The White Mountain

"If the host has had the normal course of immunization, then, yes, it should follow near enough the same evolutionary pattern. There will be slight statistical variations, naturally, but such 'sports' will be small in number. For all intents and purposes you could guarantee a one hundred percent success rate."

DeVore nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting. So, in effect, what we have here is a bug that evolves—that's harmless when it's first passed on, but which, in only a hundred generations, evolves into a deadly virus. A brain-killer." He laughed. "And what's a hundred generations in the life of a bug?"

For the first time, Curval laughed. "Exactly . . ."

DeVore moved back, letting the scientist pass, his mind reeling with an almost aesthetic delight at the beauty of the thing. "Moreover, the very thing that triggers this evolutionary pattern is that which is normally guaranteed to defend the body against disease—the immunization program!"

"Exactly. The very thing that all First Level children have pumped into their systems as six-month fetuses."

DeVore watched him place the sealed slide back into the padded, shock-safe case and draw another out.

"Come . . . here's another. Slightly different this time. Same principal, but more specific."

DeVore leaned forward, fascinated. "What do you mean, more specific?"

Curval slipped the slide into the slot, then stood back. "Just watch. I'll trigger it when you're ready."

DeVore put his eye to the lens. Again he saw the thing divide and grow and change, like the ever-evolving pattern in a kaleidoscope, but this thing was real, alive—as alive as only a thing whose sole purpose was to kill could be.

DeVore looked up. "It looks the same."

Curval looked at him closely. "You noticed no difference then?"

DeVore smiled. "Well, there were one or two small things midway through. There was a brief stage when the thing seemed a lot bigger than before. And afterward, there was a slight color change. Then it normalized. Was the same as before."

Curval laughed. "Good. So you did see."

"Yes, but what did I see?"

Curval took out the slide—not as carefully as before, it seemed—and put it down on the table beside him.

"This . . ." he tapped it almost carelessly, "is as harmless to you or I as spring water. We could take in a huge dose of it and it wouldn't harm us one tiny little bit. But to a Han . . ."

DeVore's eyes widened.

Curval nodded. "That's right. What you saw was the virus priming itself genetically, like a tiny bacteriological time bomb, making itself racially specific."

DeVore laughed, then reached across to pick it up. The slide seemed empty, yet its contents could do untold damage. Not to him or his kind, but to the Han. He smiled broadly. "Wonderful! That's wonderful!"

Curval laughed. "I thought you'd like it. You know, I had you in mind constantly while I was making it. I would sit there late nights and laugh, imagining your reaction."

DeVore looked at him a moment, then nodded. The two had known each other more than twenty years, ever since their first fateful meeting at one of Old Man Ebert's parties. Curval had been restless even then—wanting to break out on his own, burdened by the remaining years of his contract. It had been DeVore who had befriended him. DeVore who had found him his first important contacts in City America. DeVore who had shown him the top-security files detailing the deals Klaus Ebert had struck with various companies to destroy CurvaPs own enterprise. DeVore who had arranged the deal whereby he worked for the Levers and yet had his own private laboratories.

And now Curval was returning the favor. With only one string attached. A minor thing. DeVore could have the virus, but first he must promise to kill Old Man Ebert. He had agreed.

"Does Michael know about this?"

Curval smiled. "What do you think? Michael Lever is a nice young man for all his revolutionary fervor. He wants to change things—but fairly. He'll fight if he must, but he won't cheat. He'd kill me if he knew I'd made something like this."

DeVore considered that a while, then nodded. "You're sure of that?" Curval laughed sourly. "I know that young man too well. He seems different, but underneath it all he's the same as the rest of them. They've had it too easy, all of them. What fires them isn't ambition but a sense of bitterness. Bitterness that their fathers still treat them as children. For all they were saying back there in the screen room, they don't want change. Not real change like you and I want. When they talk of change what they mean is a change of leadership. They'd as soon relinquish their privileges as the Seven."

"Maybe," DeVore said, watching Curval pack up the microscope. "By the way, has the virus a name?"

Curval clicked the case shut and turned, looking back at DeVore. "Yes, as a matter of fact it does. I've named it after the viral strain I developed it from. That, too, was a killer, though not as lethal or efficient as mine. And it was around for centuries before people managed to find a cure for it. Syphilis, they called it. What the Han call yang mei ping, 'willow-plum sickness.' "

DeVore laughed, surprised. "So it's sexually transmitted?"

Curval stared at DeVore, then laughed quietly. "Of course! I thought you understood that. It's the only way to guarantee that it will spread, and spread widely. Fucking. . . it's the thing the human race does most of and says least about. And when you consider it, it's the perfect way of introducing a new virus. After all, they're all supposed to be immune to sexual disease. From birth."

DeVore touched his tongue against his top teeth, then nodded. Errant husbands and their unfaithful wives, bored concubines and their casual lovers, lecherous old men and randy widows, singsong girls and libertine young sons—he could see it now, spreading like the leaves and branches of a great tree until the tree itself rotted and fell. He laughed, then slapped Curval on the back.

"YouVe done well, Andrew. Very well."

Curval looked at him. "And you, Howard? You'll keep your promise?"

DeVore squeezed his shoulder. "Of course. Have I ever let you down? But come, let's go. Our young friends will be wondering why we've been gone so long. Besides, I understand our friend Kustow has brought his wei chi champion with him and I fancied trying myself out against him."

Curval nodded. "He's good. I've seen him play."

DeVore met his eyes. "As good as me?"

Curval turned and took the tiny, deadly slide from the table. "They say he might even challenge for the championship next year."

DeVore laughed. "Maybe so, but you still haven't answered me. YouVe seen me play. Would you say he's as good as me?"

Curval slotted the slide back into the case and secured the lid, then looked back at DeVore, hesitant, not certain how he'd take the truth.

"To be honest with you, Howard, yes. Every bit as good. And maybe a lot better."

DeVore turned away, pacing the tiny room, lost in his own thoughts. Then he turned back, facing Curval again, a smile lighting his face.

"Our friend Kustow ... do you know if he likes to gamble?"

devore looked UP from the board, then bowed to his opponent, conceding the game. It was the fifth the two had played and the closest yet. This time he had come within a stone of beating the Han. Even so, the result of the tournament was conclusive; Kustow's champion had triumphed five-nothing, two of those games having been won by a margin of more than twenty stones.

"Another five?" Kustow said, smiling. He had done well by the contest— DeVore had wagered five thousand yuan on each game and a further ten thousand on the tournament.

DeVore looked back at him, acknowledging his victory. "I wish there were time, my friend, but you must be at the Ebert Mansion by nine and it's six already. I'll tell you what, though. When I come to America, I'll play your man again. It will give me the opportunity to win my money back."

Lever leaned forward in his chair. "You plan to come to America, then, Shih DeVore? Wouldn't that be rather dangerous for you?"

DeVore smiled. "Life is dangerous, Michael. And while it pays to take care, where would any of us be if we did not take risks?"

Lever looked to his two friends. "True. But one must choose one's friends well in these uncertain times."

DeVore bowed his head slightly, understanding what was implied. They were inclined to work with him but had yet to commit themselves fully. He would need to give them further reasons for allying with him. "And one's lieutenants. My man Mach, for instance. He served me well in the attack on the T'ang's plantations." Lever gave a laugh of surprise. "That was you? But I thought. . ." "You thought as everyone was meant to think. That it was the Ping Tiao. But no, they were my men."

"I see. But why? Why not claim credit for yourself?"

"Because sometimes it suits one's purpose to make one's enemies believe the truth is other than it is. You see, the Ping Tiao is now defunct. I destroyed the last vestiges of that organization two days back. Yet as far as the Seven are concerned, it still exists—still poses a threat to them. Indeed, the new T'ang, Li Yuan, plans to launch a major campaign against them. He has given instructions to his new General to use whatever force it takes to destroy them, and at whatever cost. Such a diversion of funds and energies is to be welcomed, wouldn't you say?"

Lever laughed. "Yes! And at the same time it draws attention away from your activities here in the Wilds. I like that."

DeVore nodded, pleased. Here were young men with fire in them. They were not like their European counterparts. Their anger was pure. It had only to be channeled.

He stood, and with one final bow to his opponent, came around the table, facing the three young men.

"There's one more thing before you go from here. Something I want to give you."

Lever looked to his friends, then lowered his head. "We thank you, Shih DeVore, but your hospitality has been reward enough."

DeVore understood. Lever was accustomed to the use of gifts in business to create obligations. It was a trick the Han used a great deal. He shook his head. "Please, my friends, do not mistake me; this gift carries no obligation. Indeed, I would feel greatly offended if you took it otherwise. I am no trader. I would not dream of seeking any material advantage from our meeting. Let this be a simple token of our friendship, neh?"

He looked to each of them; to Lever, Kustow, and finally to Stevens, seeing how each had been won by the simplicity of his manner.

"Good. Then wait here. I have it in the other room."

He left them, returning a moment later with a bulky, rectangular parcel wrapped in red silk.

"Here," he said, handing it to Lever. "You are to open it later—on the flight to Ebert's if you must, but later. And whatever you finally decide to do with it, bear in mind that great sacrifices have been made to bring this to you. Let no one see it who you do not trust like a brother."

Lever stared at the parcel a moment, his eyes burning with curiosity, then looked up again, smiling.

"IVe no idea what this is, but I'll do as you say. And thank you, Howard. Thank you for everything. You must be our guest when you come to America."

DeVore smiled. "That's kind of you, Michael. Very kind indeed."

"Well, Stefan, what do you think?"

Lehmann stood there a moment longer at the one-way mirror, then turned back, looking at DeVore. He had witnessed everything.

"The contest. . . You lost it deliberately, didn't you?"

DeVore smiled, pleased that Lehmann had seen it.

"I could have beaten him. Not at first, maybe, but from the third game on. There's a pattern to his game. That's the way it is with these Americans. There's a pattern to their thinking and I feel as if I'm beginning to discern it. Which is why I have to go there myself. Europe is dead as far as we're concerned. WeVe milked it dry. If we want to complete the fortresses, we've got to get funds from the Americans. WeVe got to persuade them to invest in us—to make them see us as the means | by which they can topple the Seven."

"And Curval? You promised him you'd kill Old Man Ebert. Is that wise?"

DeVore laughed. "If the gods will it that the old man dies in the next six months, he will die, and I will claim the credit. But I shall do nothing to aid them. I have no great love for Klaus Ebert—I think he's a pompous old windbag, to tell the truth— but he is Hans's father. Kill him and we risk all. No, we will leave such things to fate. And if Curval objects . . ." He laughed. "Well, we can deal with that as and when, neh? As and when."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mirrors

IT WAS NIGHT. Li Yuan stood on the bridge, staring down into the lake, watching the full moon dance upon the blackness. Tongjiang was quiet now, the guests departed. Guards stood off at a distance, perfectly still, like statues in the silvered darkness.

It had been a long and busy day. He had been up at four, supervising the final arrangements for his father's funeral, greeting the mourners as they arrived. The ceremony had taken up the best part of the morning, followed by an informal meeting of the Seven. Interviews with ministers and various high officials had eaten up the rest of the afternoon as he began the task of tying up the loose strands of his father's business and making preparations for his own coronation ceremony three days hence. And other things. So many other things.

He felt exhausted, yet there was still more to do before he retired.

He turned, looking back at the palace, thinking how vast and desolate it seemed without his father's presence. There was only him now—only Li Yuan, second son of Li Shai Tung. The last of his line. The last of the house of Li.

A faint wind stirred the reeds at the lake's edge. He looked up, that same feeling of exposure—that cold, almost physical sense of isolation—washing over him again. Where were the brothers, the cousins he should have had? Dead, or never born. And now there was only him.

A thin wisp of cloud lay like a veil across the moon's bright face. In the distance a solitary goose crossed the sky, the steady beat of its wings carrying to where he stood.

He shivered. Today he had pretended to be strong; had made his face thick, like a wall against his inner feelings. And so it had to be, from this time on, for he was T'ang now, his life no longer his own. All day he had been surrounded by people—

countless people, bowing low before him and doing as he bid—and yet he had never felt so lonely.

No, never in his life had he felt so desolate, so empty.

He gritted his teeth, fighting back what he felt. Be strong, he told himself. Harden yourself against what is inside you. He took a deep breath, looking out across the lake. His father had been right. Love was not enough. Without trust— without those other qualities that made of love a solid and substantial thing—love was a cancer, eating away at a man, leaving him weak.

And he could not be weak, for he was T'ang now, Seven. He must put all human weakness behind him. Must mold himself into a harder form.

He turned away, making his way quickly down the path toward the palace.

At the door to his father's rooms he stopped, loath to go inside. He looked down at the ring that rested, heavy and unfamiliar, on the first finger of his right hand, and realized that nothing could have prepared him for this. His father's death and the ritual of burial had been momentous occasions, yet neither was quite as real as this simpler, private moment.

How often had he come in from the garden and found his father sitting at his desk, his secretaries and ministers in attendance? How often had the old man looked up and seen him, there where he now stood, and with a faint, stern smile, beckoned him inside?

And now there was no one to grant him such permission. No one but himself.

Why, then, was it so difficult to take that first small step into the room? Why did he feel an almost naked fear at the thought of sitting at the desk—of looking back at where he now was standing?

Perhaps because he knew the doorway would be empty.

Angry with himself, he took a step into the room, his heart hammering in his chest as if he were a thief. He laughed uncomfortably as he looked about him, seeing it all anew.

It was a long, low-ceilinged room, furnished in the traditional manner, his father's desk, its huge scrolled legs shaped like dragons, raised up on a massive plinth at the far end of the chamber, a low, gold-painted balustrade surrounding it, like a room within a room, the great symbol of the Ywe Lung set into the wall behind. Unlike his own, it was a distinctly masculine room, no hanging bowls, no rounded pots filled with exotic plants breaking up its rich yang heaviness; indeed, there was not a single trace of greenery, only vases and screens and ancient wall hangings made of silk and golden thread.

He moved further in, stopping beside a huge bronze cauldron. It was empty now, but he recalled when it had once contained a thousand tiny objects carved from jade; remembered a day when he had played there on his father's floor, the brightly colored pieces—exquisite miniatures in blue and red and green—scattered all about him. He had been four then, five at most, but still he could see them vividly, * could feel the cool, smooth touch of them between his fingers.

He turned. On the wall to his right was a mirror, an ancient metallic mirror of the T'ang Dynasty, its surface filled with figures and lettering arrayed in a series of concentric circles emanating outward from the central button. Li Yuan moved closer, studying it. The button—a simple unadorned circle—represented the indivisibility of all created things. Surrounding it were the animals of the Four Quadrants: the Tiger, symbol of the west and of magisterial dignity, courage, and martial prowess; the Phoenix, symbol of the south and of beauty, peace, and prosperity; the Dragon, symbol of the east, of fertility and male vigor; and the Tortoise, symbol of the north, of longevity, strength, and endurance. Beyond these four were the Eight Trigrams and surrounding those the Twelve Terrestrial Branches of the zodiac—rat, ox, and tiger; hare, dragon and serpent; horse, goat, and monkey; cock, dog, and boar. A band of twenty-four pictograms separated that from the next circle of animals—twenty-eight in all—representing the constellations.

He looked past the figures a moment, seeing his face reflected back at him through the symbols and archetypes of the Han universe. Such a mirror was hu hsin ching and was said to have magic powers, protecting its owner from evil. It was also said that one might see the secrets of futurity in such a mirror. But he had little faith in what men said. Why, he could barely see his own face, let alone the face of the future.

He turned his head away, suddenly bitter. Mirrors: they were said to symbolize conjugal happiness, but his own was broken now, the pieces scattered.

He went across to the desk. Nan Ho had been in earlier to prepare it for him. His father's things had been cleared away and his own put in their place—his inkblock and brushes, his sandbox and the tiny statue of Kuan Ti, the god of war, which his brother, Han Ch'in, had given him on his eighth birthday. Beside those were a small pile of folders and one large, heavy-bound book, its thick spine made of red silk decorated with a cloud pattern of gold leaf.

Mounting the three small steps he stood with his hands resting on the low balustrade, his head almost brushing the ceiling, looking across at the big, tall-backed chair. The great wheel of seven dragons—the Yuie Lung or Moon Dragon— had been burned into the back of the chair, black against the ochre of the leather, mirroring the much larger symbol on the wall behind. This chair had been his father's and his father's father's before that, back to his great-great-great-grandfather in the time of Tsao Ch'un.

And now it was his.

Undoing the tiny catch, he pushed back the gate and entered this tiny room-within-a-room, conscious of how strange even that simple action felt. He looked about him again, then lowered himself into the chair. Sitting there, looking out into the ancient room, he could feel his ancestors gathered close: there in the simple continuity of place, but there also in each small movement that he made.

They lived, within him. He was their seed. He understood that now. Had known it even as they had placed the lid upon his father's casket.

He reached across and drew the first of the folders from the pile. Inside was a single sheet from Klaus Ebert at GenSyn, a document relinquishing thirteen patents granted in respect of special food-production techniques. Before his father's death, Ebert had offered to release the patents to his competitors to help increase food production in City Europe. They were worth an estimated two-hundred-and-fifty million yuan on the open market, but Ebert had given them freely, as a gift to his T'ang.

Li Yuan drew the file closer, then reached across and took his brush, signing his name at the bottom of the document.

He set the file aside and took another from the pile. It was the summary of the post-mortem report he had commissioned on his father. He read it through, then signed it and set it atop the other. Nothing. They had found nothing. According to the doctors, his father had died of old age. Old age and a broken heart. Nonsense, he thought. Utter nonsense.

He huffed out his impatience, then reached across for the third file, opening it almost distractedly. Then, seeing what it was, he sat back, his mouth gone dry, his heart beating furiously. It was the result of the genotyping test he had had done on Fei Yen and her child.

He closed his eyes, in pain, his breathing suddenly erratic. So now he would know. Know for good and certain who the father was. Know to whom he owed the pain and bitterness of the last few months.

He leaned forward again. It was no good delaying. No good putting off what was inevitable. He drew the file closer, forcing himself to read it; each word seeming to cut and wound him. And then it was done. He pushed the file away and sat back. So ...

For a moment he was still, silent, considering his options, then reached across, touching the summons bell.

Almost at once the door to his right swung back. Nan Ho, his Master of the Inner Chamber, stood there, his head bowed low. "Chieh Hsia?"

"Bring ch'a, Master Nan. I need to talk."

Nan Ho bobbed his head. "Should I send for your Chancellor, Chieh Hsia?" "No, Master Chan, it is you I wish to speak with." "As you wish, Chieh Hsia."

When he had gone, Li Yuan leaned across and drew a large, heavy-bound book toward him. A stylized dragon and phoenix—their figures drawn in gold—were inset into the bright-red silk of the cover. Inside, on the opening page was a handwritten quotation from the Li Chi, the ancient Book of Rites, the passage in the original Mandarin.

The point of marriage is to create a union between two persons of different families, the object of which is to serve first the ancestors in the temple and second, the generation to come.

He shivered. So it was. So it had always been among his kind. Yet he had thought it possible to marry for love. In so doing he had betrayed his kind. Had tried to be what he was not. For he was Han. Han to the very core of him. He recognized that now.

But it was not too late. He could begin again. Become what he had failed to be. A good Han, leaving all ghosts of other selves behind.

He flicked through the pages desultorily, barely seeing the faces that looked up at him from the pages. Here were a hundred of the most eligible young women selected from the Twenty-Nine, the Minor Families. Each one was somewhat different from the rest, had some particular quality to recommend her, yet it was all much the same to him. One thing alone was important now—to marry and have sons. To make the family strong again, and fill the emptiness surrounding him.

For anything was better than to feel like this. Anything.

He closed the book and pushed it away, then sat back in the chair, closing his eyes. He had barely done so when there was a tapping on the door.

"Chieh Hsia?"

"Come!" he said, sitting forward again, the tiredness like salt in his blood, weighing him down.

Nan Ho entered first, his head bowed, the tray held out before him. Behind him came the she t'ou—the "tongue," or taster. Li Yuan watched almost listlessly as Nan Ho set the ch'a things down on a low table, then poured, offering the first bowl to the she t'ou.

The man sipped, then offered the bowl back, bowing gracefully, a small smile of satisfaction crossing his lips. He waited a minute, then turned to Li Yuan and bowed low, kneeling, touching his head against the floor before he backed away.

Nan Ho followed him to the door, closing it after him; then he turned, facing Li Yuan.

"Shall I bring your ch'a up to you, Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan smiled. "No, Nan Ho. I will join you down there." He stood, yawning, stretching the tiredness from his bones, then leaned forward, picking up the heavy-bound volume.

"Here," he said, handing it to Nan Ho, ignoring the offered bowl. Nan Ho put the bowl down hastily and took the book from his T'ang. "You have decided, then, Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan stared at Nan Ho a moment, wondering how much he knew—whether he had dared look at the genotyping—then, dismissing the thought, he smiled. "No, Master Nan. I have not decided. But you will." Nan Ho looked back at him, horrified. "Chieh Hsial"

"You heard me, Master Nan. I want you to choose for me. Three wives, I need. Good, strong, reliable women. The kind that bear sons. Lots of sons. Enough to fill the rooms of this huge, empty palace."

Nan Ho bowed low, his face a picture of misery. "But Chieh Hsia ... It is not my place to do such a thing. Such responsibility. . ." He shook his head and fell to his knees, his head pressed to the floor. "I beg you, Chieh Hsia. I am unworthy for such a task."

Li Yuan laughed. "Nonsense, Master Nan. If anyone, you are the very best of men to undertake such a task for me. Did you not bring Pearl Heart and Sweet Rose to my bed? Was your judgment so flawed then? No! So, please, Master Nan, do this for me, I beg you."

Nan Ho looked up, wide-eyed. "Chieh Hsia . . . you must not say such things! You are T'ang now."

"Then do this thing for me, Master Nan," he said tiredly. "For I would be married the day after my coronation."

Nan Ho stared at him a moment longer, then bowed his head low again, resigned to his fate. "As my Lord wishes."

"Good. Now let us drink our ch'a and talk of other things. Was I mistaken or did I hear that there was a message from Hal Shepherd?"

Nan Ho put the book down beside the table, then picked up Li Yuan's bowl, turning back and offering it to him, his head bowed.

"Not Hal, Chieh Hsia, but his son. Chung Hu-yan dealt with the matter." "I see. And did the Chancellor happen to say what the message was?" Nan Ho hesitated. "It was ... a picture, Chieh Hsia." "A picture? You mean, there were no words? No actual message?" "No, Chieh Hsia."

"And this picture—what was in it?" "Should I bring it, Chieh Hsia?" "No. But describe it, if you can."

Nan Ho frowned. "It was odd, Chieh Hsia. Very odd indeed. It was of a tree—or rather, of twin apple trees. The two were closely intertwined, their trunks twisted about each other; yet one of the trees was dead, its leaves shed, its branches broken and rotting. Chung Hu-yan set it aside for you to look at after your coronation." He averted his eyes. "He felt it was not something you would wish to see before then."

Like the gift of stones his father had tried to hide from him—the white u>ei chi stones DeVore had sent to him on the day he had been promised to Fei Yen.

Li Yuan sighed. For five generations the Shepherds had acted as advisors to his family. Descended from the original architect of the City, they lived beyond its walls, outside its laws. Only they, in all Chung Kuo, stood equal to the Seven. "Chung Hu-Yan acted as he felt he ought, and no blame attaches to him; but in future any message—worded or otherwise—that comes from the Shepherds must be passed directly to me, at once, Master Nan. This picture—you understand what it means?" "No, Chieh Hsia."

"No. And neither, it seems, does Chancellor Chung. It means that Hal Shepherd is dying. The tree was a gift from my father to him. I must go and pay my respects at once." "But, Chieh Hsia . . ."

Li Yuan shook his head. "I know, Master Nan. I have seen my schedule for tomorrow. But the meetings will have to be cancelled. This cannot wait. He was my father's friend. It would not do to ignore such a summons, however strangely couched." "A summons, Chieh Hsial" "Yes, Master Nan. A summons."

He turned away, sipping at his ch'a. He did not look forward to seeing Hal Shepherd in such a state, yet it would be good to see his son again; to sit with him and talk. A faint, uncertain smile came to his lips. Yes, it would be good to speak with him, for in truth he needed a mirror just now: someone to reflect him back clearly to himself. And who better than Ben Shepherd? Who better in all Chung Kuo?

THE MAN staggered past him, then leaned against the wall unsteadily, his head lowered, as if drunk. For a moment he seemed to lapse out of consciousness, his whole body hanging loosely against his outstretched arm, then he lifted his head, stretching himself strangely, as if shaking something off. It was only then that Axel realized what he was doing. He was pissing.

Axel looked away, then turned back, hearing the commotion behind him. Two burly-looking guards—Han, wearing the dark green of GenSyn, not the powder-blue of Security—came running across, batons drawn, making for the man.

They stood on either side of the man as he turned, confronting him.

"What the fuck you think you do?" one of them said, prodding him brutally, making him stagger back against the wall.

He was a big man, or had been, but his clothes hung loosely on him now. They were good clothes, too, but like those of most of the people gathered there, they were grime-ridden and filthy. His face, too, bore evidence of maltreatment. His skin was blotched, his left eye almost closed, a dark, yellow-green bruise covering the whole of his left cheek. He stank, but again that was not uncommon, for most were beggars here.

He looked back at the guards blearily, then lifted his head in a remembered but long-redundant gesture of pride.

"I'm here to see the General," he said uncertainly, his pride leaking from him slowly until his head hung once again. "You know . . ." he muttered, glancing up apologetically, the muscle in his cheek ticking now. "The handout... I came for that. It was on the newscast. I heard it. Come to this place, it said, so I came."

The guard who had spoken grunted his disgust. "You shit bucket," he said quietly. "You fucking shit bucket. What you think you up to, pissing on the T'ang's walls?" Then, without warning, he hit out with his baton, catching the beggar on the side of the head.

The man went down, groaning loudly. As he did, the two guards waded in, standing over him, striking him time and again on the head and body until he lay still.

"Fucking shit bucket!" the first guard said as he stepped back. He turned, glaring at the crowd that had formed around him. "What you look at? Fuck off! Go on! Fuck off! Before you get same!" He raised his baton threateningly, but the message had gotten through already. They had begun to back off as soon as he had turned.

Axel stood there a moment longer, tensed, trembling with anger, then turned away. There was nothing he could do. Nothing, at least, that would not land him in trouble. Two he could have handled, but there were more than fifty of the bastards spread out throughout the hall, jostling whoever got in their way and generally making themselves as unpleasant as they could. He knew the type. They thought themselves big men—great fighters, trained to take on anything—but most of them had failed basic training for Security or had been recruited from the plantations, where standards were much lower. In many cases their behavior was simply a form of compensation for the failure they felt at having to wear the dark green of a private security force and not the imperial blue.

He backed away, making his way through the crowd toward the end of the hall, wondering how much longer they would be forced to wait. They had started lining up three hours ago, the corridors leading to the main transit packed long before Axel had arrived. For a brief while he had thought of turning back—even the smell of the mob was enough to make a man feel sick—but he had stayed, determined to be among the two thousand "fortunates" who would be let into the grounds of the Ebert Mansion for the celebrations.

He had dressed specially. Had gone out and bought the roughest, dirtiest clothes he could lay his hands on. Had put on a rough workman's hat—a hard shell of dark plastic, like an inverted rice bowl—and dirtied his face. Now he looked little different from the rest. A beggar. A shit-bucket bum from the lowest of the levels.

He looked about him, his eyes traveling from face to face, seeing the anger there and the despair, the futility and the incipient madness. There was a shiftiness to their eyes, a pastiness to their complexions, that spoke of long years of deprivation. And they were thin, every last one of them; some of them so painfully undernourished that he found it difficult to believe that they were still alive, still moving their wasted, fragile limbs. He stared at them, fascinated, his revulsion matched by a strong instinctive pity for them; for many, he knew, there had been no choice. They had fallen long before they were born, and nothing in this world could ever redeem them. In that he differed. He, too, had fallen, but for him there had been a second chance.

Lowering his head, he glanced at the timer at his wrist, keeping it hidden beneath the greasy cuff of his jacket. It was getting on toward midnight. They would have to open the gates soon, surely?

Almost at once he felt a movement in the crowd, a sudden surge forward, and knew the gates had been opened. He felt himself drawn forward, caught up in the crush.

Hei were manning the barriers, the big GenSyn half-men herding the crowd through the narrow gates. Above the crowd, on a platform to one side, a small group of Han officials looked on, counting the people as they went through.

Past the gates, crush barriers forced the crowd into semi-orderly lines, at the head of which more officials—many of them masked against the stench and the possibility of disease—processed the hopeful.

As movement slowed and the crush grew more intense, he heard a great shouting from way back and knew the gates had been closed, the quota filled. But he was inside.

The pressure on him from all sides was awful, the stink of unwashed bodies almost unbearable; but he fought back his nausea, reminding himself why he was there. To bear witness. To see for himself the moment when Hans Ebert was declared General-Elect.

As he passed through the second barrier, an official drew him aside and tagged his jacket with an electronic trace, then thrust a slice of cake and a bulb of drink into his hands. He shuffled on, looking about him, seeing how the others crammed their cake down feverishly before emptying the bulb in a few desperate swallows. He tried a mouthful of the cake, then spat it out. It was hard, dry, and completely without flavor. The drink was little better. Disgusted, he threw them down, and was immediately pushed back against the wall as those nearby fought for what he had discarded.

The big transit lift was just ahead of them now. Again Hei herded them into the space, cramming them in tightly, until Axel felt his breath being forced from him. Like the others surrounding him, he fought silently, desperately, for a little space— pushing out with his elbows, his strength an asset here.

The doors closed, the huge elevator—used normally for goods, not people—

began its slow climb up the levels. As it did, a voice sounded overhead, telling them that they must cheer when the masters appeared on the balcony; that they would each receive a five-^uan coin if they cheered loud enough.

"The cameras will be watching everyone," the voice continued. "Only those who cheer loudly will get a coin."

The journey up-level seemed to last an eternity. Two hundred and fifty levels they climbed, up to the very top of the City.

Coming out from the transit was like stepping outside into the open. Overhead was a great, blue-black sky, filled with moonlit cloud and stars, the illusion so perfect that for a moment Axel caught his breath. To the right, across a vast, landscaped park, was the Ebert Mansion, its imposing facade lit up brilliantly, the great balcony festooned with banners. A human barrier of Hei prevented them from going that way—the brute, almost porcine faces of the guards lit grotesquely from beneath. All around him people had slowed, astonished by the sight, their eyes wide, their mouths fallen open; but masked servants hurried them on, ushering them away to the left, into an area that had been fenced off with high transparent barriers of ice.

They stumbled on, only a low murmur coming from them now, most of them awed into silence by the sight of such luxury, intimidated by the sense of openness, by the big sky overhead. But for Axel, shuffling along slowly in their midst, it reminded him of something else—of that day when he and Major DeVore had called upon Representative Lehmann at his First Level estate. And he knew, almost without thinking it, that there was a connection between the two. As if such luxury bred corruption.

Stewards herded them down a broad gravel path and out into a large space in front of the Mansion. Here another wall barred their way, the translucent surface of it coated with a nonreflective substance that to the watching cameras would make it seem as if there were no wall—no barrier—between the Eberts and the cheering crowd.

As the space filled up, he noticed the stewards going out into the crowd, handing out flags and streamers—the symbols of GenSyn and the Seven distributed equally—before positioning themselves at various strategic points. Turning, he sought out one of the stewards and took a banner from him, aiming to conceal himself behind it when the cheering began. It was unlikely that Hans Ebert would study the film of his triumph that closely, but it was best to take no chances.

He glanced at his timer. It was almost twelve. In a few moments ...

The stewards began the cheering, turning to encourage the others standing about them. "Five yuanl" they shouted. "Only those who shout will get a coin!"

As the Eberts stepped out onto the balcony, the cheering rose to a crescendo. The cameras panned about the crowd, then focused on the scene on the balcony again. Klaus Ebert stood there in the foreground, a broad beam of light settling on him, making his hair shine silver-white, his perfect teeth sparkle.

"Friends!" he began, his voice amplified to carry over the cheering. "A notice has been posted throughout our great City. It reads as follows." He turned and took a scroll from his secretary, then turned back, clearing his throat. Below, the noise subsided as the stewards moved among the crowd, damping down the excitement they had artificially created.

Ebert opened out the scroll, then began.

"I, Li Yuan, T'ang designate of Ch'eng Ou Chou, City Europe, declare the appointment of Hans Joachim Ebert, currently Major in my Security services, as Supreme General of my forces, this appointment to be effective from midday on the fifteenth day of September in the year two thousand two-hundred'and-seven." He stepped back, beaming with paternal pride.

There was a moment's silence and then a ragged cheer went up, growing stronger as the stewards whipped the crowd into a fury of enthusiasm.

Up on the balcony, Hans Ebert stepped forward, his powder-blue uniform immaculate, his blond hair perfectly groomed. He grinned and waved a hand as if to thank them for their welcome, then stepped back, bowing, all humility.

Axel, watching from below, felt a wave of pure hatred pass through him. If they knew—if they only knew all he had done. The cheating and lying and butchery; the foulness beneath the mask of perfection. But they knew nothing. He looked about him, seeing how caught up in it they suddenly were. They had come for the chance of food and drink and for the money, but now that they were here their enthusiasm was genuine. Up there they saw a king—a man so high above them that to be at such proximity was a blessing. Axel saw the stewards look at each other and wink, laughing, sharing the joke, and he felt more sick than he had ever felt among the unwashed masses. They, at least, did not pretend that they were clean. One could smell what they were. But Ebert?

Axel looked past the fluttering banner, saw how Ebert turned to talk to those behind him, so at ease in his arrogance, and swore again to bring him low. To pile the foul truth high, burying his flawless reputation.

He shuddered, frightened by the sheer intensity of what he felt; knowing that if he had had a gun and the opportunity, he would have tried to kill the man, right there and then. Up on the balcony, the Eberts turned away, making their way back inside. As the doors closed behind them the lights went down, leaving the space before the Mansion in darkness.

The cheering died. Axel threw the banner down. All about him the crowd was dispersing, making for the barriers. He turned, following them, then stopped, looking back. Was it that? Was it excess of luxury that corrupted a man? Or were some men simply bom evil and others good?

He looked ahead, looked past the barriers to where small knots of beggars had gathered. Already they were squabbling, fighting each other over the pittance they had been given. As he came closer he saw one man go down and several others fall on him, punching and kicking him, robbing him of the little he had. Nearby the guards looked on, laughing among themselves.

Laughing... He wiped his mouth, sickened by all he'd seen, then pushed past the barrier, ignoring the offered coin.

INSIDE THE MANSION the celebrations were about to begin. At the top of the great stairway, Klaus Ebert put his arm about his son's shoulders and looked out across the gathering that-filled the great hall below.

"My good friends!" he said, then laughed. "What can 1 say? 1 am so full of pride! My son . . ."

He drew Hans closer and kissed his cheek, then looked about him again, beaming and laughing, as if he were drunk.

"Come, Father," Hans said in a whisper, embarrassed by his father's sudden effusiveness. "Let's get it over with. I'm faint with hunger."

Klaus looked back at him, smiling broadly, then laughed, squeezing his shoulder again. "Whatever you say, Hans." He turned back, putting one arm out expansively. "Friends! Let us not stand on formalities tonight. Eat, drink, be merry!"

They made their way down the stairs, father and son, joining the crowd gathered at the foot. Tolonen was among those there, lean and elegant in his old age, his steel-gray hair slicked back, the dress uniform of General worn proudly for the last time.

"Why, Knut," Klaus Ebert began, taking a glass from a servant, "I see you are wearing Hans's uniform!"

Tolonen laughed. "It is but briefly, Klaus. I am just taking the creases out of it for him!"

There was a roar of laughter at that. Hans smiled and bowed, then looked about him. "Is Jelka not here?"

Tolonen shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Hans. She took an injury in her practice session this morning. Nothing serious—only a sprain—but the doctor felt she would be better off resting. She was most disappointed, I can tell you. Why, she'd spent two whole days looking for a new dress to wear tonight!"

Hans lowered his head respectfully. "I am sorry to hear it, Father-in-Law. I had hoped to dance with her tonight. But perhaps you would both come here for dinner—soon, when things have settled."

Tolonen beamed, delighted by the suggestion. "That would be excellent, Hans. And it would make up for her disappointment, I am sure."

Hans bowed and moved on, circulating, chatting with all his father's friends, making his way slowly toward a small group on the far side of the hall, until, finally, he came to them.

"Michael!" he said, embracing his old friend.

"Hans!" Lever held Ebert to him a moment, then stood back. They had been classmates at Oxford in their teens, before Lever had gone on to Business College and Ebert to the Academy. But they had stayed in touch all this time.

Ebert looked past his old friend, smiling a greeting to the others.

"How was your journey?"

"As well as could be expected!" Lever laughed, then leaned closer. "When in the gods' names are they going to improve those things, Hans? If you've any influence with Li Yuan, make him pass an amendment to the Edict to enable them to build something more comfortable than those transatlantic rockets."

Ebert laughed, then leaned closer. "And my friend? Did you enjoy his company?"

Lever glanced at his companions, then laughed. "I can speak for us all in saying that it was a most interesting experience. I would never have guessed . . ."

Ebert smiled. "No. And let's keep it that way, neh?" He turned, looking about him, then took Lever's arm. "And his gift?"

Lever's eyes widened. "You knew about that?"

"Of course. But come. Let's go outside. It's cool in the garden. We can talk as we go. Of Chung Kuo and Ta Ts'in and dreams of empire."

Lever gave a soft laugh and bowed his head. "Lead on ..."

ITWASJUST after four when the last of the guests left the Ebert Mansion. Hans, watching from the balcony, stifled a yawn, then turned, and went back inside. He had not been drinking and yet he felt quite drunk—buoyed up on a vast and heady upsurge of well-being. Things had never been better. That very evening his father had given over a further sixteen companies to him, making it almost a quarter of the giant GenSyn empire that he now controlled. Life, at last, was beginning to open to him. Earlier he had taken Tolonen aside to suggest that his marriage to Jelka be brought forward. At first, the old man had seemed a little put out, but then when Hans had spoken of the sense of stability it would bring him, Tolonen had grown quite keen—almost as if the idea had been his own.

Ebert went down the stairs and out into the empty hall, standing there a moment, smiling, recollecting Tolonen's response.

"Let me speak to her," Tolonen had said, as he was leaving. "After the coronation, when things have settled a little. But I promise you, Hans, I'll do my best to persuade her. After all, it's in no one's interest to delay, is it?"

No, he thought. Especially not now. At least, not now that they had come to an arrangement with the Americans.

He went out and said good night to his father and mother, then came back, running across the hall and out through the back doors into the garden. The night seemed fresh and warm and for the briefest moment he imagined himself outside, beneath a real moon, under a real sky. Well, maybe that would happen soon. In a year, two years perhaps. When he was King of Europe.

On the ornamental bridge he slowed, looking about him. He felt a great restlessness in his blood; an urge to do something. He thought of the mui tsai, but for once his restlessness was pure, uncontaminated by a sense of sexual urgency. No, it was as if he needed to go somewhere, do something. All of this waiting—for his inheritance, his command, his wife—seemed suddenly a barrier to simple being. Tonight he wanted to be, to do. To break heads or ride a horse at breakneck speed.

He kicked out, sending gravel into the water below, watching the ripples spread. Then he moved on, jumping down the steps to the path and vaulting up onto the balcony above. He turned, looking back. A servant had stopped, watching him. Seeing Ebert turn, he moved on hurriedly, his head bowed, the huge bowl he held making slopping sounds in the silence.

Ebert laughed. There were no heads to break, no horses here to ride. So maybe he would fuck the mui tsai anyway. Maybe that would still his pulse and purge the restlessness from his system. He turned, making his way along to his suite of rooms. Inside he began to undress, unbuttoning his tunic. As he did so, he went over to the comset and touched in the code.

He turned away, throwing his tunic down on a chair, then tapped on the inner door. At once a servant popped his head around the door.

"Bring the mui tsai to my room; then go. I'll not need you any more tonight, Lo Wen."

The servant bowed and left. Ebert turned back, looking at the screen. There were a great number of messages for once, mainly from friends congratulating him on his appointment. But among them was one he had been expecting. DeVore's.

He read it through and laughed. So the meeting with the Americans had gone well. Good. The introduction was yet another thing DeVore owed him for. What's more, DeVore wanted him to do something else.

He smiled, then sat down, pulling off his boots. Slowly, by small degrees, DeVore was placing himself in his debt. More and more he had come to rely on him—for little things at first, but now for ever larger schemes. And that was good. For he would keep account of all.

There was a faint tapping at the inner door.

He turned in the chair, looking across. "Come in," he said softly.

The door slid back. For a moment she stood there, naked, looking in at him, the light behind her. She was so beautiful, so wonderfully made that his penis grew hard simply looking at her. Then she came across, fussing about him, helping him with the last few items of his clothing.

Finished, she looked up at him from where she knelt on the floor in front of him. "Was your evening good, Master?"

He pulled her up onto his lap, then began to stroke her neck and shoulders, looking up into her dark and liquid eyes, his blood inflamed now by the warmth of her flesh against his own. "Never better, Sweet Flute. Never in my whole life better."

DEVORt slipped the vial back into its carrying case, sealed the lid, and handed ii^to Lehmann.

"Don't drop it, Stefan, whatever else you do. And make sure that Hans knows what to do with it. He knows it's coming, but he doesn't properly know what it is. He'll be curious, so it's best if you tell him something, if only to damp down his curiosity."

The albino slipped the cigar-shaped case into his inner pocket, then fastened his tunic tight. "So what should I say?"

DeVore laughed. "Tell him the truth for once. Tell him it kills Han. He'll like that."

Lehmann nodded, then bowed and turned away.

He watched Lehmann go, then took his furs from the cupboard in the comer. It was too late now to sleep. He would go hunting instead. Yes, it would be good to greet the dawn on the open mountainside.

DeVore smiled, studying himself in the mirror as he pulled on his furs; then, taking his crossbow from the rack on the wall, he went out, making his way toward the old tunnels, taking the one that came out on the far side of the mountain beside the ruins of the ancient castle.

As he walked along he wondered, not for the first time, what Lever had made of the gift he'd given him.

The Aristotle File. A copy of Berdichev's original, in his own handwriting. The true history of Chung Kuo. Not the altered and sanitized version the Han peddled in their schools, but the truth, from the birth of Western thought in Aristotle's Yes/No logic, to the splendors of space travel, mass communications, and artificial intelligence systems. A history of the West systematically erased by the Han. Yes, and that was another kind of virus. One, in its own way, every bit as deadly for the Han.

DeVore laughed, his laughter echoing down the tunnel. All in all it had been a good day. And it was going to get better. Much better.

IT was EXACTLY ten minutes past five when the scouts moved into place on the mountainside, dropping the tiny gas pellets into the base's ventilation outlets. At the entrance to the hangar, four masked men sprayed ice-eating acids onto the snow-covered surface of the doors. Two minutes later, Karr, wearing a mask and carrying a lightweight air cannister, kicked his way inside.

He crossed the hangar at a quick march, then ran down the corridor linking it to the inner fortress, his automatic searching this way and that, looking for any sign of resistance; but the colorless, odorless gas had done its work. Guards lay slumped in several places. They would have had no chance to issue any kind of warning.

He glanced down at his wrist timer, then turned, looking back. Alreadythe first squad was busy, binding and gagging the unconscious defenders before the effects of the gas wore off. Behind them a second squad was coming through, their masked faces looking from side to side, double-checking as they came along.

He turned back, pushing on, hyper-alert now, knowing that it would not be long before he lost the advantage of surprise.

There were four elevators spaced out along a single broad corridor. He stared at them a moment, then shook his head. A place like this, dug deep into the mountainside, would be hard to defend unless one devised a system of independent levels, and of bottlenecks linking them—bottlenecks that could be defended like the barbican in an ancient castle, the killing ground. So here. These lifts— seemingly so innocuous—were their barbican. But unlike in a castle there would be another way into the next level of the fortress. There had to be, because if the power ever failed, they had to have some way of ensuring that they still got air down in the lower tunnels.

There would be shafts. Ventilation shafts. As above.

Karr turned and beckoned the squad leader over.

"Locate the down shafts. Then I want one man sent down each of them straight away. They're to secure the corridors beneath the shafts while the rest of the men come through. Understand?"

The young lieutenant bowed, then hurried away, sending his men off to do as Karr had ordered. He was back a moment later.

"They're sealed, Major Karr."

"Well? Break the seals!"

"But they're alarmed. Maybe even boobytrapped."

Karr grunted, impatient now. "Show me!"

The shaft was in a tiny corridor leading off what seemed to be some kind of storeroom. Karr studied it a moment, noting its strange construction; then, knowing he had no alternative, he raised his fist and brought it down hard. The seal cracked but didn't break. He struck it again, harder this time, and it gave, splintering into the space below.

Somewhere below he could hear a siren sounding, security doors slamming into place.

"Let's get moving. They know we're here now. The sooner we hit them the better, neh?"

He went first, bracing himself against the walls of the narrow tunnel as he went down, his shoulders almost too wide for the confined space. Others followed, almost on top of him.

Some five ch'i above the bottom seal he stopped and brought his gun around, aiming it down between his legs. He opened fire. The seal shattered with a great upward hiss of air, tiny splinters thrown up at him.

He narrowed his eyes, then understood. The separate levels were kept at different pressures, which meant there were air locks. But why? What were they doing here? He scrambled down, then dropped. As he hit the floor he twisted about. A body lay to one side of the shaft's exit point, otherwise the corridor was empty.

It was a straight stretch of corridor, sixty ch'i long at most, ending in a T-junction at each end. There were no doors, no windows, and as far as he could make out, no cameras.

Left or right? If the ground plan followed that of the level above, the lifts would be somewhere off to the left, but he didn't think it would be that simple. Not if Devore had designed this place.

Men were jumping down behind him, forming up either side, kneeling, their weapons raised to their shoulders, covering both ends of the corridor.

Last down was the squad leader. Karr quickly dispatched him off to the left with six men, while he went right with the rest.

He had not gone more than a dozen paces when there was a loud clunk and a huge metal fire door began to come down.

From the yells behind him, he knew at once that the same was happening at the other end of the corridor. No cameras, eh? How could he have been so naive!

He ran, hurling himself at the diminishing gap, half sliding, half rolling beneath the door just before it slammed into the floor. As he thudded into the end wall he felt his gun go clattering away from him, but there was no time to think of that. As he came up from the floor the first of them was on him, slashing down with a knife the length of his forearm.

Karr blocked the blow and counterpunched, feeling the man's jaw shatter. Behind him, only a few paces off, a second guard was raising his automatic. Kan-ducked, using the injured guard as a shield, thrusting his head into the man's chest as he began to fall, pushing him upward and back, into the second man.

Too late, the guard opened fire, the shells ricocheting harmlessly off the end wall as he stumbled backwards.

Karr kicked him in the stomach, then stood over him, chopping down savagely, finishing him off. He stepped back, looking about him. His gun was over to the right. He picked it up and ran on, hearing voices approaching up ahead.

He grinned fiercely. The last thing they would expect was a single man coming at them. Even so, it might be best to give himself some additional advantage. He looked up. As he'd thought, they hadn't bothered to set the pipework and cabling into the rock, but had simply secured it to the ceiling of the tunnel with brackets. The brackets looked firm enough—big metallic things—but were they strong enough to bear his weight?

There was only one way to find out. He tucked his gun into his tunic and reached up, pulling himself up slowly. Bringing his legs up, he reached out with his boots to get a firmer grip. So far so good. If he could hold himself there with his feet and one hand, he would be above them when they came into view. The rest should be easy.

They were close now. At any moment they would appear at the end of the corridor. Slowly he drew the gun from his tunic, resting the stock of it against his knee.

There! Four of them, moving quickly but confidently, talking among themselves, assuming there was no danger. He let them come on four, five paces, then squeezed the trigger.

As he opened fire, the bracket next to his feet jerked, then came away from the wall. At once a whole section of cabling slewed toward him, his weight dragging it down. Along the whole length of the ceiling the securing brackets gave, bringing down thick clouds of rock and debris.

Karr rolled to one side, freeing himself from the tangle, bringing his gun Up to his chest. Through the dust he could see that two of them were down. They lay still, as if dead, pinned down by the cables. A third was getting up slowly, groaning, one hand pressed to the back of his head where the cabling had struck him. The fourth was on his feet, his gun raised, looking straight at Karr.

There was the deafening noise of automatic fire. Shells hammered into the wall beside him, cutting into his left arm and shoulder, but he was safe. His own fire had ripped into the guards an instant earlier, throwing them backward.

Karr got up slowly, the pain in his upper arm intense, the shoulder wound less painful but more awkward. The bone felt broken—smashed probably. He crouched there a moment, feeling sick, then straightened up, gritting his teeth, knowing there was no option but to press on. It was just as it had been in the Pit all those years ago. He had a choice. He could go on and he could live, or he could give up and let himself be killed.

A choice? He laughed sourly. No, there had never really been a choice. He had always had to fight. As far back as he could remember, it had always been the same. It was the price for being who he was, for living where he'd lived, beneath the Net.

He went on, each step jolting his shoulder painfully, taking his breath. The gun was heavy in his right hand. Designed for two-handed use, its balance was wrong when used one-handed, the aim less certain.

Surprise. It was the last card left up his sleeve. Surprise and sheer audacity.

He was lucky. The guard outside the control room had his back to Karr as he came out into the main corridor. There was a good twenty ch'i between them, but his luck held. He was on top of the man before he realized he was there, smashing the stock of the gun into the back of his head.

As the man sank to his knees, Karr stepped past him into the doorway and opened fire, spraying the room with shells. It was messy—not the way he'd normally have done it—but effective. When his gun fell silent again, there were six corpses on the floor of the room.

One wall had been filled with a nest of screens, like those they'd found in the Overseer's House in the plantation. His gunfire had destroyed a number of them, but more than three-quarters were still functioning. He had the briefest glimpse of various scenes, showing that fighting was still going on throughout the fortress, and then the screens went dead, the overhead lights fading.

He turned, listening for noises in the corridor, then turned back, knowing his only hope was to find the controls that operated the doors and let his men into this level.

He scanned the panels quickly, cursing the damage he'd done to them, then put his gun down beside a keyboard inset into the central panel. Maybe this was it.

The keyboard was unresponsive to his touch. The screen stayed blank. Overhead a red light began to flash. Karr grabbed his gun and backed out. Just in time. A moment later a metal screen fell into place, sealing off the doorway.

What now?

Karr turned, looking to his left. It was the only way. But did it lead anywhere? Suddenly he had a vision of DeVore sitting somewhere, watching him, laughing as he made his way deeper and deeper into the labyrinth he had built; knowing that all of these tunnels led nowhere. Nowhere but into the cold, stone heart of the mountain.

He shuddered. The left side of his tunic was sodden now, the whole of his left side warm, numb yet tingling, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded. He had lost a lot of blood and his body was suffering from shock, but he had to go on. It was too late now to back off.

He went on, grunting with pain at every step, knowing he was close to physical collapse. Every movement pained him, yet he forced himself to keep alert, moving his head from side to side, his whole body tensed against a sudden counterattack.

Again his luck held. The long corridor was empty, the rooms leading off deserted. But did it go anywhere?

Karr slowed. Up ahead the wall lighting stopped abruptly, but the tunnel went on, into the darkness.

He turned, looking back, thinking he'd heard something, but there was nothing. No one was following him. But how long would it be before someone came? He had to keep going on.

Had to.

He thpw off4iis mask, pulled the heat-sensitive glasses down over his eyes, and went on\

After a while the tunnel began to slope downward. He stumbled over the first of the steps and banged his damaged shoulder against the wall. For a moment he crouched there, groaning softly, letting the pain ease, then went on, more careful now, pressing close to the right-hand wall in case he fell.

At first they were not so much steps as broad ledges cut into the rocky floor, but soon that changed as the tunnel began to slope more steeply. He went on, conscious of the sharp hiss of his breathing in the silent darkness.

Partway down he stopped, certain he had made a mistake. The wall beside him was rough, as if crudely hacked from the rock. Moreover, the dank, musty smell of the place made him think that it was an old tunnel, cut long before DeVore's time. For what reason he couldn't guess, but it would explain the lack of lighting, the very crudeness of its construction.

He went on, slower now, each step an effort, until, finally, he could go no further. He sat, shivering, his gun set down beside him in the darkness.

So this was it? He laughed painfully. It was not how he had expected to end his days—in the cold, dank darkness at the heart of a mountain, half his shoulder shot away—but if this was what the gods had fated, then who was he to argue? After all, he could have died ten years ago, had Tolonen not bought out his contract; and they had been good years. The very best of years.

Even so, he felt a bitter regret wash over him. Why now? Now that he had found Marie. It made no sense. As if the gods were punishing him. And for what? For arrogance? For being bom the way he was? No ... it made no sense. Unless the gods were cruel by nature.

He pulled the heat-sensitive glasses off, then leaned back a little, seeking some posture in which the pain would ease; but it was no good. However he sat, the same fierce, burning ache seized him again after a few moments, making him feel feverish, irrational.

What then? Go back? Or go on, ever down?

The question was answered for him. Far below he heard a heavy rustling noise, then the sharp squeal of an unoiled door being pushed back. Light spilled into the tunnel. Someone was coming up, hurriedly, as if pursued.

He reached beside him for his gun, then sat back, the gun lying across his lap, its barrel facing down toward the light.

It was too late now to put his glasses back on, but what the hell? Whoever it was, he had the light behind him, while Karr sat in total darkness. Moreover, he knew someone was coming, while the other man had no idea Karr was there. The advantages were all his. Even so, his hand was trembling so badly now that he wondered if he could even pull the trigger.

Partway up the steps the figure stopped, moving closer to the right-hand wall.

There was a moment's banging, then it stopped, the figure turning toward him again. It sniffed the air, then began to climb the steps, slower now, more cautiously, as if it sensed his presence. Up it came, closer and closer, until he could hear the steady pant of its breath, not twenty ch'i below.

New.' he thought, but his fingers were dead, the gun a heavy weight in his lap.

He closed his eyes, awaiting the end, knowing it was only a matter of time. Then he heard it. The figure had stopped; now it was moving back down the steps. He heard it try the lock again and opened his eyes.

For a moment his head swam, then, even as his eyes focused, the door below creaked open, spilling light into the dimly lit passageway.

Karr caught his breath, praying the other wouldn't turn and see him there. Yet even as the figure disappeared within, he recognized the profile.

DeVore. It had been DeVore.

CHAPTER NINE

The Temple of Heaven

THE TOWER was built into the side of the mountain; a small, round two-story building, dominated by a smooth, gray overhang of rock. Beneath it only the outlines of ancient walls remained, huge rectangles laid out in staggered steps down the mountainside, the low brickwork overgrown with rough grasses and alpine flowers.

Lehmann stood at the edge of the ruins, looking out across the broad valley toward the east. There was nothing human here; nothing but the sunlit mountains and, far below, the broad stretch of the untended meadows cut by a slow-moving river. Looking at it, he could imagine it remaining so a thousand years, while the world beyond the mountains tore itself apart.

And so it would be. Once the disease of humanity had run its course.

He looked across. On the far side of the valley bare rock fell half a li to the green of the valley floor, as if a giant had cut a crude path through the mountains. Dark stands of pine crested the vast wall of rock; then as the eye traveled upward, that, too, gave way—to snow and ice and, finally, to the clear, bright blue of the sky.

He shivered. It was beautiful. So beautiful it took his breath away. All else—all art, however fine—was mere distraction compared to this. This was real. Was like a temple. A temple to the old gods. A temple of rock and ice, of tree and stream, thrown up into the heavens.

He turned, looking back at Reid. The man was standing by the tower, hunched into himself, his furs drawn tight about him as if unaware of the vast mystery that surrounded him. Lehmann shook his head, then went across.

It was only a hunch, but when he had seen the Security craft clustered on the slopes, his first thought had been of the old tunnel. He'll be there, he'd thought. Now, an hour later, he wasn't quite so sure.

"What are we doing?" Reid asked anxiously. He, too, had seen the extent of the Security operation; had seen the rows of corpses stretched out in the snow.

Lehmann stared back at him a moment, then climbed the narrow path to the tower. The doorway was empty. He went inside and stood looking about him. The tower was a shell, the whole thing open to the sky, but the floor was much newer. The big planks there looked old, but that was how they were meant to look. At most they were ten years old.

Reid came and stood there in the doorway, looking in at him. "What is this? Are we going to camp here until they've gone?"

Lehmann shook his head, then turned and came out, searching the nearby slope. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he crouched down, parting the spiky grasses with his gloved hands.

"Here," he said. "Give me a hand."

Reid went across. It was a hatch of some kind. An old-fashioned circular metal plate less than a ch'i in circumference. There were two handles set into either side of the plate. Lehmann took one, Reid the other. Together they heaved at the thing until it gave.

Beneath was a shallow shaft. Lehmann leaned inside, feeling blindly for something.

"What are you doing?" Reid asked, looking out past him, afraid that a passing Security craft would spot them.

Lehmann said nothing, simply carried on with his search. A moment later he sat back, holding something in his hand. It looked like a knife. A broad, flat knife with a circular handle. Or a spike of some kind.

Lehmann stood, then went back to the tower.

He went inside and crouched down, setting the spike down at his side. Groaning with the effort, he pushed one of the planks back tight against the far wall, revealing a small depression in the stonework below, its shape matching that of the spike perfectly. Lehmann hefted the spike a moment, then slotted it into the depression. Reid, watching from the open doorway, laughed. It was a key.

Lehmann stepped back into the doorway. As he did so there was a sharp click and the whole floor began to rise, pushing up into the shell of the tower, until it stopped two ch'i above their heads.

It was an elevator. Moreover, it was occupied. Reid made a small sound of surprise, then bowed his head hurriedly. It was DeVore.

"About time!" DeVore said, moving out past the two men, his face livid with anger. "Another hour and they'd have had me. I could hear them working on the seal at the far end of the tunnel."

"What happened?" Lehmann asked, following DeVore out into the open.

DeVore turned, facing him. "Someone's betrayed us! Sold us down the fucking river!"

Lehmann nodded. "They were Security," he said. "The craft I saw were Special Elite. That would mean orders from high up, wouldn't you say?"

There was an ugly movement in DeVore's face. His incarceration in the tunnel had done nothing for his humor. "Ebert! But what's the bastard up to? What game's the little fucker playing now?"

"Are you sure it's him?"

DeVore looked away. "No. I can't see what he'd gain from it. But who else could it be? Who else knows where we are? Who else could hit me without warning?"

"So what are you going to do?"

DeVore laughed sourly. "Nothing. Not until I've spoken to the little weasel. But if he hasn't got a bloody good explanation, then he's dead. Useful or not, he's dead, hear me?"

HAL SHEPHERD turned his head, looking up at the young T'ang, his eyes wet with gratitude.

"Li Yuan . . . I'm glad you came."

His voice was thin, almost transparently so, matching perfectly the face from which it issued; a thin-fleshed, ruined face that was barely distinguishable from a skull. It pained Li Yuan to see him like this. To see all the strength leeched from the man and death staring out from behind his eyes.

"Ben sent me a note," he said gently, almost tenderly. "But you should have sent for me before now. I would have spared the time. You know I would."

The ghost of a smile flickered on Shepherd's lips. "Yes. You're like Shai Tung in that. It was a quality I much admired in him."

It took so long for him to say the words—took such effort—that Li Yuan found himself longing for him to stop. To say nothing. Simply to lie there, perhaps. But that was not what Shepherd wanted. He knew his death lay but days ahead of him, and now that Li Yuan was here, he wanted his say. Nor was it in Li Yuan's heart to deny him.

"My father missed you greatly after you returned here. He often remarked how it was as if he had had a part of him removed." Li Yuan looked aside, giving a small laugh. "You know, Hal, I'm not even sure it was your advice he missed, or simply your voice."

He looked back, seeing how the tears had formed again in Shepherd's eyes, and found his own eyes growing moist. He looked away, closing his eyes briefly, remembering another time, in the long room at Tongjiang, when Hal had shown him how to juggle. How, with a laugh, he had told him that it was the one essential skill a ruler needed. So he always was—part playful and part serious, each game of his making a point, each utterance the distillation of a wealth of unspoken thought. He had been the very best of Counselors to his father. In that the Li family had always been fortunate, for who else among the Seven could draw from such a deep well as they did with the Shepherds? It was what gave them their edge. Was why the other Families always looked to Li for guidance.

But now that chain was broken. Unless he could convince Hal's son otherwise.

He looked back at Shepherd and saw how he was watching him, the eyes strangely familiar in that unrecognizably wasted face.

"I'm not a pretty sight, I realize, Yuan. But look at me. Please. I have something important to say to you."

Li Yuan inclined his head. "Of course, Hal. I was . . . remembering."

"I understand. I see it all the time. In Beth. You grow accustomed to such things."

Shepherd hesitated, a brief flicker of pain passing across his face; then he went on, his voice a light rasp.

"Well... let me say it simply. Change has come, Yuan, like it or not. Now you must harness it and ride it like a horse. I counseled your father differently, I know, but things were different then. Much has changed, even in this last year. You must be ruthless now. Uncompromising. Wang Sau-leyan is your enemy. I think you realize that. But do not think he is the only one who will oppose you. What you must do will upset friend as well as foe, but do not shrink from it merely because of that. No. You must steer a hard course, Yuan. If not, there is no hope. No hope at all."

Hal lay there afterward, quiet, very still, until Yuan realized that he was sleeping. He sat, watching him a while. There was nothing profound in what Hal had said; nothing he had not heard a thousand times before. No. What made it significant was that it was Hal who had said it. Hal, who had always counseled moderation, even during the long War with the Dispersionists. Even after they had seeded him with the cancer that now claimed him.

He sat there until Beth came in. She looked past him, seeing how things were, then went to the drawer and fetched another blanket, laying it over him. Then she turned, looking at Li Yuan.

"He's not. . . ?" Li Yuan began, suddenly concerned.

Beth shook her head. "No. He does this often now. Sometimes he falls asleep in mid-sentence. He's very weak now, you understand. The excitement of your coming will have tired him. But please, don't worry about that. We're all pleased that you came, Li Yuan."

Li Yuan looked down, moved by the simplicity of her words. "It was the least I could do. Hal has been like a father to me." He looked up again, meeting her eyes. "You don't know how greatly it pains me to see him like this."

She looked away, only a slight tightening of her cheek muscles revealing how much she was holding back. Then she looked back at him, smiling.

"Well. . . let's leave him to sleep, eh? I'll make some ch'a."

He smiled, then gave the smallest bow, understanding now why his father had talked so much about his visit here. Hal's pending death or no, there was contentment here. A balance.

And how could he find that for himself? For the wheel of his own life was broken, the axle shattered.

He followed her out down the narrow twist of steps, then stood staring out through the shadows of the hallway at the garden—at a brilliant square of color framed by the dark oak of the doorway.

He shivered, astonished by the sight; by the almost hallucinatory clarity of what could be seen within that frame. It was as if, in stepping through, one might enter another world. Whether it was simply a function of the low ceiling and the absence of windows inside and the contrasting openness of the garden beyond he could not say, but the effect took away his breath. It was like nothing he had ever seen. The light seemed embedded in the darkness, like a lens. So vivid it was. As if washed clean. He went toward it, his lips parted in wonder, then stopped, laughing, putting his hand against the warm wood of the upright.

"Ben?"

The young man was to the right, in the kitchen garden, close by the hinged door. He looked up from where he was kneeling at the edge of the path, almost as if he had expected Li Yuan to appear at that moment.

"Li Yuan . . ."

Li Yuan went across and stood there over him, the late morning sunlight warming his neck and shoulders. "What are you doing?"

Ben patted the grass beside him. "I'm playing. Won't you join me?"

Li Yuan hesitated, then, sweeping his robes beneath him, knelt at Ben's side.

Ben had removed a number of the rocks from the border of the flower beds, exposing the dark earth beneath. Its flattened surface was crisscrossed with tiny tunnels. On the grass beside him lay a long silver box with rounded edges, like an overlong cigar case.

"What's that?" Li Yuan asked, curious.

Ben laughed. "That's my little army. I'll show you in a while. But look. It's quite extensive, isn't it?"

The maze of tiny tunnels spread out several ch'i in each direction.

"It's part of an ants' nest," Ben explained. "Most of it's down below, under the surface. A complex labyrinth of tunnels and levels. If you could dig it out in one big chunk it would be huge. Like a tiny city."

"I see," said Li Yuan, surprised by Ben's interest. "But what are you doing with it?"

Ben leaned forward slightly, studying the movement in one of the tracks. "They've been pestering us for some while. Getting in the sugar jar and scuttling along the back of the sink. So Mother asked me to deal with them."

"Deal with them?"

Ben looked up. "Yes. They can be a real nuisance if you don't deal with them. So I'm taking steps to destroy their nest."

Li Yuan frowned, then laughed. "I don't understand, Ben. What do you do—use acid or something?"

Ben shook his head. "No. I use these." He picked up the silver case and handed it across to the young T'ang.

Li Yuan opened the case and immediately dropped it, moving back from it sharply.

"It's all right," Ben said, retrieving the case. "They can't escape unless I let them out."

Li Yuan shivered. The box was full of ants—big, red, brutal-looking things; hundreds of them, milling about menacingly.

"You use them?"

Ben nodded. "Amos made them. He based them on polyergus—Amazon ants. They're a soldier caste, you see. They go into other ants' hives and enslave them. These are similar, only they don't enslave, they simply destroy."

Li Yuan shook his head slowly, horrified by the notion.

"They're a useful tool," Ben continued. "I've used them a lot out here. We get new nests every year. It's a good thing Amos made a lot of these. I'm forever losing half a dozen or so. They get clogged up with earth and stop functioning or occasionally the real ants fight back and take them apart. Usually, however, they encounter very little resistance. They're utterly ruthless, you see. Machines, that's all they are. Tiny, super-efficient little machines. The perfect gardening tool."

Ben laughed, but the joke was lost on Li Yuan.

"Your father tells me I must be ruthless."

Ben looked up from the ants and smiled. "It was nothing you didn't know."

Li Yuan looked back at Ben. As on the first occasion they had met—the day of his engagement to Fei Yen—he had the feeling of being with his equal, of being with a man who understood him perfectly.

"Ben? Would you be my Counselor? My Chief Advisor? Would you be to me what your father was to my father?"

Ben turned, looking out across the bay, as if to take in his surroundings, then he looked back at Li Yuan.

"I am not my father, Li Yuan."

"Nor I mine."

"No." Ben sighed and looked down, tilting the case, making the ants run this way and that. There was a strange smile on his lips. "You know, I didn't think it would tempt me, but it does. To try it for a while. To see what it would be like." He looked up again. "But no, Li Yuan. It would simply be a game. My heart wouldn't be in it. And that would be dangerous, don't you think?"

Li Yuan shook his head. "You're wrong. Besides, I need you, Ben. You were bred to be my helper, my advisor . . ."

He stopped, seeing how Ben was looking at him.

"I can't be, Li Yuan. I'm sorry, but there's something else I have to do. Something more important."

Li Yuan stared at him, astonished. Something more important? How could anything be more important than the business of government?

"You don't understand," Ben said. "I knew you wouldn't. But you will. It may take twenty years, but one day you'll understand why I said no today."

"Then I can't persuade you?"

Ben smiled. "To be your Chief Advisor—to be what my father was to Li Shai Tung—that I can't be. But I'll be your sounding board if you ever need me, Li Yuan. You need only come here. And we can sit in the garden and play at killing ants, neh?"

Li Yuan stared back at him, not certain whether he was being gently mocked, then let himself relax, returning Ben's smile.

"All right. I'll hold you to that promise."

Ben nodded. "Good. Now watch. The best bit is always at the start. When they scuttle for the holes. They're like hounds scenting blood. There's something pure— something utterly pure—about them."

Li Yuan moved back, watching as Ben flipped back the transparent cover to the case, releasing a bright red spill. They fell like sand onto the jet-black earth, scattering at once into the tiny tracks, the speed at which they moved astonishing. And then they were gone, like blood-soaked water drained into the thirsty earth, seeking out their victims far below.

It was as Ben had said; there was something pure—something quite fascinating—about them. Yet at the same time they were quite horrifying. Tiny machines, they were. Not ants at all. He shuddered. What in the gods' names had Amos Shepherd been thinking when he made such things? He looked at Ben again.

"And when they've finished . . . what happens then?"

Ben looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "They come back. They're programmed to come back. Like the Hei you use beneath the Net. It's all the same, after all. All very much^vthe same."

hans EBERT sat back in his chair, his face dark with anger.

"Karr did what!"

Scott bowed his head. "It's all here, Hans. In the report."

"Report?" Ebert stood and came around the desk, snatching the file from the Captain. He opened it, scanning it a moment, then looked back at Scott.

"But this is to Tolonen."

Scott nodded, "I took the liberty of making a copy. I knew you'd be interested." "You did, eh?" Ebert took a breath, then nodded. "And DeVore?" "He got away. Karr almost had him, but he slipped through the net." Ebert swallowed, not knowing what was worse, DeVore in Karr's hands or DeVore loose and blaming him for the raid.

He had barely had time to consider the matter when his equerry appeared in the doorway.

"There's a call for you, sir. A Shih Beattie. A business matter, I understand." He felt his stomach tighten. Beattie was DeVore.

"Forgive me, Captain Scott. I must deal with this matter rather urgently. But thank you. I appreciate your prompt action. I'll see that you do not go unrewarded for your help."

Scott bowed and left, leaving Ebert alone. For a moment he sat, steeling himself, then leaned forward.

"Patch Shih Beattie through."

He sat back, watching as the screen containing DeVore's face tilted up from the desk's surface, facing him. He had never seen DeVore so angry. "What the fuck are you up to, Hans?"

Ebert shook his head. "I heard only five minutes ago. Believe me, Howard." "Crap! You must have known something was going on. You've got your finger on the pulse, haven't you?"

Ebert swallowed back his anger. "It wasn't me, Howard. I can prove it wasn't. And I didn't know a fucking thing until just now. All right? Look . . ." He held up the file, turning the opening page so that it faced the screen. DeVore was silent a moment, reading, then he swore.

"You see?" Ebert said, glad for once that Scott had acted on his own initiative. "Tolonen ordered it. Karr carried it out. Tsu Ma's troops were used. I was never, at any stage, involved."

DeVore nodded. "All right. But why? Have you asked yourself that yet, Hans? Why were you excluded from this?"

Ebert frowned. He hadn't considered it. He had just assumed that they had done it because he was so busy preparing to take over the generalship. But now that he thought about it, it was odd. Very odd indeed. Tolonen, at the very least, ought to have let him know that something was going on. "Do you think they suspect some kind of link?"

DeVore shook his head. "Tolonen would not have recommended you, and Li Yuan certainly wouldn't have appointed you. No, this has to do with Karr. I'm told his men were poking about the villages recently. I was going to deal with that, but they've preempted me." "So what do we do?"

DeVore laughed. "That's very simple. You'll be General in a day or so. Karr, instead of being your equal, will be your subordinate."

Ebert shook his head. "That's not strictly true. Karr is Tolonen's man. He always was. He took a direct oath to the old man when he joined Security eleven years ago. He's only technically in my command."

"Then what about that friend of his. Kao Chen? Can't you start court-martial proceedings against him?"

Ebert shook his head, confused. "Why? What will that achieve?"

"They're close. Very close, so I've heard. If you can't get at Karr, attack his friends. Isolate him. I'm sure you can rig up enough evidence to convict the Han. You've got friends who would lie for you, haven't you, Hans?"

Hans laughed. More than enough. Even so, he wasn't sure he wanted to take on Karr. Not just yet.

"Isn't there an alternative?"

"Yes. You might have Karr killed. And Tolonen, too, while you're at it."

"Kill Tolonen?" Ebert sat forward, startled by the suggestion. "But he's virtually my father-in-law!"

"So? He's dangerous. Can't you see that, Hans? He almost had me killed last night. And where would we have been then, eh? Besides, what if he discovers the link between us? No, Hans, this is no time to play Shih Conscience. If you don't have him killed, I will."

Ebert sat back, a look of sour resignation on his face. "All right. I take your point. Leave it with me."

"Good. And Hans . . . congratulations. You'll make a good General. A very good General."

Ebert sat there afterward, thinking back on what had been said between them. To kill Karr; he could think of nothing more satisfying or—when he considered it—more difficult. In contrast, having Tolonen killed would be all too easy, for the old man trusted him implicitly.

He understood DeVore's anger—understood and even agreed with the reasons he had given—yet the thought of killing the old man disturbed him. Oh, he had cursed the old man often enough for a fool, but he had never been treated badly by him. No, Tolonen had been like a father to him these past years. More of a father than his own. At some level he rather liked the old dog. Besides, how could he marry Jelka, knowing he had murdered her father?

He stood, combing his fingers back through his hair, then came out from behind his desk.

And yet, if he didn't, DeVore would. And that would place him at a disadvantage in his dealings with the Major. Would place him in his debt. He laughed bitterly. In reality there was no choice at all. He had to have Tolonen killed. To keep the upper hand. And to demonstrate to DeVore that, when it came to these matters, he had the steel in him to carry through such schemes.

He paused, contemplating the map. Beginning tomorrow, all this was his domain. Across this huge continent he was the arbiter, the final word, speaking with the T'ang's tongue. Like a prince, trying out the role before it became his own. There was a tapping on the door behind him. He turned. "Come!" It was the Chancellor, Chung Hu-yan. "What is it, Chung? You look worried."

Chung held out a sheaf of papers to him, the great seal of the T'ang of Europe appended to the last of them. "What are these?"

Chung shook his head, clearly flustered. "They are my orders for the coronation ceremony tomorrow, Major Ebert. They outline the protocol I am to follow."

Ebert frowned. "So what's the problem? You follow protocol. What is unusual in that?"

"Look!" Chung tapped the first sheet. "Look at what he wants them all to do." Ebert read the passage Chung was indicating, then looked up at him, wide-eyed. "He wants them to do that?"

Chung nodded vigorously. "I tried to see him, this morning, but he is not at the palace. And the rehearsal is to be in an hour. What shall I do, Major Ebert? Everyone who is to be there tomorrow is attending—the very cream of the Above. They are bound to feel affronted by these demands. Why, they might even refuse." Ebert nodded. It was a distinct possibility. Such a ritual had not been heard of since the tyrant Tsao Ch'un's time, and he had modeled it upon the worst excesses of the Ch'ing dynasty—the Manchu.

"I feel for you, Chung Hu-yan, but we are our masters' hands, neh? And the T'ang's seal is on that document. My advice to you is to follow it to the letter." Chung Hu-yan stared at the sheaf of papers a moment longer, then quickly furled them and with a bow to Ebert, turned, hurrying away. Ebert watched him go, amused by how ruffled the normally implacable Chancellor was. Even so, he had to admit to a small element of unease on his own account. What Li Yuan was asking for was a radical departure from the traditional ceremony and there was bound to be resentment, even open opposition. It would be interesting to see how he dealt with that. Very interesting indeed.

THE BIG man mounted the steps, pressing his face close to the Chancellor's, ignoring the guards who hurried to intercede.

"Never!" he said, his voice loud enough to carry to the back of the packed hall. "I'd as soon cut off my own bollocks as agree to that!"

There was laughter at that, but also a fierce murmur of agreement. They had been astonished when Chung Hu-yan had first read Li Yuan's instructions to them. Now their astonishment had turned to outrage.

Chung Hu-yan waved the guards back, then began again. "Your T'ang instructs you—" but his words were drowned out by a roar of disapproval.

"Instructs us?" the big man said, turning now, looking back into the hall. "By what right does he instruct us?"

"You must do as you are told," Chung Hu-yan began again, his voice quavering. "These are the T'ang's orders."

The man shook his head. "It is unjust. We are not hsiaojen—little men. We are the masters of this great City. It is not right to try to humiliate us in this manner."

Once more a great roar of support came from the packed hall. Chung Hu-yan shook his head. This was not his doing! Not his doing at all! Even so, he would persist.

"You must step down, Shih Tarrant. These are the T'ang's own instructions.

Would you disobey them?"

Tarrant puffed out his huge chest. "YouVe heard what I have to say, Chancellor Chung. I'll not place my neck beneath any man's foot, T'ang or no. Nor will anyone in this room, I warrant. It is asking too much of us. Too much by far!"

This time the noise was deafening. But as it faded the great doors behind Chung Hu-yan swung back and the T'ang himself entered, a troop of his elite guards behind him.

A hush fell upon the crowd.

Li Yuan came forward until he stood beside his Chancellor, looking back sternly at the big man, unintimidated by his size.

"Take him away," he said, speaking over his shoulder to the captain of the guard. "What he has said is in defiance of my written order. Is treason. Take him outside at once and execute him."

There was a hiss of disbelief. Tarrant stepped back, his face a picture of astonishment, but four of the guards were on him at once, pinning his arms behind his back. Shouting loudly, he was frog-marched past the T'ang and out through the doors.

Li Yuan turned his head slowly, looking out across the sea of faces in the hall, seeing their anger and astonishment, their fear and surprise.

"Who else will defy me?" he demanded. "Who else?"

He paused, looking about him, seeing how quiet, how docile they had become. "No. I thought not."

"This is a new age," he said, lifting his chin commandingly. "And a new age demands new rules, new ways of behaving. So do not mistake me for my father, ch'un tzu. I am Li Yuan, T'ang of City Europe. Now bow your heads."

HE WAS LIKE the sun, stepping down from the Tien Tan, the Temple of Heaven. His arms were two bright flashes of gold as he raised the imperial crown and placed it on his brow. Sunlight beat from his chest in waves as he moved from side to side, looking out across the vast mass of his subjects, who were stretched out prone before him in the temple grounds.

No one looked. Only the cameras took this in. All other eyes were cast into the dust, unworthy of the sight.

"This is a new age," Li Yuan said softly to himself. "A new time. But old are the ways of power. As old as Man himself."

One by one his servants came to him, stretched out on the steps beneath him, their heads turned to one side, the neck exposed. And on each preferred neck he trod, placing his weight there for the briefest moment before releasing them. His vassals. This time they'd learn their lesson. This time they would know whose beasts they were.

Officers and Administrators, Representatives and Company Executives, Ministers and Family Heads—all bowed before him and exposed their necks, each one acknowledging him as their Lord and Master.

Last was Tolonen. Only here did Li Yuan's reluctance take a shape, his naked sole touching the old man's neck as if he kissed it, no pressure behind the touch.

Then it was done. The brute thing made manifest to all. He was an Emperor, like the emperors of old, powerful and deadly. And afterward he saw how changed they were by this; how absolute he'd made them think his power. He almost smiled, wondering what his father would have made of this. So powerful was this ritual, so naked its meaning.

You are mine, it said, to crush beneath my heel, or raise to prominence.

The ceremony over, he dismissed all but those closest to him, holding audience in the great throne room. First to greet him there were his fellow T'ang. They climbed the marble steps to bow their heads and kiss his ring, welcoming him to their number. Last of these was Wei Feng, wearing the white of mourning. Wei's eyes were filled with tears, and when he had kissed the ring, he leaned forward to hold Li Yuan to him a moment, whispering in his ear.

Li Yuan nodded and held the old man's hands a moment, then relinquished them. "I shall," he said softly, moved deeply by the words his father's friend had uttered.

Others came, pledging loyalty in a more traditional way. And last of all his officers, led by General Tolonen.

The General knelt, unsheathing his ceremonial dagger and offering it up to his T'ang, hilt first, his eyes averted. Li Yuan took it from him and laid it across his lap.

"You served my father well, Knut. I hope you'll serve me just as well in future. But new lords need new servants. I must have a General to match my youth."

The words were a formality, for it was Tolonen who had pushed to have Ebert appointed. The old man nodded and lifted his head. "1 wish him well, Chieh Hsia. He is as a son to me. I have felt honored to have served, but now my time is done. Let another serve you as I tried to serve your father."

Li Yuan smiled, then summoned the young man forward.

Hans Ebert came toward the throne, his head bowed, his shoulders stooped, and knelt beside Tolonen. "I am yours," he said ritually, lowering his forehead to touch the step beneath the throne, once, twice, and then a third time. The sheath at his belt was empty. No mark of rank lay on his powder-blue uniform. He waited, abased and "naked" before his Lord.

"Let it begin here," said Li Yuan, speaking loudly over the heads of the kneeling officers to the gathered eminences. "My trust goes out from me and into the hands of others. So it is. So it must be. This is the chain we forge, the chain that links us all."

He looked down at the young man, speaking more softly, personally now. "Raise your head, Hans Ebert. Look up at your Lord, who is as the sun to you and from whom you have your life. Look up and take from me my trust."

Ebert raised his head. "I am ready, Chieh Hsia," he said, his voice steady, his eyes meeting those of Li Yuan unflinchingly.

"Good." Li Yuan nodded, smiling. "Then take the badge of your office."

He lifted the dagger from his lap and held it out. Ebert took it carefully, then sheathed it, curtly lowering his head once more. Then both he and Tolonen backed down the steps, their eyes averted, their heads bowed low.

THAT SAME evening they met in a room in the Purple Forbidden City—the Seven who ruled Chung Kuo. One thing remained before they went from there, one final task to set things right.

Tsu Ma stood before Li Yuan, grasping his hands firmly, meeting him eye to eye. "You're sure you want this?"

"The genotyping is conclusive. It must be done now, before the child is born. Afterward is too late."

Tsu Ma held him a moment longer, then released his hands. "So be it then. Let us all sign the special Edict."

Each signed his name and sealed it with his ring, in the old manner. Later it would be confirmed with retinal prints and ECG patterning, but for now this was sufficient.

Wei Feng was last to sign and seal the document. He turned, looking back at the new T'ang. "Good sits with ill this day, Li Yuan. I would not have thought it of her."

"Nor I," said Li Yuan, staring down at the completed Edict. And so it was done. Fei Yen was no longer his wife. The child would not inherit.

"When is the marriage to be?" Tsu Ma stood close. His voice was gentle, sympathetic.

"Tomorrow," Yuan answered, grateful for Tsu Ma's presence. "How strange that is. Tonight I lose a wife. And tomorrow ..."

"Tomorrow you gain three." Tsu Ma shook his head. "Do you know who it was, Yuan? Whose son Fei Yen is carrying?"

Li Yuan looked at him, then looked away. "That does not concern me," he said stiffly. Then, relenting, he laid his hand on Tsu Ma's arm. "It was a mistake ever to have begun with her. My father was right. I know that now. Only my blindness kept it from me."

"Then you are content?"

Li Yuan shook his head. "Content? No. But it is done."

TOLONEN turned from the screen and the image of the boy and faced the Architect.

"From what I've seen, the experience seems not to have done Ward too much harm, but what's your opinion? Is he ready for this yet, or should we delay?"

The Architect hesitated, remembering the last time, years before, when he had been questioned about the boys condition. Then it had been Berdichev, but the questions were much the same. How is the boy? Is he ready to be used? He smiled tightly, then answered Tolonen.

"It's too early to know what the long-term effects are going to be, but in the short-term you're right. He's emerged from this whole episode extremely well. His reaction to the attack—the trauma and loss of memory—seems to have been the best thing that could have happened to him. I was concerned in case it had done lasting damage, particularly to his memory, but if anything the experience seems to have"—he shrugged—"toughened him up, I guess you'd say. He's a resilient little creature. Much tougher than we thought. The psychological blocks we created during his restructuring four years ago seem to have melted away—as if they'd never been. But instead of regressing to that state of savagery in which we first encountered him, he appears to have attained a new balance. I've never seen anything like it, to be honest. Most minds are too inflexible—too set in their ways—to survive what Kim has been through without cracking. He, on the other hand, seems to have emerged stronger, saner than ever."

Tolonen frowned. "Maybe. But you say that the psychological blocks have gone. That's a bad thing, surely? I thought they were there to prevent the boy from reverting into savagery."

"They were."

"Then there's a chance he might still be dangerous?"

"There's a chance. But that's true of anyone. And I mean anyone. We've all of us a darker side. Push us just so far and we'll snap. I suspect now that that was what happened the first time, that Kim was simply responding to extreme provocation from the other boy. My guess is that unless Kim were pushed to the same extreme again he'd be perfectly safe. After all, he's not a bomb waiting to go off; he's only a human being, like you or me."

"So what you're saying is that, in your opinion, he's not dangerous. He won't be biting people's ears off or clawing out their eyes?"

The Architect shook his head. "1 doubt it. The fact that his friend survived has helped greatly. Their reunion was a major factor in his recuperation. If T'ai Cho had been killed our problems might have been of a different order, but as it is, I'd say Kim's fine. As fine as you or I."

Tolonen turned, looking back at the screen. "Then you think he's up to it?" The Architect laughed. "I do. In fact, I think it would be positively good for him. He has a mind that's ever-hungry for new things and an instinct for seeking them out. From what I've heard of it, the North American scene should prove a good hunting ground in that regard."

Tolonen frowned, not certain he liked the sound of that, but it was not in his brief to query what was happening in Wu Shih's city; his job was to find out whether Kim was fit to travel to North America, and from all indications, he was.

He sniffed deeply, then nodded, his mind made up. "Good. Then prepare the boy at once. There's a flight from Nantes spaceport at tenth bell. I want Ward and his tutor on it."

"And the wire? Shall we remove that now that our tests are finished?" Tolonen looked away. "No. Leave it in. It won't harm him, after all." He looked back at the Architect, his face a mask. "Besides, if something does go badly wrong—if he goes missing again—we'll be able to trace him, won't we?"

The Architect looked down, beginning to understand what was really happening. "Of course. Of course ..."

"Would you like anything, sir?"

The boy looked up, startled, his dark eyes wide, then settled back in his seat again, shaking his head.

"Nothing ... I ... I'm all right."

The Steward backed off a pace, noting how tense the bodyguards had grown, and bowed his head. "Forgive me, sir, but if you change your mind you have only to press the summons button."

The boy returned a tense smile. "Of course."

The Steward moved on, settling the passengers, making sure they were securely strapped into the seats, asking if there was anything he could do for them before the launch; but all the while his mind was on the boy.

Who was he? he wondered. After all, it wasn't every day they received an order direct from Bremen; nor was it customary for Security to reserve a whole section of the cabin for a single passenger. Knowing all this he had expected some high-ranking Han—a Minor Family prince at the very least, or a Minister—so the boy's appearance had surprised him. At first he had thought he might be a prisoner of some kind, but the more he thought about it the more that seemed ridiculous. Besides, he wasn't bound in any way, and the men with him were clearly bodyguards, not warders. He had only to ask for something and one of them would go running. No. Whoever he was, he was important enough to warrant the kind of treatment reserved only for the very highest of the Above—the Supernal, as they were known these days—and yet he seemed merely a boy, and a rather odd, almost ugly little boy at that. There was a curious angularity to his limbs, a strange darkness in his overlarge eyes.

The Steward came to the end of the walkway and turned, looking back down the cabin. It was five minutes to takeoff. The young Americans were settled now. Like so many of their kind they were almost totally lacking in manners. Only the quiet one—Lever—had even seemed to notice he was there. The rest had snapped their fingers and demanded this and that, as if he were not Steward but some half-human creature manufactured in the GenSyn vats. It was things like that that he hated about this new generation. They were not like their fathers. No, not at all. Their fathers understood that other men had their own pride, and that it was such pride that held the vast fabric of society together. These youngsters had no idea. They were blind to such things. And one day they would pay—and pay dearly—for their blindness.

He turned and went through the curtain. The Security Captain was sitting there, the file open on his knee. He looked up as the Steward came in, giving him a brief smile.

"Are they all settled?"

The Steward nodded. "Even the two women. I had to give them a sedative each, but they seem all right now." He shook his head. "They shouldn't let women travel. I have nothing but trouble with them." The Captain laughed, closing the file. "And the boy?" "He's fine. I wondered—"

The Captain shook his head. "Don't ask me. All I was told was that there was to be a special guest on board. A guest of the T'ang himself. But who he is or what . . ." He shrugged, then laughed again. "I know. I'm as curious as you. He's a strange one, neh?"

The Steward nodded, then moved away, satisfied that the Captain knew no more than he. Even so, he thought he had glimpsed a picture of the boy, earlier, when he had first come back behind the curtain—in the file the Captain was reading. He could have been mistaken, but. . .

"Are you on business?" he asked, pulling the webbing harness out from the wall behind the Captain.

"Liaison," the Captain answered, moving forward in his seat, letting himself be fastened into the harness. "My job is to increase cooperation between the two Cities."

The Steward smiled politely. "It sounds very interesting. But I'd have thought there was little need."

"You'd be surprised. The days of isolation are ended for the Cities. The Triads have spread their nets wide these days. And not only the Triads. There's a lot of illicit trade going on. Some of it via these rockets, I've no doubt!"

The Steward stared at him a moment, then turned away. "Anyway, I'll leave you now. I have one last check to make before I secure myself."

The Captain nodded, then called him back. "Here. I almost forgot. I was told to deliver this to the boy before we took off." He handed the Steward a sealed envelope. "It was in my file. Along with a picture of the boy. All very mysterious, neb?"

The Steward stared at the envelope a moment, then nodded. He turned away, disappearing through the curtain once again.

DeVore watched the man go, breathing a sigh of relief. Then he laughed. It was easy—all so bloody easy. Why, he could have taken the boy out earlier, in the lobby, if he'd wished. He'd had a clear shot. But that wasn't what he wanted. No, he wanted the boy. Besides, Li Yuan was up to something. It would be interesting to find out what.

He smiled, then opened the file again, picking up from where he'd left off. After a moment he looked up, nodding thoughtfully. Ebert had done him proud. There was everything here. Everything. The report Tolonen had made on the attack on the Project, the medical and psychological reports on Ward, and a full transcript of the debriefing. The only thing missing—and it was missing only because it didn't exist—was something to indicate just why Li Yuan had decided to ship the boy off to North America.

Well, maybe he could clarify things a little over the next few days. Maybe he could find out—through the Levers—what it was Li Yuan wanted. And at the same time he might do a little business on his own account: he would take up young Lever's invitation to meet his father and have dinner.

Yes, and afterward he would put his proposal to the son. Would see just how deep his enthusiasm for change was. And then . . . ?

He smiled and closed the file. And then he would begin again, building new shapes on a new part of the board, constructing his patterns until the game was won. For it would be won. If it took him a dozen lifetimes he would win it.

CHAPTER TEN

Ghosts

IT WAS A COLD, gray morning, the sky overcast, the wind whipping off the surface of the West Lake, bending back the reeds on the shoreline of Jade Spring Island. In front of the great pavilion—a huge, circular, two-tiered building with tapered roofs of vermillion tile—the thousand bright red-and-gold dragon banners of the T'ang flapped noisily, the ranks of armored bearers standing like iron statues in the wind, their red capes fluttering behind them.

To the south of the pavilion, a huge platform had been built, reaching almost to the lake's edge. In its center, on a dais high above the rest, stood the throne, a great canopy of red silk shielding it from the rain that gusted intermittently across the lake.

Li Yuan sat on the throne, his red silks decorated with tiny golden dragon-and-phoenix emblems. Behind him, below the nine steps of the great dais, his retainers and ministers were assembled, dressed in red.

Facing Li Yuan, no more than a hundred ch'i distant, a wide bridge linked the island to the eastern shore. It was an ancient bridge, built in the time of the Song Dynasty, more than a thousand years before, its white-stone spans decorated with lions and dragons and other mythical beasts.

Li Yuan stared at it a moment, then turned his head, looking out blank-eyed across the lake, barely conscious of the great procession that waited on the far side of the bridge. News had come that morning. Fei Yen had had her child. A boy, it was. A boy.

The music of the ceremony began, harsh, dissonant—bells, drums, and cymbals. At once the New Confucian officials came forward, making their obeisance to him before they backed away. On the eastern shore the procession started forward, a great tide of red, making its slow way across the bridge.

He sighed and looked down at his hands. It had only been two days since he had removed her wedding ring. A single day ... He shivered. So simple it had been. He had watched himself remove it from his finger and place it on the gold silk cushion Nan Ho held out to him. Had watched as Nan Ho turned and took it from the room, ending the life he had shared with her, destroying the dream for good and all.

He took a shuddering breath, then looked up again. This was no time for tears. No. Today was a day for celebrations, for today was his wedding day.

He watched them come. The heads of the three clans walked side by side at the front of the procession; proud old men, each bearing his honor in his face like a badge. Behind them came the ranks of brothers and cousins, sisters and wives, many hundreds in all; and beyond them the lung t'ing—the "dragon pavilions"— each one carried by four bare-headed eunuch servants. The tiny sedan chairs were piled high with dowry gifts for the T'ang: bolts of silk and satin, boxes of silver, golden plates and cups, embroidered robes, delicate porcelain, saddles and fans and gilded cages filled with songbirds. So much, indeed, that this single part of the procession was by far the longest, with more than a hundred lung t'ing to each family.

An honor guard was next. Behind that came the three feng yu, the phoenix chairs, four silver birds perched atop each canopy, each scarlet and gold sedan carried aloft by a dozen bearers.

His brides . . .

He had asked Nan Ho to get the heads of the three clans to agree to waive the preliminary ceremonies—had insisted that the thing be done quickly if at all—yet it had not been possible to dispense with this final ritual. It was, after all, a matter of face. Of pride. To marry a T'ang—that was not done without due celebration, without due pomp and ceremony. And would the T'ang deny them that?

He could not. For to be T'ang had its obligations as well as its advantages. And so here he was, on a cold, wet, windy morning, marrying three young women he had never seen before this day.

Necessary, he told himself. For the Family must be strong again. Even so, his heart ached and his soul cried out at the wrongness of it.

He watched them come, a feeling of dread rising in him. These were the women he was to share his life with. They would bear his sons, would lie beneath him in his bed. And what if he came to hate them? What if they hated him? For what was done here could not easily be undone.

No. A man was forgiven one failure. But any more and the world would condemn him, wherever lay the fault.

Wives. These strangers were to be his wives. And how had this come about? He sat there, momentarily bemused by the fact. Then, as the music changed and the chant began below, he stood and went to the top of the steps, ready for the great ceremony to begin.

An hour later it was done. Li Yuan stepped back, watching as his wives knelt, bowing low, touching their foreheads to the floor three times before him.

Nan Ho had chosen well, had shown great sensitivity; for not one of the three reminded him in the least of Fei Yen, yet each was, in her own way, quite distinct. Mien Shan, the eldest and officially his First Wife, was a tiny thing with a strong build and a pleasantly rounded face. Fu Ti Chang, the youngest, just seventeen, was also the tallest; a shy, elegant willow of a girl. By way of contrast, Lai Shi seemed quite spirited; she was a long-faced girl, hardly a beauty, but there was a sparkle in her eye that made her by far the most attractive of the three. Li Yuan had smiled when she'd pulled back her veil, surprised to find an interest in her stirring in himself.

Tonight duty required him to visit the bed of Mien Shan. But tomorrow? He dismissed his wives, then turned, summoning Nan Ho to him. "Chieh Hsia?"

He lowered his voice. "I am most pleased with this morning's events, Master Nan. You have done well to prepare things so quickly." Nan Ho bowed low. "It was but my duty, Chieh Hsia."

"Maybe so, but you have excelled yourself, Nan Ho. From henceforth you are no longer Master of the Inner Chamber but Chancellor."

Nan Ho's look of amazement was almost comical. "Chieh Hsia! But what of Chung Hu-yan?"

Li Yuan smiled. "I am warmed by your concern, Nan Ho, but do not worry. I informed Chung yesterday evening. Indeed, he confirmed my choice." Nan Ho's puzzlement deepened. "Chieh Hsia?"

"I should explain, perhaps, Master Nan. It was all agreed long before my father's death. It was felt that I would need new blood when I became T'ang, new men surrounding me. Men I could trust. Men who would grow as I grew and would be as pillars, supporting me in my old age. You understand?"

Nan Ho bowed his head. "I understand, Chieh Hsia, and am honored. Honored beyond words."

"Well . . . Go now. Chung Hu-yan has agreed to stay on as your advisor until you feel comfortable with your new duties. Then he is to become my Counselor."

Nan Ho gave the briefest nod, understanding. Counselor. It would make Chung virtually an uncle to Li Yuan; a member of Li Yuan's inner council, discussing and formulating policy. No wonder he had not minded relinquishing his post as Chancellor.

"And when am I to begin, Chieh HsJa?"

Li Yuan laughed. "You began two days ago, Master Nan, when you came to my room and took the book of brides from me. I appointed you then, in here." He tapped his forehead. "You have been my Chancellor ever since."

JELKA WAS STANDING at her father's side, among the guests in the great pavilion, when Hans Ebert came across and joined them.

"Marshal Tolonen . . ." Ebert bowed to the old man, then turned, smiling, to Jelka. In his bright-red dress uniform he looked a young god, his golden hair swept back neatly, his strong, handsome features formed quite pleasantly. Even his eyes, normally so cold, seemed kind as he looked at her. Even so, Jelka hardened herself against the illusion, reminding herself of what she knew about him.

He lowered his head, keeping his eyes on her face. "It's good to see you here, Jelka. I hope you're feeling better."

His inquiry was soft-spoken, his words exactly what a future husband ought to have said, yet somehow she could not accept them at face value. He was a good actor—a consummately good actor, for it seemed almost as if he really liked her— but she knew what he was beneath the act. A shit. A cold, self-centered shit.

"I'm much better, thank you," she said, lowering her eyes, a faint blush coming to her cheeks. "It was only a sprain."

The blush was for the lie she had told. She had not sprained her ankle at all. It was simply that the idea of seeing Hans Ebert made General in her father's place had been more than she could bear. To have spent the evening toasting the man she most abhorred!—she could think of nothing worse.

She kept her eyes averted, realizing the shape her thoughts had taken. Was it really that bad? Was Hans Ebert really so abhorrent? She looked up again, meeting his eyes, noting the concern there. Even so, the feeling persisted. To think of marrying this man was a mistake. A horrible mistake.

His smile widened. "You will come and dine with us, I hope, a week from now. My father is looking forward to it greatly. And I. It would be nice to speak with you, Jelka. To find out who we are."

"Yes . . ." She glanced up at him, then lowered her eyes again, a shiver of revulsion passing through her at the thought. Yet what choice had she? This man was to be her husband—her life partner.

Ebert lifted her hand, kissing her knuckles gently before releasing it. He smiled and bowed, showing her the deepest respect. "Until then . . ." He turned slightly, bowing to her father, then turned away.

"A marvelous young man," Tolonen said, watching Ebert make his way back through the crowd toward the T'ang. "Do you know, Jelka, if I'd had a son, I'd have wished for one like Hans."

She shivered. The very thought of it made her stomach tighten, reminded her of the mad girl in the Ebert Mansion and of that awful pink-eyed goat-baby. A son like Hans . . . She shook her head. No! It could never be!

IN THE SEDAN traveling back to Nanking, Jelka sat facing her father, listening to him, conscious, for the first time in her life, of how pompous, how vacuous his words were. His notion that they were at the beginning of a new "Golden Age," for instance. It was nonsense. She had read the special reports on the situation in the lower levels and knew how bad things were. Every day brought growing disaffection from the Seven and their rule, brought strikes and riots and the killing of officials; yet he seemed quite blind to all that. He spoke of growth and stability and the glorious years to come, years that would recapture the glory of his youth.

She sat a long while, simply listening, her head lowered. Then, suddenly, she looked up at him.

"I can't."

He looked across at her, breaking off. "Can't what.⁷" -

She stared back into his steel-gray eyes, hardening herself against him. "I can't marry Hans Ebert."

He laughed. "Don't be silly, Jelka. It's all arranged. Besides, Hans is General now."

"I don't care.'" she said, the violence of her words surprising him. "I simply can't marry him!"

He shook his head, then leaned forward. "You mustn't say that, Jelka. You mustn't!"

She glared back at him defiantly. "Why not? It's what I feel. To marry Hans would kill me. I'd shrivel up and die."

"Nonsense!" he barked, angry now. "You're being ridiculous! Can't you see the way that boy looks at you? He's besotted with you!"

She looked down, shaking her head. "You don't understand. You really don't understand, do you?" She shuddered, then looked up at him again. "I don't like him, Daddy. I ..." She gave a small, pained laugh. "How can I possibly marry someone I don't like?"

He had gone very still, his eyes narrowed. "Listen, my girl, you will, and sooner than you think. I've agreed to a new date for the wedding. A month from now."

She sat back, open-mouthed, staring at him.

He leaned closer, softening his voice. "It's not how I meant to tell you, but there, it's done. And no more of this nonsense. Hans is a fine young man. The very best of young men. And you're a lucky girl. If only you'd get these silly notions out of your head, you'd come to realize it. And then you'll thank me for it."

"Thank you?" The note of incredulity in her voice made him sit back, bristling.

"Yes. Thank me. Now no more. I insist."

She shook her head. "You don't know him, Father. He keeps a girl in his house— a mad girl whose baby he had killed. And I've heard—"

"Enough!"

Tolonen got to his feet, sending the sedan swaying. As it slowed, he sat again, the color draining slowly from his face.

"I won't hear another word from you, my girl. Not another word. Hans is a fine young man. And these lies—"

"They're not lies. I've seen her. I've seen what he did to her."

"Lies. . ." he insisted, shaking his head. "Really, I would not have believed it of you, Jelka. Such behavior. If your mother were alive . . ."

She put her head down sharply, trembling with anger. Gods! To talk of her mother at such a time. She slowed her breathing, calming herself, then said it one more time.

"I can't."

She looked up and saw how he was watching her—coldly, so far from her in feeling that it was as if he were a stranger to her.

"You will," he said. "You will because I say you will."

THE DOCTOR was still fussing over Karr's shoulder when they brought the man in. Karr turned, wincing, waving the doctor away, then leaned across the desk to study the newcomer.

"You're sure this is him?" he asked, looking past the man at Chen.

Chen nodded. "We've made all the checks. He seems to be who he claims he is."

Karr smiled, then sat back, a flicker of pain passing across his face. "All right. So you're Reid, eh? Thomas Reid. Well, tell me, Shih Reid, why are you here?"

The man looked down, betraying a moment's fear; then he girded up his courage again and spoke.

"I was there, you see. After you raided the fortress. I was there with the Man's lieutenant—"

"The Man?"

"DeVore. That's what we call him. The Man."

Karr glanced at Chen. "And?"

"Just that 1 was there, afterward. Lehmann and I—"

"Lehmann?"

"Stefan Lehmann. The albino. Under-Secretary Lehmann's son."

Karr laughed, surprised. "And he's DeVore's lieutenant?"

"Yes. I was with him, you see. We'd been off to deliver something for the Man. But when we got back, shortly after eight, we saw your transporters from some distance away and knew there had been trouble. We flew south and doubled back, crossing the valley on foot; then we climbed up to the ruins."

"The ruins?"

"Yes, there's a castle ... or at least the remains of one. It's on the other side of the mountain from the base. There's an old system of tunnels beneath it. The Man used them when he built the base. Linked up to them."

"Ah . . ." The light of understanding dawned in Karr's eyes. "But why did you go there?"

"Because Lehmann had a hunch. He thought DeVore might be there, in the old tunnel."

"And was he?"

"Yes."

Karr looked at Chen. It was as he'd said. But now they knew for sure. DeVore had got out: he was loose in the world to do his mischief.

"Do you know where he is?"

Reid shook his head.

"So why are you here? What do you want?"

Reid looked aside. "I was . . . afraid. Things were getting desperate out there. Out of hand. DeVore, Lehmann . . . they're not people you can cross."

"And yet you're here. Why?"

"Because I'd had enough. And because I felt that you, if anyone, could protect me."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because I know things. Know where the other bases are."

Karr sat back, astonished. Other bases . . . "But I thought—" He checked himself and looked at Chen, seeing his own surprise mirrored back at him. They had stumbled onto the Landek base by complete chance in the course of their sweep of the Wilds, alerted by its heat-emission patterns. They had blessed their luck, but never for an instant had they thought there would be others. They assumed all along that DeVore was working on a smaller scale: that he'd kept his organization much tighter.

This changed things. Changed them dramatically.

Reid was watching Karr. "I know how things are organized out there. I was in charge of several things in my time. I've pieced things together in my head. I know where their weak spots are."

"And you'll tell us all of this in return for your safety?"

Reid nodded. "That and ten million yuan."

Karr sat back. "I could have you tortured. Could wring the truth from you."

"You could. But then, Ebert might come to know about it, mightn't he? And that would spoil things for you. I understand he's already instigated a special investigation into your activities."

Karr jerked forward, grimacing, the pain from his shoulder suddenly intense. "How do you know this?"

Reid smiled, amused by the effect his words had had. "I overheard it. The Man was speaking to Ebert. It seems the new General plans a purge of his ranks. And you and your friend Kao Chen are top of the list."

"But ten million. Where would I get hold of ten million yuan⁷."

Reid shrugged. "That's your problem. But until you agree to my terms I'm telling you nothing. And the longer you wait, the more likely it is that Ebert will close you d,, own.

Chen broke his silence. "And what good would that do you, Shih Reid?"

Reid turned, facing Chen. "The way I figure it, Kao Chen, is that either I'm dead or I'm safe and very, very rich. It's the kind of choice I understand. The kind of risk I'm willing to take. But how about you? You've got children, Kao Chen. Can you look at things so clearly?"

Chen blanched, surprised that Reid knew so much. It implied that DeVore had files on them all: files that Ebert, doubtlessly, had provided. It was a daunting thought. The possibility of Wang Ti and the children being threatened by DeVore made him go cold. He looked past Reid at Karr.

"Gregor . . ."

Karr nodded and looked back at Reid, his expression hard. "I'll find the money, Shih Reid. I give you my word. You'll have it by this evening. But you must tell me what you know. Now. While I can still act on it. Otherwise my word won't be worth a dead whore's coonie."

Reid hesitated, then nodded. "All right. Get me a detailed map of the Wilds. I'll mark where the bases are. And then we'll talk. I'll tell you a story. About a young General and an ex-Major, and about a meeting the two had at an old skiing lodge a year ago."

LI YU AN s AT in his chair in the old study at Tongjiang, the package on the desk before him. He looked about him, remembering. Here he had learned what it was to shoulder responsibility, to busy himself with matters of State. Here he had toiled—acting as his father's hands—until late into the night, untangling the knotted thread of events to find solutions to his father's problems.

And now those problems were his. He looked down at the package and sighed.

He turned, looking across at the big communications screen. "Connect me with Wu Shih," he said, not even glancing at the overhead camera. "Tell him I have something urgent to discuss."

There was a short delay and then the screen lit up, the T'ang of North America's face filling the screen, ten times life size.

"Cousin Yuan. I hope you are well. And congratulations. How are your wives?"

"They are wives, Wu Shih. But listen. I have been considering that matter we talked about and I believe I have a solution."

Wu Shih raised his eyebrows. Some weeks before, his Security sources had discovered the existence of a new popular movement, "The Sons of Benjamin Franklin." Thus far there was nothing to link them to anything even resembling a plot against the Seven, nor could any acts of violence or incitement be laid at their door. In that respect they kept scrupulously within the letter of the law. However, the mere existence of such a secret society—harking, as its name implied, back to a forbidden past—was cause for grave concern. In other circumstances he might simply have rounded up the most prominent figures and demoted them. But these were no ordinary hotheads. The "Sons" were, without exception, the heirs to some of the biggest companies in North America. Wu Shih's problem was how to curtail their activities without alienating their powerful and influential fathers. It was a tricky problem, made worse by the fact that because no crime had been committed, there was no pretext upon which he might act. "A solution, Li Yuan? What kind of solution?"

"I have sent someone into your City, Wu Shih. As my envoy, you might say, though he himself does not know it."

Wu Shih frowned and sat forward slightly, his image breaking up momentarily, then re-forming clearly. "An envoy?"

Li Yuan explained. Afterward Wu Shih sat back, considering. "I see. But why do you think this will work?"

"There is no guarantee that it will, but if it fails we have lost nothing, neh?" Wu Shih smiled. "That sounds reasonable enough." "And you will look after the boy for me?" "Like my own son, Li Yuan."

"Good. Then I must leave you, Wu Shih. There is much to do before this evening."

Wu Shih laughed. "And much to do tonight, neh?"

There was a momentary hesitation in Li Yuan's face, then he returned Wu Shih's smile tightly, bowing his head slightly to his fellow T'ang before he cut contact. Tonight. He shivered. Tonight he wished only to be alone. But that was not his fate. He was married now. He had duties to his wives. And to his ancestors. For it was up to him now to provide a son. To continue the line so that the chain should remain unbroken, the ancestral offerings made, the graves tended.

Even so, his heart felt dead in him. Ever since this morning he had kept thinking of the new child, seeing it in his mind, resting in Fei Yen's arms as she lay there propped up in bed on her father's estate.

He shook his head, then stood. It hurt. It hurt greatly, but it was behind him now. It had to be. His life lay ahead of him, and he could not carry his hurt about like an open wound. Nor could he wait for time to heal the scars. He must press on. For he was T'ang now. T'ang.

He stood with his hands resting against the edge of the desk, staring down at the package, still undecided about sending it; then he leaned forward, pressing the summons bell. "Send in Nan Ho."

The boy's debriefing had proved more successful than any of them had dared hope and had put the lie to what Director Spatz had said about Ward's "nil contribution" to the Project. Ward had remembered everything. In fact, the extent of his knowledge about the Wiring Project had surprised them all. With what he had given them, they would be able to reconstruct the facility within months. A facility that, in theory anyway, would be far more advanced than the one Spatz had so spectacularly mismanaged.

This time he would do it right. Would ensure that the right men were appointed, that it was adequately funded and properly protected. No, there would be no mistakes this time.

Mistakes. He shook his head. He had misjudged things badly. He ought to have trusted to his instinct about the boy, but he had been off-balance. That whole business with Fei Yen had thrown him. He had been unable to see things clearly. But now he could put things right. Could reward the boy. Indeed, what better way was there of making Ward loyal to him than through the ties of gratitude? And he needed the boy to be loyal. He saw that now. Saw what he had almost lost through his inadvertence.

Such talent as Kim possessed appeared but rarely in the world. It was a priceless gift. And whoever had the use of it could only benefit. Change was coming to Chung Kuo, like it or not, and they must find a way to harness it. Ward's skills—his genius—might prove effective, not in preventing change—for who could turn back the incoming tide—but in giving it a shape better suited to the wishes of the Seven.

For now, however, Li Yuan would use him in a different role. As an eye, peering into the darkness of his enemies' hearts. As an ear, listening to the rhythms of their thought. And then, when he was done with that, he would fly him on a long leash, like a young hawk, giving him the illusion of freedom, letting him stretch his wings even as he restrained and directed him.

There was a faint knock. "Come," he said.

"You sent for me, Chieh Hsial"

He picked up the package and offered it to his Chancellor. "Have this sent to Shih Ward at once. I want it to be in his room when he returns tonight."

"Of course, Chieh Hsia." Nan Ho hesitated. "Is that all?"

As ever, he had read Li Yuan's mood. Had understood without the need for words.

"One thing, Nan Ho. You will carry a note for me. Personally. To Fei Yen. To wish her well."

Nan Ho bowed his head. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but is that wise? There are those who might construe such a note to mean—"

Li Yuan cut him off. "Nan Ho! Just do it. Wise or not, I feel it must be done. So please, take my message to her and wish her well. I would not be bitter about the past, understand me? I would be strong. And how can I be strong unless I face the past clear-eyed, understanding my mistakes?"

Nan Ho bowed, impressed by his master's words. "I will go at once, Chieh Hsia."

"Good. And when you return you will find me a new Master of the Inner Chambers. A man who will serve me as well as you have served me."

Nan Ho smiled. "Of course, Chieh Hsia. I have the very man in mind."

IT WAS AFTER midnight and Archimedes' Kitchen was packed. The club was dimly lit, like the bottom of the ocean, the air heavy with exotic scents. As one stepped inside, under the great arch, the deep growl of a primitive bass rhythm obliterated all other sound, like a slow, all-pervasive heartbeat, resonating in everything it touched.

The architecture of the club was eccentric but deliberate. All things Han were absent here. Its fashions looked backward, to the last years of the American Empire, before the Great Collapse.

From its position at the top edge of the City, the Kitchen overlooked the dark-green, island-strewn waters of Buzzards Bay. Through the vast, clear windows of the upper tiers you could, on a clear day, see the southwestern tip of Martha's Vineyard, distant and green, unspoiled by any structure. Few were so inclined. For most of the time the magnificent view windows were opaqued, arabesques of vivid color swirling across their blinded surfaces.

Inside, the place was cavernous. Tier after tier spiraled up about the central circle of the dance floor, a single, broad ramp ascending smoothly into the darkened heights. Along the slowly winding length of this elegantly carpeted avenue, tables were set. Ornate, impressive tables, in Empire style, the old insignia of the sixty-nine States carved into the wooden surfaces, bronzed eagles stretching their wings across the back of each chair. Gold-and-black-suited waiters hovered—literally hovered—by the rail to take orders. Their small backpack jets, a memory of the achievements of their technological past, flaunted the Edict. Like bees, they tended the needs of the crowded tiers, fetching and carrying, issuing from the darkness high above their patrons' heads.

In the center of all was a huge light sculpture, a twisting double band of gold stretching from floor to ceiling. It was a complex double helix, detailed and flowing, pulsing with the underlying bass rhythm, by turns frail and intense, ghostly thin and then broad, sharply delineated, like a solid thing. This, too, bordered on the illicit; it was a challenge of sorts to those who ruled.

Membership of the Kitchen was exclusive. Five, almost six thousand members crowded the place on a good night—which this was—but five times that number were members and twenty times that were on the club's waiting list. More significantly, membership was confined to just one section of the populace. No Han were allowed here, nor their employees. In this, as in so many other ways, the club was in violation of statutes passed in the House some years before, though the fact that most of the North American Representatives were also members of the Kitchen had escaped no one's notice.

It was a place of excess. Here, much more was permitted than elsewhere. Eccentricity seemed the norm, and nakedness, or a partial nakedness that concealed little of importance, was much in evidence. Men wore their genitalia dressed in silver, small fins sprouting from the sides of their drug-aroused shafts. The women were no less overt in their symbolism; many wore elaborate rings of polished metal about their sex—space gates, similar in form to the docking apertures on spacecraft. It was a game, but there was a meaning behind its playfulness.

Of those who were dressed—the majority, it must be said—few demonstrated a willingness to depart from what was the prevalent style: a style that might best be described as Techno-Barbarian, a mixture of space suits and ancient chain mail. Much could be made of the curious opposition of the fine—in some cases beautiful—aristocratic faces and the brutish, primitive dress. It seemed a telling contrast, illustrative of some elusive quality in the society itself, of the unstated yet ever-present conflict in their souls. Almost a confession.

It was almost two in the morning when Kim arrived at the "gateway" and presented his invitation. The sobriety of his dress marked him as a visitor, just as much as his diminutive status. People stared at him shamelessly as he was ushered through the crowded tunnel and out into the central space.

He boarded a small vehicle to be taken to his table—a replica of the four-wheeled, battery-powered jeep that had first been used on the moon two hundred and thirty-eight years before. At a point halfway up the spiral it stopped. There was an empty table with spaces set. Nearby two waiters floated, beyond the brass-and-crystal rail.

Kim sat beside the rail, looking down at the dance floor more than a hundred ch'i below. The noise was not so deafening up here. Down there, however, people were thickly pressed, moving slowly, sensuously, to the stimulus of a Mood Enhancer. Small firefly clouds of hallucinogens moved erratically among the dancers, sparking soundlessly as they made contact with the moist warmth of naked flesh.

Kim looked up. His hosts had arrived. They stood on the far side of the table— two big men, built like athletes, dressed casually in short business pau, as if to make him more at ease.

The older of the two came around the table to greet him.

"I'm glad you could come," he said, smiling broadly. "My name is Charles Lever."

"I know," Kim said simply, returning his smile. <*

Old Man Lever; he was Head of the biggest pharmaceuticals company in North America, possibly in the whole of Chung Kuo. The other man, his personal assistant, was his son, Michael. Kim shook Lever's hand and looked past him at his son, noting how alike they were.

They sat, the old man leaning toward him across the table. "Do you mind if I order for you, Kim? I know the specialties of this place."

Kim nodded and looked around, noting the occupants of the next table down. His eyes widened in surprise. Turning, he saw it was the same at the next table up. A group of aristocrats now sat at each table. They had not been there before, so they must have slipped into their places after the Levers had arrived. There was nothing especially different about the way they dressed, yet they were immediately noticeable. They were bald. The absence of hair drew the eye first, but then another detail held the attention: a cross-hatching of scars, fine patterns like a wiring grid in an ancient circuit. These stood out, blue against the whiteness of each scalp, like some alien code.

Kim studied them a moment, fascinated, not certain what they were; he looked back to find Old Man Lever watching him, a faint smile of amusement on his lips. "I see you've noticed my friends."

Lever rose and went from table to table, making a show of introducing them. Kim watched, abstracted from the reality of what was happening, conscious only of how uniform they seemed despite a wide variation of features, of how this one thing erased all individuality in their faces, making things of them.

"What you see gathered here, Kim, is the first stage of a grand experiment. One I'd like you to help me in." The old man stood there, his arms folded against his broad chest, relaxed in his own power and knowledge, confident of Kim's attention. "These people are the first to benefit from a breakthrough in ImmVac's research program. Trailblazers, you might call them. Pioneers of a new way of living."

Kim nodded, but he was thinking how odd it was that Lever should do this all so publicly, should choose this way of presenting things.

"These," Lever paused and smiled broadly, as if the joke was all too much for him. "These are the first immortals, Kim. The very first."

Kim pursed his lips, considering, trying to anticipate the older man. He was surprised. He hadn't thought anyone was close enough yet. But if it were so, then what did it mean? Why did Lever want to involve him? What was the flaw that needed ironing out?

"Immortals," the old man repeated, his eyes afire with the word. "What Mankind has always dreamed of. The defeat of death itself."

There were whispers from the nearby tables, like the rustle of paper-thin metal streamers in a wind. At Kim's back the coiled and spiraling threads of light pulsed and shimmered, while waiters floated between the levels. The air was rich with distracting scents. It all seemed dreamlike, almost absurd. _/

"Congratulations," he said. "I assume . . ."

He paused, holding the old man's eyes. What did he assume? That it worked? That Lever knew he was flouting the Edict? That it was "what Mankind had always dreamed of"? All of these, perhaps, but he finished otherwise. "1 assume you'll pay me well for my help, Shih Lever."

The son turned his head sharply and looked at Kim, surprised. His father considered a moment, then laughed heartily and took his seat again.

"Why, of course you'll be paid well, Shih Ward. Very well indeed. If you can help us."

The waiters arrived, bringing food and wine. For a moment all speech was suspended as the meal was laid out. When it was done Kim poured himself a glass of water from the jug, ignoring the wine. He sipped the ice-cold liquid, then looked across at Old Man Lever again.

"But why all this? Why raise the matter here, in such a public place?"

Lever smiled again and began eating his appetizer. He chewed for a while, then set his fork down. "You aren't used to our ways yet, are you? All this"— he gestured with his knife— "It's a marketplace. And these"— he indicated his "friends"— "these are my product." He grinned and pointed at Kim with his knife. "You, so I'm told on good authority, come with a reputation second to none. Forget connections." There was a brief flicker in the comer of one eye. "By meeting you here, like this, I signal my intention to work with you. The best with the best." He took a second forkful, chewed, and swallowed. Beside him his son watched, not eating.

"So it's all publicity?"

"Of a kind." The son spoke for the father. "It does our shares no harm. Good rumor feeds a healthy company."

Old Man Lever nodded. "Indeed. So it is, Kim. And it won't harm your own career one jot to be seen in harness with ImmVac."

Yes, thought Kim, unless the Seven start objecting to what you're doing and close you doitm. Aloud he said, "You know I have other plans."

The old man nodded. "I know everything about you, Kim."

It sounded ominous and Kim looked up from his plate, momentarily alarmed, but it was only a form of words. Not everything, he thought.

"It would be ... theoretical work," continued Lever. "The sort of thing I understand you're rather good at. Synthesizing-."

Kim tilted his head, feeling uneasy, but not knowing quite why he had the feeling. Perhaps the words had simply thrown him. He didn't like to be known so readily.

"We have a drug that works. A stabilizer. Something that in itself prevents the error catastrophe that creates aging in human beings. But we don't want to stop there. Longevity shouldn't just be for the young, eh, Kim?" There was a slight nervousness in his laughter that escaped no one at the table. The son looked disconcerted by it, embarrassed. To Kim, however, it was the most significant thing Lever had said. He knew now what it was that drove him.

You want it for yourself. And the drug you have won't give it to you. It doesn't reverse the process, it only holds it in check. You want to be young again. You want to live forever. And right now you can't have either.

"And your terms?" .

Again Lever laughed, as if Kim were suddenly talking his own language. "Terms we'll discuss when we meet. For now just enjoy this marvelous food. Dig in, Kim. Dig in. You've never tasted anything like this fish, I guarantee."

Kim took a bite and nodded. "It's good. What is it?"

There was laughter at the surrounding tables. Lever raised a hand to silence it, then leaned across the table toward the boy. "They only serve one kind offish here. Shark."

Kim looked across at the watchful faces of the new immortals, then back at the Levers, father and son, seeing how much they enjoyed this little joke.

"Like Time," he said.

"How's that?" asked the old man, sitting back in his chair, one arm curled about the eagle's wing.

"Time," said Kim, slowly cutting a second mouthful from the fish steak in front of him. "It's like a shark in a bloodied sea."

He saw their amusement fade, the biter bit, a flicker in the corner of the old man's eye. And something else. Respect. He saw how Lever looked at him, measuring him anew. "Yes," he said, after a moment. "So it is, boy. So it is."

TOLONEN climbed the twist of stairs easily, two at a time, like a man half his age. As he turned to say something to the leader of the honor guard, he realized he was alone. The stairs behind were empty, the door at their foot closed. Up ahead the corridor was silent, dimly lit, doors set off on either side. At the far end a doorway led through to the central control room.

"What in hell . . ." he began, then fell silent. Something had not been right. His instincts prickled, as if to alert him. Something about their uniforms . . .

He reacted quickly, turning to shoot the first of them as they came through the far door, but they were moving fast and the second had aimed his knife before Tolonen could bring him down.

He fell to his knees, crumpled against the right-hand wall, blood oozing from his left arm, his gun arm, his weapon fallen to the floor. He could hear shooting from below, from back the way he'd come, but there was no time to work out what it meant. As he pulled the knife from his arm and straightened up, another of the assassins appeared at the far end of the corridor.

Grabbing up the gun, he opened fire right-handed, hitting the man almost as he was on him. The assassin jerked backward, then lay there, twitching, his face shot away, the long knife still trembling in his hand.

He understood. They had instructions to take him alive. If not, he would have been dead already. But who was it wanted him?

He barely had time to consider the question when he heard the door slide open down below and footsteps on the stairs. He swung around, a hot stab of pain shooting up his arm as he aimed his gun down into the stairwell.

It was Haavikko. Tolonen felt a surge of anger wash through him. "You bastard!" he hissed, pointing his gun at him.

"No!" Haavikko said urgently, putting his hands out at his sides, the big automatic he carried pointing away from the Marshal. "You don't understand! The honor guard. Their chest patches. Think, Marshal! Think!"

Tolonen lowered his gun. That was right. The recognition band on their chest patches had been the wrong color. It had been the green of an African banner, not the orange of a European one.

Haavikko started up the steps again. "Quick! We've got to get inside."

Tolonen nodded, then turned, covering the corridor as Haavikko came alongside.

"I'll check the first room out," Axel said into his ear. "We can hole up there until help comes. It'll be easier to defend than this."

The old man nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm. "Right. Go. I'll cover you."

He moved out to the right, covering the doorway and the corridor beyond as Haavikko tugged the door open and stepped inside. Then Haavikko turned back, signaling for him to come.

Inside, the room was a mess. This whole section was supposed to be a safe area— a heavily guarded resting place for visiting Security staff—but someone had taken it apart. The mattresses were ripped, the standing lockers kicked over, papers littered the floor.

Haavikko pointed across the room. "Get behind there—between the locker and the bed. I'll take up a position by the door."

Tolonen didn't argue. His arm was throbbing painfully now and he was beginning to feel faint. He crossed the room as quickly as he could and slumped against the wall, a wave of nausea sweeping over him.

It was not a moment too soon. Tolonen heard the door slam further down the corridor and the sound of running men. Then Haavikko's big gun opened up, deafening in that confined space.

Haavikko turned, looking back at him. "There are more of them coming. Down below. Wait there. I'll deal with them."

Through darkening vision, Tolonen saw him draw the grenade from his belt and move out into the corridor. It was a big thing; the kind they used to blast their way through a blocked Seal. He closed his eyes, hearing the grenade clatter on the steps.

And then nothing.

AXEL CROSSED the room swiftly, throwing himself on top of the locker, shielding the Marshal with his body. It was not a moment too soon. An instant later the blast shook the air, ripping at his back, rocking the whole room.

He pulled himself upright. There was a stinging pain in his right shoulder and a sudden warmth at his ear and neck. He looked down. Tolonen was unconscious now and the wound in his arm was still seeping blood, but the blast seemed not to have harmed him any further.

Axel turned. The room was slowly filling with smoke and dust. Coughing, he half-lifted the old man, then dragged him across the room and out into the corridor. He stopped a moment, listening, then hauled the old man up onto his shoulder, grunting with the effort, his own pain forgotten. Half-crouching, the gun strangely heavy in his left hand, he made his way along the corridor, stepping between the fallen bodies. At the far end he kicked the door open, praying there were no more of them.

The room was empty, the door on the far side open. Taking a breath he moved on, hauling the old man through the doorway. He could hear running feet and shouts from all sides now, but distant, muted, as if on another level.

Ping Tiaol If so, he had to get the Marshal as far away as possible.

The Marshal was breathing awkwardly now, erratically. The wound in his arm was bad, his uniform soaked with blood.

He carried the old man to the far side of the room then set him down gently, loosening his collar. He cut a strip of cloth from his own tunic and twisted it into a cord, then bound it tightly about the Marshal's arm, just above the wound. The old man hadn't been thinking. Pulling the knife out had been the worst thing he could have done. He should have left it in. Now it would be touch and go.

He squatted there on his haunches, breathing slowly, calming himself, the gun balanced across his knee, one hand combing back his thick blond hair. Waiting ...

Seconds passed. A minute ... He had almost relaxed when he saw it.

The thing scuttled along the ceiling at the far end of the corridor. Something new. Something he had never seen before. A probe of some kind. Slender, camouflaged, it showed itself only in movement, in the tiny shadows it cast.

It came a few steps closer and stopped, focusing on them. Its tiny camera eye rotated with the smallest of movements of the lens.

He understood at once. This was the assassin's "eyes." The man himself would be watching, out of sight, ready to strike as soon as he knew how things stood.

Axel threw himself forward, rolling, coming up just as the assassin came around the corner.

The tactic worked. It gave him the fraction of a second that he needed. He was not where the man thought he'd be, and in that split second of uncertainty the assassin was undone.

Axel stood over the dead man, looking down at him. His limbs shook badly now, adrenaline changed to a kind of naked fear, realizing how close it had been.

He turned away, returning to Tolonen. The bleeding had stopped, but the old man was still unconscious, his breathing slow, laborious. His face had an unhealthy pallor.

Axel knelt astride the Marshal, tilting his head backward, lifting his neck. Then, pinching his nostrils closed, he breathed into his mouth.

Where was the backup? Where was the regular squad? Or had the Ping Tiao taken out the entire deck?

He shuddered and bent down again, pushing his breath into the old man, knowing he was fighting for his life.

And then there was help. People were milling about behind him in the room— special elite Security and medics. Someone touched his arm, taking over for him. Another drew him aside, pulling him away.

"The Marshal will be all right now. We've regularized his breathing."

Haavikko laughed. Then it had failed! The assassination attempt had failed! He started to turn, to go over to Tolonen and tell him, but as he moved a huge wave of blackness hit him.

Hands grabbed for him as he keeled over, cushioning his fall, then settled him gently against the wall.

"Kuan Yin!" said one of them, seeing the extent of his burns. "We'd better get him to a special unit fast. It's a wonder he got this far."

TEN THOUSAND li away, on the far side of the Atlantic, DeVore was sitting down to breakfast at the Lever Mansion. The Levers—father and son—had come straight from Archimedes' Kitchen. DeVore had got up early to greet them, impressed by the old man's energy. He seemed as fresh after a night of wining and dining as he had when he'd first greeted DeVore more than thirty hours before. While servants hurried to prepare things, they went into the Empire Room. It was a big, inelegant room, its furnishings rather too heavy, too overbearing for DeVore's taste. Even so, there was something impressive about it, from the massive pillars that reached up into the darkness overhead to the gallery that overlooked it on all four sides. The table about which they sat was huge—large enough to sit several dozen in comfort—yet it had been set for the three of them alone. DeVore sat back in the tall-backed chair, his hands resting on the polished oak of the arms, looking down the full length of the table at Lever.

The old man smiled, raising a hand to summon one of his servants from the shadows. "Well, Howard? How did you get on?"

DeVore smiled. Lever was referring to the return match against Kustow's wei chi champion.

"I was very fortunate. I lost the first two. But then . . ."

Lever raised an eyebrow. "You beat him?"

DeVore lowered his head, feigning modesty, but it had been easy. He could have won all five. "As I say, I was fortunate."

Michael Lever stared at him, surprised.

"Your friends were most hospitable," DeVore said. "They're good fellows, Michael. I wish we had their like in City Europe."

"And you, Howard? Did you win your money back?"

DeVore laughed. "Not at all. I knew how weak Kustow's man was. It would not have been fair to have wagered money on the outcome."

Michael Lever nodded. "I see . . ." But it was clear he was more impressed than he was willing to say. So it had been with the others last night: their eyes had said what their mouths could not. DeVore had seen the new respect with which they looked at him. Ten stones he had won by, that last game. Kustow's champion would never live it down.

The old man had been watching them from the far end of the table. Now he interrupted.

"It's a shame you're not staying longer, Howard. I would have liked to take you to see our installations."

DeVore smiled. He had heard rumors of how advanced they were, how openly they flouted the Edict's guidelines. But then, the War with the Dispersionists, which had so completely and devastatingly crushed the Above in City Europe, had barely touched them here. Many of the Dispersionists' natural allies here had kept out of that war. As a result, things were much more buoyant, the Company Heads filled with a raw self-confidence that was infectious. Everywhere he'd been there was a sense of optimism; a sense that here, if nowhere else, change could be forced through, Seven or no.

He looked back at Old Man Lever, bowing his head. "I would have liked that, Charles. But next time, perhaps? I've been told your factories are most impressive: a good few years ahead of their European counterparts."

Lever laughed, then leaned forward. "And so they should be! I've spent a great deal of money rebuilding them these past few years. But it hasn't been easy. No. We've had to go backward to go forward, if you see what I mean."

DeVore nodded, understanding. Indeed, if he needed any further clue to what Lever meant, he had only to look about him. Mementos of the American Empire were everywhere in the room, from the great spread eagles on the backs of the chairs to the insignia on the silverware. Most prominent of all was the huge map on the wall behind Old Man Lever: a map of the American Empire at its height in 2043, five years after the establishment of the sixty-nine States. The year of President Griffin's assassination and the Great Collapse.

On the map, the red, white, and blue of the Empire stretched far into the southern continent. Only the triple alliance of Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay had survived the massive American encroachments, forming the last outposts of a onetime wholly Latin continent, while to the north the whole of Canada had been swallowed up, its vastness divided into three huge administrative areas.

He looked down. To him such maps were vivid testimonies to the ephemerality of Empires, the certain dissolution of all things human in the face of Time. But to Lever and his kind they were something different. To them the map represented an ideal, a golden age to which they must return.

America. He had seen how the word lit them from within, how their eyes came alive at its sound. Like their European cousins, they had been seduced by the great dream of return. A dream that his gift of the Aristotle File was sure to feed, like coals on the fire of their disaffection, until this whole vast City erupted in flames.

He sighed. Yes, the day would come. And he would be there when it did. To see the Cities in flames, the Seven cast down.

He turned in his chair, taking a cup of coffee from the servant, then looked across again, meeting Lever's eyes. "And the boy? How was your dinner? I understand you took him to the Kitchen."

Lever smiled thoughtfully. "It went well. He's sharp, that one. Very sharp. And I'm grateful for your introduction, Howard. It could prove a most valuable contact."

"That's what I thought—"

"However," Lever interrupted, "I've been wondering."

DeVore took a sip of his coffee and set the cup down, pushing it away from him. "Wondering?"

"Yes. Think a moment. If the boy is so valuable, then why has Li Yuan sent him here? Why hasn't he kept him close at hand, in Europe, where he can use him?"

DeVore smiled. "To be honest with you, Charles, I'm not sure. I do know that the old T'ang intended to have the boy terminated. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the attack on the Project, the boy wouldn't be here now. It seems Li Yuan must have reconsidered."

"Yes. But what's he up to now?"

DeVore laughed. "That's what we'd all like to know, neh? But to be serious, I figure it like this. The boy suffered a great shock. Certain psychological blocks that were induced in him during his personality reconstruction aren't there any longer. In a very real sense he's not the same person he was before the attack. Li Yuan has been told that. He's also been told that, as a result, the boy is not one hundred percent reliable. That he needs a rest and maybe a change of setting. So what does he do? He ships the boy off here, with a complete medical backup, hoping that the trip will do him good and that he'll return refreshed, ready to get to work again."

Lever nodded thoughtfully. "So you think Li Yuan will use him, after all?"

DeVore raised his eyebrows. "Maybe. But then maybe not. I have heard rumors."

"Rumors?"

DeVore smiled, then shrugged apologetically. "I can't say just yet. But when I hear more I'll let you know, I promise you."

Lever huffed impatiently, then turned in his chair, snapping his fingers. "Come! Quickly now! I'm starving."

Across from him his son laughed. "But, Father, you only ate three hours back. How can you be starving?"

Lever stared back at his son a moment, then joined his laughter. "I know. But I am, all the same." He looked back at DeVore. "And you, Howard, what will you eat?"

DeVore smiled. The world, he thought. I'll eat die world. But aloud he said, "Coffee will do me fine, Charles. I've no appetite just now. Maybe later, neh?"

He turned, looking at the son. "Are you eating, Michael, or can I interest you in a breath of air?"

The young man sat back, drawing one hand through his short blond hair. "I was going to get a few hours sleep, but half an hour won't make much difference." He turned, looking across. "You'll excuse us, Father?"

Lever nodded. "That's fine, Michael. But remember there's a lot still to be done before Friday night."

Young Lever smiled. "It's all in hand."

"Good!" Lever lifted his fork, pointing at DeVore. "Why don't you change your mind and stay over, Howard? We're holding a Thanksgiving Ball. You could see how we Americans celebrate things. Besides, there'll be a lot of interesting and important people there. People you ought to meet."

DeVore bowed his head. "Thanks, but I really must get back tonight. Another time, perhaps?"

Lever shrugged, then waved them away, lowering his head as he dug into his breakfast.

Outside it was cooler. Subtle lighting gave the impression that it really was morning, that they really were walking beneath a fresh, early autumn sky, a faint breeze whispering through the branches of the nearby trees.

DeVore, watching the younger Lever, saw how he changed once out of his father's presence, how the tense pose of formality slipped from him.

"Was I right?" he asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of the mansion.

Lever turned. "You're a clever man, Howard, but don't underestimate my father."

"Maybe. But was I right?"

Lever nodded. "It was all he talked about. But then, that's not surprising. It's an obsession with him. Immortality . . ." He shook his head.

DeVore put his hand on the young man's arm. "I understand how you must feel, Michael. I've not said anything before now—after all, it would hardly be good manners to talk of it in front of your father—but to you I can speak freely. You see, I find the idea of living forever quite absurd. To think that we could outwit death— that we could beat the old Master at his own game!" He laughed and shook his head ruefully, seeing how he had struck a chord in the other man. "Well, I'm sure you agree. The very idea is ludicrous. Besides, why perpetuate the weakness of the old creature—the mei yu jen went Why not strive to make some better, finer being?"

"What do you mean?"

DeVore lowered his voice. "You've seen what I've achieved so far. Well, much more has yet to be done. The fortresses are but a small part of my scheme. It's my belief that we must look beyond the destruction of the Seven and anticipate what happens afterward. And not merely anticipate. The wise man seeks to shape the future, surely?"

Lever nodded thoughtfully. "It's what I've always said,"

"Good. Then hear me out, for I have a plan that might benefit us both."

"Apian?"

"Yes. Something that will keep everyone happy."

Lever laughed. "That's a tall order."

"But not impossible. Listen. What if we were to set up an Immortality Research Center in the Wilds?"

Lever started. "But I thought you said—?"

"I did. And I meant what I said. But look at it this way; you want one thing, your father another. However, he has the power—the money, to be precise—and you have nothing. Or as good as."

He could see from the sourness in the young man's face that he had touched a raw nerve.

"Well, why not channel a little of that money into something for yourself, Michael?"

Lever's eyes widened, understanding. "I see. When you talk of a research center, you don't mean that, do you? You're talking of a front. A way of channeling funds."

"Of course."

"You're asking me to fool my father. To draw on his obsession, hoping he'll be blind to what I'm doing."

DeVore shook his head. "I'm asking nothing of you, Michael. You'll act as you choose to act. And if that accords with what I want, then all well and good. If not . . ." He shrugged and smiled pleasantly, as if it didn't matter.

"And what do you want?"

DeVore hesitated. He had been asked that question so many times now that he had even begun to ask it of himself. For a brief moment he was tempted to spell it out—the whole grand scheme he carried in his head—then changed his mind.

"I think you know what I want. But let me just ask you this, Michael. If your father got his dearest wish—if he finally found a way of becoming immortal—what then? Wouldn't that simply prove a curse to all involved? After all, if he were to live forever, when would you inherit?"

Lever met DeVore's eyes briefly, then looked away. But DeVore, watching, had seen how his words had touched him to the quick. It was what he feared—what his whole generation feared. To be a son forever, bound by a living ghost.

Lever shivered, then shook his head. "And this Center—how would you go about selling the idea to my father?"

DeVore smiled, then took the young man's arm again, leading him on, beginning to outline his plan. But the most difficult part now lay behind him. The rest would be easy.

Immortality. It was a nonsense, but a useful nonsense. And he would milk it to the last drop. But before then he would carry out a few last schemes of his own. To tidy things up, and settle a few last scores.

IT was AFTER six in the morning when Kim got back to the high-security complex where he was staying. The guards checked his ID, then passed him through.

The apartment was in darkness, only the faint glow of the console display showing from the room at the far end of the hallway. He stood there a moment, feeling uneasy. His bedroom was just up a little on the right. He went through, closing the door behind him, then turned on the bedside lamp.

He stiffened, then turned slowly, looking about him. The red silk package on the bedside table had not been there when he had left. Someone had been into the room.

He stared at it a moment, wondering what to do. If it were a bomb it might already be too late—merely coming into the room could have triggered the timer. Then he saw the note poking out from beneath, and smiled, recognizing the hand.

He sat, placing the package beside him on the bed while he read the note. It was in Mandarin, the black-ink characters formed with confident, fluent strokes. At the foot of the small, silken sheet was the young T'ang's seal, the Ywe Lung impressed into the bright gold wax. He read it quickly.

Shi/i Ward,

At our first meeting I said that if you did as I wished I would tear up my father's warrant. You have more than fulfilled your part of our agreement, therefore I return my father's document, duly enacted.

I would be honored if you would also accept these few small gifts with my sincere gratitude for your help in restoring the Project.

I look forward to seeing you on your return from my cousin's City.

With deepest respect, Li Yuan

Kim looked up. The note was most unusual. With deepest respect. These were not words a T'ang normally used to a subject. No, he knew enough of the social mechanics of Chung Kuo to know that this was exceptional behavior on the young T'ang's part. But why? What did he want from him?

Or was that fair? Did Li Yuan have to want something?

He put the note down and picked up the package. Beneath the silk wrapping was a tiny box, a black lacquered box, the letters of Kim's name impressed into the lid in bright gold lettering. He felt a tiny tremor of anticipation ripple through him as he opened it. Inside the box, wrapped in the torn pieces of Li Shai Tung's warrant, were four small cards. He spilled them onto the bed. They were little different from the computer cards that were in use everywhere throughout Chung Kuo: multipurpose cards that served to store information in every shape and form. There was no guessing what these were until he fed them into a comset. They might be credit chips, for instance, or holograms, or special programs of some kind. The only clue he had was the number Li Yuan had hand-written on each.

He scooped them up and went into the end room, turning on the desk lamp beside the console before slipping the first of the cards—numbered yi, one—into the slot in front of him.

He sat back, waiting.

There was the sound of a tiny bell being rung, the note high and pure, then two words appeared on the screen.

PASS CODE?

He placed his hand palm down on the touchpad and leaned forward over the dark, reflective surface, opening his eyes wide, letting the machine verify his retinal print. He spoke four words of code, then sat back.

There was a fraction of a second's delay before the response came up on the screen.

AUDIO OR VISUAL?

"Visual," he said softly.

The surface rippled in acknowledgment, like the calm surface of a pool dis-

turbed by a single small stone falling cleanly into its center. A moment later the screen lifted smoothly from the desktop, tilting up to face him.

He gave the code again. At once the screen filled with information. He scanned through quickly, then sat back. It was an amended copy of his contract with SimFic, buying out their interest in him. And the new owner? It was written there at the foot of the contract. Kim Ward. For the first time in his life he owned himself.

He shivered, then took the file from the slot, replacing it with the one marked er, two.

As the screen lit up again, he nodded to himself. Of course. It would have meant nothing being his own master without this—his citizenship papers. But Li Yuan had gone further: he had authorized an all-levels pass that gave Kim clearance to travel anywhere within the seven Cities. Few people—even among the Above— were allowed that.

Two more. He stared at the tiny cards a moment, wondering; then he placed the third, marked san, into the slot.

At first he didn't understand. Maybe one of Li Yuaris servants had made a mistake and placed the wrong card in the package. Then, as the document scrolled on, he caught his breath, seeing his name in the column marked "Registered Head."

A company! Li Yuan had given him his own company—complete with offices, patents, and enough money to hire staff and undertake preliminary research. He shook his head, bewildered. All this ... he didn't understand.

He closed his eyes. It was like a dream, a dream he would shortly wake from; yet when he opened his eyes again, the information was still there on the screen, Li Yuan's personal verification codes rippling down the side of the file.

But why? Why had Li Yuan given him all this? What did he want in return?

He laughed strangely, then shook his head again. It always came back to that. He had grown so used to being owned—to being used—that he could not think of such a gesture in any other way. But what if Li Yuan wanted nothing? What if he meant what he had said in his note? What had he to lose in making such a gesture?

And what gain?

He frowned, trying to see through the confusion of his feelings to the objective truth, but for once it proved too difficult. He could think of no reason for Li Yuan's generosity. None but the one his words appeared to give.

He removed the file, then placed the last of the cards, marked si, into the slot.

What noui? What else could Li Yuan possibly give him?

It was a different kind of file—he saw that at once. For a start, Li Yuan's personal code was missing. But it was more than that. He could tell by the length and complexity of the file that it had been prepared by experts.

He gave the access code. At once the screen filled with brilliant colors, like a starburst, quickly resolving itself into a complex diagram. He sat back, his mouth wide open. It was a genotyping.

No. Not just a genotyping. He knew at once what it was without needing to be told. It was his genotyping.

He watched, wide-eyed, as the program advanced, one detail after another of the DNA map boldly emphasized on the screen. Then, lifting the details from the flat screen one by one, it began to piece the building blocks together until a holo-image of a double helix floated in the air above the desk, turning slowly in the darkness.

He studied the slowly turning spiral, memorizing it, his heart pounding in his chest, then gave the verbal cue to progress the file.

The next page gave a full probability set. It numbered just short of six billion possible candidates: the total number of adult male Hung Mao back in 2190. He shivered, beginning to understand, then cued the file again. The next display itemized close-match candidates. Ten names in all. He scanned the list, his mouth fallen open again. His father . . . One of these was his father.

One by one he was given details of the ten: genotypes, full-face portraits, potted biographies, each file quite frightening in its detail.

When the last had faded from the screen he called hold, then sat back, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. He felt strange, as if he were standing on the edge of a deep well, ill-balanced, about to fall. He shivered, knowing he had never felt like this before. Knowledge had always been an opening, a breaching of the dark, but this . . .

For once he was afraid to know.

He let the giddiness pass and opened his eyes again, steeling himself. "All right. Move on."

There was a full-second's hesitation and then the screen lit up. This time it gave details of the known movements of the ten candidates over a three-month period in the Winter of 2190, details compiled from Security files.

It narrowed things down to a single candidate. Only one of the ten had visited the Clay during that period. Only one, therefore, could possibly have been his father.

He swallowed dryly, then cued the file again.

The image appeared immediately, as sharp as if it had been made earlier that day. A youngish man in his late twenties or early thirties, a tall, slightly built man, fine-boned and elegant, with distinctly aristocratic features. His light-brown hair was cut neatly but not too severely and his dark-green eyes seemed kind, warm. He was dressed simply but stylishly in a dark-red pau, while around both of his wrists were a number of slender tiao tuo, bracelets of gold and jade.

Kim narrowed his eyes, noticing an oddity about the man. It was as if his head and body were parts of two different, separate beings; the head too large, somehow, the chin and facial features too strong for the slender, almost frail body that supported them. Kim frowned, then mouthed his father's name. "Edmund . . . Edmund Wyatt."

It was an old image. Looking at it, he felt something like regret that he would never meet this man or come to know him; for, as the file indicated, Edmund Wyatt had been dead for eight years—executed for the murder of the T'ang's minister, Lwo Kang. A crime for which he had later, privately, been pardoned. Kim shuddered. Was that the reason for Li Yuan's generosity? To square things up somehow? Or was a T'ang above such moral scruples?

He leaned forward, about to close the file, when the image of Wyatt vanished. For a moment the screen was blank; then it lit up again. GENOTYPE PREDICT: FEMALE SOURCE.

He called hold, his voice almost failing him, his heart hammering once more. For a long time he sat there, hunched forward in his chair, staring at the heading; then in a voice that was almost a whisper, he gave the cue.

First came the genotype, the puzzle pieces of DNA that would interlock with Edmund Wyatt s to produce his own. He watched as they formed a double-helix in the air. Then, dramatically, they vanished, replaced not by further figures, but by a computer-graphics simulation—a full-length 3-D portrait of a naked woman.

He gasped, then shook his head, not quite believing what he saw. It was his mother. Though he had not seen her in almost a dozen years, he knew at once that it was she. But not as she had been. No, this was not at all like the scrawny, lank-haired, dugless creature he had known.

He almost laughed at the absurdity of the image, but a far stronger feeling—that of bitterness—choked back the laughter.

He moaned and looked away, the feeling of loss so great that for a moment it threatened to unhinge him.

"Mother . . ." he whispered, his eyes blurring over. "Mother ..." The computer had made assumptions. It was programmed to assume a normal Above diet, normal Above life-expectations. These it had fed into its simulation, producing something that, had such conditions prevailed down in the Clay, would have been quite accurate. But as it was . . .

Kim looked at the image again, staring, open-mouthed at a portrait of his mother as she might have been: a dark-haired beauty, strong-limbed and voluptuous, full-breasted and a good two ch'i taller than she had been in life. A strong, handsome woman.

He shuddered, angered. It was awful, like some dreadful mockery. He shook his head. No. The reality—the truth—that was grotesque. And this?

He hesitated, afraid to use the word; but there was no other way of describing the image that floated there in the darkness. It was beautiful. Beautiful.

The image was a li was his mother. There was no doubt of that. He had thought her gome from mind, all trace of her erased. After all, he had been little more than four when the tribe had taken him. But now the memories came back, like ghosts, tauinting, torturing him.

He had only to close his eyes and he could see her crouched beneath the low stone wall, just after tthey had escaped from the Myghtern's brothel, her eyes bright with excitement. Coiuld see her lying beside him in the darkness, reaching out to hold him close, her tthin arms curled about him. Could see her, later, scrambling across the rocks in tlhe shadow of the Wall, hunting, her emaciated form flexing and unflexing as she tracked some pallid, ratlike creature. Could see her turn, staring back at him, a smile on her lips and in her dark, well-rounded eyes.

Could see her . . .

He covered his eyes, pressing his palms tight into the sockets as if to block out these visions, a singlle wavering note of hurt—a low, raw, animal sound, unbearable in its intensity—welling up from deep inside him.

For a time there was nothing but his pain. Nothing but the vast, unendurable blackness of loss. Then, as it ebbed, he looked up once more, and with a shuddering breath, reached out ito touch her.

His fingers brushed the air, passed through the beautiful, insubstantial image.

He sighed. Oh, hie could see her now. Yes. And not only as she was but as she should have been. Glorious. Wonderful. . .

He sat back, wiping the wetness from his cheeks; then he shook his head, knowing that it was wrong to live like this, the City above, the Clay below. Knowing, with a certainty he had never felt before, that something had gone wrong. Badly wrong,.

He leaned forward, closing the file, then sat back again, letting out a long, shuddering breath. Yes, he knew it now. Saw it with a clarity that allowed no trace of doubt. Chung Kuo was like himself: motherless, ghost-haunted, divided against itself. It might seem (teeming with life, yet in reality it was a great, resounding shell, its emptiness echoirug down the levels.

Kim picked up the four tiny cards and held them a moment in his palm. Li Yuan had given him back his life. More than that, he had given him a future. But who would give Chung Kuo such a chance? Who would give the great world back its past and seek to heail it?

He shook his head. No, not even Li Yuan could do that. Not even if he wished it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Tiger's Mouth

EBERT LOOKED about him, then turned back to Mu Chua, smiling. "You've done well, Mu Chua. I'd hardly have recognized the place. They'll be here any time now, so remember these are important business contacts and I want to impress them. Are the new girls dressed as I asked?"

Mu Chua nodded.

"Good. Well, keep them until after my entrance. These things must be done correctly, neh? One must whet their appetites before giving them the main course."

"Of course, General. And may I say again how grateful I am that you honor my humble House. It is not every day that we play host to the nobility."

Ebert nodded. "Yes . . . but more is at stake than that, Mother Chua. If these ch'un tzu like what they see, it is more than likely you will receive an invitation."

"An invitation?"

"Yes. To a chao ted hid, an entertainment, at one of the First Level mansions. This afternoon, I am told, there is to be a gathering of young princes. And they will need—how shall I put it?—special services."

Mu Chua lowered her head. "Whatever they wish. My girls are the very best. They are shen nu, god girls."

Again Ebert nodded, but this time he seemed distracted. After a moment he looked back at Mu Chua. "Did the wine from my father's cellar arrive?"

"It did, Excellency."

"Good. Then you will ensure that our guests drink that and nothing else. They are to have nothing but the best."

"Of course, General."

"I want no deceptions, understand me, Mu Chua. Carry this off for me and I will reward you handsomely. Ten thousand yuan for you alone. And a thousand apiece for each of your girls. That's on top of your standard fees and expenses."

Mu Chua lowered her head. "You are too generous, Excellency."

Ebert laughed. "Maybe. But you have been good to me over the years, Mother Chua. And when this proposition was put before me, my first thought was of you and your excellent House. 'Who better,' I said to myself, 'than Mu Chua at entertaining guests.'" He smiled broadly at her, for once almost likable. "I am certain you will not let me down."

Mu Chua lowered her head. "Your guests will be transported."

He laughed. "Indeed."

After Ebert had gone, she stood there a moment, almost in a trance at the thought of the ten thousand yuan he had promised. Together with what she would milk from this morning's entertainment, it would be enough. Enough, at last, to get out of here. To pay off her contacts in the Above and climb the levels.

Yes. She had arranged it all already. And now, at last she could get away. Away from Whiskers Lu and the dreadful seediness of this place. Could find somewhere up-level and open up a small, discreet, cozy little house. Something very different, with its own select clientele and its own strict rules.

She felt a little shiver of anticipation pass through her; then stirred herself, making the last few arrangements before the two men came, getting the girls to set out the wine and lay a table with the specially prepared sweetmeats.

She had no idea what Ebert was up to, but it was clear that he set a great deal of importance on this meeting. Only two days ago his man had turned up out of the blue and handed her twenty-five thousand yuan to have the House redecorated. It had meant losing custom for a day, but she had still come out of it ahead. Now it seemed likely that she would gain much more.

Even so, her suspicions of Hans Ebert remained. If he was up to something it was almost certain to be no good. But was that her concern? If she could make enough this one last time she could forget Ebert and his kind. This was her way out. After today she need never compromise again. It would be as it was, before the death of her protector, Feng Chung.

The thought made her smile; made her spirits rise. Well, as this was the last time, she would make it special. Would make it something that £ven Hans Ebert would remember.

She busied herself, arranging things to perfection, then called in the four girls who were to greet their guests. Young girls, as Ebert had specified, none of them older than thirteen.

She looked at herself in the mirror, brushing a speck of powder from her cheek, then turned, hearing the bell sound out in the reception room. They were here.

She went out, kneeling before the two men, touching her forehead against her knees. Behind her, the four young girls did the same, standing at the same time that she stood. It was a calculated effect, and she saw how much it pleased the men.

Ebert had briefed her fully beforehand; providing her with everything she needed to know about them, from their business dealings down to their sexual preferences. Even so, she was still surprised by the contrast the two men made.

Hsiang K'ai Fan was a big, flabby-chested man, almost effeminate in his manner. His eyes seemed to stare out of a landscape of flesh, triple-chinned and slack-jowled; yet his movements were dainty and his dress was exquisite. His lavender silks followed the fashion of the Minor Families—a fashion that was wholly and deliberately out of step with what was being worn elsewhere in the Above—with long wide sleeves and a flowing gown that hid his booted feet. Heavily perfumed, he was nonetheless restrained in his use of jewelry, the richest item of his apparel being the broad, red velvet ta lian, or girdle pouch, that he wore about his enormous waist, the two clasps of which were studded with rubies and emeralds in the shape of two butterflies. His nails were excessively long, in the manner of the Families; the ivory-handled fan he held moved slowly in the air as he looked about him.

An Liang-chou, on the other hand, was a tiny, ratlike man, stringily built and astonishingly ugly even by the standard of some of the clients Mu Chua had entertained over the years. Flat-faced and beady-eyed, he was as nervous as Hsiang was languid; his movements jerky, awkward. Meeting his eyes, Mu Chua smiled tightly, trying to keep the aversion she felt from showing. Rumor had it that he fucked all six of his daughters—even the youngest, who was only six. Looking at him, it was not hard to imagine. She had seen at once how his eyes had lit up at the sight of her girls. How a dark, lascivious light had come to them: the kind of look a predatory insect gives its victim before it pounces.

Unlike Hsiang, An Liang-chou seemed to have no taste at all when it came to dress. His gaudily colored pau hung loosely on him, as if he had stolen it from another. Like Hsiang he was heavily perfumed, but it was an unpleasantly sickly scent, more sour than sweet, as if mixed with his own sweat. She saw how his hand—the fingers thickly crusted with jeweled rings—went to his short ceremonial dagger; how his lips moved wetly as he considered which girl he would have first.

"My lords . . . you are welcome to my humble House," she said, lowering her head again. "Would you care for something to drink?"

Hsiang seemed about to answer, but before he could do so, An Liang-chou moved past her and after pawing two of the girls, chose the third. Gripping her upper arm tightly he dragged her roughly after him, through the beaded curtain and into the rooms beyond.

Mu Chua watched him go, then turned back to Hsiang, smiling, all politeness.

"Would the Lord Hsiang like refreshments?"

Hsiang smiled graciously and let himself be led into the next room. But in the doorway to the Room of Heaven he stopped and turned to look at her.

"Why, this is excellent, Mu Chua. The General was not wrong when he said you were a woman of taste. I would not have thought such a place could have existed outside First Level."

She bowed low, immensely pleased by his praise. "Ours is but a humble House, Excellency."

"However," he said, moving on, into the room, "I had hoped for—well, let us not prevaricate, eh?—for special pleasures."

She saw how he looked at her and knew at once that she had misjudged him totally. His silken manners masked a nature far more repugnant than An Liang-chou's.

"Special pleasures, Excellency?"

He turned, then sat in the huge silk-cushioned chair she had bought specially to accommodate his bulk, the fan moving slowly, languidly in his hand.

He looked back at her, his tiny eyes cold and calculating amid the flesh of his face. "Yes," he said smoothly. "They say you can buy anything in the Net. Anything at all."

She felt herself go cold. Ebert had said nothing about this. From what he'd said, Hsiang's pleasures were no more unnatural than the next man's. But this . . .