White Moon, Red Dragon

"Ah . . ." DeVore's eyes were half-lidded, almost saurian in their sleepy watchfulness. His smile was the smile of an alligator crouched in his pool, waiting for his prey to come to him.

Thorn saw that look and laughed disarmingly. "I bet you hear a lot of such claptrap! The truth is, I can see the advantage of change. Unlike Hastings, I consider myself a realist ... an opportunist."

DeVore considered that, then nodded, as if some test had been passed, some barrier cleared.

"Hastings is a good man," he said, placing his arm about Thorn's shoulders. "Unfortunately he has a conscience. And that's an uncomfortable thing to have, don't you think, a conscience?"

His eyes were very close to DeVore's this time. He could feel the force of personality behind them. But was this the real DeVore or yet another fake?

"I like you, Thorn," he said after a moment. "You're a player. And a good one too. But tell me . . . how did you recognize me? I'd have thought you were too young. Hastings and the others . . . they've no idea who I am. Do you like that?" He roared with laughter, as if greatly amused, then grew serious again. "But you, Thorn. You recognized me?"

It was time to be inventive. He conjured a name from memory and used it.

"My father was a friend of yours. He died twelve years ago. I was only seventeen when it happened. His cruiser came down in the mountains, so they say, but they never found any trace of it and it was rumored that Security blew it up. His name was John Douglas and he revered you, Howard DeVore. He left me a hologrammic portrait of you in his will."

"John Douglas, eh?" DeVore nodded solemnly. "He was a great man, your father. It was a tragedy when he died."

He squeezed Thorn's shoulder, then took his arm away.

"As I said, I like you . . ."

"John."

DeVore nodded. "I like you, John. You're . . . different."

He walked to the center of the room and stood there pondering one of the doors a moment, then he turned, looking back at Thorn. "Come, John. I've something to show you."

THE ROOM WAS DARK except for a small cone of illumination in one corner. There, beneath a small wall-mounted spot, two men in white scholars' gowns—shaven-headed giants twice Thorn's height— faced one another cross-legged across a wei chi board.

"What is it?" Thorn asked quietly. "A hologram?"

"Come," DeVore said, touching his arm.

As they came close, one of the giants looked up.

"It's all right, Todlich," DeVore said, reassuringly. "I've cleared him."

The giant's eyes—the pupils large as serpent's eggs, dark as ebony— looked down at Thorn, surveying him with a cool, clear intelligence, then, dismissing him, returned to the game.

"Three boards?" Thorn asked, realizing with a start that what he'd thought was a ch'i-thick block of wood was in fact three separate stacked boards.

DeVore smiled. "It adds a whole new element of complexity, don't you think?"

Thorn nodded, but he was unable to keep himself from staring at the giant's arms. They were like corded silk, the muscles huge, the skin tone magnificent. GenSyn? he wondered. Or had these men been bred?

"Neumann," DeVore said, as if he read Thorn's thoughts. "I call them Neumann. New men."

"Their mother . . . ?" he began, but DeVore shook his head.

"Can't you guess?"

"You made these?"

DeVore's smile broadened. Stepping around the board he stood between the two, dwarfed by them, yet still, it seemed, their Master. They looked to him, patient, obedient.

"Thirty years I've worked to perfect them. Can you imagine that? Thirty years. Time and again I've seen my plans disrupted, but I've never given up. I knew, you see. I'd seen them, like this—exactly like this—picked out in the spotlight, playing the game. And having seen it I knew I had only to keep faith with that vision, even when things looked their darkest, because I knew."

"What are they?" Thorn asked, fascinated.

"They're morphs. Enhanced genetic stock. Tank bred."

"Like GenSyn?"

"GenSyn?" DeVore snorted dismissively. "Why, GenSyn's old news! Their methods . . . well, let's be kind and call them primitive. My techniques, on the other hand, are radical, revolutionary! These . . . these creations of mine are at the cutting edge of evolution. They're the coming thing. The breaking wave. The Inheritors.¹"

"I see." Thorn crouched, studying the boards. The game, it seemed, was finished, the boards filled. He studied them awhile, then looked to DeVore.

"White," he said. "By two . . . maybe three stones?"

DeVore raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Very good. You understand it, then?"

"I've played since I was three," Thorn said, looking back at the patterns of the stones. "My father taught me. It's very pure, neh? What a man is reveals itself in the stones."

"And what do you see, John Douglas?"

Thorn shrugged. "I see minds beyond mine."

DeVore stared at him a moment, then began to laugh, and Thorn, looking back at him, made himself laugh along with the man. Yet deeper down he felt a profound disquiet; that and a fear great enough to eat away the beating heart of his world.

HE TRIED TO FALL BACK, to lag behind somehow, hoping they would overlook him and go on ahead, giving him the chance to slip away, but it was no good, Tak stayed with him no matter what.

"Are you okay?" Tak asked finally, concerned for him.

"I'm fine," he said, deciding to give up on the attempt. Even if he did make a break, they'd surely come after him, and they were armed, he wasn't.

Even so, the compulsion to escape—to fulfil his prime directive and report back with what he'd seen—remained strong in him. Each step back toward the Myghtern's capital seemed not merely a step in the wrong direction, but a betrayal of basic duty.

"He seemed to like you," Tak said.

Thorn nodded, increasing his pace slightly. "An interesting man, Shih Jackson. What was he in the Above?"

Tak hurried to keep up with him. "He says he was a soldier, but that's just a tale he spins for the likes of Tynan. He was really a geneticist. One of the best."

"A geneticist?"

Thorn stared into the darkness thoughtfully; surprised not only that DeVore should give that story to Tak, but that Tak should understand what a geneticist was. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he just liked the word.

"Who did he work for?"

Tak shrugged. "I don't know. One of the big Companies, I guess."

Thorn smiled. "What do you know of the Above, Tak?"

"I've seen pictures . . . you know, moving pictures."

"And what did you think?"

Tak was silent a moment, then: "I couldn't live like that."

"But surely it's better than this?"

"No. You think it's better, but it's all the same. There are big men and small men. Those who rule and those who are ruled. Well, I'd rather be a big man down here than a—what do you call it?—a zao chen, in the Above."

"Hsiao Jen," Thorn corrected him. "But things surely are better up there. The darkness . . . how can you stand the darkness?"

Tak laughed. "How can you stand the light?"

"But what of the changes here? The light is coming to the Clay. The town . . . that's just the beginning of it, surely?"

Tak was silent, but his silence was telling. He didn't believe these changes would last. Or maybe he knew something the others didn't. Maybe DeVore had said something to him on that score.

They walked on, the darkness surrounding them, returning to the Myghtern's capital.

IT WAS LATE in the celebrations. The wine cask was empty, the stripped bones of fowls littered the floor. Raucous laughter sounded, interspersed by the sober tones of Thorn as he translated the Myghtern's words for the benefit of the five outsiders.

A number of the minor chiefs had keeled over and rested against the walls or where they had fallen in the middle of the floor. Their smell was rank, their snoring loud. Only Tak seemed alert, his back to the wall behind his master, no wineglass in his hand.

The Myghtern had drunk more than most, yet he seemed more sharp, more lively than ever. His broad face shone, and his ruddy mouth showed wetly through his jet-black beard. He was talking of his dream again. Of the woman who would be his Queen. Myghternes. Queen under the City.

Even in his cups he maintained the broad accent of his land. Not for a moment had he slipped and let them know he knew their language.

That, more than anything, had impressed Thorn. The Myghtern was a man of strength and cunning. A beast, but also—in spite of all—a king. As once kings had been. Kings who were gods by vividness. These others were but pale imitations—shadows to the substance.

"She must be big," Thorn translated. But they had seen the gesture that accompanied the words. There was no need really for Thorn to say more.

"I'll die before he touches an Above woman," Franke muttered under his breath. But not quietly enough, for the Myghtern caught the words and turned in his seat, eyes flaring. "Pandra ober an gowek cows?"

It was said to Thorn, but the big man's eyes were on Franke, his mouth curled in disdain. Thorn hesitated, but the Myghtern only repeated his words, adding "Styra!"

His voice was calm, too calm considering the fierceness in his face. Thorn saw how his hands gripped the arms of the narrow chair, his strong, thick fingers flexing and unflexing. What did the liar say? Translate.¹

"You heard," Thorn said, suddenly tired of the pretense. Let them make what they would of it.

Franke frowned, then looked to Thorn. The fierce expression on the Myghtern's face had clearly shaken him. "What is it? What did he say?"

Thorn smiled. "You'd better ask him yourself. He heard what you said. He knows what you're planning."

For a moment there was silence—a tense, heavy silence—then, abruptly, Tak moved. From his sleeve he removed a thin white cloth and threw it over his master's head and shoulders. As if at a prearranged signal Tynan and Nolen leapt forward, struggling to keep the Myghtern in his chair. He threw them back, but sank down into his chair again, his hands going up to grab at the cloth.

Things were happening fast. Franke and Deng Liang had drawn their guns and were turning on the minor chiefs. The explosions were deafening, the smell of cordite strong and bitter.

The Myghtern was on his feet now, his broadsword half drawn from its scabbard, but Tak's blade had slid between his shoulder blades and the tip of it now protruded from the front of the Myghtem's chest, the small man's thrust piercing flesh and metal. The giant's face was distorted in a snarl of agony. He was bellowing, half-formed words froth-

ing from his lips. He staggered forward, catching hold of Deng Liang, and picked him up blindly. The young man screamed.

There was a moment's silence after the body fell, then Nolen placed his gun against the side of the Myghtern's head and pulled the trigger.

For a moment nobody did anything. Then Franke went around the body and drew the massive sword from the scabbard. He tested its weight, then swung it high, decapitating the rising body.

It was over. Only five men stood in the room. The rest were dead.

Tynan took a deep breath, then looked about him. "Where's Thorn?"

But the trader was gone.

"Where is he?" screamed Tynan. "If he gets away . . ."

"He'll not escape." It was Tak who spoke now. "We'll track him without trouble. This is unfamiliar territory to him. And then there's the fence. That'll stop him."

Tynan relaxed, but his face still twitched. Hastings stood back from it all, the blood drained from his face. He was staring down at the butchered king; at the headless corpse that had once been a proud, strong man—the equal of any of them. Then, without warning, he threw up.

Franke laughed; a sour little noise. He was wrapping the Myghtern's head in the once-white cloth. The cloth dripped blood.

"Well, my friend," he said, turning to look at Tak. "So now you're king. King of Hell." And again he laughed—that same sour laugh, more mockery than enjoyment.

The once-lieutenant was watching Hastings, however. Hastings, crouched forward, looked up at him, then turned his head away, disgusted. "You planned this, didn't you?" he said, staring at Tynan. "All of you. Without consulting me." He sounded bitter, close to tears.

"We had to," said Nolen. "There was no other way."

Hastings glared at him. "And we called him an animal." He spat out the last of the bile, then straightened up.

Tak was still watching Hastings, knowing this was the one he would have to deal with. He noted the weakness, the compassion, and kept his own counsel. It was useful to know such things.

Nolen stood over the body of Deng Liang, trying for a pulse at his neck. After a moment he straightened up and shook his head.

"A shame," Tynan said. "He was a good boy." He turned to face Tak. "You've done well today, Tak. As promised, I give you your free-

dom. That and custody of this land." He smiled. "These men are witnesses to that."

Tak nodded, then, for the first time that day, he smiled. "I'll not forget this."

"Nor we," muttered Franke, staring at the carnage all about them. "We'll do what we can to help you. Give you whatever you need to placate the chiefs."

The once-king's man, now Myghtern in his place, raised his chin and laughed, his laughter echoing eerily in that place of death.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Death Ground

IN THE SILENT darkness of his room, Ben sat watching the half-tracks rumble through the Clay, their searchlights sweeping across a scene of devastation.

It was an eerie sight, especially the ruined villages, and when Meg came into the room to bring him a snack, she stopped to watch, kneeling beside his chair.

"I can't imagine how they lived," she said. "There's nothing there!"

"It's a desert, true, but even deserts have their own ecologies. You know, there are insects in there, Meg, the size of your thumb. Long, white things with hard chitinous cases. Blind things that hunt by smell alone."

"And Haavikko's going to clear it all out?"

"That's what he says. This part of it, anyway. His engineers are sealing it off to the east of here even now."

She was silent, then. "It's horrible. I keep trying to imagine what it would be like, being a child down there. Never knowing safety or happiness. Never knowing what it's like to see the sunlight."

He looked to her. "The City's little better."

"No, Ben. The City's awful, but that"—she shuddered—"That's hell, surely?"

"Pi Yu, the Han call it. The earth prison. Long before the City existed they believed in it. It was their underworld, their version of our Hell. The City . . . that was to be a Confucian Utopia—a place where every man could find his proper level. What they didn't realize was that in trying to create their ideal of Heaven, they also brought into existence—into literal existence, mind—their ideal of Hell. So it is, I guess. So it always must be. The farther we reach up, the farther down we go."

She stared at him a moment, wondering if that were true, then looked back. Ben had switched the image and was watching one of the half-tracks from close up.

"Is that Haavikko?"

"Yes."

She studied the screen, smiling. "I thought he was okay."

"For a military type."

"You didn't like him, then?"

"He was a decent enough fellow. No imagination, but honest. And that's a rarity among them!"

"I thought he was nice."

He raised an eyebrow. "Like that other fellow, Neville?"

She laughed. "What are you suggesting, Ben Shepherd? It's just that I've few opportunities to meet nice men."

He reached down and pulled her up onto his lap. "Then maybe I should arrange a few more military campaigns? You could play Florence Nightingale to the wounded, perhaps?"

She drew her head back slightly, as if hurt, but his hand was curled about her back and she was in his spell.

"You know it means nothing."

"I know," he answered, drawing her face down to his and kissing her, while behind him, on the screen, Major Axel Haavikko turned in the command turret of his half-track and urged his foot soldiers on, moving west through the Clay.

HAAVIKKO TURNED, urging his soldiers on. They had met little opposition as yet, but that was hardly surprising. He had the latest weaponry and ten thousand crack troops, while they were a rabble armed with stones and rusty metal bars. He sighed, thinking back to what Ben had said about the daymen. It was true. He hadn't really thought about it before now; hadn't conceived them as people like himself. It was too easy not to. Moreover he had a duty to the Enclave. If he didn't do this, then sooner or later someone else would have to, and by then it might prove difficult. Even so, the situation had begun to nag at his conscience.

Let's get this over with, he thought wearily, staring into the darkness up ahead through the infrared visor of his helmet. Let's get it done and get out of here.

Nor did it help that he'd been proved right about the operative. It might silence Rheinhardt's objections, but it didn't silence the tiny voice inside.

The distress signal had come in half an hour back. At once he'd sent an advance team out after it, but ten minutes later the signal had died abruptly.

Too late, he thought sadly. We're always too fucking late.

TAK FACED THE SCREEN UNEASILY; DeVore's face—four times its normal size—stared back at him impatiently. "What is it, Tak?"

Tak tried to keep the fear from his voice, but it was impossible. "They've come!"

"Who?"

"Soldiers. The Clay is crawling with them!"

DeVore's face blanched. "Where are they now?"

"In the east. Near Tavistock."

"Shit!" DeVore considered a moment. "Are there many of tlaem?"

Tak swallowed, then nodded.

The news sobered DeVore. "Are they on foot?"

"Not all of them. They have their machines. Their half-tracks."

DeVore let out a breath. "You did well, Tak. But listen. You must save yourself. Withdraw to the west and take refuge. This storm will pass, but until it does . . ."

Tak made to speak, but it was too late. DeVore had gone. He looked down, trembling. They had gambled and failed. DeVore was right. There was nothing to do now but take refuge.

ben's remotes flew on ahead of the invasion force, following the old road through the ruins of Indian Queens and Summercourt toward the Myghtern's capital.

The Clay was in turmoil, like an ant's nest opened suddenly to the air. The roads were packed with people, hurrying west with what little they owned, their eyes filled with a blind panic.

Where have they all come from? Ben wondered, amazed by their num-

bers; staggered, above all, that such a wasteland could maintain so huge a population. Like insects beneath a stone.

The gates to the town were open and unguarded. Again the crowd streamed through, unheeding, it seemed, of the strangeness of the place. That, more than anything, confirmed it. There had been rumors on the road, but now he knew for certain. The Myghtern was dead.

He found the body almost at once, lying at the foot of the steps beneath the great chair, headless, the handle of a broadsword poking from his back. Watching from afar, Ben sighed, remembering what a magnificent sight the man had been. It must have taken great strength to kill him. Great strength or greater cunning.

And even as he watched, he saw the small man—the Myghtern's lieutenant; the one who'd taken them and tortured his daymen— come into the hall and, standing above the Mghtern's headless corpse, shake his head.

"Who's that?" Meg asked.

Ben turned. He had forgotten Meg was there. "The Myghtern's lieutenant."

"And the dead man? The giant?"

But Ben wasn't listening. Ben had turned back and was keying in instructions frantically, sending his remotes out hunting once more.

"Something's been happening," he said. "Something big . . . something really big. And I missed it. I bloody well missed it!"

THE TWO HALF-TRACKS raced across the bridge into the dark. Behind them, at the center of the valley, the building was on fire, flames blackening the translucent polymer of its walls and making it slowly buckle. From the six great ventilation vents black smoke billowed out, rolling like twisting dragon's heads along the ceiling overhead.

DeVore glanced back, experiencing a moment's regret, a moment's exasperation at all the wasted effort, then he let it go. After all, nothing was permanent. And he had taken all that was really important. To get away, that was the only thing that mattered now.

He looked ahead, at the road stretching out in front of them, lit up by the powerful headlights of the half-track, then ducked inside, giving new instructions. At once the half-track slowed and slewed to the left, trundling down the embankment. The second vehicle followed at once, picking its way out across the open fields.

The cruiser station was almost directly south, some eight li southeast of the Myghtern's capital, tucked away in one of the dried-up bays of the old River Fal. If what Tak had said were true, the invasion force was somewhere near Lostwithiel by now, twenty minutes off. It gave him plenty of time.

It was getting hot, the air thin and tainted. He reached down and took a breathing mask from the rack, then, after slipping it on, used the lip mike to order his men to do the same. At his back the Clay was lit up brightly now as the chemical fires he'd set took hold. Ahead the darkness seemed to rush toward him, the ceiling coming down toward them, reflecting back their lights as they bounced over the uneven incline then falling away as they went down the steep hill on the other side. Six miles. It wasn't far now.

He could see the approach lights of the station as they came down the hill above the bay. He had radioed ahead to have them prepare one of the craft for immediate use. The others would be booby-trapped.

They followed the coast road down, the half-track bucking on the steep gradient as the driver tried to brake without losing all his momentum. DeVore barked orders into the mike. There was no time for sophisticated planning. Five minutes, that was all they had. Five minutes to transfer the load onto the cruiser and get out of here. Whatever—and whoever—wasn't ready would be left behind.

As they came out onto the level, the compound's gates swung back and they sped inside, screeching to a halt beside the open hold of the biggest of the three cruisers.

DeVore smiled, pleased to see that the craft had been fueled and readied as he'd requested. Pulling himself up over the hood of the halftrack he jumped down onto the metal-grid surface. He was about to turn back, to begin supervising the unloading, when two figures came out of the darkness by the control hut and walked toward them.

He felt anger well up in himself. What the fuck are they doing here?

"Ah . . . Jackson. Now that you're back, maybe you can tell your man to get one of the other craft ready. The bastard seems to think—"

"Nolen? Franke?"

The two men came up to him, Nolen assuming an immediate air of command. "Look, Jackson, things are heating up. The Myghtern's dead and from what Tak says Security have sent in troops. Now, be a good man and do as I've asked."

DeVore stared at him, amazed. "Be a good man . . . ?" He laughed. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

Nolen's eyes widened. His mouth popped open in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

DeVore glanced at the timer inset into his wrist. There was no time for this. He looked at them, then drew his gun.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but—"

Two explosions echoed back from the cliffs nearby. DeVore holstered his gun and turned back, impatient now.

"Come on, move!"

THE CLAY was filling with smoke. Already Haavikko could see only those soldiers nearest him, their heads—encased in the bright-lit bubbles of their helmets—seeming to bob, disembodied above the swirling mist.

The order to wear breathing apparatus had gone out half an hour back, but it was only now that he understood the true nature of the problems facing them.

The darkness ... I could cope with the darkness, but this mist . . . It's like being dead. One feels like a phantom here.

If his instruments were right they were less than a li from the Myght-em's town, down a steep incline that began just a few ch'i up ahead, but their pace had slowed to a snail's crawl and more and more time was being spent checking along the line to make sure no one had gone missing.

It's like a nightmare, he thought, swallowing dryly. Their filters had not been designed for these conditions. If they did not find shelter soon . . .

A shout came down the line from his right, echoed from voice to voice. Someone was down. Haavikko called a halt, speaking into the open channel, then waited as slowly, much too slowly, two figures emerged from the mist, carrying a third.

There was another shout, a third. It's too much for them, he thought, feeling a sudden upwelling of despair. It wasn't just the darkness, nor was it the smoke—though those were bad enough—it was the sense of being trapped; the fear that they had stumbled through a door in reality and into the earth-prison itself.

"Gather round!" he ordered, knowing he must do something at once. "We'll take the wounded into the half-tracks."

Terming them "wounded" was technically inaccurate, he knew, but psychologically it would do them good. To be wounded was at least an honorable thing, whereas to fail because of the nature of the terrain— well, it was not "soldierly."

He pulled himself up onto the hood of the half-track and stood there, showing himself, watching as they grouped around the vehicle, all eyes looking up to him for their lead.

"Okay," he said, seeing how much easier they were now that they could see him. "We'll go down in formation. Lines of six, weapons to chest. Captain Freas, you bring up the rear. I'll lead us in."

He jumped down, to muted cheers and smiling faces. It was suddenly not so bad. The mist seemed suddenly less threatening, the dark less solid.

Below was the Myghtern's town. He would put it to the torch and then get out. The smoke would do the rest.

He moved between his men, smiling reassurance, touching an arm here, a shoulder there, then turned, watching them form up: soldiers again, with the indoctrinated pride of soldiers. He grinned, feeling his own fear melt away, then, turning to face the darkness, began to march, on and down, into the Myghtern's town.

TAK WATCHED them come down, fascinated by the sight of their brilliantly lit helmets bobbing in a regular rhythm—row after row of them—as they came through the gate and out onto the bridge.

All the rest had fled, or had choked and died where they fell. Only he remained now. He should have gone, should have taken Jackson's advice, but when it came to it he found he could not leave.

The breathing mask was tight about his nose and mouth, the tank almost empty, but they had served their purpose. He had stood and not run and now he, the Myghtem, would defend the Myghtern's town.

Tak drew his dagger, then took the old-fashioned gun he'd bought from Tynan from his belt. It felt strange and heavy in his hand. As the Above soldiers turned right into St. Mary's Street, he began to walk toward them.

He could see them clearly now. There were a hundred, maybe more of them, and at their front a single man—an officer? their General, maybe?—marched alone.

You, Tak thought, stopping, then raised his gun to take aim. I shall kill you. And then it will be over. Then both of us can rest.

He sighted along the line of the gun, the way Tynan had shown him, and pulled back the safety. The gun was cocked.

The soldiers came on, like some strange nonhuman mechanism, the sound of their marching feet echoing now through the misted streets of the deserted capital.

He counted down. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six ...

They did not stop, did not falter. It was as if he were invisible; as if they would simply march right through him, like an army of ghosts.

Five, four, three . . .

Something buzzed about him gnatlike, then clinked against the gun, putting him off balance. He turned, trying to shoo it off, and as he did the gun went off, the explosion deafening, a shower of hot, splintered metal hitting him full in the face and chest.

THE COLUMN HALTED. Slowly, hesitantly, Haavikko walked toward the fallen man. He was dead. Haavikko could see that at a glance. No one could have survived an explosion like that.

"Aiya!" he said softly, stooping over the bloodied mess.

"He's the Myghtern's man." The voice came from close by and he recognized it as Ben's.

He looked up. Two of Ben's remotes were hovering close by. One of them seemed damaged; fire blackened.

"Ah . . ." Haavikko nodded. But what was it doing with that ridiculously antiquated gun? It was a museum piece! No wonder the fucking thing blew up!

"The Myghtern is close by."

Haavikko looked up again. The undamaged remote was hovering much closer now. "What?"

"The Myghtern. You promised me you'd bring his body back, remember?"

Haavikko stood up, wiping his hands.

"Messy," Ben said, the remote moving in close over the corpse. "He would have killed you, you know."

"I know," Haavikko said, remembering those final few moments as he'd stared down the barrel of the gun.

The remote lifted, floated in the air beside Haavikko's face. "Didn't you mind?"

He shook his head. And that's something you just can't understand, can you, Shepherd? But then, you haven't lost someone you loved. You haven't faced the emptiness the way I've faced it. After that . . .

After that you had to live. Had to turn your face from darkness into the light again. And that was the hardest thing of all; to make that turn.

He shuddered, then brushed past the remote, facing his men again.

"Erikson, Byrne, Haller . . . come with me. The rest of you set charges on all the major buildings. I want us out of here within the hour!"

"Sir?"

The young man turned from the screen and looked across at his supervisor, the wire that linked him to the console stretching with the movement.

The old Han looked up and set his book aside. "What is it, Roes-berg?"

"I think it's a hostile, sir."

Old Shao sighed then got up and came across, leaning over the young man to study the screen. There was a blip there where there oughtn't to have been—coming out of the southwestern tip of the Western Isle—and it was heading directly into their air space.

"Have we got anything on that sector? Are there any operations going on down there that we ought to know about?"

The young man punched codes, then went very still, listening to the data stream. After a moment he gave a little shudder, then turned to the supervisor again, his eyes clearing slowly.

"There is something, sir, but that isn't part of it. There's a dozen Security cruisers in that sector and all of them are accounted for. Whatever it is, it isn't one of ours!"

"Then compute an intercept and scramble a crew. I want that identified or I want it down."

"Sir!"

Old Shao moved back, nodding to himself. Whatever happened now, he had done his bit: the cameras would show as much. Yet even as he watched it, he knew no intercept would touch it. It was moving too fast—much, much too fast.

You're right it's not one of ours! he thought, experiencing a glimmer of professional admiration. Whoever you are, you've got one hell of a ship. Why, if those readings are correct, you must be traveling at something over two thousand six. Yes, and still accelerating!

"Intercept on its way," the young man said, turning to him.

"Good. We'll have him, neh, Roesberg? Whoever it is."

But it was already out of reach, sweeping out over the Atlantic to the west of Brittany, accelerating all the way, heading for Africa.

THE DARKNESS was softer here, less intense. The gate lay just ahead. Outside, beyond the enclosing walls of the City, it was day.

Thorn stood at the cliffs edge, looking down into the echoing darkness of the water far below. The waves slopped gently against the rocks. Perhaps he should try to go down—get under the wall. For a moment he stood there, undecided, knowing how close he was, then moved on. The gate. He would try the gate.

The cavelike depression was just as he remembered it. The rock jutted up to meet the wall's smooth edge, but beneath it was a space, a way out. He went under, then stood there in the daylight, listening.

The wind played over his naked skin, tugged at the small pieces of burnt cloth that still clung to his body.

Thorn smiled to himself, thinking of the hole he'd made in their fence and wondering what they would make of that—whether they would be able to piece it together.

He crouched and went up the slope slowly, silently. The two guards were on the grass, in the sunshine, their backs against the bare rock, looking up at the settlement. A rough clay jug rested on the grass between them, liquid winking at its lip.

Thorn stood up and strode out in front of them. Startled, they clambered up hastily, clutching at their makeshift spears, but Thorn had no thought of fighting them; he held up his hands in surrender.

On the ground the jug lay on its side. One of the men reached down, cursing, and straightened it, the other poked timidly at Thorn with his spear, a sheepish look on his face.

He was outside. He had made it. Nothing could stop him now. One of the men ran ahead. By the time Thorn came to the palisade a crowd had already gathered, their heads poking up over the crudely built wall to stare.

Thorn turned, looking back at the vast, two-Ii-high ramparts of the City. What he knew could save that massive edifice. All that was needed was for him to say what he had seen.

He turned back, looking among the gathering for the figure of the chief. There was a sudden movement at the back of the crowd, a pushing aside of the mob.

The chief had changed greatly since Thorn had last seen him. He seemed smaller than before, and he hobbled, one shoulder resting on a crutch of flotsam. The right side of his face was badly burned and his right ear was missing. Seeing Thorn he glared at him, then spat contemptuously.

"You!"

"Yes, me." Thorn looked beyond him, up the slope of the settlement. "I've returned."

The chief came forward until he stood in front of Thorn, looking down at him. His breath was foul, his ragged sheepskin bore signs of the fire that had scarred his face. The necklet of animal skulls was gone, victim perhaps to the same accident.

He opened his mouth to say something, his yellowed, feral teeth showing, but Thorn's hand whipped out and gripped his throat, lifting him easily. He closed his fingers slowly, crushing the chiefs windpipe, then let the body fall.

A low moan came from the crowd beyond the palisade. Behind Thorn the guard jabbed with his spear.

The blow jolted him. He turned, facing the man, and smiled. The thrust had torn his flesh but had glanced off the hard shell of his body. He could feel the wet, loose flap of skin against his buttocks, but it didn't matter. His arm flashed out, connecting with the guard's nose, thrusting it upward into the skull, killing him instantly.

He turned, seeing how they backed away. There was the high sound of keening from the middle of the retreating pack. Quickly the sound multiplied, moving from throat to throat—a dark, almost inhuman sound.

Afraid. They are afraid of me.

He went through, ignoring them, striding purposefully up the hill, then stopped.

It was gone! There, where the chiefs hut had stood, was a patch of darkness. The site of a fire. Of an explosion, possibly. There was a slight depression in the ground, a pit of ashes.

He understood at once. The valve—they had booby-trapped the valve! No wonder Tak had been so ready to trade.

So close, he thought. I came so close.

He crouched, looking out across the bay at the pearled walls of the City less than a li away. From the settlement below him the sounds of keening were diminishing as the tribe fled back into the Clay. Soon he would be alone.

He had seen in his head how simple it would be. The transmitter in his side had been damaged irreparably coming through the fence, its signal stilled, but there had still been the radio. One message and they would have come for him. But now?

He went to the edge of the cliff and stared down the steep flank of rock at the sea far below. After a moment he frowned and shook his head. There was no way down. He would have to go back inside. Back in to get out. Across the Clay once more.

But this time the Clay would be armed against him.

He turned, then began to make his way down toward the gate. As he came through the gap in the palisade he stopped. There, on the rocks beside the gate, stood a single tall figure—one of the five he'd encountered in the Myghtern's town.

Tynan was smiling—staring up the slope at Thorn and smiling. After a moment his smile turned into laughter.

So close. So bloody close.

THORN DESCENDED the slope, knowing this was the end. "You're hurt," Tynan said, waving his gun vaguely. Thorn glanced around at the loose flap of skin, then reached back to tear it away.

"It's only flesh," he said, throwing it down at Tynan's feet. "There are more important things."

Tynan raised an eyebrow. "You're no trader, are you?"

Thorn stood there silently.

"1 can always find out who you are," Tynan said. "Drugs. Torture. There are ways." But he was looking down at the thick flap of flesh. It lay there, glistening in the sunlight, the blood still wet on its surface.

"Nothing could make me say."

Tynan looked up, mouth open, realization coming slowly to him. He stared at the singed threads of clothing that hung from Thorn and thought of the huge hole in the electric mesh he had seen.

Overhead seabirds wheeled and cried.

Thorn looked away, thinking of all he'd seen: of the Myghtern's town, shining in the darkness; of the small dark bird with golden eyes; of the great laboratory complex in Treviscoe Valley; and of the Myght-ern himself, so strong, so vividly alive. He sighed, feeling the wind on his artificial skin, and sucked the sweet, cool air into his genetically designed lungs, knowing it would not be long now before he would feel nothing.

"Well, then," he said. "What now?"

Tynan raised the weapon. It was a sophisticated laser, not the crude weapon he had been armed with earlier. Aiming it at Thorn's chest, he depressed the trigger. At once, a beam of brilliant light flowed from the tip of the barrel, seeming to connect Thorn to the gun. Thorn's flesh began to peel back, blackening, boiling away into a mist. All about Thorn's torso thick bands of vivid light played, encircling him. The air was filled with the reek of charring flesh.

Thorn staggered, his eyes flickering as if in a fit, then he lurched forward and grabbed the weapon from Tynan's hand, crushing it.

He turned, beginning to climb the slope once more, smoke spiraling up from the dark patch on his chest. Faint traces of static flickered from the exposed metal plate on his back.

Tynan drew a second laser and fired. The beam went wide, setting fire to the grass at Thorn's feet, then found its target, searing the flesh from Thorn's right shoulder.

Thorn stumbled and went down, then, pulling himself up again, headed for the narrow wooden bridge that led across to the settlement. But he was in severe difficulty now; his movements were growing more erratic and with every step he grunted as if short of breath.

Tynan caught up with him and fired the laser from less than an arm's length away, holding the beam steadily on Thorn's side. The flesh boiled and bubbled, but still the trader didn't cry out. He swayed and half turned, looking back sightlessly at Tynan, then began to climb again.

Tynan threw the gun down, then stood, watching him. Thorn was on the narrow bridge now, looking down at the water far below, as if fascinated by the way it crashed against the black, slaty rocks. Then, very slowly, he turned, facing Tynan. His mouth opened, as if to speak, but there was only the hum of static. He tried to smile, to raise his hand in farewell, but nothing functioned properly now.

Tynan was staring at Thorn in astonishment, realizing at last exactly what he was. Thorn, looking back, would have laughed, but he had lost too much. He swayed and reached out for the frail wooden support. For a moment it held, then—with a resounding crack!—it gave.

The animating signal stuttered and then failed. A wave swelled and splintered on the steep black slope of rock, dragging the machine under. There was a momentary glint of metal and then nothing, only the rise and fall of the sea, the crash of the big waves against the rocks, and the sound of seabirds calling in the sunlight.

PART 3 SPRING 2222

Toward Evening

Toward evening there was thunder and Lightning. Why was the lady sad? The high lord did not reveal his majesty. What was he seeking?

—ch'u yuan, "Tien Wen"

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Between Cities

IT WAS DAWN, yet inside the Rift it was still dark.

To the north the vast clifflike face of the North European Enclave was studded with gun turrets and observation blisters. An irregular tangle of huge buttressed gantries loomed over the gap, camouflage nets of fine mesh ice draped between them like giant, glittering webs. Buzzing cycloids patrolled the upper air, giant black-shelled scarabs, their searchlights probing the air, while in the depths below deadly mechanopods, sprint-fast and armed with warmtrace homers, sought out their targets tirelessly.

To the south, exactly two li away, lay the White Tang's City, its face the mirror image of the Enclave's; a Great Wall of weaponry that ran three thousand li from Le Havre in the west, through Niirnberg and Dresden, then northeast to Stettin on the Baltic coast. Between, in a wasteland known to both sides as the Rift, a war was being fought—a war that had gone on for almost six years now. Two thousand one hundred and four days, to be precise. Fifty thousand, five hundred and eleven hours. Three million and thirty thousand six hundred and ninety-four minutes. And not a minute had passed without blood having been shed, lives lost. More than twenty million at the last count. The Rift crawled with machines. Robotic mines, programmed to move in random patterns, scuttled about, like crabs at the bottom of the ocean, while ticking android bugs flittered and sprang, or hovered on see-through polymer wings, looking for prey. Only one thing was certain: nothing was what it seemed. Larger machines lumbered about slowly on tracks or jointed legs, heavily armored against their smaller brethren. Some were semisentient, some genetic sports. Among them were spies and mimics—infiltrators trying to win some brief advantage. But no advantage was possible here. The only reality was death.

And among it all went the men—the jou chi ch'i, or "meat machines" as the more cynical of the old Rift hands called themselves. Men who, in this deadly, mechanical cauldron, had been honed to machines themselves: the nerveless and psychotic, the brain-dead and the idiot savants. The only common factor among them was the presence of some deep-rooted character abnormality in their psych profiles. Normal humans didn't survive here.

War here wasn't a game or some temporary aberration, but the very condition of existence. War shaped the Rift. It also shaped all those who dared to enter it.

Karr's craft moved slowly, a shadow among shadows, remotes hovering at random distances from it sending out false radar images to the ever-vigilant eyes of the enemy. Karr himself lay on his back in the webbing couch, twin display screens above him showing both real and enhanced visuals of what was outside. Beside him lay his pilot, a middle-aged Han named Jeng Lo, his deeply lined face hidden beneath a Wrap. Right now the old Rift veteran was twitching like an epileptic and mumbling incoherently into his lip mike as the images danced across the insides of his eyes.

Karr watched, fascinated, as things swam toward them on the screen, were captured visually, identified, or—if unknown—destroyed with a short laser burst from one of the wall-mounted guns which were acting in close coordination with their craft. They themselves were unarmed.

Routine, Karr thought, trying to relax; to let his pulse rate return to normal. But he had not been out before, he had only read reports.

They drifted on. Beside him Jeng Lo twitched and mumbled, his right hand trembling jerkily, the fingers depressing touch-pads in a seemingly random fashion, moving with an eye-defying quickness across the control panel built into the couch's arm.

I wonder what he gets paid for this, Karr thought, determined to look it up when he got back. Not enough, 1 bet. Then again, who in their right mind would do this job sokly for the money?

Something swam toward them on the screen—something squat and tripartite, like a stunted ant, its outline a neutral black. The cameras seized the image instantly, enhanced it. Somewhere in the heart of the Enclave a computer calculated the math of the machine's surface and deduced by that whether it was friendly or hostile. The shape changed color. Now it glowed a cool, relaxing blue.

Friendly. Karr let out his breath, then laughed uneasily. How quickly his fighter's instincts had taken hold again. That old familiar buzz.

He watched the screen, waiting tensely now. I have been fighting much too long, he thought. All of my life, it seems.

Yes, but recently it had got much worse. Since he'd been made General he had come to conceive the world solely in terms of threat. It was true what the old Marshal said. There was no safety anymore.

They drifted on, like a shark basking in the depths. Things sniffed them from a distance, then moved on. Then, suddenly, one latched on to them. It came in fast from half a li up, spiraling toward them at first as if it were damaged and falling. The cameras saw it, enhanced it. For a fraction of a second its image was clear on the screen, outlined in black.

"Fu Ian te. . . ." Jeng Lo mumbled. Rotten . . .

The color changed. The screen glowed red.

Hostile! Shit! Karr looked for something to press. His whole body ached to hit out at the oncoming hostile—to punch it or shoot it—but there was nothing he could do. It was up to Jeng Lo now.

"Hit the fucker! Hit it!"

The image seemed to expand, the red glow intensify. He felt a tiny shudder, felt the craft pushed to one side as if by a giant hand as the missile hit. On the screen the image shattered in slow motion, replaced by the Mandarin symbol K'uei, meaning to cut open and clean a fish, or to kill a sacrifice.

"Wu Shi!" Jeng Lo crowed triumphantly as the craft steadied. Fifty!

Fifty what? Karr wondered. Was that his strike rate for the week? The number of kills he'd made? He shivered. It had been so fast. A matter of two, maybe three seconds at most.

Not only that, but he felt absurdly grateful to Jeng Lo. The speed of his response had saved them. His instinct had been good. Even before the computer had confirmed it, he had known. Fu Ian te. Too right the bastard had been fu Ian te!

They sank lower, almost on the floor of the Rift now, searching, looking for rogues and runaways or anything unusual. Mines clustered thickly down below. They tickled them with radar as they passed above, soothing them with friendly codestream, searching . . .

"What's that?"

Jeng Lo grunted. For a second or two he was absolutely still, then he began to twitch twice as energetically as usual, both hands dancing across the control pads.

Karr's mouth had gone dry. It couldn't be ... It couldn't . . .

The familiar shape glowed red.

"No!" Karr shouted, half lifting himself from the couch, the restraint harness pulling him back. "No!"

Jeng Lo's hand hesitated, then withdrew. On the screen the image pulsed a warning red.

A man—a running man—out here? Karr shook his head at the impossibility of it.

"What's he running from?"

Jeng Lo punched up a sector map, then enhanced it to show their locality. Their craft was at the center of the screen, the running man a speck of red to their left. To their right, drifting in slowly, were a pair of blips, their parallel paths leaving Karr in no doubt as to what they were after.

"Deal with them, then let's pick him up."

Jeng Lo nodded, but even as he made to turn the cruiser something struck them with the force of a giant hammer.

"K'uei!" Karr yelled, his senses screaming as the ship disintegrated about him in a searing flash of flame. He died . . .

AND WOKE, gasping, his chest on fire, his nerve ends singing, his skin feeling as if it had been burned in a thousand places.

"Sir? . . . Are you all right, sir?"

Karr lay there, letting his heartbeat slow, the trembling pass from him, then gave the smallest nod.

It had been so real.

Another voice, older, deeper in register than the first, spoke to him from close by, to his left. "General Karr? Are you all right?"

He turned his head and opened his eyes. A face swam into view. It was that of the A.A.D. Project Director, Harrison.

"I died," he said.

Harrison nodded. "You had us all worried. That wasn't meant to be part of the show."

Karr tried to laugh, but it came out as a groan. His chest hurt.

"Lie still," Harrison said, laying a hand on his brow. The feel of it was cool and reassuring. "Your nervous system had quite a shock just now. It'll need a while to settle."

You bet, Karr thought, remembering the moment the missile had struck. Though he'd been safe—though his body had been here all the while, secure in this couch inside the unit—his mind hadn't known that. His mind had been out there in the Rift, in the robot cruiser.

"It's powerful," he said. "Too powerful. We should consider some kind of safety system. Maybe concoct some kind of drug cocktail to be injected into the men as soon as something like this happens. Why, the shock of it could kill them."

There was an embarrassed silence, an exchange of looks between Harrison and the duty oficer. Harrison looked back at Karr.

"I'm afraid Jeng Lo didn't make it. The strain on his heart . . ."

Karr felt a shock of disbelief pass through him. He turned, seeing at once the pale still figure on the couch beside him. "But it wasn't real. . . ."

"It was too much for him," Harrison continued. "Fifty missions . . . it takes a toll. Most don't make it past thirty."

"Fifty . . ." Karr let his head fall back onto the couch, understanding. Thirty missions. Was that all they got out of their pilots? Just thirty missions? It was a good reason for trying something like this. But would this new system make it any better?

"And the running man? Was he real?"

Harrison looked to the duty officer, who shrugged. "I ... I'll find out, sir. A man, you say?"

"In the Rift. We saw him, just before the missile struck. He was being pursued."

The officer laughed. "Impossible, sir. He'd not have survived more than a few seconds."

Karr looked directly at the young man. "We saw him, Lieutenant. Before the hostile got us. Now go and check it, unless you want to be flying missions yourself!"

The young officer blanched. "Sir!" he said straightening to attention. With a curt bow he turned and left the room.

Karr looked to Harrison. "I understand the reasoning behind this. That drug-induced belief that every situation is a life-or-death one gives our men an edge out there. But if they're going to have to go through this every time they get it wrong, we'll lose just as many as we were by sending them in."

Harrison nodded thoughtfully. He turned, looking across at his two assistants who were standing nearby, then looked back at Karr. "We can do tests, of course. See if we can come up with something that acts . . . well, like a parachute, I guess. Something to damp down the shock. But drugs need a while to take effect. It's those first few instants that do the damage, and I can't see what we can do about that."

"Work on it," Karr said, undoing the harness and sitting up. He took a deep breath, letting his head steady, then swung his legs around so that he was sitting facing Harrison. He was naked, a web of wires taped all about his body. At a signal from Harrison the two assistants came across and started to remove the wires.

The A.A.D. system had been developed from Shepherd's "Shell"—a modified version geared to "At-a-Distance" experience. Harrison and his team had been working on it for two years now and had promised it would be ready for use a month back, but when they'd delayed yet again, Li Yuan, impatient to see the project up and running, had ordered Karr to go and check it out firsthand.

I could have died, he thought, angry suddenly, but not sure whether his anger should be directed at Harrison for not getting it right, or Li Yuan for forcing him to go through with it.

"How do you feel now?" Harrison asked, as his assistants stepped away.

Karr reached for the one-piece Harrison was holding out to him. "Sad. Jeng Lo was a good pilot."

"One of many. We lose two or three a day, you know, just in this one sector. But if this works ... if we can iron out the snags . . . then maybe we can bring the death rate down to a fraction of what it is now. Think of the savings, and not just in terms of life. Think of the money the T'ang spends training up new pilots, not to mention the tonnage of equipment the rookies manage to lose in there. Now . . . if we were to have a whole team of A.A.D. pilots, most of them with a thousand, maybe even fifteen hundred, missions apiece, that would give us an edge in there, wouldn't you say?"

Karr zipped up the one-piece, then met Harrison's eyes. "You think they're not working on this too? Maybe those two ships that shot us down in there were A.A.D.'s. Maybe that's how they got the edge on ms. You thought of that?" "I've thought of it."

Karr nodded, then looked across. The duty officer was standing in the doorway.

"Well, Lieutenant?"

The young officer beamed. "We got him, sir! A snatch team took him only moments after you were hit."

Karr felt his spirits lift. "Excellent! So where's he being kept?"

"In Decon, sir. The lower cells."

"Okay." Karr clapped his hands together, pleased to have something real to do for once. He turned to Harrison and nodded, glanced briefly at Jeng Lo, then turned back to the young officer.

"Then lead on, Lieutenant. I want to see this with my own eyes."

DECONTAMINATION WAS a whole deck—ten levels—at the bottom of the City, in what had once been called the Net. Emerging from the air lock, Karr was greeted by Captain Lasker, in charge of the unit and three of his junior officers. It was not often they were visited by the T'ang's General, and they seemed prepared to make a ritual of it, but Karr waved aside all ceremony.

"Where is he?" he asked, moving past them purposefully. "Take me there now."

Lasker looked to his men, then hurried to catch up with the giant. "He's down here, sir. Surgeon Hu is looking at him right now."

They went through transparent flap doors and out into a large area lit by arc lamps. At one of a dozen huge workbenches, a surgical team was at work, crouched over a naked body.

As Karr drew close, he felt all of the optimism wash out of him. They were working on a corpse. The top of his skull had been removed and his chest was pinned open.

Karr moved two of the assistants aside brusquely and stood beside the surgeon.

"What's the story?" Karr asked, as Hu looked up, about to scold him for interrupting the autopsy.

"General Karr . . ." Hu said, surprised. "I—"

"Have you found anything unusual?"

Hu shook his head. "Not yet. But we're still looking."

"Do you think they might have hidden something in him?"

"If they did, it's not something that's shown up on any of the scans. But we're checking the body physically. There's nothing up the anal canal, and nothing in the stomach."

Karr looked past Hu at Lasker. "Who captured him?"

Lasker turned, indicating one of his officers. "It was Daubler here."

Daubler, a fresh-faced young man in his early twenties, stepped forward, giving a curt bow of his closely shaven head. "He was dead when we took him, sir. The craft that hit yours got him also. But it didn't get away. We got one, a mine got the other. Big things they were. Proper battle cruisers."

Karr stared at the young man a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. Now, why would Lehmann have sent two battle cruisers after a single man? Why risk so much expensive hardware, unless there was a reason?

He looked at Surgeon Hu again. The man was cutting into the dead man's lungs now. Karr watched, undisturbed.

"Is there nothing unusual about him?"

Hu looked up, smiling. "About him, nothing. But you might look at his coat. It's over there, on the bench by the door. There's a team coming down from Bremen to look at it."

Karr went across and picked up the coat. It was a pure black, quilted thing, full length and padded like a flak jacket. He held it up, squinting into the overhead light to try to make out the pattern on the cloth. Tiny circles and spirals and what looked like exploding stars.

"They're tiny circuits," Lasker said, standing to attention just behind him.

"How do you know?"

"Try it on."

Karr laughed. "It's a bit small for me, don't you think, Captain?" He looked to Daubler. "Lieutenant Daubler. Try it on for me."

Daubler took the jacket and pulled it on.

Karr looked to Lasker. "Well?"

"Go over to the scanner," Lasker ordered his man.

They went across, Hu joining them there. As Daubler went behind the full-body screen, Hu activated the machine.

"Looks like it's broken," Karr said.

"No." Hu signaled for one of the other lieutenants to go behind the screen in Daubler's place. At once the screen showed the outline of the man and—at Hu's expert touch—focused in on the major organs.

Karr nodded, understanding. "So that's why—"

"Exactly," Hu said, switching the machine off. "As soon as it became clear that there was nothing unusual about the body, I knew there had to be some other reason why an unprotected human being could run two li through the Rift and not end up as food for the bugs."

"So how does it work?"

Hu shrugged. "I haven't a clue, General. But it's a regular Magic Coat for you. A cloak of radar invisibility. Your ship only saw it because it came within visual range and you recognized it as being human in shape. To all the other machines out there it probably registers as a mirage ... a shadow, like the 'shadows' your cruiser puts out all the time."

"I see." Karr turned, looking across at the body on the dissecting table. "So maybe they were after the coat, not the person in it."

"Could be."

It was one possible explanation. But Karr wasn't happy with it.

"The man . . . what checks have you done on him?"

"Checks?" Hu laughed. "I thought that was your department, General Karr."

Karr looked to Lasker, who shook his head. "You mean, we don't even know who this is?"

"No, sir. We assumed it was one of Lehmann's men. You want me to check the files?"

"At once, Captain!"

As Lasker went across and sat at the terminal in the corner of the room, Karr followed Hu back to the bench.

"You think he stole the coat, perhaps, to sell to us?"

Hu laughed. "It's the kind of thing an enterprising man would do, neh?"

"Or a foolish one."

Hu stared at the face of the dead man and shrugged. "He doesn't look a fool. Educated, I'd say. And wealthy. Look at the layers of fat on the legs and chest. This one ate well. I'd say he was—"

"Sir?"

Lasker's call sounded urgent. Karr swung around. "What is it, Captain?"

"The dead man. He's one of ours. He lives inside the Enclave."

"Inside . . ." Karr went across, then stood behind Lasker, reading the details on the screen—details which were overlaid on a face that was, without doubt, that of the dead man. "But that's ..."

He leaned across Lasker and punched in the man's ID code that was showing at the top of the screen, then REALTIME TRACE. For a moment the screen went blank, then a fresh image filled the screen. It showed a man at a desk, interviewing a young woman. A time pulse at the top right corner showed that what they were seeing was happening right now.

"But that's impossible," Lasker said quietly. "He's dead." "No," Karr said, a cold certainty gripping his insides. "But he would have been, had that thing on the bench there got through."

LI YUAN could not relax; not even here, among those he trusted most. But then, the news his Chancellor had brought him was not of the kind that gave a man great peace of mind.

Nan Ho, watching his master from across the great council table, sighed, then signaled to Hu Ch'ang to hand out the sealed copies of the report.

There were six of them about the table; Li Yuan, Nan Ho, the old General, Rheinhardt, Li Yuan's wife, Pei K'ung, Ben Shepherd, and the Minister for Transportation, Heng Yu.

The reports having been distributed, Nan Ho gestured for Hu Ch'ang to leave. Only then, when the doors had been locked and they were alone, did he begin.

"Ch'un tzu," he began, "we meet here today in the light of a most serious development. If you would slit open the reports in front of you and read the summation on the first page, we can then proceed to discuss the matter."

There were raised eyebrows from Rheinhardt and Heng, a wry smile from young Shepherd. Pei K'ung, it seemed, already knew, for she, like her husband, slit open the report with a weary sense of inevitability.

It was a sad day for the Enclave. And a momentous one.

He looked about the table, watching them read; heard Rheinhardt's grunt of surprise, Heng Yu's sharp indrawn breath.

Ben, however, laughed. "What did I tell you, Yuan? Never trust a man with no vices."

Nan Ho could see how flat the joke fell on Rheinhardt's ears, but Li Yuan smiled tolerantly. "Joking aside, I wish now I had taken your advice."

"But is this true?" Rheinhardt asked, horrified. "I mean, have we proof of the man's infamy?"

Infamy . . . Nan Ho almost laughed at the word. It had a stark, old-fashioned ring about it. And yet, for once, it was almost the perfect word, for this was infamy, without a doubt: a betrayal so gross, so breathtaking, as to make all other crimes against the State seem trivial by comparison.

"There is no doubt at all," Nan Ho answered, looking to his Lord before he spoke. "The evidence is detailed on pages 35 to 168. It is quite some catalog. But the tenor of it is this, that Minister Chang is in the pay of our archrival, Stefan Lehmann, and has been these past two years. That much is true, ch'un tzu. What is less clear is how we are to deal with the man."

"Execute him!" Rheinhardt said without hesitation.

"Hear! Hear!" said Ben, his face taking on the rocklike qualities of the old General, his voice the same stentorian bluster.

But Li Yuan raised his hand. "Ch'un tzu . . . it is not so simple. If it were, I would have acted already. Chang Hong would be dead and another appointed in his place. But Minister Chang is an important man. His influence and connections cannot be discounted. Even with the evidence ranged against him, to simply execute the man would be to welcome the wind of fresh dissent, and things are already bad enough as it is."

"Then assassinate him."

All faces turned to Pei K'ung, who had spoken. She sat there, very still, her face composed like a mask.

Li Yuan narrowed his eyes, shocked both by the suggestion itself and by the fact that it was Pei K'ung who had suggested it. "Are you serious, Pei K'ung? Assassinate him?"

But Ben picked up the idea. "That's good. I mean, why not? And you could blame it on Lehmann. Come up with some story about Chang being a bastion against the White T'ang . . . your right-hand man in the fight against him. The media would lap it up. And his family . . . well, you could give Minister Chang a full State funeral, with the honors one might bestow on the Head of one of the Minor Families. You could stand with the family and make offerings at his tablet."

"Are you serious, Ben?" Li Yuan looked horrified. "Honor a traitor?"

"Why not?" said Pei K'ung, nodding gratefully to Ben. "It's either that or face the prospect of further divisions within your own ranks. This way you could perhaps promote someone more suitable from the Chang family ranks. Someone more reliable."

Li Yuan nodded, liking the sound of that, then turned to Heng Yu. "Minister Heng . . . what do you say?"

Heng Yu looked down, uncomfortable in such company. When he had been invited he had not known all these people would be here. He had thought his T'ang wished to speak with him alone. And to have to discuss the fate of a fellow Minister—one as much above him in status as Chang—had quite taken him aback.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but my view—"

"Is awaited, Heng Yu. Speak."

Nan Ho watched him, seeing how Heng weighed things before he spoke, and looked down, smiling.

"It is very difficult, Chieh Hsia," Heng began. "To act openly for once seems a course fraught with all manner of dangers. With respect to the Marshal, simply to execute Chang Hong, while it would be the most satisfactory of actions personally, could well prove the most expensive politically. In normal circumstances to even consider the use of assassination would be out of the question. But these are not normal circumstances, and the gains far outweigh the possible losses. As for the morality of it—"

"Let that hang," Ben said, interrupting him. "Do it, Yuan. And do it tonight. I'm sure that giant of yours, Karr, has a man or two who'd be good for the job. The levels could do with some entertainment—and what better than a full State funeral, neh?"

Again his voice had taken on the edge of mimicry, this time of Li Yuan himself, but only Nan Ho seemed to notice it.

Li Yuan considered, then looked about the table. "Well?"

Ben nodded. Beside him Pei K'ung did the same. Nan Ho bowed his head in agreement. Rheinhardt grunted gruffly, signifying he had no objections. Which left Heng.

"Well, Minister Heng?" Li Yuan asked. "Should I have Minister Chang assassinated tonight, as Shih Shepherd here suggests? Or should I consider the moral implications further?"

Heng Yu looked up, meeting his Master's eyes, and nodded.

"Then so be it," Li Yuan said, closing the file, then pushing it away from him. "I shall have Karr assign a man this very evening."

NAN HO SAT BACK in his chair, greeting the face on the screen.

"Gregor! At last! I've been trying to contact you this past half hour!"

Karr bowed his head. "Forgive me, Master Nan, but an urgent matter has come up. I need to speak to you at once."

"And I you," he answered, conscious of the strange tightness in Karr's face. "How long will it take you to get here?"

Karr stood back a little, giving Nan Ho a glimpse of the view behind him. "As you see, I am at the East Gate guard post. I can be with you in two minutes."

Urgent indeed, Nan Ho thought. He nodded to Karr. "Come up at once. I'll cancel all other engagements."

"Master!" Karr bowed and cut the connection. Nan Ho waved his secretaries away, then stood, feeling a charge of nervous energy run through him. What was it now? Another plot? Another batch of traitors? Were there no more honest men in Chung Kuo?

He crossed the great study and stood by the wall-to-ceiling window, looking out across the sunlit gardens. Guards patrolled the inner courtyards and the overlooking walls. In the old days guards would not have been allowed in the inner palaces, but times had changed. Now the threat was everywhere.

There was a sharp rapping on the door. He turned, facing it. "Enter!"

The door eased open and Karr came in, closing it softly behind him. As ever, Nan Ho found himself surprised by Karr's stature. How many times had he met him now—four hundred? five?—and still he felt the same strange frisson of fear in the presence of the man. If this one should run amock, then the gods help them all!

"Gregor," he said, stepping across and smiling. "How can I be of help?"

Karr came to the point directly. There was a strange sourness in his face as he spoke. "There are copies in the Enclave." "Copies? You mean . . . ?"

Karr nodded. "Like the ones DeVore sent in from Mars that time. But these are much better. These are almost indistinguishable. Not even a surgeon could tell the difference."

"Aiya . . . And are there many of these . . . copies?" Karr shifted uncomfortably. "Who knows? We were fortunate to stumble on the one we found. But if there's one, then you can be certain there'll be more."

"And the one you found . . . who was it a copy of?" Karr frowned. "That's the strangest thing. The man was a nobody. An accounts manager from the Mids. No connections, no importance. A cog, that's all."

"I see. . . ." Nan Ho went to his desk and sat, then gestured for Karr to sit across from him. He was silent awhile, thinking, then he looked up at Karr again. "Okay. What action have you taken so far?" "The copy body is isolated. We're testing it right now to determine whether there's any way—however small—to distinguish it from the original. In that vein I'm also having the original brought in for a medical. That may help speed up the process."

"Good."

"I've also taken the step of placing all those who've had any contact with this matter under house arrest until further notice. I feel it's of crucial importance we keep this under wraps. If this gets out—"

"They would panic." Nan Ho nodded vigorously. "I agree. And what else?"

"I've got two teams working separately on the original's files—to try to work out just why he was targeted, and whether there might be any connections with other copies."

Nan Ho sat forward slightly. "But I thought you said this was the only one you had?"

"It is. But we're looking for more. I've got another two teams looking at the camera records for the stacks bordering the Rift. They're looking back a month to begin with. Anyone who hasn't a good reason for being there gets pulled in. If we can find a pattern . . ."

Nan Ho smiled tensely. "You seem to have covered all the angles, Gregor. Even so, we have little to go on. We are like blind men fishing in the dark, neh?"

Karr shrugged. "It's all we can do. That and pray we have another stroke of good fortune. One good thing has come of this, however."

Nan Ho raised an eyebrow.

"We have a coat," Karr said, smiling. "A magic coat, you might call it. It makes its wearer radar invisible. It's what the copy was wearing in the Rift."

"A magic coat! That's good!" Nan Ho shook his head in astonishment, then sat back, weary suddenly. "There is another matter, however. One that is almost as urgent as this matter of the copy. Li Yuan has a job for you, Gregor. He wants you to arrange something for him."

Karr sat forward. "Name it."

"He wants Minister Chang Hong assassinated. And he wants it done tonight." * * *

KARR WAS CLIMBING aboard his cruiser when one of the guards from the palace ran up and hailed him.

"What is it, Sergeant?"

The sergeant knelt, his shaven head bowed low, and held out a folded printout. Karr took it and read, then let the breath hiss from between his teeth.

The Plantations. Lehmann was attacking the Plantations!

"Get up," he said. Then, handing the man the paper back, urged him back toward the palace. "Hand this to the Chancellor. Tell him I'm going there right now. And tell him this. Tell him I'll deal with the other matter when I can."

karr's CRUISER was flying northwest at top speed, heading for the garrison at Kiev. Things were bad. Reports had come in of incursions by Lehmann's ground forces right along the line, with major invasions at Katowice, Ternopol, and Kishinev. If this was true, then it was serious indeed. He had already committed all of his available cruisers—more than eighteen thousand in all—to fight off the threat in the air, and to fight three separate major land engagements without air support could prove extremely costly.

He leaned forward, chewing at a nail. Far below plantation workers had formed a straggling line from one of the large irrigation canals to the edge of a burning field, passing buckets from hand to hand, urged on by their supervisors, but the fire was burning fiercely and black smoke rolled out across the sky. From the blackened look of it, much of the huge, ten-thousand-mou field had already been consumed. Moreover, it was one of many such fires he could see as he scanned the fields from horizon to horizon. Lehmann's craft must have penetrated their defenses deeply to inflict such damage—either that or his agents had infiltrated the plantations themselves.

Karr sighed, pained by what he saw, knowing it would be worse farther south toward the border with Lehmann's lands. So much destruction would take a long rime to repair, and that would put a severe strain on the Enclave, but to lose it all would be catastrophic, for they could not survive on what the orbitals produced. This was a battle they had to win.

His stomach tightened with anxiety. It was six months since Lehmann had last made a concerted effort to destroy the Plantations; six months in which he had had time to build his strength. Over the same period Karr's own forces had diminished.

The balance is swinging away from us again, he thought, watching as a hostile swept by below, pursued by two of his own ships, the curved wing shape of Lehmann's new craft unmistakable. Yes, and he's winning the technological race too.

"Sir?"

He turned, looking to his Communications officer. "Yes, Radow?"

"There's been an attack on the Ansbach Sector, sir. It looks like we've been overwhelmed there. Major Fiedler is leading a counterattack, and reinforcements are being sent down from Bremen, but things look bad."

"Patch me in," Karr said, a cold certainty gripping him. Ansbach was where he'd been only that morning. Where the copy had been found.

The copy, he thought. He knows we've got the copy and he wants it back. Maybe that's what all of this is about!

But even as he thought it, he realized that it couldn't be true. The copy may have precipitated things, but this had the look of a long-prepared campaign. Lehmann could not possibly have organized all this in a matter of hours.

"Fiedler?" he said, as the Major's voice sounded in his head. "What's the situation there?"

"Bad, sir, but better than it was. Looks like Lehmann's put in an elite battalion. The way they're fighting, you'd think our friend the White T'ang wanted something desperately."

He does, Karr thought, deciding not to commit his thoughts to the airwaves, just in case Lehmann was listening in, and glad at the same time that he'd ordered the copy removed to Bremen.

"Who knows?" he said, noncommittally. "For now, contain him. Evacuate the surrounding stacks and fall back if he attacks again. Reinforcements will be there soon enough. If it's a foothold he's after, we'll know soon enough."

"Sir."

"And keep me advised of developments, Walter."

"How are things there?"

Karr looked out, noting the smoking wreck of a cruiser—one of his—in the field below. "Bad." He said. "But it's early yet. I'm going to make the fucker pay for this, believe me."

"Good. And good luck,"

"And you."

He cut contact and sat back, closing his eyes a moment, thinking things through. If this was the Big Push, then they could expect a major campaign of disruption within the Enclave itself. Lehmann would be looking to destabilize things on every front, to try—almost literally—to kick the props away from under Li Yuan. So far, however, there was no news of any trouble within the Enclave itself. So maybe this was part of a longer-term strategy. Maybe Lehmann had decided that he couldn't topple the Enclave at a single go.

And maybe he's right. After all, we've survived his worst for six years now.

Karr opened his eyes and leaned forward again, nodding slowly to himself. If Lehmann had committed himself prematurely, then maybe it was time to be audacious. Maybe it was time to hit him back. To take the War onto his territory for the first time.

His supply lines, they were Lehmann's weakness. He had a good staff, by all accounts, but he didn't have a genius like Heng Yu organizing things behind the scenes.

He expects me to defend, as I've always defended. But if I go behind his lines and hit him where it hurts . . .

Karr laughed, then turned, calling to his Communications Officer. "Radow! Get me the Chancellor, right away! Tell him it's urgent. And if there's a problem, tell him the T'ang's General wants to fight a war."

MINISTER CHANG was dressing for his afternoon appointment with his Junior Ministers when the news started breaking. Pushing his Steward aside, he stood before the big wall-screen, watching as the attack on the Plantations unfolded.

Too early, he thought, wondering why he'd heard nothing from Lehmann. He's gone in too early. Nothing's ready yet.

Unless something had happened.

Chang Hong turned, yelling at his servants to clear the room; then, the door locked securely behind him, he went to the corner and sat at his desk, punching out the contact code Lehmann had given him for emergencies.

He waited, tapping the desktop nervously, knowing the signal had to be rerouted several times. "Come on," he said, after a moment, anxious that it was taking so long. Then a face appeared; young, female, Han, in her twenties.

"Can I help you, Master?"

He shook his head, not understanding. "But the number I punched—"

"Is unavailable, Minister," she answered, bowing her head.

He stared at the screen a moment, then cut contact. Minister . . . she'd called him Minister. Which meant . . .

"Aiya . . ."he moaned softly. They knew. The bastards knew!

Out. He had to get out. Before they came for him.

Throwing the chair aside, he ran to the door and unlocked it, then went out into the corridor, calling for his Steward, knowing that time was against him.

NAN HO HURRIED from his Master's study, almost running as he headed back to his own rooms. Things were happening fast. They had turned Lehmann's forces at Ternopol and fought off the worst of his air strikes, but Karr was right—they had to do more than simply stand their ground. It was crucial—for morale, if nothing else—that they hit back, and swiftly.

As the doors to his rooms opened before him, he swept through, Li Yuan's signed order in his hand. It had taken a great deal to persuade the T'ang, but this would free Karr's hands to take decisive action.

"Get Karr," he said brusquely, settling behind his desk and summoning his Secretary. "Then tell me what the latest situation is with Minister Chang. Is our man still following him?"

"Karr is already on, Master," Hu Ch'ang said, bowing low. "As far as Minister Chang is concerned, we have taken his brothers to Bremen. As a precaution. They will remain there until Chang himself is apprehended."

Nan Ho nodded. While the situation was bad, there had been this one single benefit—that while a State of Emergency existed he could arrest Chang Hong openly, without fear of repercussions. Right now any allies Chang might have had were keeping their heads low.

"Okay. Let's take Chang Hong. Alive, if possible. I want to question the man. Find out what he knows!"

"Master!"

The Secretary backed away, head low as the big screen came down to Nan Ho's left. Nan Ho turned to meet Karr's eyes on the screen.

"Well, Master Nan?" Karr asked. "What does our Master say?"

Nan Ho held up the order. "He has given you permission, Gregor. A free hand to do what you must."

Relief flooded Karr's face. "Thank the gods!"

"One thing, however."

"Yes, Master Nan?"

"The copies. I want you to relinquish control of that to someone else."

"But—"

Nan Ho raised a hand. "Hear me out, Gregor. You have enough on your hands as it is, and I, for one, would be much happier if I knew your full attention was on the business of defeating Lehmann in the field. But for your own peace of mind, let me explain. I have asked the T'ang if I can bring in Ward on this matter."

"Ward? You mean the Clayborn?"

Nan Ho nodded. "I reason it thus. Ward has more experience than any of us on constructing morphs. More, perhaps, even than Gen-Syn—and certainly more than any single GenSyn employee. Who better to bring in on this? He has the mind for it, certainly."

Karr laughed. "There's no doubting that!" He considered a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But I'd like to liaise with him. All of this is tied in somehow, and I want to know how. It might be important."

"I'll make sure he does."

"Good. Then I'd best set to."

Nan Ho smiled, his face taut, strangely emotional. "And good luck, Gregor Karr. All our fortunes rest with you."

Karr bowed his head. "Take good care, Master Nan. And keep an eye out for my girls, neh?"

"I shall."

Nan Ho leaned forward and cut the connection, then sat back. It was eight minutes after three. "Get me Ward," he said, the heaviness he had been feeling earlier descending on him again. "Tell him his friend the T'ang requires his help."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Dreams of Morpheus

THE NAKED BOY crouched on the flat, wet stone at the cliffs edge, his wiry five-year-old body hunched forward, watching the wave rush in—a pale green swell above the gray—and smash against the rocks below.

As it surged back he tensed, waiting, then threw himself in, his arms flicking out above his head, his body arching in a perfect dive. He struck the surface crisply, almost without a trace, his pale form powering beneath the incoming wave, his dark head surfacing in the green beyond as the water splintered against the steep face of the bay.

He took a bireath, then kicked backward, letting the outward flow carry, then lift him up into the approaching swell.

This was the dangerous part. Judge this wrong and he was in trouble. He kicked hardl, forcing his body back, climbing the wave that threatened to pick him up and smash him against the rocks. Kick, then kick again, and it was gone, sliding beneath him like a whale's back heading for the shore.

He laughed and turned onto his front, his quick strokes pulling him through the water like a young otter, then ducked beneath the next wave and up. He was out of the bay now. The beach lay to his right, beyond the headland. He propelled himself across, letting the swirling current tug at hum momentarily, enjoying the play offerees on his skin, then kicked foir shore, riding the waves until he beached, then letting the inward tidle wash over him, lifting him gently as he lay on the shingle, relaxing.

Easy, he thought. So easy.

"Sampsa!"

He twisted sharply in the water, his head turning toward the sound. It was his father's voice, calling from the cliff path.

"Sampsa! Sampsa, are you there?"

He looked about him, then got up and ran quickly to the shore, disappearing among the rocks. There he hid, watching his father pass above him, calling.

"Sampsa! Where are you, boy?"

As his father's figure vanished among the trees at the top of the path, he scrambled up, climbing the path quickly, his feet finding the stones blindly. His clothes were where he'd left them, in a neat pile among the ferns. He reached in and pulled them out, then, shaking each item before he pulled it on, got dressed.

"Sampsa!"

The call was distant now, up near the house. His father would be getting worried.

"Here!" he called, beginning to run along the path, one hand combing the wetness from his hair. "I'm here!"

He didn't see him until it was too late. As he came out into the clearing at the top of the path, his father stepped out and picked him up, twirling him around above his head.

"You're wet!"

Sampsa stared down at his father, his eyes—one blue, one brown— wide with surprise. How had he done that? It was as if he'd come from nowhere.

"You've been swimming. Diving off the rocks again."

Sampsa made to shake his head, then smiled apologetically.

"Your mother would kill you, you know that? She worries enough as it is. You'll put gray hairs on her, Sampsa!"

"No," he said, pained by the thought. "You mustn't tell her."

"Then you'd best run to the house and dry yourself. I've got to go."

"Go?" Sampsa's eyes grew even wider, this time with curiosity.

"Into the City. I'm wanted. Li Yuan has asked for me."

Sampsa felt himself being lowered. His father stood back, smiling. "It won't be for long, but I want you to look after your mother. And no more diving. Not until I'm back, anyway. Then maybe I'll come in with you."

Sampsa's eyes were like saucers now. "You can dive?"

Kim laughed. "Of course. Where do you think you got it from?"

JELKA STOOD AT the bedroom window, watching as the cruiser slowly settled on the lawn outside. Behind her Kim was packing an overnight case.

"Can't you do it here?" she asked, watching as the rotors slowed and the ramp slowly hissed down.

He turned to look at her. "The corpse is there, at Bremen. And all the information. They're loath to let it out of their sight. Understandably. Besides, they're hoping to get further copies. They can't bring them all here."

"Why not?" she asked, unusually petulant; the Marshal's daughter briefly. "If I had my way, I'd order them to."

He laughed, then grew serious. "I thought of asking to have it all shipped in here—after all, I've the laboratories. But then I thought, what if Lehmann has spies in Bremen? And what if they find out where the copies are being shipped to? And what if they try and attack this place?"

She shivered, then turned to him. It was the nightmare she'd always feared: that this, her safe place—her place at the eye of the storm— should be invaded.

"No," she said. "You were right. You must go there. It won't be long. It's just . . ."

He went to her and held her. He knew what it was without her saying. For six years now they had not been separated. For six long years they had spent every night together. And now, as the City slid once more into chaos, they were to be separated again.

"Your father . . ." he said, drawing back from her. "Should I go to see him?"

She stared at him a moment, saddened, thoughtful, then shrugged. "What if he won't see you? He's always refused before now. Why should this time be any different?"

"Because I've heard he's ill."

He saw the movement in her face; the concern. She had ceased to be his daughter years ago. He had disowned her the day she'd married him. But still she loved the old man; still she worried about him.

"If he wants me to come . . ."

"We'll see, huh? But I must go." He smiled encouragingly. "The quicker I go, the quicker I'm back."

He turned and picked up his bag.

"Kim?"

He half turned. "Yes?"

"Where was Sampsa? I heard you calling him."

"Sampsa?" He laughed, then turned back, making his way out of the door. Jelka followed. "He was down in the cave. You know . . . in our special place. That's why he didn't hear me."

"Ah . . ."

He smiled then reached up, on tiptoe, to kiss her.

"I'll miss you," she said.

"And I you."

"Take care."

"I will."

"And, Kim ..."

"Yes?"

"If you do see him, give him this."

She placed a tiny, smooth-edged cassette into his hand. He knew what it was without asking. It was the holo she had taken of Sampsa last Sjummef. The one where he'd recited "The Robbery of the Sun and the Moon" from the Kalevala—the old man's favorite piece.

He nodded. "I'll give it to him, if I can. But I must go. I love you."

"And I you."

He turned, running for the cruiser, the two guards jumping up after him and pulling the hatch closed.

Jelka stood there awhile, watching the craft rise into the early evening sky, then turn and speed off south.

Gone, she thought, noticing Sampsa for the first time, sitting on the wall by the gate, watching the cruiser diminish to a speck.

You've been diving off the rocks again, she thought, noting how slick his hair was, how his clothes clung to him. Good thing your father doesn't know what you do, he'd go mad with worry.

IT was QUIET in the barn. Shafts of light from knotholes in the weathered slats threaded the deep shadow. Among them crept the boy, like a cat stalking his prey. In a stall at the far end the Myghtern slept. You could hear his ragged breathing in the silence.

For a moment the boy rested, his back to the wooden barrier, his eyes taking in everything. Browns and golds dominated the barn; a hundred different shades of each, each one distinct, nameable. And the scents ...

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, then, shivering, slowly turned and poked his head up, peering over the barrier.

The Myghtern lay on his back, mouth open, arms at his sides. His hands lay open, palm upward in drunken abandonment. The boy smiled and ducked down.

It would be easy.

He slipped the tinder from inside his cotton shirt and cupped it in his hands, staring at it a moment. That was the secret—the reason the magic worked—you had to look at it. Unless you looked, unless you took it all in, it meant nothing. The meaning was a result of focus. Without focus there was nothing.

He struck the tinder; saw the flame leap between the flint and the rasp; felt the warmth, smelled the burning in the air.

For a moment he saw himself from outside. Saw his ash-blond unruly hair illuminated by the flame, his oval, dark-eyed face gleaming in the tinder's flicker. Shadow surrounded him. Enclosed him.

He picked up a handful of straw and lit it, then, as the tinder died, letting the flames catch and crackle before he threw them out in a scatter of sparks into the darkened stall.

Impulse told him to run, but he beat it down and stood there, watching the flames catch and spread. Four separate tiny fires, spreading, merging to become a single, crackling blaze. The stall was bright now, the shadows beaten back into the corners. Up above the rafters were filling with thick, choking smoke.

He laughed, seeing the Myghtern stir, then start to cough, one hand beating at the air. Turning, he made to run, but a hand grabbed him and lifted him high, twirling him about and, with a clout to the back of his head, threw him out of the barn door onto the sunlit grass.

He lay there, stunned, staring up at the roof of the barn. Smoke was billowing out between the broken tiles. The crackle had become a steady roar. As he turned, trying to focus, a tiny figure burst from the door, weighted down by its giant load, then collapsed, coughing, onto the grass nearby. It was Scaf. Beside him, untouched, was the Myghtern.

"You"—he coughed, a deep, wheezing cough from the pit of his stomach, then spoke again, forcing out the words between coughing fits—"you crazy . . . little boy. You . . . could have . . . killed him."

He met Scaf s eyes defiantly. "It's not alive. How could I kill something that isn't alive?"

Scaf scowled at him, then crawled across to the Myghtern, rolling him onto his back and listening to his heart. The big man coughed, then, rolling slightly to his side, began to vomit.

The boy watched, his eyes like tiny saucers.

"Tom? Tom! What's going on?"

It was his mother. He turned, looking up the path toward the cottage, then scuttled off, up over the stone wall and away, down through the long grass of the upper field toward the bay.

MEG STOOD IN THE opening at the end of the garden wall, staring at the scene in disbelief. Then, wiping her hands on her apron she walked hurriedly down the path toward them.

"Where's Tom?" she asked anxiously, looking past Scaf at the bum-ing barn. "He's not in there, is he?"

Scaf shook his head, then pointed toward the bay.

She let out her breath, relieved, then looked down at the Myghtern. He had stopped heaving now, and was sitting up. He glanced up at her, his dark eyes miserable in his smoke-blackened face.

"What happened?" she asked, as if she were speaking to two children. "What was it this time?"

The Myghtern looked away, embarrassed. "I got drunk," he said. "I found some cider in the store rooms and I drunk it all. I ... I must have kicked a lamp over or something. Scaf got me out."

She looked to Scaf, who shrugged.

"What will Ben say?" she said, shaking her head. "His barn. Look at it!"

The Myghtern glanced at it, then looked away again. Scaf stared stubbornly at the floor.

"It's a good thing Scaf was there to get you out of trouble," she said, her anger at his stupidity tempered by her realization that it could have been far worse. An old barn . . . Ben wouldn't mind losing it. His only regret would be that he hadn't been here to see it burn.

She turned, thinking of her child again, then walked across to the wall and, leaning on it, looked out across the field.

"Tom!" she called. "Tom! Where are you?"

But there was no sign of him. He was probably by the Seal. That was where she usually found him: down there where she had used to play with Ben; where they had found the diseased rabbit that time.

She turned back, surprised by the strength of the memory, then shook her head again. "Never mind. At least you're safe. Let's get you indoors and clean you up."

"But the barn?" Scaf said.

'Will burn itself out. But come now, Scaf. Give me a hand getting him up. The Master will be back in a while."

"And young Tom?"

"Tom will be in when it suits him," she said, as if giving the subject no more thought. As he always was.

SHE MET HIM at the gate to the lower garden. Beyond him the cruiser which had brought him back lifted and turned south, heading for the mouth of the estuary. He held her to him briefly, then turned and sniffed the air, looking to his right where the ruins of the barn stood out against the evening light.

"What happened to the barn?"

She laughed, making light of it. "Our friend the Myghtern got drunk and kicked a lamp over. Scaf got him out. They're both okay."

Ben nodded, then, putting his arm about her shoulder, walked on. "And Tom? How's he?"

"Our little shadow?" She met his eyes and smiled. "He's somewhere. Exploring probably."

He smiled then let his lips brush against hers.

"How was Li Yuan?"

"His usual anxious self."

She glanced at him. "And the launch?"

"It was okay," he said, with an unusual vagueness; then, sniffing the air again, he gave a grunt of approval. "Now, that smells nice. Rabbit stew, unless I'm mistaken."

"With dumplings, carrots, and potatoes," she said, squeezing his side. "I thought you deserved something special."

"It reminds me—"

"Of mother," she finished.

He stopped and turned, looking at her in the light from the open kitchen window. "And you . . . you remind me of her too."

It was some time since he had been inside the Enclave and she could see from his eyes the price he'd paid for his visit.

"Was it bad in there?"

He laughed, then assumed an actor's manner. "I had not thought death had undone so many."

She smiled, then joined in the game. "You who have sat by Thebes below the wall and walked among the lowest of the dead."

"You wonder what old T.S. would have made of it, eh?" He stroked her neck, then walked on, lacing his fingers between hers. "SimFic were pleased, anyway. It seems they've sold a record number of advance units. As for me, well, I smiled like the King of Villians himself for the cameras, and the critics lapped it all up. I'm made, they say."

"Made?" she laughed at the wealth of distaste he'd managed to pack into that single word.

"Constructed, manufactured, fashioned, like the lowest of the Clay!" He smiled wickedly. "I am their creature now. They own me."

"Or think they do."

"Which is the same thing, in their eyes."

She turned, making him stop and face her. "So why did you do it if you felt that way?"

His eyes gave her the answer. For the experience. She sighed, then, tugging at his hand, made to walk on.

"It's war, you know," he said. "Coming back the air was thick with troop ships heading east."

"I know. There was talk on the news of a State of Emergency."

He nodded. "I may have to go back. Li Yuan has formed a special council. He's asked me if I want to be a part of it."

"And do you?"

His eyes sparkled. "It might be fun. To shape men's dreams and make them real."

"I thought that's what you did already?"

He smiled, then walked on, chuckling softly to himself.

LEHMANN STOOD AMONG his generals, watching through field glasses as his troops began a fresh attack on the Odessa garrison. In the last hour it had begun to rain, the black clouds billowing across the estuary from the sea to the southeast. Under its cover his assault cruisers swept in, firing salvo after salvo into the burning fortress.

Despite the rain, the smell of burning polymers was strong in the air and an acrid smoke mingled with the cloud, sending down a residue of flaky ash.

Lehmann pulled down his mask and looked about him. To his right the Overseer's House was on fire, its three tiers blazing like a giant tree. Beyond it his men were busy mining the bridges and setting booby traps in the bunkhouses. To his left a mobile command unit had been set up and a bank of monitors showed scenes from the struggle for Odessa. Supported by two phalanxes of armored vehicles, a body of five thousand men were trying to take the gatehouse, using flame-throwers and mobile rocket-launchers to prize their way in through the front door of the great fortress.

It had gone well. His feint to the north, at Kishinev, had drawn more than two thirds of the garrison's strength, while the massive air battle farther west had deprived Odessa of the critical air cover it needed to survive. He had only now to persevere and it was his—Li Yuan's "Pearl of the Black Sea," his prestige garrison.

Overhead the air was full of his cruisers, ferrying the wounded back to the base hospital in Galati. More than eighty thousand—killed in the first few hours of the assault—would never make that journey. They would be left where they'd fallen on the battlefield, for in this overpopulated world nothing was so cheaply spent as soldiers' lives.

He smiled, pleased with how things had gone. His forces had penetrated deep into the T'ang's territory, destroying more than one hundred and twenty separate plantations in the process—almost a third of the Eastern European growing area. And though news had come in the last half hour of Karr's counterattack, that barely mattered now, for they had served their purpose. He could lose all three armies and it would mean nothing, for what his enemies had taken to be a major attempt to take the Plantations had, in essence, been purely diversionary—a mighty, destructive cast of the dice, and all to win one single prize, Odessa.

Even so, he had been surprised by the resistance the T'ang's armies had put up.

That's Karr's doing, he thought, feeling a great respect for the man. Unlike that vapid apologist Rheinhardt, Karr was a born fighter. He knew that it was never enough to contain one's enemy, one had to hurt him too. And so he had, today, no matter that it would not change the long-term progress of the war. Since Karr had been General things had changed a lot. Six months ago he might have swept the T'ang's forces back into the Baltic, but today his armies had been stalled and turned.

Unobserved, Lehmann smiled. I shall send him the painting he admired. Schiele's painting of the fighter.

"Fiihrer!"

Lehmann turned. His Communications Officer stood close by, his head bowed.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"It's Soucek, Fiihrer. He says he's got it back."

"Ah . . ." The copy! Soucek has got the copy! He thought a moment. "Tell him to take it to Milan. I'll meet him there. Oh, and Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Fuhrer?"

He looked past the lieutenant at his watching generals, seeing how they huddled together miserably in the falling rain, and knew which ones would live, which die, before the night was out.

"Give the order to send in the reserves. I want Odessa taken within the hour."

KARR STARED AT Surgeon Hu a moment, then roared with laughter.

"They what?" Then, more soberly. "Poor bastard. I hope he doesn't suffer too much when they find out."

"Oh, they'll find out. How, I don't know. But if they made that thing, they'll know the difference"

Karr nodded. So Lehmann tfiought he'd got his copy back. Well, maybe he'd find out the truth afid maybe he wouldn't. Maybe there was no difference—maybe these new^copies were that good. Or, as Hu had suggested, maybe they were clones of some kind, grown from genetic material somehow obtained from the originals. One thing was sure, though, and that was that Lehmann's forces were retreating. For the past hour they had been withdrawing from most of the territory they had taken. Only a small pocket of land surrounding the Odessa garrison now remained in Lehmann's hands.

What does he want? Karr asked himself. Why set such a host in motion and then withdraw with so little achieved? Was it just to test our strength? To weaken us?

If so, then it was certainly successful. Lehmann could throw three armies at them—lose almost a hundred thousand men—and it was nothing to him; against which the destruction of a third of the Plantations would have serious repercussipns over the coming months. If Lehmann were to attack again in that time, then the position could easily deteriorate to the point of untenability.

Karr sat, offering Hu a seat across from him, then drew the investigation file toward him,

"You've heard what's happening?"

"He's here."

"Ward?" Karr looked up. "Why wasn't I told?"

"I believe he's gone to see the old Marshal."

"Ah . . ." Karr pursed his lips, then opened the file. "You'll cooperate fully with him, Hu. Understand me?"

Hu smiled. "It doesn't worry me."

Karr looked at him questioningly.

"That he's Clayborn," Hu clarified. "I know a lot of people find that difficult, but I can't see what the problem is. I've read his papers. There's no one knows the field better."

"Good." Karr smiled tightly. "Then you won't mind if I sit in on your first session."

"Not at all," Hu said urbanely. "If you've the time."

KIM LEANED OVER the corpse and pointed to the exposed cranium, speaking through the surgical mask he wore.

"It's as I thought, the whole limbic system is generally far less developed than in a real human. It's like a human brain—much more than I imagined it would be—but it has the appearance of being damaged, dysfunctional."

He stood back slightly, looking to Hu, whose three assistants stood behind him, scrubbed up and masked as if for surgery.

"If I'm right, the pituitary gland will be undeveloped. Whoever built these wouldn't have cared whether they reproduced or not, so maybe they won't be able to produce those hormones that create sperm or eggs. Nor, I suspect, would they have bothered with creating a fully developed emotional system. The amygdala might be very rudimentary—maybe even absent altogether. From Lehmann's point of view it would be useful if these things felt no fear. Against which, I'd guess there might be increased dopamine activity. We might look for pin-tight pupils in the living copies."

Hu gave a thoughtful nod. "I'll get started, then."

"Good." Kim bowed to him, then came away.

Karr, who had been watching through the window, greeted Kim as he stepped into the anteroom.

"Shih Ward," he said, bowing his head and extending a hand.

Kim looked up at the giant. "General Karr . . . Why, you could put me in your pocket!"

Karr laughed. "Ah, but would you stay there?"

Kim smiled, then took Karr's hand, his own enveloped by it. "If that thing in there is a copy, then it's the best I've ever seen. I didn't think Lehmann was even interested in copies. I thought that was more your old friend DeVore's line."

Karr released his hand, indicated that Kim should take a seat, then sat across from him. He leaned in, speaking confidentially.

"From what we can ascertain, when Lehmann captured the southern City, he took great care not to damage or destroy any of GenSyn's installations there. Our spies report that he's got the main factory at Milan working at twice its former capacity, and a great many of Gen-Syn's former employees are now working for him there. Even so, this latest development surprised us. There's not been a sniff of anything like this."

Kim nodded. "I see. It would have helped to have had some idea of Lehmann's thinking, but I suppose we can make a few assumptions, neh? My own guess is that Lehmann has targeted a group of very normal-seeming, stable men and women. Unemotional types."

"Why's that?"

"Because it makes things simpler. A mind is the most complex of things to create. Anything that streamlines the process has to be a plus. Bearing that in mind, we can make two fairly safe assumptions: one, that he's not planning to breed a new race, and two, that, whatever his scheme is, it's short term rather than long."

Karr sat back slightly. "Why?"

"Because the longer you run a system the more invariables creep in and the more unstable and unpredictable it becomes. In this case, the more copies there are and the longer they remain in place, the greater grows the risk of discovery. As has been proved."

"So what do you mean by short term?"

"A year. Eighteen months at most."

"So what we need to know is how long this has been going on."

"Which we won't know until we discover further copies, if then."

"So what do we do?"

Kim laughed. "Keep looking. It's all we can do. Is there any news on the camera sweep?"

Karr shook his head. "Not yet. But we should know something by tonight."

"I see." Kim looked down, silent a moment, then, more quietly: "Just how bad are things?"

"Bad," Karr confessed. "If he'd wanted, he could have carved us apart. Kicked the legs out from under us and watched us fall. As it is, it looks like we've lost Odessa, and that's a major blow. That whole sector has been destabilized."

Kim nodded. "So why did he stop?"

"I don't know. Maybe he thinks we're stronger than we are. But I doubt that. His spy network has to be as good as ours."

"And yet something stopped him."

Karr met his eyes. His own were troubled.

"I didn't realize," Kim said after a moment. "I've been away too long. Things have changed."

There was an awkward silence between them, then Surgeon Hu came into the room, a broad smile on his unmasked face.

"It's just as you said!" he announced triumphantly, looking to Kim. "The pituitary's a fifth the size it ought to be and the amygdala is missing completely. And there are other differences too. Enough, perhaps, for us to identify one of these things with a simple brain scan."

"Excellent!" Karr said, grinning at Kim. "Then I'll leave you to it. Good day, Shih Ward. I hope we can talk again."

"General Karr?"

Karr, who had been turning away, turned back. "Yes, Shih Ward?"

"Surgeon Hu seems to be in control of things here, so I wondered . . . well, I wondered whether I might leave matters in his capable hands and come with you. I'd like to see how things are. You know, get a feel of the broader picture. It might help, especially as all of this seems to be linked."

Karr hesitated a moment, as if embarrassed by the request, then nodded. "All right. But there's one thing 1 must do first. If you'll wait here for half an hour, I'll send my equerry tor you. Maybe we'll have dinner, neh?"

Kim smiled and lowered his head respectfully.~"W like that, General Karr. I'd like that very much." * * *

MEG SHOULDERED the door open, then turned and made her way down the steps, carrying the tray across the half-lit living room.

"What's happening?" she asked as she set it down beside her brother.

Ben was sprawled out full length on the sofa, watching the wall screen.

"They're announcing a great victory—our enemies trounced and peace restored—which probably means we've scraped through by the skin of our teeth and the grace of Almighty God."

She took one of the earthenware bowls from the tray and offered it to him. He sat up, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"The truth is," he continued, taking the bowl, "we're fortunate there's such a delicate balance of power. Lehmann is more powerful than any of the States surrounding him. Left alone, he could bring Li Yuan to his knees in a week. But his enemies—the African Mountain Lords and the West Asian Warlords—wouldn't let him. If they saw him go for Li Yuan's throat, they'd go for his. They're like jackals sitting in a tree, waiting for their prey to fall."

"And will we fall?"

Ben looked to her. "One day."

He sniffed at the soup, then, taking the spoon from the bowl, began to eat. It was a broth she'd made up from the remainders of the rabbit stew they'd had earlier. He grunted his satisfaction, then sat back, watching the screen again.

"The media can't tell the half of it. If they did there'd be panic in the levels. The Enclave would self-destruct. That's why they need what I do. Distractions." He laughed. "You know, that pompous puffball Tung Chung-shu was right for once. Distractions, that's precisely what I make. Artful distractions." He took a spoonful of the soup, then gave a thoughtful grunt. "Makers. It's all made, don't you think?"

"Model" She narrowed her eyes and stared at him.

"Mankind. Intelligence. The Universe. It all has the stamp of something made. I can't believe that Chance threw it all together, however long it had to do the job. Chance could take three eternities and not create a piece of coal, let alone a thinking being. But what made the thing that made it? And what made that?"

"Maybe Chance and a piece of coal were enough."

He laughed. "It's not even that I want a god behind it all. Not someone like Great Father Amos, anyway. I want . . ." He sighed. "Well, to be honest with you, Meg, I don't know quite what I want, but I don't want a man with a white beard and a benign expression, nor even a woman with a white beard, come to that. I just want some kind of principle that explains it all. That makes sense of it without reducing it all back down to Chance."

"And a piece of coal."

He looked at her and smiled, mouthed another spoonful of soup, then carried on, the screen forgotten.

"That's why the darkness is so important. You know, some days I have the feeling that if I could just step through, into the darkness—if I could just tear that veil and penetrate it—then I might see and understand exactly how things are. As it is, it excludes me. It keeps itself from me."

She stared at him. Sometimes he frightened her with his talk of the dark. Darkness ... for him it was not merely the absence of light, but a quality in its own right—not a negative but a positive, a different state of being. And sometimes—just sometimes—she was convinced that what he described by the term dark was that same thing that others called "death," the ultimate darkness.

She looked past him at the half-open window. Outside it was dark, the valley echoing still. Night birds called beneath the moon. She shivered.

"Will you sleep with me tonight?"

He looked at her and smiled, then looked beyond her. She turned, her eyes searching the shadows. It was Tom. He was crouched on the turn of the stairs, silent, his dark eyes taking in everything. Briefly she wondered what he thought, what exactly he saw with those eyes of his.

One day he would speak and tell her.

"Do you want some soup, Tom?"

He did not move. His eyes looked past her, watching Ben, his father-uncle.

"I was going to work," Ben said. "But if you want . . ."

She turned back. Ben was watching his son, an amused curiosity in his face. She heard a scuffling behind her, padded footsteps and the creak of the door as it opened and then closed. A moment later the outer door slammed.

"He'll be okay," Ben said, putting down his bowl, then coming around to her. "He always is."

She nodded, letting him put his arms about her and kiss her, feeling that-same, strange thrill she always felt when he touched her. "Yes," ^she said. "But draw the curtains, Ben. Please . . ."

THE BOY RAN DOWN the sloping path beneath the moon, his bare feet making no sound on the tight-packed earth. The ground felt warm beneath him, the valley alive with mysterious secrets. The darkness was intense beneath the trees on the far side of the bay and if he closed his eyes he could forget the City crowding in on every side— that pale luminescence that towered above the valley's pleasant slopes. If he closed his eyes . . .

He stopped, opening his eyes again, staring out across the water's surface. He was standing on the edge. One step farther and he would have fallen. He smiled. The moonlight was dancing on the water like a thread of silver. His eyes went up, finding the full moon in the sky. It was like a hole in the darkness. A portal into otherness.

He reached upward, stretching on tiptoe as he tried to touch it, then relaxed, a wistful little sigh rippling through him.

North, a voice said in his head. Look north.

He looked, no longer conscious of where he stood, drawn out of himself, that voice—familiar and yet strange—calling to him again across the miles, distant and yet close.

Yes, he said silently, shaping the word with his lips. Yes. . . .

And felt the echo ripple back to him from the darkness. Yes, it said. I'm here.

SAMPSA STOOD in the cliff garden of Kalevala, gazing south. Behind him his mother sat on the low bench, looking out across the moonlit sea, her hair like spun silver against the black of her dress.

"He's there," he said, lifting his face as if to sniff the air.

She looked to him. "Who? Kim?"

"No. The other one. The one who never speaks."

She laughed uncomfortably, then stood and went across, kneeling and putting her hands on his shoulders.

"You imagine it."

He turned his face, looking at her. "No. I can sense him there. He's outside." He turned back. "North," he said softly, as if speaking to someone. "Look north."

She looked past him, frowning, then felt him shiver.

"Yes," he said. "I'm here."

"Sampsa?" But it was as if he was suddenly not there. His eyes were shining with an inner light, his lips smiling.

"You imagine it," she said again, squeezing his shoulders gently, feeling suddenly cold. "Let's go inside." "Sampsa," he said. "Sam-psa . . . Yes."

She shuddered, then stood. "Sampsa!" she said, an edge in her voice.

He turned and looked up at her, his eyes still bright, still shining, then nodded. "He's gone now," he said, matter-of-factly. "I felt him go. He was standing beside the water, like we are, but much closer. And the moon—the moon was so bright where he stood. It was like an eye, staring down."

"Sampsa. Enough now."

He stared at her, then bowed his head. "Father's coming."

For a moment she thought it was more of his nonsense, then she, too, heard the sound of the cruiser. She laughed, the business with the "other one" forgotten, her joy at Kim's return making her pick Sampsa up and whirl him about. Then, setting him down, she hurried across to the open doors at the back of the house.

As the cruiser swept across the island, its powerful searchlights flickering across the blackness of the treetops, Jelka came out into the front garden and, shielding her eyes against the glare, watched the ship touch down.

As Kim stepped down, she rushed across and embraced him, moving back with him as the cruiser lifted and, turning in the air, accelerated into the night.

"I didn't think—" she began, but his kiss stopped her saying any more. When they broke, she moved her face back a little, studying his face in the moonlight.

"Did you see Father?"

He shook his head and sighed. "I went there, but he wouldn't see me. I left the holo for him."

"Ah . . ." She tried not to show the disappointment. "Where's Sampsa?" he asked, turning and walking with her toward the house.

"I don't know. He was with me in the garden. He must have slipped away."

She looked at him again. "So how did it go?"

There was a small movement in his face. "It's bad," he said. "I didn't realize how bad. We've been isolated too long."

She frowned, surprised by his words. "But I thought you liked it here."

"Here might not survive much longer. Not unless we do something. The Enclave is in trouble. The attack today weakened it badly. How badly we'll know in a matter of days. But things are in a critical state. I felt"—he shrugged, then looked away, embarrassed—"I felt as if I'd let them all down."

She reached out, turning his face gently with her hand until he was looking at her again. "Why do you feel that way? You've given them so much. Your inventions—"

"Are toys. What have I given them that's real? Have I given the means to fight off their enemies? Have I given them the means to feed their population?"

"But those are not your problems. . . ."

"No? Then why was I given my talent? Why, if not to make things better for everyone?"

"But that's perverse. You're not responsible for them."

"No? Then to who do I owe my living, my existence? Without the City—without Li Yuan—I would have nothing. I would be dust. Without them I would not have you."

She felt the power of his love, of his conviction, wash over her, and gave a tiny nod. "If that's how you feel, then you must do something. But what can you do?"

He stared back at her and smiled, glad that she was with him. "I don't know, my love. Not yet. But I shall. Something will suggest itself."

SAMPSA MADE HIS WAY down through the darkness with the stealth of a young fox. Where the path twisted and the ground leveled out was the clearing. Coming out into it he looked up and saw the moon, bright and full in the cloudless sky, and smiled.

Seven tall pines had once stood here, forming the shape of a staggered H beneath the stars. Fire from the heavens had burned them to ashen stumps. Now, where seven had once stood, only one now sprouted—a sapling of sixteen years, growing at the very center of the clearing.

Sampsa made his way across, jumping from stump to stump until he stood beneath the sapling. It was a windless night and the young tree stood there, still and proud in the moonlight, a young giant, growing even as the great earth turned, slowly reaching for the stars.

For a moment Sampsa rested, his back to it, staring up at the house, at the lighted windows of the tower, then he slipped away, moving back into the blackness between the trees, heading down to where the land fell sheer to the sea.

There he stood, nodding to himself, understanding.

"Sampsa?"

He turned, surprised, staring at his father. "How do you do that?"

Kim laughed. "My mother taught me."

"You had a mother?"

Kim moved past his son and stood at the very edge of the cliff. His feet were bare, Sampsa noted. For a moment Kim stared out at the sea, listening, it seemed, to its faint sussuration, then he looked back at his son.

"I'll show you a hologram of her sometime. As for the art of traveling silently, it's a trick I picked up in the Clay. We all did. Sound echoes in the Clay. Things are dry and snap easily, and there are enemies everywhere. You have to learn where to put your feet—how to see with your feet in the dark. Once learned, you never forget."

Sampsa nodded thoughtfully, then squatted. He picked up a pine cone and turned it between his fingers. "What is it like in there?"

"In the Clay?"

"No. Where you've just been."

"The Enclave?" Kim sighed. "It's like a box. A huge box, filled with teeming life. You know, sometimes it makes me think of the story of Morpheus, the god of sleep. Sometimes I think he has cast a great spell over humankind these past two hundred years—that we live, somehow, in his dreams. The dreams of Morpheus."

"But not us," Sampsa said, staring up at his father, his eyes round. "Not here."

"No. . . ."

"Are there other places? . . . Outside, I mean."

Kim turned, then squatted across from him. "There's Li Yuan's pal- I ace at Astrakhan. And the Plantations, of course. And . . . well, I there's Shepherd's place. The Domain."

"The Domain?" Sampsa stared at the pine cone in his hand. "Where's that?"

"Oh, south of here. Far south, in the Western Isle. I've not been there, but I'm told it's idyllic. Not so cold as our island, nor so rugged. It's a valley. Shepherd lives there with his sister."

Sampsa looked up at him. "Just them?"

"I don't know. I assume there are guards. Like we have guards. Apart from that . . ." He shrugged. "Why?"

"Nothing." Sampsa looked away across the sea, then, standing, threw the cone out into the air.

"Shall we get back?" he said, turning, looking back at his father, his eyes—one blue, one brown—strangely troubled.

"If you like," Kim answered, getting up and brushing himself down. He reached out and touched his son's shoulder. "I have to go back. Tomorrow. I might be spending a lot more time there from now on."

Sampsa nodded.

"You don't mind, then?"

The boy looked up at him. "I don't mind. As long as you keep your promise to come diving."

Kim grinned. "Tomorrow morning. First light. We'll go down before the cruiser comes for me, neh?"

Sampsa smiled, then, ducking underneath a low branch, slipped into the darkness, heading back toward the house. Kim listened a moment, hearing the faint sounds of his son's passage through the trees, then followed, melting like a shadow into the dark, the image of his mother burning like a candle in his head.

NEVILLE LET HIMSELF into the room of the SimFic stay-over. Setting his case on a chair, he sat down heavily on the bed and began to pull off his boots. It had been a long, hard day and he felt exhausted, but his mind was still racing, filled with the excitement of the launch.

It could not have gone better—not in his wildest dreams. First-day sales figures were phenomenal, and the review . . .

He laughed. You could not have bought the kind of reviews Ben Shepherd was getting!

"Here, let me do that. . . ."

There was the soft touch of a female hand on his shoulder, the faintest waft of scent—discreet and inoffensive. He turned, looking up at the girl. She was a young Han with a pretty face: one of SimFic's hospitality girls, chosen to fit his preference profile. Relaxing, he let her tend to him while he recalled the day's events.

He had met Shepherd only once before, when the deal had been signed, and had found him strangely cold, almost hostile, but today had been a revelation—today Ben Shepherd had been mesmeric. Why, he could have charmed the gods from the heavens!

There was a double beep, then the big screen in the corner of the room came on. He looked up at it.

"Jack?"

It was his boss, Reiss. A broadly grinning Reiss.

"Horst? What is it?"

"I just wanted to congratulate you on a superb job. I've just spoken to the board and they're delighted. In fact, I've got them to grant you a bonus of fifty thousand, payable immediately!"

Neville leaned toward the screen, his grin unforced. "That's great, I . . . Well, shit, Horst, we had a winner today. I told you. . . ."

"I know. And you were right, Jack. One hundred percent right. But it was no accident. You put a lot of work into this one and I'm grateful. Hugely grateful. Between you and me, there's even talk of appointing you to the executive council. But we'll discuss that tomorrow, neh? Everything okay there? Our people looking after you?"

Neville moved back a little, revealing the smiling hospitality girl. "I'm fine, Horst. There's one favor you might do me, though."

"Name it."

"The media reviews. I'd like to run through them again—work out some angles for our campaign over the coming weeks. Can you plug me through say six or eight of the major networks? I'd like to sleep on them."

Reiss laughed. "If that's what you want, you got it. And again, great job, Jack. You've put us on the map again in a big way and the Company's grateful. Very grateful." Reiss grinned and gave a bow of his head. "Tomorrow, huh?"

"Right."

The screen went blank. Neville sat back, letting out a long whistling breath, then let the girl begin to kneed the tiredness from his shoulders. A place on the executive council, huh? He nodded to himself, imagining it. And maybe, in a year or two, Reiss might groom him for his successor. If things kept going right for him.

"You big man, huh?" the girl asked, poking her head over his shoulder, her smile innocent, disarming.

He smiled. "Seems like it."

She nodded, impressed, then returned to her task with a new vigor. Neville closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. "That's great. You're very good at what you do."

"You, too, it seems."

He laughed. "Yeah. Seems the Company likes me."

"Seems so."

The screen beeped. Neville opened his eyes and looked. The MedFac logo had appeared on the screen, replaced a moment later by the image of a refined old Han with a long gray beard, flowing white silks, and the contemplative eyes of an ancient sage. It was Tung Chung-shu, MedFac's most senior arts reviewer. He was walking in the familiar setting of his garden—a small but tasteful affair—speaking slowly to the camera in Mandarin, one hand pulling at his beard thoughtfully. A voice-over gave the English equivalent.

". . . and until now I would have said there was no future for the medium, but Shih Shepherd's work has convinced me that a work of art—of real and genuine artistic significance—can be created within this previously trivial form."

Tung stopped, one arm resting lightly on the wooden balustrade of a tiny plank bridge, and looked out over a small pond filled with lilies. The camera angle changed, looking across at him, the old-fashioned house framed behind him.

"More impressive, perhaps, is Shepherd's manipulation of the recipient—the audience—for his art. As you know, I have always scorned the term interactive when applied to art. Most so-called interactive art-forms are little more than games—distractions. True art requires a deeper, more inward quality. And that—miraculously, one might almost say—is the true genius of this new work. At all times I was the passive recipient of the experience. Physically I went nowhere—and yet while I was inside Shepherd's work it felt as if I were in control of my environment, as if everything I did I had chosen to do. In that single respect—that of apparent volition—this experience was different, different in kind, from anything I have ever encountered in SimFic's product range, or anyone else's, come to that. There is no doubt about it, Ben Shepherd's The Familiar is a conceptual breakthrough, a new generation Stim—the product of new thinking and, so I gather from Jack Neville at SimFic, of brand new technologies."

Neville leaned back, nodding slowly, thoughtfully, as the screen blanked and a new logo—that of IntSat—appeared. Little do you know of the troubles we had with it, he thought, recalling the months they'd spent trying to perfect Shepherd's techno-gimmickry. But it had worked. And even the crusty old conservative Tung had had his silk socks knocked off by it!

"You want take this off?"

He nodded vaguely, then eased forward, letting the girl lift his silk one-piece and pull it over his head.

"That better, neh?"

But he was watching the screen, only half aware of the gentle movement of her hands on the skin of his back. The image had changed to show a studio set with four earnest young men—Hung Moo every one—leaning in toward each other. Behind them, forming a huge backdrop, was the cover of Ben's The Familiar, with its view of the idyllic German valley in which it was set.

That was a stroke of genius, he thought, preparing two versions—one from the Han perspective and one from the Hung Mao. Only Shepherd would have thought of telling the same story from two entirely different viewpoints.

Yes, and it had guaranteed an across-the-board sale. For the first time in living memory a single work had penetrated both markets. Indeed, if reports were to be believed a lot of people were buying both versions.

There were a few introductory exchanges and then the presenter of the show, Jake Kingsley, a dark-haired, soft-featured man in his mid-twenties, began to speak.

". . . the soundtrack is simply filled with the sound of birdcall and the hum of insects—strange sounds which, at the moment of one's immersion in the medium, seem natural and familiar things—as if it had always been—and yet afterward, in the quiet of recollection, I found the hairs on my neck rise; found myself disturbed profoundly by the memory of that strange, insistent sound."

"That's true," another of them said, joining in. "What also struck me was the amazing openness of things—you know, the big open skies above the town and the constant feeling of sun and wind on your flesh. It was so ... well so real. I mean, we're used to seeing these things on trivee dramas, but that's . . . well, it's like looking at a painting— it doesn't strike home. While I was there, inside the Stim, I was . . . outside. There's no other way of putting it. Shepherd's work"—he shook his head, awed—"well, it's just masterful . . . the most brilliant thing I've yet encountered."

It went on: more, and yet more in the same vein, eulogizing, professing amazement, astonishment, simple awe. And no dissenting voices. Not a single one. That in itself was amazing, for his experience was that when half the critics loved something, the rest would hate it with a loathing that was little short of spitting fury. This once, however, they had been caught off guard, overwhelmed by the shock of something totally, unexpectedly new. Ben's work had simply seduced them.

Neville smiled, then, turning from the now-blank screen, stretched out on his front, letting the girl straddle him, her hands massaging the small of his back.

He had been right to embargo the thing—to keep it secure in SimFic's warehouses until the day of release—letting the media and the public know only that SimFic had the greatest piece of product they would ever see, and risking the possibility that the hype would fall flat and no one like the thing. It had been a big risk—a huge fucking risk, now that he thought about it—but he'd been convinced about it, from the very first time he'd put on the HeadStim and experienced Ben's Familiar for himself.

Yes, and today's attack on the Plantations hadn't harmed things any either. In his experience, the greater people felt threatened, the more they were in need of distractions and Ben's "Shell"—even in its neutered Stim form—was the ultimate distraction.

"Is that nice?"

He grunted softly. Tired he might be, but not so tired that her tender ministrations weren't getting to him. He rolled over and faced her, enjoying the warm weight of her, the way she smiled.

"Today was a big day," he said, breathing deeply as she smoothed her hands across his chest, then slowly eased them all the way down into his groin. "Today I took a huge great gamble . . . and I won."

She grinned. "Fifty thousand. That big bonus. Fifty thousand keep me happy, oh"—she laughed—"many years!"

He smiled, liking her, enjoying the moment. Would there ever be a better moment—a moment when he felt more satisfied? Who could say? But even if there wasn't, even if this was all there was, it was enough. He chuckled, feeling generous suddenly, wanting to share his good luck with her.

"What's your name?"

She looked away, then looked back at him, her smile different somehow. "I called Jia Shu. You Jack, right?"

He nodded. "Okay, Jia Shu, how about this? How about you come and work for me alone? Be my maid. Look after me. I'll pay you well, make sure you looked after, okay?"

Her hands had stopped, now they began again. She gave a tiny nod, her face suddenly tight as if keeping something in, but her eyes, when they met his again, were bright with gratitude, and her body, when it moved against his, was somehow more caring, more intimate, than it had been only moments before.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Faces

THE WOMAN PEEKED through the screen, then quickly withdrew her head, tending to the stove once more. Uncle Pan had settled in the corner chair and lit his pipe. It looked like he was going to stay awhile.

Without being told, she poured hot water into the chung to brew some fresh ch'a, listening as the old man began his regular tirade.

"They're weak, that's what they are! They let that bastard get away with murder! If I were T'ang I'd kick his ass, good and proper! I'd break him over my knee like a rotten twig!"

In her mind's eye she could see Lin look up from his work and smile his lopsided smile, ever tolerant of his uncle's bluster.

"I'd crush him," the old man went on. "And no more silk glove treatment. I'd send a million troops against him and take back what's rightfully mine!"

She heard Lin stand and go to the door, listening a moment, then heard him speak softly to his uncle.

"Be careful what you say, Uncle. For myself, I do not mind, but if anyone should hear—"

"Let them hear!" the old man said belligerently. "That bastard should know the truth!"

She smiled and stood, lifting the steaming chung between her hands and carrying it through. The old man stared at her rudely as she emerged and made a scornful face, but Lin simply smiled at her and nodded.

"You took your time," the old man began, but a look from Lin silenced him. He would put up with most things from his uncle—out of respect and duty—but any criticism of her he stamped on instantly. "Thank you," Lin said, taking over from her, encouraging her with his eyes to go back behind the screen while his uncle was there.

She went back through and squatted by the kang, busying herself with some mending, only half listening to the old man's idle chatter, her mind dwelling instead upon his nephew, her protector, Lin.

In her mind she could see Lin's pale hands working as, smiling tolerantly, he listened to his uncle. Clever hands he had; hands that always knew the best way to fix a thing.

If something was broken, Lin could fix it, from the smallest, most delicate ivory to the biggest, most complex machine. People from stacks around brought things to him to be mended, and each year his reputation grew, each day more things would be brought for his clever hands to see to.

She smiled, looking at her own hands as they worked, neatly stitching the edge of the cloth so that it wouldn't fray again. That much she had learned from him: never to throw anything away. Everything__

everyone—had a use. With patience and care, there was nothing that could not be mended.

She looked up, sighing, remembering how he had nursed her through the long months of her sickness; how patiently he had attended to her, clearing up after her when she was sick, and sitting with her in the night when she was feverish. Mending her. And though that was some years ago now, still the lesson of it returned to her whenever he smiled at her. In all the time she'd known him, never an unkind word had passed his lips, nor had he ever asked a thing of her. What she did, she did from gratitude and because—as he showed by his example—a life of idleness was a life of waste.

"His father . . . now, there was a man!" the old man said, his voice booming loud suddenly. "He was a real emperor. A lion of a man!"

She set the square of cloth down and, leaning across, checked the pots on the kang. There was little enough for two, but for three She decided she would go without. Lin needed his strength, and even to consider not feeding Uncle Pan ... well, it was not done. Besides, she could eat later: have some crackers, or finish off the er-prawn paste in the cold box.

Sitting back, she looked about the room. Like the other half that lay behind the screen, its walls were covered with shelves on which were packed a thousand things waiting to be mended. Their belongings, such as they were, were stashed in a small cupboard to her right, beside the kang, which at nights doubled as a bed for her, Lin sleeping on a bedroll in the other room.

People talked. She knew they did. She had heard them when she'd walked to the washrooms at the corner of the stack to empty the night-soil pot. But she didn't care. They said he used her at nights—abused her badly—but both she and Lin knew the truth of that. What did it matter what idle tongues said? Besides, there were many who spoke up for them. Many who knew Lin's worth and weren't afraid to state it. She looked through the screen toward where he sat, working. "Everyone has a use, even those who seem most idle." That was what he always said, forgiving them. Yes, and he found work for people if he could; helped them in tiny but important ways—even those that spoke badly of him, so that when she thought of him she could not help but think of a great wheel, with Lin at the center, the hub about which so many lives, her own included, revolved, every one of them dependent in some way or other on him.

He didn't look like much, she knew. He was a pale, sickly-looking man, and his face . . .

She stood and went across to where, among a pile of chapter books he'd bought a week ago, she kept the mirror. It was a broken thing, the layer of reflecting ice bubbled on the right-hand side. Like his face, she thought, thinking of the way, when he smiled, the whole of the right-hand side was pulled into a grimace.

It was the kindest, loveliest smile she'd ever seen. . . . She held the mirror up and looked, holding it slightly away from her and moving her face to one side so she could see it whole. It was a strong-boned, healthy face. The face of a Hung Mao woman in her thirties, dark haired and hazel eyed. A handsome face, some said, describing it almost in boyish terms.

"Who are you?" she asked, her mouth forming the words silently. But the answer never came. Like much else, it was hidden from her, behind a screen much darker and thicker than the one that separated her right now from Lin. And Lin? If Lin knew, he wouldn't say. Or didn't know.

"I'd kick his ass!" Uncle Pan was saying, the tirade turning in on itself, like a snake swallowing its tail. "I'd break him over my knee like a rotten twig!"

She set the mirror back, then, with a tiny shudder, went across and began to prepare the meal.

FACES ... what could one tell from a face?

As Karr scrolled through the file of faces, studying each of the seventeen suspects as they appeared, he wondered just what they had in common, and what could be read of them with the eye.

Was it true what was written in the T'ung Shu, that a man's fate could be read in his face? Did the shape of the chin determine one's strength, or the length of the brow one's intelligence? Or was Sun Tzu right when he wrote that a man's exterior—however fine—had little bearing on his character or destiny? For himself he believed the latter. Hans Ebert had had a fine face, and look how he had fared? And DeVore . . . Some said DeVore was handsome. But handsome was as handsome did, and the worldly face DeVore had put on had masked a nature so evil and so corrupt as to warrant a face as black and pestilent as a pit of swarming insects.

Karr froze the image and sat back, rubbing his eyes. He had been at it all night, trying to find connections between these men, but there were no connections. Not one of them knew or had dealings with any of the others, nor was there any point of common interest, as far as he could tell. The only thing they had in common was that they—or copies sent in to replace them—had been seen in the border stacks in the last four weeks, and had been there when they'd no business to be there.

It was time to call them in and question them. Time to take this a stage further. If Kim was right and the tests Surgeon Hu had devised worked, then maybe they'd find an answer to this mystery.

Karr sighed, exasperated. I should have gone home, he told himself. I should have let one of my staff officers do this!

That was true, but that was not his style. Tolonen's lesson was deeply ingrained in him. If you wanted something done properly you had to do it yourself. You trusted your own eyes—you didn't trust what others told you. But sometimes you had to let go. Sometimes you simply had to depend on others.

Kao Chen . . . what I could do with Chen at my side right now.

He smiled. It had been some while since he'd thought of his old friend Chen; some while since his face had crossed the screen of his memory. Now, there was a case in point! Face like a thug. Ugly as sin. And yet an angel of a man. Loyal, trustworthy, the very best of friends. A man you could depend on in a tight corner. But Chen had long ago quit the service. It was nine years now since he had settled on the Plantations with his wife and family.

He chose well, settling so far north, Karr thought, recalling the devastation and loss of life he had witnessed yesterday. If he had settled in a warmer clime he would be dead now. He and all his darlings.

He ought to go and see him, once things were easier. It had been too long. Why, word was that Chen was a grandfather now. A grandfather! He laughed softly, then leaned forward, blanking the screen. It was hard to imagine it. No doubt he had a few gray hairs—

"Sir?"

Karr looked around. His equerry was standing in the doorway.

"Yes, Pietr?"

"Shih Ward is here, sir. He'd like a word with you."

"Tell him I'll be with him in a moment. Take him through to my office and look after him, okay? I just want to finish here."

"Sir!"

He sat, resting a moment. To tell the truth, he'd done all he could, but he wanted a moment before he saw Ward again. Something was nagging at him. Something obvious he'd overlooked.

How often that happened. How often, when you focused on a problem, nothing would come, and then, just as soon ais you'd relaxed and were thinking of something else—BANG!—there it was, the answer, as if from nowhere.

He laughed and stood. Yes, but now I'm thinking about it again. . . .

Chen. Yes, he'd visit Chen. As soon as time permitted.

"Shih Ward ... how are you?"

"Well, thank you," Kim said, standing and greeting Karr. "I understand the camera trawl threw up seventeen suspects."

"That's right," Karr said, going around his desk. "I'm having them brought in right now. We should know before lunchtime whether we've got more copies on our hands."

"But no connections, right?"

Karr stared at him, then nodded. "How did you know?"

Kim smiled. "Just a hunch. I was thinking about it earlier, when I was swimming with my son."

"And?"

"And I was thinking that if I was going to try to infiltrate the City I would ensure that there were as few connections as possible between those people I was going to replace. In fact, I'd make the whole thing as inconspicuous as possible."

Karr shrugged. "Fine. But to what purpose?"

"To whatever purpose I wanted. To assassinate targeted officials, maybe. Or to cause maximum disruption, perhaps by acting as human bombs. Or—and this only occurred to me traveling across—simply to sow despair."

"You're not serious, surely?"

"Why not?" Kim leaned forward, placing his hands on Karr's desk. "What weapon could be more effective? What could damage us more as a society than a whole group of individuals going about spreading the gospel of negativity?"

"But the expense! To make these things must have cost billions!"

"To develop them, yes. But to build them . . ." Kim shook his head. "My guess is that the hard work—the R and D—was already done. My guess is that once we start looking we'll find hundreds of these things!"

Karr stared back at him a moment, then shuddered. "You're sure you're not one yourself, Shih Ward? To hear you speak . . ."

"Forgive me," Kim said, sitting back. "My words weren't meant to frighten you. Once we locate these things we can deal with them. But I think we ought to widen the scope of our investigation and look back through the camera records not just a month or two but over a much longer period. Several years, perhaps."

"But you said—"

"I've changed my mind. I think that whoever devised this is playing a long game. Placing sleepers among us. At some point, when he has enough of them in place, they'll be activated."

Karr whistled. "I see. I—"

His desk communicator buzzed. '

"What is it?" he asked, touching the pad.

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's an urgent message for Shih Ward."

Karr looked to Kim. "Would you like to take it privately?"

"No. Patch it through."

The two men turned to face the screen as it came down. An aged Han faced them, his thinly covered head bowed.

"Shih Ward?"

"Who calls me urgently?"

The old man raised his head. "Forgive me for disturbing you, Master. I am Steward Cui. We met yesterday. . . ."

"Of course," Kim said, lowering his head slightly. "You have a message for me from your Master, Steward Cui?"

"He"—the old Han made a movement with his mouth as if finding it difficult to say what he was about to say—"he says he begs you to forgive him his rudeness yesterday. He says ... if you would graciously visit him this afternoon?"

Karr looked at Kim. Something strange was happening in the young man's face. He saw the flickering emotions there, quickly controlled.

Kim raised his head proudly. "Tell your Master that 1 shall be most honored to visit him. What time would be most convenient?"

Cui gave a grateful little bob of his head. "If you would care to be here at two, I shall prepare a light meal for you."

"That is most kind, Steward Cui. Until two, then. . . ."

The screen went blank. Slowly it slid back into its ceiling slot.

"The Marshal?" Karr asked, then frowned, surprised by how unguarded Kim's expression was. For a brief moment his face revealed an unexpected vulnerability, then he composed himself again.

Kim nodded. "That's right. Now where were we ... ?"

LEHMANN WALKED SWIFTLY through the massive entrance hall, the click of his booted footsteps carried back to him from the high, vaulted ceiling. The Shen Chang Fang at Milan was the oldest and most magnificent of GenSyn's installations, taking up seven whole stacks at the very center of Milan Hsien, directly above the old city. The sheer grandeur of the place spoke of a different age—an age of fluted pillars and massive, echoing halls. It was said the ghost of Klaus Ebert walked their marble halls, but now the staff bowed their heads to another Master, kneeling hurriedly in the broad corridors as the White T'ang approached, his entourage hastening to keep up with him.

Steiger, the installation's Director, hurried to greet Lehmann as he bore down on the entrance to the new wing, bowing elaborately, but Lehmann swept past him as if he weren't there, making his way through to the laboratory where the copy had been taken.

Soucek was inside, standing over the part-dissected corpse, watching the four-man team of technicians at work. As Lehmann entered, he stepped back, allowing his Master to take his place beside the operating table.

Lehmann studied the body a moment, then looked to Soucek, indicating that they should go into the next room.

Inside, the door closed, Lehmann went to the observation window. "So what do we know?"

"Nothing," Soucek said. "If I didn't know better I'd say that thing out there was real. A human being, born to a regular human mother."

"Then maybe he was."

Soucek looked surprised. "You think they know?"

Lehmann stared at the corpse thoughtfully, then turned to face his lieutenant. "More than us, perhaps. I'm beginning to wonder if these really are Li Yuan's creatures."

"They have to be. We know Ward was working on these long before the war began. He's had a long time to perfect them."

"Maybe. But word is he hasn't been working for Li Yuan for some while. And what happened yesterday makes no sense."

"Unless the thing just panicked."

Lehmann considered that, then shook his head. "I don't believe that. Its actions were too controlled. Too . . . planned. The coat it was wearing . . . the thing that made it trace-invisible . . . what was that?"

Soucek shrugged. "We don't know."

"We didn't recover it, then?"

"No. I took that place apart but there was no sign of it. They must have taken it to Bremen."

There was the slightest twitch of irritation on Lehmann's otherwise emotionless features.

"You want us to try to get it?"

Lehmann nodded. "Just so long as it doesn't affect any of our other schemes. Can we spare an operative?"

"I'll have two men on it at once."

"Good. Now about this body. If it's not one of Ward's—if that's not where they're coming from—then where are they from? What do we know about its movements before we chanced on it?"

"Not a lot. We've traced it to the south—to Almeria, in fact—but we can't be certain that's where it came in."

"Then let's find out for sure. Make that a priority, Jiri. If these are coming in from Africa, then it's more serious than I thought. If the Mountain Lords have copies . . ."

Soucek laughed. The idea was absurd. "But Fu Chiang buys technology off us! Why, if he'd developed these—"

He stopped. Lehmann was not listening. The albino had turned and was staring at the copy, his mouth fallen open.

"What is it?"

But Lehmann was shaking his head. "No," he said quietly. '%

couldn't be ..."

"Couldn't be what?"

"DeVore ..."

"DeVore?" Soucek shrugged. Who the fuck was DeVore?

"It wasn't Ward," Lehmann said, meeting Soucek's eyes, his pale face burning with certainty. "We've been looking in the wrong direction. It's DeVore. Howard DeVore. He's back. The bastard's back!"

UNCLE PAN HAD GONE. Lin came back into the apartment and looked at her, letting a sigh of relief escape him. He was late now, she knew—had lost a precious hour of trading—but there was no sign of impatience, only a smile that seemed to say, All, well . . .

"Can I help you?" she asked softly, looking to his cart.

His eyes followed hers, then looked back at her. "Would you like to come with me this time?"

She stared at him, surprised. He had never asked before. Always, before now, he had gone to the market on his own, bringing her back some small gift at the end of the day, just to let her know he'd been thinking of her.

"Can I?" she said, her face lit up by the thought of it.

He nodded, his broad answering smile distorting the right-hand side of his face.

"Clear the dinner things. I'll pack the cart."

STEWARD GUI let Kim into the darkened Mansion, placing a finger to his lips, then took Kim's jacket.

"He's resting right now," he said in a whisper, "but come through. I'll see if he's awake."

Kim looked about him at the shadowed hallway, remembering the last time he had been here. Then it had seemed a bright and bustling place—filled with Jelka's presence—but now the air was musty and the rooms had the feel of death about them. Even the boy, Pauli Ebert, had been taken from him—given into the care of a younger, healthier man. So Tolonen was alone now. Kim shivered. How long had he been living like this?

"Shih Ward . . . If you would come ..."

He followed Cui down a long, dark corridor and out across a second hallway. Stairs went up into the darkness. Everywhere he looked doors were closed, as if the old house had been locked up.

Cui stopped before an imposing doorway and turned to Kim. "If you would wait just a moment, Shih Ward."

"Of course."

While Cui slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him, Kim turned, looking down the corridor. Military paintings filled the walls—portraits of famous generals and scenes from famous battles.

All lies, he thought, studying one that showed the victory of the Han armies at Kazatin, the Emperor Domitian—Kan Ying—bowing before the conquering general, Pan Chao. It was a familiar image and hung in schoolrooms throughout the levels, but it was a lie, for the battle had never been fought. In fact, no Han army had ever marched upon the Ta Ts'm—the Roman Empire—let alone defeated it. Not in this reality. The truth was that Pan Chao and his handful of followers had reached the Caspian in 92 B.C. and withdrawn, leaving Europe to shape its own destiny. In this reality it had been fully two millennia before the Han returned as conquerors.

Lies. It was all built on lies. What he had said to Sampsa the other evening was the truth: the City was nothing but a box of dreams—the dreams of an evil god.

And now he must defend those dreams, lest they come crashing down. For in waking they might all die.

"Shih Ward. If you would step inside, the Marshal will see you now."

He went into the darkened room, his heart beating fast in his chest. How often he'd imagined this moment, how often he'd rehearsed which words to say; but his first glimpse of the old man robbed him of speech.

Aiya, he thought, pained by the sight.

Tolonen was propped up on his pillows. His mottled, shrunken head was completely bald and only his left arm—its golden surface polished brightly—showed above the dark blue silken covers. The whole of his right side was paralyzed and had atrophied—the result of the stroke he had suffered six years before. As for his face . . . Kim bit his lip, moaning softly at the sight. The old man's face was thin and drawn—a grotesque caricature of what it once had been. About his neck hung what looked like a thick black brace. Kim recognized it at once. It was a speech-enhancer; one of the inventions he had worked on while he was a commodity slave for SimFic.

Beside Tolonen, on the bedside table, was the black case of the holo Kim had left the day before. "Shih Ward . . . ?" The voice was thin, almost metallic: a perfect representation of the man.

Is that really you? Kim asked silently, appalled by how much the old man had changed. Or is this some hideous, ill-shaped copy sent to haunt me?

"Marshal . . ." he said, subdued.

The golden hand lifted wearily and beckoned him. "Come closer, boy. I cannot see you in the shadows."

He moved toward the bed, feeling a heavy reluctance. The covers had been perfumed, the room sprayed with strong disguising scents, but still he could smell the old man. A stale, unhealthy smell.

And in his mind—like some dreadful mockery—he saw Tolonen as he best remembered him, stripped to the waist and exercising, muscled like a god. Where had that gone? Where in the gods' names had that gone?

Kim stopped, an arm's length from the bed, looking down at Tolonen. A pair of watery gray eyes stared back at him, one focused, one drifting in its orbit, let down by the muscles surrounding it.

"How is she?"

Kim smiled sadly. "She's well," he said. "And the boy. He's a healthy lad. He has his mother's nature."

"I miss her," the old man said, the enhancer making the words sound flat, unemotional. "It's been unbearable without her."

Kim nodded, understanding. "She misses you."

The old man swallowed painfully. His good eye blinked. "I ... I was wrong."

"No," Kim said. There was a speech here he'd rehearsed, an angry, bitter speech about the wasted years and the stupidity of pride, but it meant nothing now. All that mattered was to heal the wound. To end this senseless feud.

"She loves you," he said.

The old man's mouth quivered, twisted strangely.

"What's done is done," Kim said. "Let it go. Come and live with us. It's what she wants. What we all want."

He waited, seeing how the old man struggled with himself. Even to agree to see him, he knew, had cost the old man greatly. His pride, his stupid, senseless pride—yet if he threw that away, what would remain of him?

"I ..." He saw the last shred of defiance vanish like a wisp of smoke. The old man nodded stiffly, more a spasm of the neck than a nod, then closed his eyes. Slowly a tear rolled down his cheek.

Kim knelt and took the old man's golden hand between his own.

"It's over," he said, smiling, all the bitterness and anger purged from him. "You're going home, Knut. Home to Kalevala."

SAMPSA LAY ON HIS BACK in the sunlight, the smooth surface of the rock warm beneath him as he listened to the gentle slush of the waves lapping on the shingle farther down the beach.

Beside him a crab scuttled in the shallow rock pool, the pattern On its back like the Han symbol erh, the complex pictogram night-black against the meat red shell. He watched it through half-lidded eyes, then looked up, studying the shapes of clouds.

Significance. Suddenly the world seemed to have significance.

He felt the tickling again, a dim presence at the back of his mind. The boy was searching for him, trying to find him with his mind.

For a moment he resisted, a faint reverberation in his head like an insect brushing against the glass of a fastened window, then, as if he'd unlocked it and thrown up the sash, the words rushed in.

Did you see the pearl?

He frowned, then answered. Yes.

Sampsa shifted slightly on the gently sloping rock, then stretched lazily, spreading his toes. The dream. The boy was talking of the dream he'd had last night. For a second or two the silence in his head seemed vast, like the inside of some huge, sepulchral building, and then it came again.

That cloud . . . it's like a tiger. . . .

He watched the air show pass, the sun riding the great beast's back, feeling himself a channel, a window for the other's eyes.

Sampsa? Where are you?

He sat up and looked about him, letting the other see. "I'm on the island," he said, as if the other were blind and was seated beside him on the rock. "That house—" he looked up at the tower built into the rock face to his right—"that house is Kalevala. My home."

He stared at it awhile, tracing its ancient shape, letting his mind fill with his memories of the place, then looked down into the pool. The crab was resting now, its huge front pincers slowly opening and closing. Erh . . .

The double. Sampsa leaned forward and, lightning quick, breached the surface of the water with his finger and touched the marking on the shell. As the crab scuttled away beneath a ledge of rock, he could hear laughter in his head.

He turned, looking south. "Why can't I see where you are?" You can, the other answered. Just close your eyes and look. He closed his eyes and looked. The blood-red of veins on the back of his lids faded to darkness and then . . .

The cottage seemed embedded in the hillside, the white of its walls vivid against the green. Beyond it similar cottages climbed the hill. And beyond that . . . "What is that?"

That's the City. Its walls surround the valley. "Ah ..."

He felt the boy turn; saw fields and trees and then . . . The bay. Slowly he moved toward it, past the charred remnants of an outhouse and down through fields until he stood beside it, looking out across the gray-green water. "Where are the waves?"

Again there was laughter. Then, beyond what he saw, he sensed the memory of waves coming in across a pale white rock that juttled from a beach of yellow sand.

"What is that?" he asked, confused, but he could hear someone calling now, and as he turned to look the vision flickered and was gone.

Tom. The other's name was Tom.

Sampsa opened his eyes and shivered. From its place beneath the rock ledge the crab eyed him warily, the message on his shell hidden from sight.

For the briefest moment he had glimpsed her, dark as his own mother was light, voluptuous where she was austere. And about her neck, the pearl; the same black pearl he had seen in the dream.

At once he saw himself in the water, forcing himself down, down, into the sunless depths, his legs kicking strongly, his arms pulling him down through the hostile dark. For a moment he had glimpsed it, there on the shining open shell—a perfect night-dark pearl, as large as the tip of his little finger—and had stretched to take it, but even as his fingers reached for it, he had felt himself drawn upward and, lungs bursting, had kicked hard for the surface high above.

He had woken suddenly, gasping, his head ringing, his chest tight with imagined pain. The pearl. He had opened his hand and stared at his empty palm, the sense of loss powerful, unaccountable.

And then, that morning, diving with his father from the rocks, he had found himself searching the rocky bed of the bay, looking for it, expecting it almost, even though he knew no oysters grew in that frigid northern sea. And once again, his sense of disappointment had been sharp. But now he knew.

Did you see the pearl?

This time he smiled. Yes. I saw it.

"Sam-psa! Sam-psa!"

He turned and looked up at the house. His mother was leaning from the kitchen window.

"I'm coming," he yelled, beginning to make his way across the rocks toward the steps. Yet even as he did, he had the faintest sensation of grass brushing against his bare legs, the vaguest impression of an overpowering whiteness at the back of everything.

Doubled. Suddenly the world was doubled.

"Later on I'll show you the cave and the place where the trees were burned."

Yes, Tom answered. And maybe we can row across the bay to where the ground is fused glass-black. There was a house there once. . . .

Sampsa smiled, then began to climb the steps, deciding he would say nothing to his mother.

At the top of the steps he turned, letting Tom look out through him a moment, sharing with him the rugged beauty of the view.

No. This would be their secret, just he and Tom would know.

Later, Tom said. Okay?

"Later," he acknowledged, feeling Tom slip from his head. Then, alone once more, he turned, and pushing through the gate, made his way across the garden, heading for the house.

tom SAT IN THE CORNER of the room, spooning down his soup, while, on the far side of the room, his mother stood before the wall-screen.

On the screen itself, half life-size, three men—young men in their twenties—sat about a table, as if in a restaurant, talking and drinking wine. Tom glanced at it, uninterested, then concentrated on his soup again, aware only that his mother had gone suddenly from the room.

A moment later Meg was back, Ben in tow.

"There," she said. "That's him, isn't it?"

Tom looked up. His father was staring at the screen and frowning deeply as he listened. After a moment he laughed coldly, then, speaking to the house computer, said, "Play this item from the beginning."

Tom finished his soup then pushed the bowl away. The program began again.

He had not really been listening, yet his ears had taken in every word. As the discussion began, he found he knew what each was going to say. Not that that was odd: it was a skill—a talent—he had inherited from his father. Perfect recall. Sometimes it came in handy. Most times it was a nuisance—a barrier to simple being.

He slipped off the chair and—unnoticed by his parents—crossed the room, seating himself halfway up the stairs, on the turn where the rope was.

His father had crouched before the screen and was watching it attentively. The man in the middle was someone called Sergey Novacek, a sculptor, supposedly, though how a man with a shattered hand could be a sculptor was beyond Tom. To his left sat a man who called himself an art critic—one Ucef Agrafes, which sounded like a made-up name. To the right of the screen was someone Tom had heard of, the famous painter Ernst Heydemeier, creator of the so-called Futur-Kunst movement.

And their subject? Tom smiled, noting the tension in his father's body. The subject was Ben Shepherd's The Familiar.

Just then the comset in the corner began to bleep. His mother went across and picked up the handset. She was silent a moment, then turned, looking to Ben.

"He's watching it right now," she said, the words distinct enough to make Ben glance at her, before looking back at the screen.

"Okay," she added, after a moment. "I'm sure he will."

She set it down then went back and stood beside Ben, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

"For me it's not the concept," Heydemeier was saying. "I think the concept is quite a brilliant one. But then the concept isn't what's new here. The concept of shell technologies is actually more than two centuries old and Shepherd can no more take the credit for inventing it than any of us sitting about this table. No, what's new here is the degree of realism he's striven for, and I'm afraid that's just what's so deathly about the whole thing. It's just too real, too lifelike. Why, it's like someone has simply gone out with a new kind of camera and photographed the inside of someone's head. It's . . . well, I just feel it lacks all of those qualities that we recognize as being artistic. Art has to make some kind of statement about the world. It needs to reinterpret it for us, otherwise it simply isn't art. And Shepherd's Familiar, I'm afraid to say, simply isn't art."

Tom heard the tiny grunt his father gave, and noted how he had pressed his hands together on his knees, as if to still them.

Novacek, who was chairing the panel, now leaned forward and, lifting a bottle, began to fill his glass again as he spoke.

"I take what you say, Ernst, but you seem to imply that, even if it isn't art, there is, nonetheless, some kind of technical excellence at work here. Indeed, that seems to be the single factor that swayed most of the critics who've thus far reviewed it. The surface glitter of the thing. For me, however, that so-called excellence seems more like sleight of hand; a kind of slick cheating. For me that smacks of the artist—and I define that term very loosely, I hasten to say—as magician. The whole thing is a cheap illusion, manufactured not by an artist, but by the worst kind of con artist."

"I quite agree," Agrafes chipped in. "In fact, I'd go farther and say that some of the scenes with the woman are no better than the cheapest Porno-Stims—the very lowest kind of titillation—and say more for the moral bankruptcy of my fellow critics than for the excellence of the work. For let us be quite clear, we are not talking about genuine excellence here. Ben Shepherd's The Familiar is—and let us not pontificate or try to obscure the point—the start of a new and quite disturbing trend which, unless something is done to try to prevent its proliferation, is almost certain to lead us down the path toward total moral degradation. To my mind it's filth of the lowest level—filth masquerading as high art!"

Ben stood, putting up a hand. At once the image froze.

"Well?" Meg asked quietly. "It is him, isn't it?"

Ben nodded. His silence was the silence of anger.

"Do you know he married her?"

The look that came to his face was rare indeed; a look of shock. "You didn't say," he answered, his voice almost a whisper.

She shook her head, her eyes apologetic.

He looked back at the screen and shuddered. "He must haveiwaited years for this chance to get back at me. Cheap illusions . . ." He made a snort of disgust. "As if that manufacturer of funerary items could even tell!"

"Distractions," she said. "That's what you said they are."

He glared at her, and then relented. "Achh . . . this is exactly what I wanted to avoid."

"Then ignore it. Don't lower yourself to their level."

"But the lies—"

"Are only lies. Or an opinion. You never know, he may even be sincere."

"Who, Novacek? No. He's a cunt! A shameless piece of shit! I should have snapped more than his hand!"

"Ben!"

The anguish in his mother's voice surprised Tom. He stared at her, not quite understanding what had happened. The past. This was a chapter of the past he hadn't read.

"What did Neville want?" Ben asked, after a moment.

"He . . ." She sighed. "Look, Ben, just forget this. It will do far more harm to answer them than ignore them."

"Maybe. But what did Neville say?"

She looked down. "He says he's booked a slot on three of the major channels for ten this evening. That's if you want to answer the criticisms. I said you'd let him know."

Tom watched, fascinated, not knowing what would come. For once this was a situation he could not recall.

"Tell him I'll pass," Ben said, and Tom, watching, saw how his mother let out a huge sigh of relief at that. But as his father turned away, he saw a strange glint in his eye and knew the matter wasn't over.

THE DAY HAD GONE WELL. According to Lin, they had taken in more than twice what he usually did, and he was kind enough to put it down to her presence there behind the stall.

"We should do this regularly," he said in a quiet moment. "The customers seem to like you."

She smiled and looked down, abashed and yet also pleased by his praise. But more than that, she had enjoyed the day—enjoyed it more than she cared to think. For so long, it seemed, she had been caged.

Not that she had ever looked at it that way before. And to even suggest it to him—well, it was unthinkable.

"If that's what you'd like . . ."

His lopsided smile said that it was. Pleased, she attended to the stall, rearranging what was left so that it looked its best. Customers came and went, and for the next hour she barely had time to think. At the end of it she looked to Lin.

"Well?" she asked, seeing how strangely he was looking at her.

"I should have known," he said with a little sigh.

"Known what?" she asked quietly.

"That it was wrong." He looked down. "Wrong to keep you shut away. You needed this. Or something like this. I've never seen you so alive."

She looked away again, disturbed. "It wasn't wrong," she said. "You took care of me." She looked back at him, then reached out, holding his arm. "Nothing you could ever do would be wrong."

His eyes sought hers, then looked away, as if ashamed.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nu shi . . ."

She turned, facing the customer who had interrupted her. "Just a moment . . ." But the look of surprise on the man's face at seeing her made her stop and frown. "Can I help you?"

"No . . . no, I ... Forgive me, I made a mistake."

He turned and vanished in the crowd, leaving her staring after him.

"What is it?" Lin asked, seeing the look on her face.

"That man," she said.

"You knew him?"

"No ... I mean, I don't think I did."

"Then what?" Unexpectedly he reached out and took her arms, turning her to face him. His face was more earnest than she'd ever seen it, his eyes searching hers. "Did you know him, or didn't you?"

"No," she said, certain about it now that she'd searched her memory. "But he knew me."

Lin swallowed. His face had gone pale. "Pack up," he said, pointing to the cart. "We're going from here right now."

"But—"

He shook her. "Do what I say. Now! Understand me?"

"Lin . . . ?"

"Now!"

MACH PUSHED HIS WAY through the crowd until he came out by the Market Inspector's Cabin. There was a queue by the window, but he ignored it. He went straight to the door and knocked loudly. Two men, who'd been standing nearby, started to make their way across, but he turned and held up his pass. They stared a moment, then, satisfied, backed away.

As the door opened, he stepped through, pushing past the surprised Inspector who was getting up from the table.

"I want information," he said, showing the man his pass as he stared about the littered cabin. The man had been eating, and a half-empty bottle of Jung Shen wine rested on the table.

"Of course, Master . . . Harris," he finished, reading what was written on the fake pass. "What do you need to know?"

"Stall five three seven," he said. "Who is the woman who owns it?"

The Inspector laughed. "Forgive me, Master, but you must be mistaken. Stall Five Three Seven is owned by Lin the Mender. There is no woman—"

He stopped, silenced by Mach's look.

"Today there is a woman there. So who is she? And where does this Lin live?"

"I . . ." The man wiped his mouth then went across and, searching among his records, returned with the card for Stall. Mach studied it a moment, then pocketed it.

"But, Master—"

"I'll return it," Mach said brusquely. Then, without another word, he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

"In here!" Lin said, thrusting the cart into a side room, then turning to grab her by the arm. "Quick, now! Before he comes!"

Who is he? she wanted to ask. And what's going on? But the blind panic in his face, the very roughness of the way he pushed her into the room and slammed the door behind him, convinced her it was not the time to ask. Besides, his hand was clamped over her mouth. Outside she heard shouting, a curt demand—"Where are they? You ... did you see someone come down here?"—then booted feet running past the door.

Lin waited almost a minute, staring open mouthed at the door, barely daring to breathe. Then, slowly, he released the pressure on her mouth.

"Forgive me," he said, realizing suddenly what he'd been doing. "I . . ." He took a long, shuddering breath, then leaned toward her, whispering. "We are in great danger. That man"—he swallowed, the damaged side of his face twitching now—"I think he's trying to kill you."

Kill me? The shock of it rippled through her. She felt her legs go weak. "Why?" she asked, her voice tiny.

"I . . ." He stared at her, pained, remembering something—something he could not describe to her—then shook his head. "Believe me," he said. "I would never lie to you."

Who am I? she wanted to ask. Who in the gods' names am I? But she knew she had less chance of getting an answer from him than from the mirror.

"I have to go," he said. "There's a friend close by. He'll hide us until we can find somewhere else. We—"

"What's happening, Lin Shang?"

He tried to answer her—she could see how hard he tried to free the words—but the habit of the secret had become so strong, it was impossible. Again he shook his head.

"Stay here," he said, placing a hand on her own. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

And don't open the door unless you hear my knock. . . .

"And don't open the door unless you hear my knock. . . ."

She smiled, the familiar phrase reassuringly welcome. "I won't," she said. "Take care." And then he was gone and she was alone, wondering if she would ever see him again.

For a moment she leaned against the door, recovering her strength, then reached up to throw the catch. It was a small thing, barely enough to stop a child if he were determined enough, but she felt strangely better for it.

She turned, then, moving the cart aside, looked about her. It was a storeroom, and beyond . . .

She crossed the room and opened the door, stepping into what seemed like a family room. There was a bed and a low table, two mats, and, on the wall beside an inset screen, a picture of a family—a man, a woman, and two children. Han. She wondered where they were, what they were doing. Then, because she could not stop herself, she wondered why someone should want to kill her. Someone she didn't know.

The accident ... it had to do with the accident.

She stepped across and pressed the pad below the screen, some strange compulsion shaping the decision. For years now she had lived without it—could not remember a time, in fact, when there had been an active screen in a room she was in. Of all the things Lin had mended over the years, he had never touched a screen.

She watched as the image formed. There was a hall, a massive hall with pillars and balconies, and a host of men in white flowing robes trimmed with red, their heads shaven. On a platform high above it all was another man—a "priest" she realized, wondering where that word had come from. As the crowd below fell silent he raised his hands and began to speak. And as he began to speak the camera moved in close upon his shining face.

"Pasek," she said, shuddering. "Karel Pasek." And with the words the walls holding back her memory cracked and fell.

"Aiya . . ." she moaned, staggering back, then fell to her knees, gulping for air, while above her, Pasek's face slowly grew until it filled the whole of the screen, his eyes staring out, cold and soulless from the godless depths in which he lived.

And in her frightened mind she saw his lips smile, then move to form her name, his voice uttering the words the mirror had refused to offer up.

"Emily . . . Emily Ascher ... So there you are."

AS THE ACOLYTES queued patiently to climb the golden steps and kiss the Sacred Master's foot, Lehmann, seated in a balcony overlooking the scene, gestured to Soucek that he should come across.

"How much longer?" he said quietly to his lieutenant's ear, as the latest of the Blessed Thousand lingered above the sacred foot with a look of drugged-induced bliss.

"Oh, there are hundreds of the bastards yet!" Soucek said, his tone almost as acidic as his Master's. "I've heard of paying lip service, but this is ridiculous!"

"He takes too much upon himself," Lehmann answered coldly, speaking from the side of his mouth. "The man has ambitions above his station. One day he'll go too far."

"And then?"

Lehmann looked at his lieutenant; a look Soucek understood without needing to be told.

Right now Pasek was useful. He was a focus for the disaffection in their City. Religion—now, that was something the Han had never understood. But harness it, as the great Hung Hsiu-ch'uan had once harnessed it in the time of the Taiping, and one could destroy empires. Or build them. But religion was a two-edged sword, and its leaders invariably came to see themselves as gods.

But Lehmann had little time for gods, only for men he could use.

Soucek smiled, then stiffened, seeing movement in the shadows behind his Master. Drawing his knife, he stepped between Lehmann and the door, prepared to strike.

"Jiri . . ."

Soucek let his breath hiss from him, then sheathed his knife. It was Mach. He turned, noting how Lehmann was watching them, his own pearl-handled knife resting in his lap.

"What is it?" Lehmann asked softly, conscious of the ceremony continuing behind him.

In answer Mach stepped past Soucek and handed Lehmann a slip of paper: a copy of a poster that had been circulating the levels in its thousands recently. On it was a photo of a dark-haired woman and a figure—a reward of half a million yuan.

"So?" Lehmann asked, meeting Mach's eyes again.

"So I've found her," Mach answered, smiling. "I've found Emily Ascher."

"Found her? Then where is she?"

"Nearby. I ... I've tracked her to one of the local stacks."

"And you want my help to flush her out?"

Mach nodded.

"And when you get her?" Lehmann's eyes studied his old ally closely. "You fancy that reward?"

Mach laughed. "No, Stefan. I thought you'd like her. These posters . . . her old husband, Michael Lever is behind them. And Lever's a powerful man these days in Li Yuan's Enclave. I thought . . ."

Lehmann nodded. "You did well to come to me, Jan. A lesser man might have thought of the money. But you—you always were ambitious, weren't you?"

Mach shrugged, but all three of them knew the truth. Since Pasek had been taken up by Lehmann, Mach's own organizations had been under pressure. Pasek's Black Hand had all but destroyed the Yu. But if Lehmann gave his support, Mach could again be powerful.

"You could be useful, Jan," Lehmann said, turning to watch Pasek once more. "Our friend the Priest is getting rather high and mighty, wouldn't you say?"

He turned, letting his eyes say what he meant.

"Power's a delicate thing," Mach answered. "To rule, one needs to use checks and balances."

Lehmann nodded. "You understand, then?"

"And the woman, Ascher?"

"Take Jiri here. He'll help you flush her out. Oh, and Jan . . ."

"Yes, Stefan?"

"You've no ... beliefs, have you?"

"Who, me?" Mach laughed, then shook his head, scowling. "Why, if I met God Himself I'd spit in his eye before I'd bow my head to him!"

CHAPTER TWENTY

Puppet Dance

LI YUAN came down the dragon steps and stood over Karr, one hand gripping his imperial yellow silks, the other pointed accusingly at his kneeling General. Nearby his full Court had been drawn up for the audience, and his wife, his Chancellor, and several other senior Ministers and Advisors stood watching as, his face dark with anger, he bawled Karr out.

"Odessa! How could you lose Odessa? Don't you understand how vital Odessa fortress was? And now it's his. His.¹ Why, he has only to strike north to Kharkov and we are undone. I shall be trapped between his forces and the West Asian warlords. And what then?"

Then we must strengthen Kharkov, Karr thought. But he said nothing. He kept his head bowed, his face an expressionless mask, accepting his Master's blame, letting the young T'ang's anger wash over him like the tide.

"And Chang! Where is Minister Chang? You promised me him, General Karr! But he's slipped the net. You were watching him, neh?"

"I was, Chieh Hsia."

"So what happened?"

"I do not know, Chieh Hsia. Much else was happening. The copies—"

Li Yuan waved the excuse away. "I gave that job to Ward. You, General, should have been concentrating on more important matters! I mean, what in the gods' name were you doing, losing Odessa! Surely you could see his purpose?"

Not until too late, Karr answered in his head, and I defy any other man to say different. But he kept the thought to himself once more, merely dipping his head a fraction lower, as if accepting the criticism at face value.

Rheinhardt, he thought. Rheinhardt is behind this. He never forgave me for taking his job. And now he's whispering his poison in the Tang's ear, setting him against me.

He swallowed, gripped by a sudden bitterness at the thanklessness of his task. After all I've done . . . to be treated thus.

Li Yuan was still shouting at him, blaming him, returning time and again to his stupidity at losing Odessa.

It was a brilliant move, he thought, feeling a strange respect for his adversary. Like a cutting move in a game of wei ch'i, it had changed the shapes on the board at a stroke. Li Yuan had always been on the defensive against a stronger player, but now things had entered a new and critical phase. Now the endgame was about to begin.

As Li Yuan went back up the steps, returning to his throne, Karr realized he had been dismissed. For the last minute or so he had been detached from it all, the T'ang's harsh words troubling him no more than a baby's babble. But now he had to stand and make his way from there, and that proved hard. As he stood he kept his head lowered, properly reverential, then, bowed at the waist, he began to back away, feeling a warmth at his neck that was as rare as it was unexpected. Never, before now, had he felt ashamed. Never, even when he'd lived beneath the Net, had he let another man do this to him.

Between the watching ranks of Courtiers and Ministers he went, head bowed, back beneath the great arch of the entrance, watching the great doors close slowly upon the scowling T'ang, perched atop his Presence Throne.

As the doors slammed shut Karr let a breath escape him, then turned, straightening up, making a tiny movement as if shaking off some dark and evil spell. He looked about him, noting how his men could no longer look at him; how their eyes slid away, embarrassed to see their General so belittled.

"Come!" he said curtly, gesturing for them to follow, then began to march at a pace toward the Eastern Gate and the hangars beyond.

He was climbing aboard his cruiser when a shout made him turn. It was the Chancellor, Nan Ho. He was running across the grass toward the hangars, lifting his silks with one hand as he ran, while his other arm hailed the General. . ; ,_: . , ^.mj.,.„,».», ,.*• . ..'; ...

"What is it, Master Nan?" he asked, overpolitely, as the old man stopped, wheezing, at the foot of the ramp.

"Send . . . send your men . . . away, General . . . Karr." Nan Ho took a long breath, then spoke again. "We need to straighten a few things out. I could not see you leave like this."

Karr turned, waving his men out of the hangar. When they were gone, he faced Nan Ho once more.

"So?"

Nan Ho came up the ramp until he stood close, dwarfed by Karr. "You must be patient with him, Gregor. The events of the past few days have been a shock to him. He had thought to make a brand-new start, but now his plans are in ruin, there are intruders in his City, and one of his key fortresses—perhaps the key—is in his enemy's hands. Would you not feel angry? Would you not—in some strange way—feel betrayed? And if not by fate, then by whom? In his mind he searches for a scapegoat, and for now he has found you."

Karr's anger—his frustration—suddenly boiled over. "And that should make me feel better⁷."

Nan Ho shook his head, a genuine distress at Karr's predicament in his eyes. "No. It must have been hard just now. Hard to say nothing when so much was being said, neh?"

Karr merely sniffed.

"Look, I understand. But before you do anything rash, let me tell you how things stand, Gregor Karr. Minister Chang has fled to the southern City. I have word that his paymaster, the White T'ang, was none too pleased to see him. And no wonder. Here he was an asset, there he's merely another mouth to feed."

"And Rheinhardt? What's his role in all this? Is he counseling Li Yuan against me?"

Nan Ho looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. "You . . . you must trust me, Gregor. I shall do what I can. Just now the T'ang is set against you, but his mood will change. Ride out this temporary storm. Do nothing rash."

"Rash?" Karr laughed. "Do you not know me, Master Nan?"

"I think I do. And find no better a servant to the T'ang ... bar myself, of course."

"But yet Li Yuan does not trust me? Our Master, it seems, prefers the prattlings of a bitter man."

Nan Ho sighed. "This is ... difficult. Rheinhardt is here, at the T'ang's elbow, while you . . . well, you are about your business. You must be patient, Gregor. There are many here at the palace who wish you well. I would not have come to you were it otherwise."

Karr looked at him, then gave a small nod.

"Then trust me." Nan Ho put out a hand, holding Karr's forearm a moment. "To serve an ungrateful Master . . . that is true service, neh?"

NAN HO RETURNED INSIDE, troubled by what had happened. Then, hearing that his Master had retired to his rooms to rest, he went directly to Pei K'ung's apartments.

"Master Nan," she said, greeting him. "What can I do for you?"

He closed the doors and went across.

"That was a bad business just now," he said, deciding to come straight to the point.

"It depends from whose viewpoint you look at it," she answered, taking a seat on the high-backed sofa by the window and indicating that he should sit in one of the officials' chairs close by.

"Karr is a good man. An excellent servant."

"But a political liability," she said, looking past him and snapping her fingers. At once an aide slipped from the shadows and brought across a file.

"You've seen this, I assume."

He nodded. "The business with the young girl and the pamphlets . . . but that was years ago. Over a decade ago, so I understand."

"Maybe so, but Rheinhardt has been busy unearthing such things. It seems he's out to get our man Karr."

Nan Ho shook his head. "I don't understand it. Karr has done nothing to him."

"He took his job. No matter that he didn't angle for it, Rheinhardt sees it otherwise. Now he's out to destroy Karr, and the loss of Odessa handed him the ideal opportunity."

"But surely Yuan knows this?"

Pei K'ung sat back slightly. "My husband is beyond reason just now. I was there when he read that file. He feels . . . betrayed. And rightly so, perhaps."

"But Karr's behavior since—"

"Has been exemplary, I agree. But that file creates a doubt, and where there's a doubt . . ."

Nan Ho raised a hand. "I take your point. But what are we to do?"

"We?" Pei K'ung laughed, then, unfolding her fan, began to flutter it before her face. "What would you have me do? Speak to my husband? Why, he would tell me to mind my own business? Speak to Rheinhardt? Why, the man would simply say that he was acting in the best interests of his Master."

"Then we are to do nothing, I suppose, and let a good man go to waste!"

The fan stopped fluttering. Pei K'ung looked at him directly and raised an eyebrow. "Now, did I say that, Master Nan?" She smiled. "No. But there are other means."

"Other means?"

Pei K'ung stood abruptly, setting the file down next to her, then held out her hand for him to kiss the ring. He bowed and kissed it, then stepped back, unsure for once of her meaning. But he could see that she was not about to elucidate.

"You will forgive me, Master Nan, but I must rest now. I slept badly last night and—"

"I understand."

"Until tonight."

He bowed low. "Mistress ..."

"Gregor? Is that you?"

Karr set down his knapsack and turned, smiling as Marie came out from the kitchen. They embraced, their four-year-old daughter, Hannah, watching from the doorway shyly.