as yet there was no need for alarm. The front was some two and a half thousand li out, approaching the Biscay Abyssal Plain, and the computer prediction of its course showed that it would in all probability strike the great uncharted island to the west of the Western Isle. There was an objection to this prediction. A very junior official suggested, in the most humble terms, that the area of high pressure moving slowly down from Iceland might push the great storm south. At the same time, a second area of high pressure, over the Iberian Peninsula, was moving north. The effect of this might be to channel the storm into a narrow corridor between the two—a corridor of moist, hot air that would serve only to feed the hurricane and increase its fury.

In the magnificently decorated offices of the Ta Ssu Nung there was a moment's consultation among the senior officials and then a decision was made. If the area of high pressure currently over Iceland were to move south, the cold air that the storm would entrain on its western flank might indeed add fuel to the developing storm, but it would also induce the low to turn to the northeast, thereby missing continental Europe. There were nods all around. All agreed that the storm constituted no threat to the City. In all likelihood it would spend itself over the uncharted island. And even if it was forced south, there was little real chance of damage. The walls of the City were sound, no agricultural regions lay in the path of the storm, and the sea defenses of the great ports of Brest and Nantes were adequate. A warning would be sent to the latter if necessary, but otherwise no action need be taken. There was no need to involve the T'ang or his staff.

Out at sea, however, the storm was gathering force. Six days of unrelenting heat had created unprecedented conditions in the North Atlantic. Moreover, the second area of high pressure, near the Iberian Peninsula, was beginning to feed warm air into the storm system, gradually strengthening the jet stream. Like a great mouth feeding upon the hot, moist air, the great swirl of the hurricane grew, increasing in speed as it went. And as it moved east, so too did the area of high pressure over the Icelandic Basin, changing direction, pushing the storm slowly, inexorably south.

IT WAS six MINUTES to four, and in the dimly lit silence of the corridors surrounding Ujpest stack, Soucek crouched, surrounded by three thousand of his men. Fifty ch'i along the corridor, out of sight beyond the left-hand turn, was the barrier. At this early hour only two men were manning this, the northwestern entrance to the i4K's heartland. Beyond the barrier, eighteen thousand of General Feng's best men slept on, unaware of what the dawn would bring.

Soucek looked about him and smiled, encouraging those nearest. They had planned long and hard for this, and now it was almost time.

Seventeen hundred li to the west, Visak and four thousand men were waiting, positioned about the Wo Shih Wo's heartland in Milan Hsien. Three thousand seven hundred li beyond that, in the corridors surrounding the Canton of Saragossa, Po Lao and a further three thousand men waited to infiltrate the heartland of the Yellow Banners. To the northeast, Lehmann himself led the largest of their forces, an army of fourteen thousand men, crouched in the corridors surrounding Metz, ready to take on Fat Wong and the United Bamboo.

They would hit at once. Four armies, taking on the full might of the Hung Mun at one go, outnumbered eight to one, but with the advantage of surprise. Surprise, and perfect planning.

Communications to the four heartlands would be cut at fourth bell. Minutes later, hallucinogenic and disabling drugs—small capsules placed in the ventilation systems weeks ago—would be pumped into the stacks.

At five minutes past four the first of the false broadcasts would be made, using the taped voices of their enemies' most trusted men; broadcasts that would override the local media stations, feeding deliberately contradictory messages directly into the heartlands.

At ten minutes past, the first of the bombs would go off—the first of many—spreading chaos and panic throughout the enemy stacks. Five minutes later, a series of chemical fires would be set off. Elevators would be shut down, exits blocked.

Maximum disruption, that was Lehmann's aim. Standing there yesterday, after putting the final touches to the plan, he had turned from the map and faced them, quoting Sun Tzu:

"Speed is the essence of war. Take advantage of the enemy's un-preparedness; travel by unexpected routes and strike him where he has taken no precautions."

And so it was, though the hours to come would tell just how unprepared their enemies were.

Soucek looked down at the timer on his wrist. Three minutes to. He turned, giving the signal for his men to put on their masks.

Key men had been bought in their enemies' camps. Men like the two on the barrier; like the guards to General Feng's private rooms. Already assassins were going about their work, creeping silently,

stealthily into forbidden rooms. Making it easier. Reducing the odds against them. Even so, it would be hard. Lehmann had said as much. For this was no skirmish, no simple test of strength, this was war, total war. A war for survival. By the end of today things would be different here below. Changed for all time.

Soucek shivered. And himself? Would he survive this day?

Fifteen seconds...

He raised his arm, tensed, looking about him hawkishly, his whole self gathered in the gesture, then brought it down sharply, hurling himself forward, a great wave of men following him down the corridor toward the barrier.

THIRD OFFICIAL K'UNG sat back in his chair, heaving a sigh of relief. It had been a tiring night tracking the progress of the storm, worrying that the high pressure area moving down from Iceland would push it farther south. But his worst fears seemed not to have materialized. The Icelandic high had drifted east, and after a worrying three hours the storm appeared to have stabilized, holding its course. Latest estimates showed that it would make landfall somewhere out over the southwestern tip of the Western Isle.

K'ung yawned, then looked about him, glad that he would be going off shift shortly. All about him his staff had their heads down, making reports and compiling information. But decisions. . . Well, he was glad he had not had to make a decision this night.

Leaning forward again, he tapped through to the Ta Ssu Nung"s office in the Western Isle and gave them the storm warning, quoting the latest computer predictions for wind strength, sea height, and time and location of landfall. That done, he stood, stretching his weary muscles. His relief, Wu, would be here in ten minutes. In the circumstances he might as well take advantage of his seniority to use the shower first, while the water was still hot, and grab a bowl of ch'a at the restaurant.

He looked up at the huge, wall-size chart once more, seeing the great swirl of the storm, prominent in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. In the hours since the crisis meeting, the storm had grown considerably. Estimates of its size now put it at over two hundred and fifty li from tip to tip. But it was not so much its size as its direction that had concerned K'ung. The front of the storm was now only three hundred li from landfall, moving north-northeast at a rate of a hundred and forty li an hour.

He went to move away, then stopped. In his tiredness he had almost forgotten. Brest and Nantes were still on Code B alert. He would need to give them the all-clear before he went. Wu, certainly, wouldn't think to check.

Seating himself, K'ung keyed in the security code for the day, then tapped out the message quickly, holding down both destinations at once.

Done, he thought, not waiting for the acknowledgment. It had been a hard night. It would be good to shower the tiredness from his bones.

FAT WONG STOOD THERE, staring up at the empty bank of screens, then tried the keyboard again. Nothing. The board was dead.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Wong Yi-sun turned, looking about him at the men who were crowded into the compact space of his central control. These were his most trusted men. His "sons." He studied their familiar faces a moment, noting the fear—the real fear—in every face, and understood its source. Word of mouth was that the attack had come on three fronts; that runners from the Yellow Banners, the Wo Shih Wo, and the Kuei Chuan were involved. Thousands of men, attacking with heavy armaments and using gas. But the rumors were patchy, unconfirmed. With the communications net down and bombs going off all over the place, it was hard to say just what was happening. All he knew was that he had woken to find two assassins in his room: men they had later identified as Yellow Banners chan shui—Three-Finger Ho's men.

There had been panic when he had first come into the room, but now they were quiet, watching him expectantly. His children.

"Hui Tsin," he said, addressing his Red Pole, taking control of things. "I want you to send a dozen of your best runners out to each front. West, south, and east. They will be our eyes, our ears in this battle. I want them masked and armed, each squad divided into six teams of two: one messenger, one guard. Each guard must be willing to lay down his life to allow the messenger to get through, you understand?"

"Yes, Master." Hui Tsin bowed and hurried off. Wong turned, facing another of his men.

"Hua Shang, I want you to get word to Yun Yueh-hui. Tell him that we are being attacked and that the United Bamboo would welcome help from their brothers of the Red Gang."

"Master. . ."

"Oh, and Shang . . . Send off a dozen runners, by different routes. Instruct each one to contact Yun's headquarters by whatever means they can. Speed is of the essence here."

Hua Shang bowed his head and was gone. Fat Wong turned, facing the others. They waited, tense, yet almost content now that there were things to be done, tasks to be accomplished, their faces open to him, expectant.

"Good," Wong said, beaming back at them. "You understand, my sons. The day has come. It is war. So now we fight. Whoever comes against us."

LI CHIN LAY on his back, beneath the silken bedsheets, his eyes, which had never closed in life, staring sightlessly at the ceiling mosaic. His face was ash-pale, the pillow beneath his head dark, almost black with his blood.

The eighteen-year-old, Li Pai Shung, stood there a moment, looking down at his uncle. He had returned only yesterday, after a year at College in Strasbourg Hsien, and had spent the night with his uncle and friends, feasting until the early hours. And now Li Chin was dead, murdered in his bed. And Li Pai Shung was suddenly 489. Boss of the great Wo Shih Wo.

He shivered, then turned, summoning the Red Pole across to him.

"You have the men who did this, Yue Chun?"

The big Han bowed to his new master. "We cornered them, Master, only fifty ch'i from here, but the assassins killed themselves. Arsenic capsules, it seems."

"Ah . . ." Li Pai Shung looked away, his eyes returning once more to the tiny stiletto wound at the side of his uncle's neck. "Then we do not know who sent them."

"They were Fat Wong's men, Master. My lieutenant, Liu Tong, recognized them."

Li Pai Shung turned, surprised. "Wong Yi-sun?" Then he laughed. "No. Fat Wong wasn't ready. My honorable uncle was wrong about many things, but not about that. Wong Yi-sun would never have moved against us unless the odds were heavily in his favor. Unless he was certain of victory. No, Yue Chun, this is something else."

"General Feng?" Yue asked, frowning.

"It is possible," Li Pai Shung said, recalling the intense rivalry there had been with General Feng's I4K on their northeastern borders over the past year. Possible but unlikely. There was a great deal of difference, after all, between that kind of ritual muscle-flexing and all-out war. And there was no doubting that, whatever else was happening, this was a war. Already the Wo Shih Wo had lost six stacks and more than three thousand men.

He turned back. Yue Chun was waiting with that perfect patience that characterized the man.

"All right," Li Pai Shung said finally. "Whoever it is, let's hit them back. And let's hit them hard."

the corridor ahead was blocked with the bodies of the dead. Here, at the entrance to the central stack of Budapest Hsien, the i4K had made a stand. More than a thousand men had died here in the last hour, in hand-to-hand fighting that was fiercer than anything Soucek had ever thought to see.

He stood there, getting his breath, while his men brought up the heavy armaments. Despite this setback, things had gone well for them these past six hours. The first assault had won them eight of the twenty-six stacks controlled by the i4K. After that it had been steady fighting, stack by stack, floor by floor.

So far, Lehmann's tactics had worked perfectly. Prisoners had been taken, but they'd been bound and drugged, then left in rooms behind their lines, freeing his own men for the fight. Those enemies that had continued to resist had been shot out of hand. Where things had been difficult—where resistance had been particularly fierce—they had used bombs and flamethrowers to clear rooms and corridors.

Momentum had been the secret. For four hours they had pressed forward relentlessly, enclosing their opponents, panicking them, forcing them to flee or surrender. But now they would have to fight a very different kind of battle, for now they were on the death ground. This was the final stack. Here the I4K either fought or ceased to exist as a brotherhood.

The death ground. . . Soucek shivered, remembering the words Lehmann had drummed into each of them. The words of the great Sun Tzu. Words that were more than two and a half thousand years old.

In death ground I could make it evident that there is no chance of survival. For it is the nature of soldiers to resist when surrounded: to/ight to the death when there is no alternative, and when desperate to follow commands implicitly.

So it was here, at this hour. Unless, as Sun Tzu suggested, he gave them that small chance of escape—that narrow corridor of light through the darkness—that would undermine their will to fight. But first he must push them to the edge. Must make it clear to them that there was no question of compromise; that it was his intention to eradicate them, down to the last man.

He turned, watching as the two big guns were wheeled into place, signaling his men to take up positions on either side of the corridor, some twenty ch'i back from the barrier of corpses. Then, when all was ready, he gave the order.

FAT WONG SAT DOWN heavily, staring at the note that had come.

There was no doubting its authenticity. It was Yun Yueh-hui's hand,

and the coded phrases were those they had agreed on long ago, should this situation arise. But the words . . .

He let the note fall from his hand and looked up, searching the faces of his men as if for explanation.

"He says he cannot come. Mei fa tzu, he says. It is fate."

Wong shook his head, numbed by what was happening. It was as if T'ai Shan itself had fallen. In the last hour news had come of the murder of General Feng, his throat cut by his concubines in the bath, and of Li Ch'in, stabbed in his own bed by two chan shih of his, Wong's, brotherhood. From Three-Finger Ho in Saragossa there was no word, no answer to his angry query about the two Yellow Banner assassins. Not that it was important now. No, for he knew now who he fought. It was the pai nanjen, the "white man," Lehmann.

Already he had lost more than two thirds of his heartland to the Kuei Chuan. And though he had fought off the latest enemy offensive, it had cost him dearly. Lehmann had only to keep on pressing and the prize would be his. Which was why the news from Dead Man Yun was so bad. With the Red Gang at their back, the United Bamboo would have swept the Kuei Chuan from the levels. But Yun had betrayed him.

Wong stood, his anger spilling over, and waved his men away, slamming the door shut behind them. Alone, he let all of the hurt and bitterness flow out, raging at the empty room. Then, feeling better for that purging outburst, he sat again, letting his thoughts grow still.

Was it lost? Was all that he'd worked for gone? Or was there still a tiny chance? Some way of turning things?

Wong Yi-sun closed his eyes, concentrating, clearing his head of all sentiment, trying to see through the great swirl of events to the clear hard truth at the center of things. Just why had Yun Yueh-hui betrayed him? Why, in his moment of utmost need, had his brother failed to come?

He opened his eyes again, staring down at his tiny, almost feminine hands, using his fingers, like a child, to enumerate the facts.

One. Yun Yueh-hui's Red Gang, alone of the five brotherhoods, had not been attacked by the Kuei Chuan.

Two. Dead Man Yun, his ally, who had given his sacred word to aid him if attacked, had refused to come to his help.

Three. The Red Gang had not joined in the attacks, but had stayed within their borders.

Fact one suggested a deal with the Kuei Chuan—an agreement, perhaps, to share the spoils of war; maybe even to divide things up after it was over. But if such a deal had been made, then surely the Red Gang would have joined the Kuei Chuan in this venture, attacking the United Bamboo from the north? Indeed, an alliance in which one partner did the fighting, while the other sat at home, made no sense at all. Yet if it wasn't an alliance, then what in hell was it? As far as he could make out, Lehmann had neutralized the Red Gang. But how in the gods' names had he done that? What possible inducement could he have offered Yun Yueh-hui to make him stay within his borders? Fat Wong groaned, letting his head drop. He had been wrong last time they'd met. He should have done as Li Chin said and destroyed the pai nan jen. Now it was too late. Now there was nothing he could do. . Nothing. Except to endure.

LEHMANN STABBED a finger at the chart, indicating where the fast-track bolt ran through the center of Fat Wong's heartland, then looked back at his two lieutenants.

"That's where you go in, along the track itself, even as our main force is attacking the south entrance here. I want each of you to take in a team at either end. Six of your best men. Men who are good with knives and garrotes. The lights will be cut, so I want everyone blacked up. You travel fast and silently. If a man falls, the rest go on. The aim is to get to Fat Wong, and we won't do that unless we hit him before he knows we're coming. The attack should distract his attention, but don't count on it. Wong Yi-sun is a good fighter, an experienced general. He will be expecting us to try at him again."

"And if we get him?"

Lehmann straightened up. "If you get him, weVe won. Wong is the head. And without the head, the United Bamboo is nothing."

There were smiles at that, as if the thing were already done. "When are we to go in?"

He glanced at the timer on the desk nearby. "In thirty-eight min' utes. We hit them four minutes before tenth bell. You go in three minutes later, so I want you in position well before then."

There were nods; then, when Lehmann said no more, both men bowed and left.

Lehmann turned, summoning the messenger across.

Until now things had gone well. Word from Budapest was that the I4K were close to capitulation, while the news from Saragossa was that only a handful of isolated stacks held out. Three-Finger Ho had been taken, his Red Pole killed. But things were slowly changing. In Milan, Li Ch'in's nephew, Li Pai Shung, had mounted a vigorous counterattack, pushing Visak back and inflicting heavy losses. And here, in Metz, his forces had found themselves bogged down in fierce hand-to-hand fighting in the corridors, their progress slowed almost to a standstill. It was time, then, to push things further.

Lehmann dismissed the messenger, then turned, studying the chart again. This was his last throw. All of his reserves had been called up for this attack. If it failed, that was it, for there was nothing more to call upon. But it was close now. Very close.

Leaving the map, he went through, into the anteroom, then stood there, looking through the one-way mirror into the room where Dead Man Yun's daughter and her three boys were being held. The boys were in the makeshift beds, sleeping; the woman sat in a chair beside her youngest, her hand stroking his forehead gently, her face careworn, prematurely aged by worry.

Yun Yueh-hui had been the key. If he had been there, at Fat Wong's back with the full force of the Red Gang behind him, there would have been no chance of success today. As it was, he, Stefan Lehmann, was within hours of a famous victory, the like of which had not been witnessed in the Lowers. Good planning had brought him within sight of that victory, but planning could take you only so far: audacity—sheer daring—was needed, if you were to go all the way. Audacity . . . and luck.

THE STORM HAD TURNED. The high-pressure area to the north, which had been dormant these past few hours, had begun to move south once more, pushing the storm before it, channeling it into a narrow corridor of warm, moist air over the north of Brittany.

In the central control room of the Ta Ssu Nung*s European office, a red warning light glowed fiercely on the panel of the Controller's desk, but for once there was no one there to see it. Third Official K'ung had gone home and his replacement, Wu, had called in sick. A replacement was on his way, but he would be an hour yet.

Between times the storm gathered speed and power, pushing a great wall of water before it, heading now for the coast of France and the port of Nantes.

on THE far side of Chung Kuo, at Tongjiang, Li Yuan sat in his study, reading the handwritten message that had come an hour back. Scattered on the desk nearby were the other contents of the package: audiovisual files, a folded piece of lilac paper, a ring.

He looked up, his eyes straying briefly to the open doors and the garden beyond, troubled by what he'd read, then turned, looking directly at his Chancellor.

"What do you think? Are these documents genuine? Is it as this Li Min claims? Has Wang's man, Hung Mien-lo, come to some arrangement with Wong Yi-sun?"

Nan Ho considered a moment, then gave a sigh. "This troubles me, Chieh Hsia. It troubles me greatly. As you know, latest reports indicate that there is some kind of struggle going on in the lowers of our City. The full extent of it we do not know as yet, though first indications are that it is of some considerable scale. In the circumstances, this message is of profound significance, for it provides us with a much clearer understanding of what is happening."

Li Yuan drew the ring toward him, then picked it up between his left-hand thumb and forefinger, studying it, troubled by something familiar about the design inset into its face.

"Maybe so. But what do we know about this Li Min? Where does he come from? And how has he come by the power to take on the rest of the brotherhoods?"

Nan Ho hesitated, then gave a tiny shake of his head. "It is a great mystery, Chieh Hsia. We have heard conflicting reports this past year. One story tells of a tall pai nan jen—a pale man—who killed one of the Big Bosses, Whiskers Lu, and usurped his position. Certainly Lu Ming-shao has been killed, but how or why has been hard to ascertain. As far as the usurper himself is concerned, it has been difficult getting any word of who or what he is. Either no one knows or no one wishes to say. Either way, our investigations have drawn a blank. As for this Li Min, we have no word at all. This is the first anyone has heard of the man."

Li Yuan set the ring down, then picked up the handwritten paper once again, his eyes drawn to the printed "chop" at the foot of the page and the bright red signature to its right. The top character, Li, was the same as that used by the son of K'ung Fu Tzu, and denoted a carp. The underlying character, Min, meant "strong" or "brave."

"Brave Carp," he said quietly, then set the paper aside. "An adopted name, I would say, wouldn't you, Master Nan?"

"It is possible, Chieh Hsia"

"If so, then might this not be the kind of name our friend, the Hung Moo who killed Whiskers Lu, would adopt?"

Nan Ho shrugged. "Again, it is possible, Chieh Hsia. But is this significant? Does it matter who Li Miryis? Surely the important thing here is Wang Sau-leyan's involvement? If it is true . . ."

Li Yuan raised a hand. At once Nan Ho fell silent.

"As you say, if our cousin Wang has tried to make a deal with Fat Wong, then that is indeed significant. But not as significant, perhaps, as what is going on right now in the lowers of the City."

He sat back, his eyes resting on the scattered files and papers a moment, then got up and went across to the open doorway, standing there, contemplating the afternoon sunlight, his back to his Chancellor.

"I must be honest with you, Nan Ho, I have never been entirely happy dealing with Wong Yi-sun and his "brothers." Given the circumstances it was a necessity, and yet my instinct has been against it from the first. I recall only too well my father's attempts to come to terms with the Hung Mun. And his failings in that regard. Failings which, to be frank, have colored my own endeavors."

Li Yuan turned back, looking at his Chancellor. "Which is to say, I suppose, that Hung Mien-lo's advances do not surprise me. I do not trust our friend, Wong Yi-sun. Moreover, I have known for some time now that my cousin Wang seeks to undermine me by whatever means possible. In the circumstances, some kind of alliance of self-interest has seemed to me not merely possible but inevitable.

"All of which is worrying, I agree, but not half so worrying as this matter with Li Min. I mean, why should a man we have never heard of before today go out of his way to attack a vastly superior enemy? And why should that same man, confidently assuming that he will emerge from this conflict triumphant, write to me in such terms, pleading necessity and assuring me of his loyalty? It makes little sense, wouldn't you say, Master Nan? That is, unless there is much that we do not know."

Nan Ho bowed his head. "It is strange, I agree, Chieh Hsia, but for myself I had put little store by the man's words. It was solely their context that interested me, and the light they seemed to throw upon a murky situation." He cleared his throat, then moved a little closer to his T'ang. "It might well prove that I have misread the situation, Chieh Hsia, but from what we know, it seems most unlikely that Li Min will prevail."

"Then what does he want?"

"To draw you into this conflict, Chieh Hsia. To win you over to his side and—by providing you with evidence of Fat Wong's duplicity— to get you to throw in your Hei against the United Bamboo, as you did once before against Iron Mu and the Big Circle."

Li Yuan laughed. "Then why does he quite explicitly beg me not to intervene?" He went across to the desk and picked Li Min's letter up, quickly locating the passage. "Here! I quote you, Master Nan. 'I most humbly beg His Most Serene Highness not in any way to be drawn into this conflict. . .'" He looked up at his Chancellor. "Is that not clear? Or am I to read his words some other way?"

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia. I know how it reads, yet it makes no sense unless one interprets it otherwise."

"Unless Li Min really does think he can defeat his enemies. Unless he really is concerned that I might intervene on Fat Wong's behalf and turn the tables against him."

"But Chieh Hsia. . ."

Again the young T'ang raised a hand. "I am loath to contradict you, Master Nan, but for once my instinct is strong. Something is going on down there that we do not understand as yet. Something of profound and lasting significance to the future of my City. My gut instinct is to act, and at once, but without further information it would be foolhardy to commit myself. So that must be our priority: to gather information; to find out all we can about this Li Min— whatever it costs—and to monitor the situation down there closely. To that end I want you to instruct General Rheinhardt to mobilize a special force to go down there and find out what they can. And I want Rheinhardt to report back to me, personally, every hour on the hour."

Chancellor Nan bowed low. "As you wish, Chieh Hsia."

"Then go. There is no time to lose."

Li Yuan stood there a moment after Nan Ho had gone, deep in thought, staring at the lacquered surface of the door, then he turned back, looking across at the surface of his desk, his eyes returning to the ring. That design, like a pike turning in the water: where had he seen that before? He went across and picked it up again, trying to fit it on his finger and noting, as before, how narrow it was, as if made for a woman's hand. Yet it was clearly a man's ring, the rough-cast iron alriiost brutal in its yang masculinity.

pe glanced down at the signature on the paper, then looked back at the ring. A carp, a pike. The two things reminded him of his father's words that time, about the City being a carp pool without a pike. Well maybe that was it. Maybe that was the clue to it all.

A carp, a pike. For a moment longer he stood there, staring at the two things, as if to free their significance from the air, then, with a sigh of impatience, he turned and went out into the early afternoon sunlight, determined to enjoy it.

THE BITTER SCENT of burning silk hung in the air as Fat Wong made his way down the narrow steps, his tiny feet moving briskly, a handful of his men following after. The sound of fighting was close now, the rapid stutter of small-arms fire punctuated by dull concussions that made the whole deck shudder. Wong's face was set, his movements urgent. Time was against him.

At the foot of the steps he turned right. Ahead, twenty ch'i along, the corridor was blocked by a makeshift barrier, manned by his own men. Wong Yi-sun approached it at a run, waving the guards aside as he clambered up over the barrier and dropped down nimbly onto the other side, hurrying on, not waiting for his men. Farther up the corridor, in a large room to the left, a temporary headquarters had been set up. Going in, he went straight to the central table, pushing aside the men who stood there. Looking down at the hand-drawn map of the United Bamboo's heartland, he studied the position of the brightly colored squares on the hexagonal grid, taking the situation in at a glance.

Lehmann had split them in two, as neatly as if he had brought an ax down on a log. To the west things looked particularly desperate. There, his own forces were surrounded, cut off and heavily outnumbered now that five of his tonghad gone over to Lehmann. Here in the northeast, the position was nowhere near as bad, yet it was only a matter of time. Once Lehmann had dealt with Wong's western forces, he would turn and the final battle would begin.

"What news is there?" he asked, looking about him.

"This came, Master," one of his men said, bowing low and handing him a sealed note. "It came in from the north, ten minutes back. From Red Gang territory."

Wong Yi-sun laughed, then ripped it open anxiously, his hopes rising. At last, Yun Yueh-hui was coming! At last! But it was not from Dead Man Yun. It was from Li Pai Shung, the new Boss of the Wo Shih Wo, greeting him and assuring him of his friendship and loyalty.

He crumpled the note and threw it down, a wave of bitterness washing through him. The gods were mocking him. Raising his hopes and then dashing them. For Li Pai Shung was already dead, the Wo Shih Wo destroyed. And his old friend and ally Yun Yueh-hui still sat on his ass in his rooms, doing nothing.

"Why?" he asked for the hundredth time that hour. "Why doesn't the Dead Man come?"

But there was no answer, only the dull sound of an explosion close by, rattling the plastic counters on the map.

LEHMANN WALKED slowly through the ruins of the deck, surprised by the extent of the damage. When he had last seen it, this had been a luxurious, orderly place, the balconies festooned with bright red banners and garlands of colorful flowers, the shops and restaurants busy with affluent young Han. Now it was empty, desolate, the great floor littered with debris, the shop fronts gutted, the tables overturned.

The heart, he thought. I have plucked the. heart out of the beast. Yet still it fought on, stubbornly, defiantly, like a badly wounded bear, refusing to die.

He turned, looking down the length of Main toward the bell tower, remembering how it had once looked. Twelve great cinnamon trees had stood along the central aisle, brightening the great space with their broad green crowns. Now the aisle seemed bare. The ornamental bowls were cracked and charred, the trees gaunt, blackened stumps, embedded in ash.

Death, it all said. Death has come.

Lehmann sighed deeply, tired to his bones. The United Bamboo was broken. Once their banners had flown proudly over this place: banners on which nine long, thick canes of bamboo were gripped by a single giant hand, ivory yellow against a bright green background. But now that hand had been hacked from its arm, its tight grip loosened. And he had picked up the canes and snapped them, one by one.

He turned, clicking his fingers. At once his men spilled out from the corridors where they'd been waiting, slowly filling the Main. In the midst of them, six men carried a bulky field communications unit on a litter between them. Setting it down where Lehmann indicated, they got to work. While they did so, Lehmann looked about him, taking advantage of the lull in the fighting to think things through.

His assassins had failed, but then, so too had Fat Wong's counterattack. And now the United Bamboo were backed up into three decks just north of where he stood, all exits from those decks sealed top and bottom. At best they had four thousand men. Half of those were wounded, all of them tired and hungry, but they were no less dangerous for that. When the final battle came, they would put up fierce resistance. Besides which, his own men were close to the limit now. He had tried to rest them when he could, to make sure they were properly organized and supplied with food and ammunition, but it had been difficult of late. Moreover, in the chaos of battle much had gone wrong. Take Hui Tsin, for instance. They had surrounded Fat Wong's "Red Pole" in one of the western stacks, cutting him off and then slowly closing in. Lehmann had taken great care, sure that they had him, but Hui Tsin had slipped the net, audaciously cutting his way through the Kuei Chuan lines with a mere handful of fighters, while his main force struck elsewhere.

A good man, Lehmann thought, feeling something akin to admiration for Hui Tsin's ability. It is a pity he has to die.

He turned, looking across. The rig was prepared. The technicians were standing there, heads bowed, awaiting him.

He went across and stood beside the desk, his tall, white figure standing out against the soot-stained blackness of his surroundings. For a moment he simply looked about him at his men, noting how they looked to him, eager now, unquestioning, their tiredness set aside, and inwardly he smiled, knowing he was close.

"Come," he said, tersely, unsmilingly. "Let's finish the job."

"Gods..." ,

Hui Tsin moved back sharply, a look of disgust, maybe even of horror on his face. Fat Wong's Red Pole had seen many things in his life, but never anything quite so vile as this. The three boys had been trussed up—bound tightly hand and foot—and hung from hooks. Then, while their mother watched, they had been killed, their eyes poked out, their throats slit like pigs.

He turned, looking about him at the empty, blood-spattered floor, his eyes finally coming to rest on Dead Man Yun's daughter. She sat there in the far corner, unnaturally still, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face ashen, her eyes staring into emptiness.

He shuddered, angered and sickened by what had happened here. If he had known he would not have killed the guards, but taken them. Yes, and made their last few hours in this world a living hell. As it was, there was little time. The final assault would begin any time now and Leipzig was two hours distant. If there was any chance of saving the United Bamboo, he had to leave here now. To get this evidence to Dead Man Yun and wake that aged dragon from his slumbers.

Hui Tsin looked about him, then nodded. "Cut them down and bring them," he said quietly. "And be gentle with the woman. What she has suffered here today we cannot even begin to imagine."

No, and yet it was the way of War, the way he had chosen long ago, when he had first uttered the sacred oaths and partaken of the rituals of the brotherhood. How many mothers' sons had he sent to their deaths? How many days of grief and bitterness had his knife hand carved from the whiteness of the years?

The gods help me, he thought, for my earthly soul witt surely sink down into the earth-prison when I am dead, to rot in eternal torment, while my spirit soul roams the upper regions, forlorn, a hungry ghost.

Maybe so. But before that happened, there was one final score to settle; one last, earthly battle to wage.

Lehmann. He would hang Lehmann on a hook and gut him. Or die trying.

IT WAS THE WIND that hit first, pushing ahead of the great storm like a company of outriders, wreaking havoc wherever it struck.

At Nantes Spaceport, it struck without warning, effortlessly ripping the perimeter fence from its foundations and whipping it across the open space like a giant, deadly length of ribbon. Buildings exploded. Small ships were lifted from their pads and thrown about like toys, while in the deeper pits, the big interplanetary craft were rocked and buffeted, their service crews picked up and crushed like ants against the walls and safety doors.

As the wind moved on, channeled up over the roof of the great City, there was a moment's silence, a moment's calm. From the toppled ruins of the central spire, a handful of survivors hobbled out, blessing their luck, then stopped, conscious of the growing darkness of the storm. There, filling the sky from horizon to horizon, was a wall of solid blackness. And a growing noise, a noise which, as it came nearer, seemed to sound not merely in the air, but in the earth itself, in every atom of one's body, a single, organlike note of such intensity and scale that it seemed like the voice of Hell.

For the briefest moment they stood there, transfixed, their hands pressed to their ears, and then the storm surge hit, a giant wall of water sixty ch'i in height, that powered its way ashore, scouring the great port clean before it hit the wall of the City with a force that threw it back upon itself.

Slowly, unheard beneath the great storm's roar, a segment of that whiteness tore itself away from the surrounding stacks. Slowly, with a dreadful, dreamlike slowness, it collapsed, tumbling into the surging darkness of the waters. And as it did the second wave struck, smashing into the breach with a force that made that great wall shudder and begin to split apart.

dead MAN YUN stood there, his normally placid face twitching with emotion as he looked down at the corpses of his daughter's children. Their tiny, bloodless bodies had been laid out on the huge bed in Yun Yueh-hui's room; that selfsame bed where they had so often played, leaping about with gay abandonment while he, smiling, had looked on. If he closed his eyes he could hear them still: could hear their childish laughter, their shrieks of joy echoing throughout his rooms.

A/i, yes, he thought, clenching his teeth against the memory. But all that ended—all joy, all love, all happiness—when these, my beauties, died.

Yun shuddered, tears running freely down his cheeks, then reached out to gently touch and stroke each darling face, as once he'd done to comfort them in sleep. But there was no comfort anymore. No, and nothing safe. Nothing but pain and grief and bitterness.

"My beauties . . ." he said, the ache of longing in his voice dreadful to hear. "My darling little ones . . ."

"Master Yun," Hui Tsin said softly, loath to break into the old man's grief. "Forgive me, but there is little time."

Yun turned, staring at Fat Wong's Red Pole almost sightlessly, then gave a tiny nod. "Good boys, they were, Hui Tsin. Such darling little boys. They were my life. Without them . . ."

Hui Tsin bowed his head, embarrassed by the rawness he had glimpsed in the old man's face, the frightening openness. Whatever else he'd expected, it had not been this. Anger, he'd thought there'd be, and maybe even rage, but this . . . this womanly response ... He took a long breath, then spoke again.

"Forgive me, Master Yun, but unless we act now it will be too late. The pai nan jen's forces are attacking and Wong Yi-sun . . ."

Yun raised a hand, silencing the Red Pole, his manner suddenly more firm, much more the Yun Yueh-hui of old.

"I understand, brother Hui. And I shall act. But not yet. Not until I have properly grieved my daughter's sons. Return to your Master. Go now, at once, and tell my brother Wong that the Dead Man will come. But do not push me, Hui Tsin. You have no sons, no grandsons, and so do not understand how I feel, nor what I have lost this day." Yun moved closer, towering over the Red Pole, a fierceness now behind his eyes. "I see how you look at me, Hui Tsin, but you are wrong. Do not mistake my grief for weakness, nor my tears for sudden softness. When I come I shall come as an avenging demon. And then I shall crush the pai nan jen. Were the legions of Hell lined up behind him, I would crush him."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Connections

TRADITION HAD IT that when the first frosts came the Li Family would close up the estate at Tongjiang and move wives, sons, and daughters to Yangjing, their floating palace, 160,000 li above City Europe. It was an annual occurrence—a tradition that stretched back to the earliest years of the Seven when the huge geostationary environments had first been built. Li Yuan had spent a dozen childhood winters thus, not knowing snow until, at thirteen, he had stood there by the frozen lake at Tongjiang, looking up in wonder at the falling whiteness. Each spring the Family would move back, in time to witness the first buds sprout from the seeming deadness of the branch, to see the miracle of blossom in the orchard.

This once, however, they had come early, to escape not the frost but the unseasonable heat of these late autumn days. Li Yuan stood in the half-light of the shuttle hangar, smiling to himself, Kuei Jen cradled warm against his shoulder, as he watched the unloading. At such moments he felt his father move in his bones. So many times he had looked up from playing among the unloaded crates and, through a child's eyes, had seen his father, even as he himself stood now, supervising the unpacking.

Satisfied, Li Yuan turned and went through. Kuei was fifteen months old now and babbling his first half words. Li Yuan laughed tenderly, delighted by the ill-formed nonsense, and nuzzled the child,

478

nodding to the guards who stood there, heads bowed at the door to his rooms. Inside, things had been prepared. A tray of sweetmeats rested on a low table. Beside it was a bowl with food for Kuei Jen. A nurse waited, eyes averted, ready to feed the boy.

Normally Li Yuan would have handed Kuei Jen to her and gone through to his own suite, to rest or to do some work, but on whim he dismissed the woman and, setting Kuei Jen in a low chair, knelt down, beginning to feed the boy himself. He was almost done when there was a faint cough behind him. His cousin, Wei Tseng-li, knelt in the doorway, his eyes lowered.

"Come in, Tseng-li. Please. I am almost done here."

Conscious of protocol, Tseng-li hesitated, then, bowing low, he crossed the room in a crouch and knelt across from the T'ang and his son, not presuming to be standing while the T'ang knelt. But, seeing the smile of pleasure on Li Yuan's face, he ventured a smile of his own.

"He is a healthy boy, Highness. He will be a fine athlete, a good horseman when he is older."

Li Yuan looked to him, his smile widening. "You think so, cousin Tseng?" He laughed, then turned back, pushing another spoonful of dinner into the waiting mouth, careful not to let Kuei Jen grab the spoon. "Is there anything of importance to be dealt with?"

"A few matters, Highness. But nothing so urgent that you cannot finish here."

Wei Tseng-li had been Li Yuan's private secretary for more than six months now; a post he had filled better than any expectations. In the past weeks Li Yuan had come to rely on him more and more as the demands on his time had increased. Now, with the House open, they could relax a little.

"Good," Yuan said, straightening a little. "I'll finish, then we can go through."

The bowl was almost empty. Li Yuan scraped the spoon around its edge to catch the last of it, tucking it neatly into his son's mouth.

"You have the way of it," Tseng-li said, laughing. "When I try I have it everywhere!"

Li Yuan glanced at him, then set the bowl aside. "You feed him often, then?"

Tseng-li smiled broadly, for the moment wholly unselfconscious.

"Only when Mien Shan permits. They are all quite jealous of the task. There is a regular contest between your wives as to who will tend to young Kuei. A loving jealousy, you might call it."

"Ah . . ." Li Yuan looked thoughtful a moment longer, then slowly got to his feet. He hadn't known, and he wasn't sure exactly how he felt about it. He had thought only the nurses fed the child.

"Wait here a moment, Tseng-li. I must give the child back to the nurse."

He lifted Kuei Jen from the seat, turning away from his secretary, then paused. The child, at his shoulder, was looking past him at Tseng-li, smiling in that open way that only young children have. His dark and liquid eyes held two perfect, tiny images of Tseng-li. Li Yuan took a slow, deep breath, then began to move again, aware that in that brief moment he had both weighed and decided something.

Tseng-li. He could trust Wei Tseng-li. Maybe even with his life.

LI YUAN THREW HIMSELF forward, arms out in a dive, and cut the water crisply. He pushed hard with his legs underwater, his arms pulling him forward strongly, smoothly through the cool and silent medium. At the far end of the fifty-ch'i-long pool he surfaced, gasping for air, then rested there, one hand holding the tiled overhang while he got his breath back.

Throughout the three hours he had spent with Tseng-li at his desk he had thought of this. Of the cool silence of the pool, the flicker of shadows on the plain white walls, the gentle lapping of the water against the metal rungs. More of his time these days was taken up with official business, and though he sought to delegate as much as possible, it still left him little time that was his own. So often, recently, he had found himself thinking of something other than the matter at hand. He would catch himself imagining this: the long, weightless glide after the plunge; the pattern of light and shade on the water's mottled surface.

For a long while he floated there, thoughtless, the water rising either side of him, following the curve of the palace. Then, coming to himself, he pushed away and began to swim, a leisurely breaststroke that took him to the other end. Turning, he started back. He was halfway down when he heard the door behind him slide back. Slowing, he turned and, floating there, his arms out, his legs slightly raised, looked back at the doorway.

The figure in the doorway had knelt and bowed low, in k'ou t'ou, forehead pressed to the floor. It stayed there, awaiting his acknowledgment.

Li Yuan frowned and pushed with his legs, moving closer. "Who is that?"

The head lifted slowly. It was Tseng-li. "Forgive me, Highness, but I thought the pool was empty. I did not know you came here."

Li Yuan laughed, relaxing. He had been angry, but seeing Tseng-li he softened. "You came to swim?"

Tseng-li bowed his head again. "I will go, Highness. Forgive me."

"No . . . stay. Come join me, Tseng-li. There's room for two."

Still the young prince hesitated.

"Tseng-li! Your T'ang commands you! Now join me in the pool!"

He said it sternly, sharply, yet he was smiling. It would be good to relax in Tseng-li's company. Besides, there were things he wanted to say to his young cousin; things he had found difficult to say earlier.

Tseng-li got up slowly, and, after bowing one last time, stripped off quickly and jumped into the water. Li Yuan watched him surface, then strike out firmly with a bold, aggressive backstroke. He followed him slowly down, coming alongside him at the far end of the pool. Tseng-li hung there by one hand, looking back at him and smiling.

"Highness?"

"You swim well, cousin. The curve doesn't bother you."

Tseng-li laughed and looked past Yuan at the steep curvature of the water. In the artificial gravity of the palace things behaved differently than on Chung Kuo. Li Yuan's great-great-grandfather, Li Hang Ch'i, had had them build this pool, in defiance of the strangeness of the place. He, too, had been fond of swimming. But Li Yuan's father had never used it. He had felt the pool unnatural, odd.

Tseng-li looked back at Li Yuan. "I came here earlier and saw it. All day IVe thought of coming here."

"AH day?" Li Yuan looked mock stern at him, and Tseng-li blushed,

realizing what he had said. But then the T'ang laughed and nodded.

"You were not alone in that thought, cousin. My mind was also drawn here. But tell me, you don't mind its strangeness?" "No, Highness. I like new things. Strange things." "And the old?" "That too. We live in constant flux. Things persist, and yet they also change. Is that not the law for all time?"

Li Yuan laughed. "Now you sound like my father." Tseng-li joined his laughter. "Like all our fathers!" For a time they rested there, in the water, laughing. Then Li Yuan pushed away from the ledge. "Swim by my side, Tseng-li. There is something I must say to you . . ."

IT WAS JUSTAFTERTENinthe morning when Kennedy reported to the duty captain at Plainsborough garrison. After searching him thoroughly, the two guards placed an audio-wrap over his head and led him to their craft. That first part of the journey took an hour, then he was led up a short set of steps and strapped into an acceleration couch. Minutes later he felt the firm, steadily accelerating pressure of the shuttle's climb.