The White Mountain

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

PART I SUMMER 2207

At the Bridge of Ch’in

The white glare recedes to the Western hills, High in the distance sapphire blossoms rise. Where shall there be an end of old and new? A thousand years have whirled away in the wind. The sands of the ocean change to stone, Fishes puff bubbles at the bridge of Ch'in. The empty shine streams on into the distance, The bronze pillars melt away with the years.

—LI ho, On and On Forever, ninth century a.d.

CHAPTER ONE

Scorched Earth

LI SHAI TUNG stood beside the pool. Across from him, at the entrance to the arboretum, a single lamp had been lit, its light reflecting darkly in the smoked-glass panels of the walls, misting a pallid green through leaves of fern and palm. But where the great T'ang stood it was dark.

These days he courted darkness like a friend. At night, when sleep evaded him, he came here, staring down through layers of blackness at the dark submerged forms of his carp. Their slow and peaceful movements lulled him, easing the pain in his eyes, the tenseness in his stomach. Often he would stand for hours, unmoving, his black silks pulled close about his thin and ancient body. Then, for a time, the tiredness would leave him, as if it had no place here in the cool, penumbral silence.

Then ghosts would come. Images imprinted on the blackness, filling the dark with the vivid shapes of memory. The face of Han Ch'in, smiling up at him, a half-eaten apple in his hand from the orchard at Tongjiang. Lin Yua, his first wife, bowing demurely before him on their wedding night, her small breasts cupped in her hands, like an offering. Or his father, Li Ch'ing, laughing, a bird perched on the index finger of each hand, two days before the accident that killed him. These and others crowded back, like guests at a death feast. But of this he told no one, not even his physician. These, strangely, were his comfort. Without them the darkness would have been oppressive: would have been blackness, pure and simple.

Sometimes he would call a name, softly, in a whisper; and that one would come to him, eyes alight with laughter. So he remembered them now, in joy and at their best. Shades from a summer land.

He had been standing there more than two hours when a servant came. He knew at once that it was serious; they would not have disturbed him otherwise. He felt the tenseness return like bands of iron about his chest and brow, felt the tiredness seep back into his bones. "Who calls me?"

The servant bowed low. "It is the Marshal, Chieh Hsia."

He went out, shedding the darkness like a cloak. In his study the viewing screen was bright, filled by Tolonen's face. Li Shai Tung sat in the big chair, moving Minister Heng's memorandum to one side. For a moment he sat there, composing himself, then stretched forward and touched the contact pad. "What is it, Knut? What evil keeps you from your bed?" "Your servant never sleeps," Tolonen offered, but his smile was halfhearted and his face was ashen. Seeing that, Li Shai Tung went cold. Who is it now? he asked himself. Wei Feng? Tsu Ma? Who haw they killed this time?

The Marshal turned and the image on the screen turned with him. He was sending from a mobile unit. Behind him a wide corridor stretched away, its walls blackened by smoke. Further down, men were working in emergency lighting. "Where are you, Knut? What has been happening?"

"I'm at the Bremen fortress, Chieh Hsia. In the barracks of Security Central." Tolonen's face, to the right of the screen, continued to stare back down the corridor for a moment, then turned to face his T'ang again. "Things are bad here, Chieh Hsia. I think you should come and see for yourself. It seems like the work of the Ping Tioo, but. . ." Tolonen hesitated, his old familiar face etched with deep concern. He gave a small shudder, then began again. "It's just that this is different, Chieh Hsia. Totally different from anything they've ever done before."

Li Shai Tung considered a moment, then nodded. The skin of his face felt tight, almost painful. He took a shallow breath, then spoke. "Then I'll come, Knut. I'll be there as soon as I can."

IT WAS HARD to recognize the place. The whole deck was gutted. Over fifteen thousand people were dead. Damage had spread to nearby stacks and to the decks above and below, but that was minimal compared to what had happened here. Li Shai Tung walked beside his Marshal, turning his bloodless face from side to side as he walked, seeing the ugly mounds of congealed tar—all that was left of once-human bodies—that were piled up by the sealed exits, conscious of the all-pervading stench of burned flesh, sickly-sweet and horrible. At the end of Main the two men stopped and looked back.

"Are you certain?" There were tears in the old T'ang's eyes as he looked at his Marshal. His face was creased with pain, his hands clasped tightly together.

Tolonen took a pouch from his tunic pocket and handed it across. "They left these. So that we would know."

The pouch contained five small, stylized fish. Two of the golden pendants had melted, the others shone like new. The fish was the symbol of the Ping Tiao. Li Shai Tung spilled them into his palm. "Where were these found?" "On the other side of the seals. There were more, we think, but the heat. . ." Li Shai Tung shuddered, then let the fish fall from his fingers. They had turned the deck into a giant oven and cooked everyone inside—men, women, and their children. Sudden anger twisted like a spear in his guts. "Why⁷. What do they want, Knut? What do they want?" One hand jerked out nervously, then withdrew. "This is the worst of it. The killings. The senseless deaths. For what?"

Tolonen had said it once before, years ago, to his old friend Klaus Ebert; now he said the words again, this time to his T'ang. "They want to pull it down. All of it. Whatever it costs."

Li Shai Tung stared at him, then looked away. "No. . ."he began, as if to deny it; but for once denial was impossible. This was what he had feared, his darkest dream made real. A sign of things to come.

He had been ill of late. For the first time in a long, healthy life he had been confined to bed. That, too, seemed a sign. An indication that things were slipping from him. Control—it began with one's own body and spread outward.

He nodded to himself, seeing it now. This was personal. An attack upon his person. For he was the State. Was the City.

There was a sickness loose, a virus in the veins of the world. Corruption was rife. Dispersionism, Leveling, even this current obsession in the Above with longevity—all these were symptoms of it. The actions of such groups were subtle, invidious, not immediately evident; yet ultimately they proved fatal. Expectations had changed and that had undermined the stability of everything. They want to pull it down.

"What did they do here, Knut? How did they do this?"

"We've had to make some assumptions, but a few things are known for certain. Bremen Central Maintenance reports that all communications to Deck Nine were cut at second bell."

"All?" Li Shai Tung shook his head, astonished. "Is that possible, Knut?" "That was part of the problem. They didn't believe it, either; so they wasted an hour checking for faults in the system at their end. They didn't think to send anyone to make a physical check."

Li Shai Tung grimaced. "Would it have made a difference?" "No. No difference, Chieh Hsia. There was no chance of doing anything after the first ten minutes. They set their fires on four different levels. Big, messy chemical things. Then they rigged the ventilators to pump oxygen-rich air through the system at increased capacity." "And the seals?"

Tolonen swallowed. "There was no chance anyone could have gotten out. They'd blown the transit and derailed the bolt. All the interlevel lifts were jammed. That was part of the communications blackout. The whole deck must have been in darkness."

"And that's it?" Li Shai Tung felt sickened by the callousness of it all.

Tolonen hesitated, then spoke again. "This was done by experts, Chieh Hsia, Knowledgeable men, superbly trained, efficiently organized. Our own special services men could have done no better."

Li Shai Tung looked back at him. "Say it, Knut," he said softly. "Don't keep it to yourself. Even if it proves wrong, say it."

Tolonen met his eyes, then nodded. "All of this speaks of money. Big money. The technology needed to cut off a deck's communications—it's all too much for normal Ping Two funding. Out of their range. There has to be a backer."

The T'ang considered a moment. "Then it's still going on. We didn't win the War after all. Not finally."

Tolonen looked down. Li Shai Tung's manner disturbed him. Since his illness he had been different. Off-balance and indecisive, withdrawn, almost melancholy. The sickness had robbed him of more than his strength; it had taken some of his sharpness, his quickness of mind. It fell upon the Marshal to lead him through this maze.

"Maybe. But more important is finding out who is the traitor in our midst." "Ah. . ." Li Shai Tung's eyes searched his face, then looked away. "At what level have they infiltrated?"

"Staff."

He said it without hesitation, knowing that it had to be that high up the chain of command. No one else could have shaped things in this manner. To seal off a deck, that took clout. More than the Ping Tioo possessed.

Li Shai Tung turned away again, following his own thoughts. Maybe Yuan was right. Maybe they should act now. Wire them all. Control them like machines. But his instinct was against it. He had held back from acting on the Project's early findings. Even this—this outrage—could not change his mind so far.

"It's bad, Knut. It's as if you could not trust your own hands to shave your throat ,»

Tolonen laughed, a short, bitter bark of laughter. The old T'ang turned. "You have it in hand, though, Knut." He smiled. "You, at least, 1 trust."

The Marshal met his master's eyes, touched by what had been said, knowing that this was what shaped his life and gave it meaning. To have this man's respect, his total trust. Without thinking, he knelt at Li Shai Tung's feet.

"I shall find the man and deal with him, Chieh Hsia. Were it my own son, I'd deal with him."

AT THE MOMENT, on the far side of the world, Li Yuan was walking down a path on the estate in Tongjiang. He could smell the blossoms in the air, apple and plum, and beneath those the sharper, sweeter scent of cherry. It reminded him of how long it had been since he had been here; of how little had changed while he had been gone.

At the top of the terrace he stopped, looking out across the valley, down the wide sweep of marble steps toward the lake. He smiled, seeing her on the far side of the lake, walking between the trees. For a moment he simply looked, his heart quickened just to see her; then he went down, taking the steps in two's and three's.

He was only a few paces from her when she turned.

"Li Yuan! You didn't say . . ."

"I'm sorry, I ..." But his words faltered as he noted the roundness of her, the fullness of her belly. He glanced up, meeting her eyes briefly, then looked down again. My son, he thought. My son.

"I'm well."

"You look wonderful," he said, taking her in his arms, conscious of the weeks that had passed since he had last held her. But he was careful now and released her quickly, taking her hands, surprised by how small they were, how delicate. He had forgotten.

Not, not forgotten. Simply not remembered.

He laughed softly. "How far along are you?"

She looked away. "More than halfway now. Twenty-seven weeks."

He nodded, then reached down to touch the roundness, feeling how firm she was beneath the silks she wore, like the ripened fruit in the branches above their heads.

"I wondered . . ." she began, looking back at him, then fell silent, dropping her head.

"Wondered what?" he asked, staring at her, realizing suddenly what had been bothering him. "Besides, what's this? Have you no smiles to welcome your husband home?"

He reached out, lifting her chin gently with his fingers, smiling; but his smile brought no response. She turned from him petulantly, looking down at her feet. Leaf shadow fell across the perfection of her face, patches of sunlight catching in the lustrous darkness of her hair, but her lips were pursed.

"I've brought you presents," he said softly. "Up in the house. Why don't you come and see?"

She glanced at him, then away. This time he saw the coldness in her eyes. "How long this time, Li Yuan? A day? Two days before you're gone again?"

He sighed and looked down at her hand. It lay limply in his own, palm upward, the fingers gently bent.

"I'm not just any man, Fei Yen. My responsibilities are great, especially at this time. My father needs me." He shook his head, trying to understand what she was feeling, but he could not help but feel angered by her lack of welcome. It was not his fault, after all. He had thought she would be pleased to see him.

"If I'm away a lot, it can't be helped. Not just now. I would rather be here, believe me, my love. I really would . . ."

She seemed to relent a little; momentarily her hand returned the pressure of his own, but her face was still turned from his.

"I never see you," she said quietly. "You're never here."

A bird alighted from a branch nearby, distracting him. He looked up, following its flight. When he looked back it was to find her watching him, her dark eyes chiding him.

"It's odd," he said, ignoring what she had said. "This place—it's changed so little over the years. I used to play here as a child, ten, twelve years ago. And even then I imagined how it had been like this for centuries. Unchanged. Unchanging. Only the normal cycle of the seasons. I'd help the servants pick the apple crop, carrying empty baskets over to them. And then, later, I'd have quite insufferable bellyaches from all the fruit I'd gorged." He laughed, seeing how her eyes had softened as he spoke. "Like any child," he added after a moment, conscious of the lie, yet thinking of a past where it had really been so. Back before the City, when such childish pleasures were commonplace.

For a moment longer he simply looked at her. Then, smiling, he squeezed her hand gently. "Come. Let's go back."

On the bridge he paused and stood looking out across the lake, watching the swans moving on the water, conscious of the warmth of her hand in his own.

"How long this time?" she asked, her voice softer, less insistent than before.

"A week," he said, turning to look at her. "Maybe longer. It depends on whether things keep quiet."

She smiled—the first smile she had given him in weeks. "That's good, Yuan. I'm tired of being alone. 1 had too much of it before."

He gave a single nod. "I know. But things will change. I promise you, Fei. It will be better from now on."

She raised her chin, looking at him intently. "I hope so. It's so hard here on my own."

Hard? He looked across the placid lake toward the orchard, wondering what she meant. He saw only softness here. Only respite from the harsh realities of life. From deals and duties. Smelled only the healthy scents of growth.

He smiled and looked at her again. "I decided something, Fei. While I was away."

She looked back at him. "What's that?"

"The boy," he said, placing his hand on her swollen belly once more. "I've decided we'll call him Han."

LEHMANN WOKE HIM, then stood there while he dressed, waiting.

DeVore turned, lacing his tunic. "When did the news break?"

"Ten minutes ago. They've cleared all channels pending the announcement. Wei Feng is to speak."

DeVore raised an eyebrow. "Not Li Shai Tung?" He laughed. "Good. That shows how much we've rattled him." He turned, glancing across the room at the timer on the wall, then looked back at Lehmann. "Is that the time?"

Lehmann nodded.

DeVore looked down thoughtfully. It was almost four hours since the attacks. He had expected them to react quicker than this. But that was not what was worrying him.

"Has Wiegand reported back?"

"Not yet."

DeVore went into the adjoining room. He sat in the chair, facing the big screen, his fingers brushing the controls on the chair's arm to activate it. Lehmann came and stood behind him.

The Ywe Lung—the wheel of dragons, symbol of the seven—filled the screen as it did before every official announcement; but this time the backdrop to the wheel was white, signifying death.

Throughout Chung Kuo, tens of billions would be sitting before their screens, waiting pensively, speculating about the meaning of this break in regular programming. It had been a common feature of the War-that-wasn't-a-War, but the screens had been empty of such announcements for some time. That would give it added flavor.

He looked back at Lehmann. "When Wiegand calls in, have him switched through. I want to know what's been going on. He should have reported back to me long before this."

"I've arranged it already."

"Good." He turned back, smiling, imagining the effect this was having on the Seven. They would be scurrying about like termites into whose nest a great stick had just been poked; firing off orders here, there, and everywhere; readying themselves against further attacks; not knowing where the next blow might fall. Things had been quiet these last few months. Deliberately so, for he had wanted to lull the Seven into a false sense of security before he struck. It was not the act itself but the context of the act that mattered. In time of war, people's imaginations were dulled by a surfeit of tragedy, but in peacetime such acts took on a dreadful significance. So it was now.

They would expect him to follow up—to strike again while they were in disarray—but this time he wouldn't. Not immediately. He would let things settle before he struck again, choosing his targets carefully, aiming always at maximizing the impact of his actions, allowing the Seven to spend their strength fighting shadows while he gathered his. Until their nerves were raw and their will to fight crippled. Then—and only then—would he throw his full strength against them.

He let his head fall back against the thick leather cushioning, relaxing for the first time in days, a sense of well-being flooding through him. Victory would not come overnight, but then that was not his aim. His was a patient game and time was on his side. Each year brought greater problems for Chung Kuo—increased the weight of numbers that lay heavy on the back of government. He had only to wait, like a dog harrying a great stag, nipping at the heels of the beast, weakening it, until it fell.

Martial music played from the speakers on either side of the screen. Then, abruptly, the image changed. The face of Wei Feng, T'ang of East Asia, filled the screen, the old man's features lined with sorrow.

"People of Chung Kuo, I have sad news. . ." he began, the very informality of his words unexpected, the tears welling in the comers of the old man's eyes adding to the immense sense of wounded dignity that emanated from him. DeVore sat forward, suddenly tense. What had gone wrong? He listened as Wei Feng spoke of the tragedy that had befallen Bremen, watching the pictures dispassionately, waiting for the old man to add something more—some further piece of news. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. And then Wei Feng was finished and the screen cleared, showing the Ywe Lung with its pure white backdrop.

DeVore sat there a moment longer, then pulled himself up out of the chair, turning to face Lehmann.

"They didn't do it. The bastards didn't do it!"

He was about to say something more when the panel on his desk began to flash urgently. He switched the call through, then turned, resting on the edge of the desk, facing the screen.

He had expected Wiegand. But it wasn't Wiegand's face that filled the screen. It was Hans Ebert.

"What in hell's name has been happening, Howard? I've just had to spend two hours with the Special Investigation boys being grilled! Bremen, for the gods' sakes! The stupid bastards attacked Bremen!"

DeVore looked down momentarily. He had deliberately not told Ebert anything about their designs on Bremen, knowing that Tolonen would screen all his highest-ranking officers—even his future son-in-law—for knowledge of the attack. Caught out once that way, Tolonen's first thought would be that he had once again been infiltrated at staff level. It did not surprise him, therefore, to learn that Tolonen had acted so quickly. .-.; "I know," he said simply, meeting Ebert's eyes.

"What do you mean, you know? Were you involved in that?"

Ignoring Ebert's anger, he nodded, speaking softly, quickly, giving his reasons. But Ebert wasn't to be placated so simply.

"I want a meeting," Ebert said, his eyes blazing. "Today! I want to know what else you've got planned."

DeVore hesitated, not for the first time finding Ebert's manner deeply offensive, then nodded his agreement. Ebert was too important to his plans just now. He needn't tell him everything, of course. Just enough to give him the illusion of being trusted.

"Okay. This afternoon," DeVore said, betraying nothing of his thoughts. "At Mu Chua's. I'll see you there, Hans. After fourth bell."

He broke contact, then sat back.

"Damn him!" he said, worried that he had still heard nothing. He turned. "Stefan! Find out where the hell Wiegand is. I want to know what's been happening."

He watched the albino go, then looked about the room, his sense of well-being replaced by a growing certainty.

Lehmann confirmed it moments later. "Wiegand's dead," he said, coming back into the room. "Along with another fifty of our men and more than a hundred and fifty Ping Tiao."

DeVore sat down heavily. "What happened?"

Lehmann shook his head. "That's all we know. We've intercepted Security reports from the Poznan and Krakov garrisons. It looks like they knew we were coming."

DeVore looked down. Gods! Then the harvest was untouched, City Europe's vast granaries still intact. He could not have had worse news.

He shuddered. This changed things dramatically. What had been designed to weaken the Seven had served only to make them more determined.

He had known all along what the probable effect of a single strike against Bremen would have. Had known how outraged people would be by the assault on the soldiers' living quarters, the killing of innocent women and children. That was why he had planned the two things to hit them at the same time. With the East European Plantations on fire and the safe haven of Bremen breached, he had expected to sow the seeds of fear in City Europe. But fear had turned to anger, and what ought to have been a devastating psychological blow for the Seven had been transformed into its opposite.

No wonder Wei Feng had spoken as he had. That sense of great moral indignation the old man had conveyed had been deeply felt. And there was no doubting that the watching billions would have shared it. So now the Seven had the support of the masses of Chung Kuo. Sanction, if they wanted it, to take whatever measures they wished against their enemies.

DeVore sighed and looked down at his hands. No. Things could not have turned out worse.

But how? How had they known? Despair turned to sudden anger in him. He stood abruptly. Wiegand! It had to be Wiegand! Which meant that the report of his death was false; a fabrication put out for them to overhear. Which meant. . .

For a moment he followed the chain of logic that led out from that thought; then he sat again, shaking his head. No, not Wiegand. His instinct was against it. In any case, Wiegand didn't have either the balls or the imagination for such a thing. And yet, if not Wiegand, then who?

Again he sighed, deciding to put the base on full alert. In case he was wrong. In case Wiegand had made a deal and was planning to lead Tolonen back here to the Wilds.

EMILY ASCHER was angry. Very angry. She trembled as she faced her tour compatriots on the central committee of the Ping Tiao, her arm outstretched, her finger stabbing toward Gesell, spitting the words out venomously. "What you did was vile, Bent. You've tainted us all. Betrayed us." Gesell glanced at Mach then looked back at his ex-lover, his whole manner defensive. The failure of the attack on the plantations had shaken him badly and he was only now beginning to understand what effect the Bremen backlash would have on their organization. Even so, he was not prepared to admit he had been wrong.

"I knew you'd react like this. It's exactly why we had to keep it from you. You would have vetoed it."

She gave a high-pitched laugh, astonished by him. "Of course 1 would! And rightly so. This could destroy us."

Gesell lifted his hand, as if to brush aside the accusation of her ringer. "You don't understand. If our attack on the plantations had succeeded—"

She batted his hand away angrily. "No. I understand things perfectly. This was a major policy decision and I wasn't consulted." She turned her head, looking across at the other woman in the room. "And you, Mao Liang? Were you told?"

Mao Liang looked down, shaking her head, saying nothing. But that wasn't sc surprising: since she had replaced Emily in Gesell's bed, it was as if she had lost he own identity.

Emily looked back at Gesell, shaking her head slowly. "I understand, all right It's back to old patterns. Old men meeting in closed rooms, deciding things for others." She huffed, a sound of pure disgust. "You know, I really believed we were beyond all that. But it was all lip service, wasn't it, Bent? All the time you were fucking me, you really despised me as a person. After all, I was only a woman. An inferior being. Not to be trusted with serious matters."

"You're wrong—" Gesell began, stung by her words, but she shook her head, denying him.

"I don't know how you've the face to tell me I'm wrong after what you've done." She turned slightly. "And you, Mach. I know this was all your idea."

Mach was watching her, his eyes narrowed slightly. "There was good reason not to involve you. You were doing so well at recruiting new members."

Again she laughed, not believing what she was hearing. "And what's that worth now? All that hard work, and now you've pissed it all away. My word. I gave them my word as to what we were, and you've shat on it."

"We're Ko Ming," Gesell began, a slight edge to his voice now. "Revolutionaries, not fucking hospital workers. You can't change things and have clean hands. It isn't possible!"

She stared back at him witheringly. "Murderers, that's what they're calling us. Heartless butchers. And who can blame them? We destroyed any credibility we had last night."

"I disagree."

She turned, looking at Mach. "You can disagree as much as you like, Jan Mach, but it's true. As of last night this organization is dead. You killed it. You and this prick here. Didn't you see the trivee pictures of the children that died? Didn't you see the shots of those beautiful, blond-haired children playing with their mothers? Didn't something in you respond to that?"

"Propaganda—" began Quinn, the newest of them, but a look from Gesell silenced him.

Ascher looked from one to the other of them, seeing how they avoided her eyes. "No? Isn't there one of you with the guts to admit it? We did that. The Ping Two. And this time there's nothing we can do to repair the damage. We're fucked."

"No," Mach said. "There is a way."

She snorted. "You're impossible! What way? What could we possibly do that could even begin to balance things in our favor?"

"Wait and see," Mach said, meeting her eyes coldly. "Just wait and see."

devore SAT BACK on the sofa, looking about him at the once opulently furnished room, noting how the fabrics had worn, the colors faded since he had last come here. He picked up one of the cushions beside him and studied it a moment, reading the Mandarin pictograms sewn into the velvet. Here men forget their cares.

He smiled. So it was, once. But now?

He looked up as Mu Chua entered, one of her girls following with a fully laden tray. She smiled at him, lines tightening about her eyes and at the comers of her mouth.

"1 thought you might like some ch'a while you were waiting, Shih Reynolds."

He sat forward, giving the slightest bow of his head. "That's kind of you, Mother."

As the girl knelt and poured the ch'a, DeVore studied Mu Chua. She, too, was much older, much more worn than he remembered her. In her sixties now, she seemed drawn, the legendary ampleness of her figure a thing of the past. Death showed itself in her; in the sudden angularity of her limbs and the taut wiriness of her muscles; in the slackness of the flesh at neck and arm and breast. He had known her in better days, though it was unlikely she remembered him.

She was watching him, as if aware of how he looked at her. Even so, when she spoke again, her smile returned, as strong as ever. He smiled back at her. Though the body failed, the spirit lived on, in spite of all she'd suffered.

"Shall I let him know you're here?"

He shook his head, then took the offered bowl from the girl. "No, Mu Chua. I'll wait."

She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the girl, then back to him. "In that case, is there anything you'd like?"

Again he smiled. "No, Though I thank you. Just let him know I'm here. When he's finished, that is."

He watched her go, then looked about him, wondering. Mu Chua's old protector, Feng Chung, the Triad boss, had died three years earlier, leaving a power vacuum down here below the Net. Rival Triads had fought a long and bloody war for the dead man's territory, culminating in the victory of Lu Ming-shao, or "Whiskers Lu," as he was better known. No respecter of fine detail, Lu had claimed Mu Chua's House of the Ninth Ecstasy as his own, letting Mu Chua stay on as Madam, nominally in charge of things. But the truth was that Lu ran things his way these days, using Mu Chua's as a clearinghouse for drugs and other things, as well as for entertaining his Above clients.

Things had changed, and in the process Mu Chua's had lost its shine. The girls here were no longer quite so carefree; and violence, once banned from the house, was now a regular feature of their lives.

So the world changes, thought DeVore, considering whether he should make Whiskers Lu an offer for the place.

"Has something amused you?"

He turned sharply, surprised that he'd not heard Ebert enter, then saw that the Major was barefooted, a silk pan drawn loosely about his otherwise naked body.

DeVore set the ch'a bowl down beside him and stood, facing Ebert. "I thought you were in a hurry to see me."

Ebert smiled and walked past him, pulling at the bell rope to summon one of the girls. He turned back, the smile still on his lips. "I was. But I've had time to think things through." He laughed softly. "I ought to thank you, Howard. You knew that Tolonen would screen his staff officers, didn't you?"

DeVore nodded.

"I thought so."

There was a movement to their right, a rustling of the curtains, and then a girl entered, her head lowered. "You called, Masters?"

"Bring us a bottle of your best wine and two"— he looked at DeVore, then corrected himself—"no, make that just one glass."

When she was gone, DeVore looked down, for the first time letting his anger show.

"What the fuck are you up to, Hans?"

Ebert blinked, surprised by DeVore's sudden hostility. Then, bridling, he turned, facing him. "What do you mean?"

"I ought to kill you."

"Kill me? Why?"

"For what you did. It didn't take much to piece it together. There was really no other possibility. No one else knew enough about our plans to attack the plantations. It had to be you who blew the whistle."

Ebert hesitated. "Ah . . . that." Then, unbelievably, he gave a little laugh. "I'm afraid I had to, Howard. One of our captains got a whiff of things. If it had been one of my own men I could have done something about it, but the man had already put in his report. I had to act quickly. If they'd taken them alive . . ."

DeVore was breathing strangely, as if preparing to launch himself at the bigger man.

"I'm sure you see it, Howard," Ebert continued, looking away from him. "It's like in wei chi. You have to sacrifice a group sometimes, for the sake of the game. Well, it was like that. It was either act or lose the whole game. I did it for the best."

You did it to save your own arse, thought DeVore, calming himself, trying to keep from killing Ebert there and then. It wouldn't do to be too hasty. And maybe Ebert was right, whatever his real motive. Maybe it had prevented a far worse calamity. At least the fortresses were safe. But it still left him with the problem of dealing with the Ping Tiao.

"So Wiegand's dead?"

Ebert nodded. "I made sure of that myself."

Yes, he thought. I bet you did. He forced himself to unclench his fists, then turned away. It was the closest he had come to losing control. Don't let it get to you, he ^told himself, but it did no good. There was something about Ebert that made him want to let fly, whatever the consequences. But no—that was Tolonen's way, not his. It was what made the old man so weak. And Ebert too. But he was not like that. He used his anger; made it work for him, not against him.

The girl brought the wine, then left them. As Ebert turned to pour, DeVore studied him, wondering, not for the first time, what Hans Ebert would have been had he not been bom heir to GenSyn. A low-level bully, perhaps. A hireling of some bigger, more capable man; but essentially the same callous, selfish type, full of braggadocio, his dick bigger than his brain.

Or was that fair? Wasn't there also something vaguely heroic about Ebert— something that circumstance might have molded otherwise? Was it his fault that he had been allowed everything, denied nothing?

He watched Ebert turn, smiling, and nodded to himself. Yes, it was his fault. Ebert was a weak man, beneath it all, and his weakness had cost them dearly. He would pay for it. Not now—he was needed now—but later, when he had served his purpose.

"Kan Pei!" Ebert said, raising his glass. "Anyway, Howard, I've better news."

DeVore narrowed his eyes. What else had Ebert been up to?

Ebert drank heavily from his glass, then sat, facing DeVore. "You're always complaining about being underfunded. Well. . ." his smile broadened, as if at his own cleverness, "I've found us some new backers. Acquaintances of mine."

"Acquaintances?"

Ebert laughed. "Friends . . . People sympathetic to what we're doing." DeVore felt the tension creep back into his limbs. "What have you said?" Ebert's face cleared, became suddenly sharper. "Oh, nothing specific, don't worry. I'm not stupid. I sounded them first. Let them talk. Then, later on, I spoke to them in private. These are people I trust, you understand? People IVe known a long time."

DeVore took a long breath. Maybe, but he would check them out himself. Thoroughly. Because, when it came down to it, he didn't trust Ebert's judgment. "What sums are you talking about?" "Enough to let you finish building your fortresses."

DeVore gave a small laugh. Did Ebert know how much that was, or was-he just guessing? One thing was certain; he had never told Hans Ebert how much even one of the great underground fortresses cost.

"That's good, Hans. I'll have to meet these friends of yours."

MU chua closed the door behind her, furious with Ebert. She had seen the bruises on the girl's arms and back. The bastard! There'd been no need. The girl was only fourteen. If he'd wanted that he should have said. She'd have sent in one of the older girls. They, at least, were hardened to it.

She stood still, closing her eyes, calming down. He would be out to see her any moment and it wouldn't do to let him see how angry she was. Word could get back to Lu Ming-shao, and then there'd be hell to pay.

She shuddered. Life here could still be sweet—some days—but too often it was like today, a brutish struggle simply to survive.

She went to her desk and busied herself, making out his bill, charging him for the two sessions and for the wine and ch'a. She paused, frowning, as she thought of his guest. There was something strangely familiar about Shih Reynolds—as if they'd met some time in the past—but she couldn't place him. He seemed a nice enough man, but could that really be said of anyone who associated with that young bastard? For once she wished she had overheard what they were talking about. She could have—after all, Lu Ming-shao had put in the surveillance equipment only four months back—but a lifetime's habits were hard to break. She had never spied on her clients and she didn't intend to start now; not unless Lu specifically ordered her to.

Mu Chua froze, hearing Ebert's voice outside, then turned in time to greet him as he came through the door into her office.

"Was it everything you wished for, Master?"

He laughed and reached out to touch her breast familiarly. "It was good, Mu Chua. Very good. I'd forgotten how good a house you run."

Her smile widened, though inside she felt something shrivel up at his touch. Few men touched her these days, preferring younger flesh than hers, even so there was something horrible about the thought of being used by him.

"I'm pleased," she said, bowing her head. "Here," she said, presenting her bill, the figures written in Mandarin on the bright-red paper.

He smiled and, without looking at the bill, handed her a single credit chip. She looked down, then bowed her head again.

"Why, thank you, Master. You are too generous."

He laughed, freeing her breasts from her robe and studying them a moment. Then, as if satisfied, he turned to go.

"Forgive me, Major Ebert. . ." she began, taking a step toward him.

He stopped and turned. "Yes, Mother Chua?"

"I was wondering . . . about the girl."

Ebert frowned. "The girl?"

Mu Chua averted her eyes. "Golden Heart. You remember, surely? The thirteen-year-old you bought here. That time you came with the other soldiers."

He laughed; a strangely cold laugh. "Ah, yes ... I'd forgotten that I got her here."

"Well?"

He looked at her, then turned away, impatient now. "Look, I'm busy, Mu Chua. I'm Major now, I have my duties."

She looked at him desperately, then bowed her head again, her lips formed into a smile. "Of course. Forgive me, Major." But inwardly she seethed. Busy! Not too busy, it seemed, to spend more than two hours fucking her girls!

As the door closed behind him she spat at the space where he had been standing, then stood there, tucking her breasts back inside her robe, watching her spittle dribble slowly down the red lacquered surface of the door.

"You bastard," she said softly. "I only wanted a word. Just to know how she is—

whether she's still alive."

She looked down at the credit chip in her hand. It was for a thousand yuan— more than four times what she had billed him—but he had treated it as nothing.

Perhaps that's why, she thought, closing her hand tightly over it. You have no values because you don't know what anything is really worth. You think you can buy anything.

Well, maybe he could. Even so, there was something lost in being as he was. He lacked decency.

She went to the drawer of her desk and pulled out the strongbox, opening it with the old-fashioned key that hung about her neck. Rummaging about among the credit chips she found two for two hundred and fifty yuan and removed them, replacing them with Ebert's thousand. Then, smiling to herself, she felt among her underclothes and after wetting herself with her finger, placed the two chips firmly up her clout.

She had almost saved enough now. Almost. Another month—two at the most—and she could get out of here. Away from Whiskers Lu and bastards like Ebert. And maybe she would go into business on her own again. For, after all, men were always men. They might talk and dress differently up there, but beneath it all they were the same creatures.

She laughed, wondering suddenly how many li of First Level cock she'd had up her in the fifty years she had been in the business. No. In that respect, nothing ever changed. They might talk of purity, but their acts always betrayed them. It was why she had thrived over the years—because of that darkness they all carried about in them. Men. They might all say they were above it, but try as they would, it was the one thing they could not climb the levels to escape.

FEI YEN STOOD before him, her silk robes held open, revealing her nakedness.

"Please, Yuan ... It won't hurt me."

His eyes went to her breasts, traced the swollen curve of her belly, then returned to her face. He wanted her so much that it hurt, but there was the child to think of.

"Please . . ."

The tone in her voice, the need expressed in it, made him shiver, then reach out to touch her. "The doctors. . ." he began, but she was shaking her head, her eyes— those beautiful, liquid-dark eyes of hers—pleading with him.

"What do they know? Can they feel what I feel? No. So come, Yuan. Make love to me. Don't you know how much I've missed you?"

He shuddered, feeling her fingers on his neck, then nodded, letting her undress him; but he still felt wrong about it.

Lying beside her afterward, his hand caressing her stomach tenderly, he said, "I could have hurt you."

She took his hand and held it still. "Don't be silly. I'd have told you if it hurt." She gave a little shudder, then looked down, smiling. "Besides, I want our child to be lusty, don't you? I want him to know that his mother is loved."

Her eyes met his provocatively, then looked away.

TOLONEN bowed deeply, then stepped forward, handing Li Shai Tung the report Hans Ebert had prepared on the planned attack on the plantations.

"It's all here?" the T'ang asked, his eyes meeting Tolonen's briefly before they returned to the opening page of the report.

"Everything we discussed, Chieh Hsia."

"And copies have gone to all the Generals?"

"And to their T'ang, no doubt."

Li Shai Tung smiled bleakly. "Good." He had been closeted with his ministers since first light and had had no time to refresh his mind about the details. Now, in the few minutes that remained to him before the Council of the Seven met, he took the time to look through the file.

Halfway through he looked up. "You know, Knut, sometimes I wish I could direct-input all this. It would make things so much easier."

Tolonen smiled, tracing the tiny slot behind his ear with his right index finger, then shook his head. "It would not be right to break with tradition, Chieh Hsia. Besides, you have servants and ministers to assist you in such matters."

Yes, thought the T'ang, and as you've so often said, it would only be another way in which my enemies could get to me. I've heard they can do it now. Programs that destroy the mind's ability to reason. Like the food I eat, it would need to be "tasted." No, perhaps you're right, Knut Tolonen. It would only build more walls between Chung Kuo and me, and the gods know there are enough already.

He finished the document quickly, then closed it, looking back at Tolonen. "Is there anything else?"

Tolonen paused, then lowered his voice slightly. "One thing, Chieh Hsia. In view of how things are developing, shouldn't we inform Prince Yuan?"

Li Shai Tung considered a moment, then shook his head. "No, Knut. Yuan has worked hard these last few weeks. He needs time with that wife of his." He smiled, his own tiredness showing at the comers of his mouth. "You know how Yuan is. If he knew, he would be back here instantly, and there's nothing he can really do to help. So let it be. If I need him, I'll instruct Master Nan to brief him fully. Until then, let him rest." "Chieh Hsia."

Li Shai Tung watched his old friend stride away, then turned, pulling at his beard thoughtfully. The session ahead was certain to be difficult and it might have helped to have Yuan at his side, but he remembered the last time, when Wang Sau-leyan had insisted on the Prince's leaving. Well, he would give him no opportunity to pull such strokes this time. It was too important. For what he was about to suggest. . . He shuddered. Twenty years too late, it was. He knew that now. Knew how vulnerable they had become in that time. But it had to be said, even if it split the Council. Because unless it was faced—and faced immediately—there could be no future for them.

He looked about him at the cold grandeur of the marble hallway, his eyes coming to rest on the great wheel of the Ywe Lung carved into the huge double doors, then shook his head. This was the turning point. Whatever they decided today, there was no turning back from this, no further chance to right things. The cusp was upon them. And beyond?

Li Shai Tung felt a small ripple of fear pass down his spine, then turned and went across to the great doorway, the four shaven-headed guards bowing low before they turned and pushed back the heavy doors.

WEI FENG, T'ang of East Asia, sat forward in his chair and looked about him at the informal circle of his fellow T'ang, his face stem, his whole manner immensely dignified. It was he who had called this emergency meeting of the Council; he who, as the most senior of the Seven, hosted it now, at his palace of Chung Ning in Ning Hsia Province. Seeing him lean forward, the other T'ang fell silent, waiting for him to speak.

"Well, cousins, we have all read the reports, and I think we would all agree that a major disaster was only narrowly averted, thanks to the quick action of Li Shai Tung's Security forces. A disaster that, while its immediate consequences would have befallen one of our number alone, would have damaged every one of us. For are not the seven One and the one Seven?"

There was nodding from all quarters, even from Wang Sau-leyan. Wei Feng looked about him, satisfied, then spoke again.

"It is, of course, why we are here today. The attack on Bremen and the planned Uttmnwn Plantations are significant enough in themselves, but they have far wider implications. It is to these wider implications—to the underlying causes and the long-term prospects for Chung Kuo—that we must address ourselves."

Wei Feng looked briefly to his old friend Li Shai Tung, then lifted one hand from the arm of his chair, seventy-five years of command forming that tiny, almost effortless gesture. All of his long experience, the whole majesty of his power, was gathered momentarily in his raised hand, while his seated form seemed to emanate an aura of solemn purpose and iron-willed determination. His eyes traced the circle of his fellow T'ang.

"These are special circumstances, my cousins. Very special. I can think of no occasion on which the threat to the stability of Chung Kuo has been greater than it is now."

There was a low murmur of agreement, a nodding of heads. To Li Shai Tung it felt suddenly like old times, with the Council as one not merely in its policy but in its sentiments. He looked across at Wang Sau-leyan and saw how the young T'ang of Africa was watching him, his eyes filled with a sympathetic understanding. It was unexpected, but not, when he considered it, surprising, for this—as Wei Feng had said—threatened them all. If some good were to come of all that horror, let it be this—that it had served to unify the Seven.

He looked back at Wei Feng, listening.

"Not even in the darkest days of the War was there a time when we did not believe in the ultimate and inevitable triumph of the order that we represent. But can we say so with such confidence today? Bremen was more than a tragedy for all those who lost friends and family in the attack—it was a show of power. A statement of potentiality. What we must discover is this—who wields that power? What is that potentiality? The very fact that we cannot answer these questions immediately concerns me, for it indicates just how much we have lost control of things. For Bremen to have happened ought to have been unthinkable. But now we must face facts—must begin to think the unthinkable."

Wei Feng turned slightly, the fingers of his hand opening out, pointed toward Li Shai Tung.

"Cousins! It is time to say openly what has hitherto remained unexpressed. Li Shai Tung, will you begin?"

Their eyes turned to the T'ang of Europe expectantly.

"Cousins," Li Shai Tung began softly. "I wish I had come to you in better days and spoken of these things, rather than have had adversity push me to it. But you must understand that what I say here today is no hasty, ill-considered reaction to Bremen, but has matured in me over many years. Forgive me also if what I say seems at times to border on a lecture. It is not meant so, I assure you. Yet it seemed to me that I must set these things out clearly before you, if only to see whether my eyes, my brain, deceived me in this matter, or whether my vision and my reason hold good."

"We are listening, Cousin Li," Tsu Ma said, his expression willing Li Shai Tung to go on—to say what had to be said. Li Shai Tung looked about him, seeing that same encouragement mirrored in the faces of the other T'ang, even in the pallid, moonlike face of Wang Sau-leyan.

"Very well," he said, keeping his eyes on Wang Sau-leyan, "but you must hear me out."

"Of course," Wei Feng said quickly, wanting to smooth over any possibility of friction between the two T'ang. "There will be ample time afterward to discuss these matters fully. So speak out, Shai Tung. We are all ears."

He looked down, searching inside himself for the right words, knowing there was no easy way to put it. Then, looking up, his face suddenly set, determined, he began.

"You have all read Major Ebert's report, so you understand just how close the Ping Tiao came to succeeding in their scheme to destroy large areas of the East European Plantations. What you haven't seen, however, is a second report I commissioned. A report to ascertain the probable economic and social consequences had the Ping Tiao succeeded."

He saw how they looked at each other and knew that the matter had been in all their minds.

"It was, of necessity, a hastily compiled report, and I have since commissioned another to consider the matter in much greater detail. However, the results of that first report make fascinating and—without exaggerating the matter—frightening reading. Before I come to those results, however, let me undertake a brief resume of the situation with regard to food production and population increase over the past fifteen-year period."

He saw how Wang Sau-leyan looked down and felt his stomach tighten, instinct telling him he would have to fight the younger T'ang on this. Well, so be it. It was too important a matter to back down over.

He cleared his throat. "Back in 2192 the official population figure for the whole of Chung Kuo was just short of thirty-four billion—a figure that excludes, of course, the populations of both Net and Clay. I mention this fact because, while the figure for the Clay might, with good reason, be overlooked, that for the Net cannot. The relationship of Net to City is an important one economically, particularly in terms of food production; for while we have no jurisdiction over the Net, we nonetheless produce all of the food consumed there.

"Unofficial estimates for 2192 placed the population of the Net at just over three billion. However, the growing number of demotions over the period, added to an ever-increasing birth-rate down there, have given rise to latest estimates of at least twice that number, with the highest estimate indicating a below-Net population of eight billion.

"Over the same period the population of the City has also climbed, though not with anything like the same rate of growth. The census of 2200 revealed a rounded-up figure of 37,800,000,000—a growth rate of just under a half-billion a year." Li Shai Tung paused, recalling the reports his father had once shown him from more than two hundred years ago—World Population Reports compiled by an ancient body called the United Nations. They had contained an underlying assumption that as Man's material condition improved, so his numbers would stabilize, but the truth was otherwise. One law alone governed the growth of numbers—the capacity of Humankind to feed itself. As health standards had improved, so infant mortality rates had plummeted. At the same time life expectancy had increased dramatically. With vast areas of the City being opened up yearly, the population of Chung Kuo had grown exponentially for the first century of the City's existence. It had doubled, from four to eight billion, from eight to sixteen, then from sixteen to thirty-two, each doubling a matter of only thirty years. Against such vast and unchecked growth the United Nations estimate of the world's population stabilizing at 10.2 billion was laughable. What had happened was more like the ancient tale of the king and the uiei chi board.

In the tale the king had granted the peasant his wish—for one grain of rice on the first square of the board, twice as much on the second, twice as much again on the third, and so on—not realizing how vast the final total was, how far beyond his means to give. So it was with the Seven. They had guaranteed the masses of Chung Kuo unlimited food, shelter, and medical care, with no check upon their numbers. It was madness. A madness that could be tolerated no longer.

He looked about him, saw how they were waiting for him, as if they knew where his words led.

"That rate of growth has not, thankfully, maintained itself over the last seven years. However, births are still outstripping deaths by two to one, and the current figure of thirty-nine-and-a-half billion is still enough to cause us major concern, particularly in view of the growing problems with food production." So here he was, at last, speaking about it.

He looked across at Wu Shih, then back to Tsu Ma, seeing how tense his fellow T'ang had grown. Even Wei Feng was looking down, disturbed by the direction Li Shai Tung's words had taken. He pressed on.

"As you know, for the past twenty years I have been trying to anticipate these problems—to find solutions without taking what seems to me now the inevitable step. The number of orbital farms, for instance, has been increased eight hundred percent in the past fifteen years, resulting in fifty-five percent of all Chung Kuo's food now being grown off-planet. That success, however, has caused us new problems. There is the danger of cluttering up the skies; the problem of repairing and maintaining such vast and complex machineries; the need to build at least four and possibly as many as twelve new spaceports, capacity at the present ports being strained to the limit. Added to this, the cost of ferrying down the produce, of processing it and distributing it, has grown year by year. And then, as we all know, there have been accidents."

He saw, once again, how they looked at each other. This was the Great Unsaid. If the Seven could be said to have a taboo it was this—the relationship of food production to population growth. It was Chung Kuo's oldest problem—as old as the First Emperor, Ch'in Shih Huang Ti himself—yet for a century or more they had refused to discuss it, even to mention it. And why? Because that relationship underpinned the one great freedom they had promised the people of Chung Kuo— the one freedom upon which the whole great edifice of Family and Seven depended—the right to have an unlimited number of children. Take that away and the belief in Family was undermined; a belief that was sacrosanct—that was the very foundation stone of their great State. For were they not themselves the fathers of their people?

Yes. But now that had to change. A new relationship had to be forged, less satisfactory than the old, yet necessary; because without it there would be nothing. No Seven, no State, nothing but anarchy.

"We know these things," he said softly, "yet we say nothing of them. But now it is time to do our sums: to balance the one against the other and see where such figures lead us. All of which brings me back to the report I commissioned and its central question—what would have happened if the Ping Tioo had succeeded in their attack on the plantations?"

"Li Shai Tung . . . ?" It was Wei Feng.

"Yes, Cousin?"

"Will we be given copies of this report of yours?"

"Of course."

Wei Feng met his eyes briefly, his expression deeply troubled. "Good. But let me say how—unorthodox I find this: to speak of a document none of us have seen. It is not how we normally transact our business,"

Li Shai Tung lowered his head, respecting his old friend's feelings. "I understand, Cousin, but these are not normal times, nor is this matter—orthodox, shall we say. It was simply that I did not feel I could submit such a document for the record. However, when the detailed report is ready I shall ensure each of you receive a copy at once."

Wei Feng nodded, but it was clear he was far from happy with the way things had developed, despite his words about "thinking the unthinkable." Li Shai Tung studied him a moment, trying to gauge how strongly he felt on the matter; then he looked away, resuming his speech.

"However, from our first and admittedly hurried estimates, we believe that the Ping Tioo attack would have destroyed as much as thirty-five percent of the East European growing areas. In terms of overall food production this equates with approximately ten percent of City Europe's total."

He leaned forward slightly.

"Were this merely a matter of percentage reductions the problem would be a relatively minor one—and, indeed, short term, for the growing areas could be redeveloped within three months—but the fact is that we have developed a distribution network that is immensely fragile. If you will forgive the analogy, we are like an army encamped in enemy territory that has tried to keep its supply lines as short as possible. This has meant that food from the plantations has traditionally been used to feed the eastern Hsien of City Europe, while the food brought down from the orbitals—landed in the six spaceports on the western and southern coasts—has been used to feed the west and south of the City. If the plantations failed, it would mean shipping vast amounts of grain, meat, and other edibles across the continent. It is not impossible, but it would be difficult to organize and immensely costly."

He paused significantly. "That, however, would be the least of our problems. Because production has not kept pace with population growth, the physical amount of food consumed by our citizenry has dropped considerably over the past fifteen years. On average, people now eat ten percent less than they did in 2192. To ask them to cut their consumption by a further ten percent—as we would undoubt-edly have to in the short term—would, I am told, return us to the situation we faced a year ago, with widespread rioting in the lower levels. The potential damage of that is, as you can imagine, inestimable.

"But let me come to my final point—the point at which my worries become your worries. For what we are really talking of here is not a question of logistics—of finding administrative solutions to large-scale problems—but an ongoing situation of destabilization. Such an attack, we could be certain, would be but the first, and each subsequent attack would find us more vulnerable, our resources stretched much further, our options fewer. What we are talking of is a downward spiral with the only end in sight our own. My counsellors estimate that it would need only a twenty-five percent reduction in food supplies to make City Europe effectively ungovernable. And what can happen in Europe can, I am assured, be duplicated elsewhere. So you see, cousins, this matter has brought to our attention just how vulnerable we are in this, the most important and yet most neglected area of government."

He fell silent, noting the air of uneasiness that had fallen over the meeting. It was Wu Shih, T'ang of North America, who articulated what they all were thinking.

"And what is your answer, Shai Tung?"

Li Shai Tung took a small, shuddering breath, then answered. "For too long we have been running hard to try to catch up with ourselves. The time has come when we can do that no longer. Our legs cannot hold us. We must have controls. Now, before it is too late."

"Controls?" Wang Sau-leyan asked, a faint puzzlement in his face.

Li Shai Tung looked back at him, nodding. But even now it was hard to say the words themselves. Hard to throw off the shroud of silence that surrounded this matter and speak of it directly. He raised himself slightly in his chair, then forced himself to say it.

"What I mean is this. We must limit the number of children a man might have." The silence that greeted his words was worse than anything Li Shai Tung had ever experienced in Council. He looked to Tsu Ma. "You see the need, don't you, Tsu Ma?"

Tsu Ma met his eyes firmly, only the faintness of his smile suggesting his discomfort. "I understand your concern, dear friend. And what you said—there is undeniably a deal of truth in it. But is there no other way?"

Li Shai Tung shook his head. "Do you think I would even raise the matter if I thought there were another way? No. We must take this drastic action and take it soon. The only real question is how we go about it. How we can make this great change while maintaining the status quo."

Wei Feng pulled at his beard, disturbed by this talk. "Forgive me, Shai Tung, but I do not agree. You talk of these things as if they must come about, but I cannot see that. The attack on the plantations would, I agree, have had serious repercussions, yet now we are forewarned. Surely we can take measures to prevent further attacks? When you said to me earlier that you wished to take decisive action, I thought you meant something else."

"What else could I have meant?"

Wei Feng's ancient features were suddenly unyielding. "It's obvious, surely, Cousin? We must take measures to crush these revolutionaries. Enforce a curfew in the lower levels. Undertake level-by-level searches. Offer rewards for information on these bastards."

Li Shai Tung looked down. That was not what he meant. The solution was not so simple. The dragon of Change had many heads—cut off one and two more grew in its place. No, they had to be far more radical than that. They had to go to the source of the problem. Right down to the root.

"Forgive me, cousin Feng, but I have already taken such measures as you suggest. I have already authorized young Ebert to strike back at the Ping Tiao. But that will do nothing to assuage the problem I was talking of earlier. We must act before this trickle of revolutionary activity becomes a flood."

Wu Shih was nodding. "I understand what you are saying, Shai Tung, but don't you think that your cure might prove more drastic than the disease? After all, there is nothing more sacred than a man's right to have children. Threaten that and you might alienate not just the revolutionary elements but the whole of Chung Kuo."

"And yet there are precedents."

Wei Feng snorted. "You mean the Ko Ming emperors? And where did that end? What did that achieve?"

It was true. Under Mao Tse Tung the Ko Ming had tried to solve this problem more than two hundred years before, but their attempt to create the one-child family had had only limited success. It had worked in the towns, but in the countryside the peasants had continued having six, often a dozen children. And though the situations were far from parallel, the basic underlying attitude was unchanged. Chung Kuo was a society embedded in the concept of the Family, and in the right to have sons. Such a change would need to be enforced.

He looked back at Wu Shih. "There would be trouble, I agree. A great deal of trouble. But nothing like what must ultimately come about if we continue to ignore this problem." He looked about him, his voice raised momentarily, passionate in its belief. "Don't you see it, any of you? We must do this! We have no choice!"

"You wish to put this to a vote, Shai Tung?" Wei Feng asked, watching him through narrowed eyes.

A vote? He had not expected that. All he had wanted was for them to carry the idea forward—to agree to bring the concept into the realm of their discussions. To take the first step. A vote at this stage could prevent all that, could remove the idea from the agenda for good.

He began to shake his head, but Wang Sau-leyan spoke up, taking up Wei Feng's challenge.

"I think a vote would be a good idea, cousins. It would clarify how we feel on this matter. As Shai Tung says, the facts are clear, the problem real. We cannot simply ignore it. I for one support Shai Tung's proposal. Though we must think carefully how and when we introduce such measures, there is no denying the need for their introduction."

Li Shai Tung looked up, astonished. Wang Sau-leyan—supporting him! He looked across at Tsu Ma, then to Wu Shih. Then perhaps . . .

Wei Feng turned in his chair, facing him. "I take it you support your own proposal, Shai Tung?"

"I do."

"Then that is two for the proposal."

He looked at Wu Shih. The T'ang of North America looked across at Li Shai Tung, then slowly shook his head.

"And one against."

Tsu Ma was next. He hesitated, then nodded his agreement.

"Three for, one against."

Next was Chi Hsing, T'ang of the Australias. "No," he said, looking to Li Shai Tung apologetically. "Forgive me, Shai Tung, but I think Wu Shih is right."

Three for, two against.

On the other side of Wang Sau-leyan sat Hou Tung-po, T'ang of South America, his smooth, unbearded cheeks making him seem even younger than his friend, Wang. Li Shai Tung studied him, wondering if, in this as in most things, he would follow Wang's line.

"Well, Tung-po?" Wei Feng asked. "You have two children now. Two sons.

Would you have one of them not exist?"

Li Shai Tung sat forward angrily. "That is unfair, Wei Feng!"

Wei Feng lifted his chin. "Is it? You mean that the Seven would be exceptions to the general rule?"

Li Shai Tung hesitated. He had not considered this. He had thought of it only in general terms.

"Don't you see where all this leads us, Shai Tung?" Wei Feng asked, his voice suddenly much softer, his whole manner conciliatory. "Can't you see the great depth of bitterness such a policy would bring in its wake? You talk of the end of Chung Kuo, of having no alternative; yet in this we truly have no alternative. The freedom to have children—that must be sacrosanct. And we must find other solutions, Shai Tung. As we always have. Isn't that the very reason for our existence? Isn't that the purpose of the Seven—to keep the balance?" "And if the balance is already lost?"

Wei Feng looked back at him, a deep sadness in his eyes, then turned, looking back at Hou Tung-po. "Well, Tung-po?"

The young T'ang glanced at Li Shai Tung, then shook his head. Three for. Three against. And there was no doubt which way Wei Feng would vote. Li Shai Tung shivered. Then the nightmare must come. As sure as he saw it in his dreams, the City falling beneath a great tidal wave of blood. And afterward? He thought of the dream his son Li Yuan had had, so long ago. The dream of a great white mountain of bones, filling the plain where the City had once stood. He thought of it and shuddered.

"And you, Wei Feng?" he asked, meeting his old friend's eyes, his own lacking all hope.

"I say no, Li Shai Tung. I say no."

OUTSIDE, in the great entrance hall, Tsu Ma drew Li Shai Tung aside, leaning close to whisper to him.

"I wish a word with you, Shai Tung. In private, where no one can overhear us."

Li Shai Tung frowned. This was unlike Tsu Ma. "What is it?"

"In private, please, Cousin."

They went into one of the small adjoining rooms and closed the door behind them.

"Well, Tsu Ma? What is it?"

Tsu Ma came and stood very close, keeping his voice low, the movements of his lips hidden from the view of any overseeing cameras.

"I must warn you, Shai Tung. There is a spy in your household. Someone very close to you."

"A spy?" He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just that. A spy. How else do you think Wang Sau-leyan has been able to anticipate you? He knew what you were going to say to the Council. Why else do you think he supported you? Because he knew he could afford to. Because he had briefed those two puppets of his to vote with Wei Feng."

Li Shai Tung stared back at Tsu Ma, astonished not merely at this revelation, but by the clear disrespect he was showing to his fellow T'ang, Hou Tung-po and Chi Hsing.

"How do you know?" he asked, his own voice a hoarse whisper now. It was unheard of. Unthinkable.

Tsu Ma laughed softly, and leaned even closer. "I have my own spies, Shai Tung. That's how I know."

Li Shai Tung nodded vaguely, but inside he felt a numbness, a real shock, at the implications of what Tsu Ma was saying. For it meant that the Seven could no longer trust each other. Were no longer, in effect, Seven, but merely seven men, pretending to act as one. He shuddered. This was an ill day. He shook his head. "And what—?"

He stopped, turning, as someone began knocking on the door.

"Come in!" said Tsu Ma, stepping back from him.

It was Wei Feng's Chancellor, Ch'in Tao Fan. He bowed low.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but my master asks if you would kindly return. Urgent news has come in. Something he feels you both should see."

They followed Ch'in into Wei Feng's study, finding the other five T'ang gathered before a huge wallscreen. The picture was frozen. It showed a shaven-headed Han, kneeling, a knife held before him.

"What is this?" Li Shai Tung asked, looking to Wei Feng.

"Watch," Wei Feng answered. "All of you, watch."

As the camera backed away, a large "big-character" poster was revealed behind the kneeling man, its crude message painted in bright-red ink on white in Mandarin, an English translation underneath in black.

PING TIAO INNOCENT OF BREMEN TRAGEDY

WE OFFER OUR BODIES IN SYMPATHY WITH THOSE WHO DIED

The camera focused on the man once more. He was breathing slowly now, gathering himself about the point of his knife. Then, with a great contortion of his features, he cut deep into his belly, drawing the knife slowly, agonizingly across, disemboweling himself.

Li Shai Tung shuddered. Our bodies. . . did that mean? He turned to Wei Feng.

"How many of them were there?"

"Two, maybe three hundred, scattered throughout the City. But the poster was the same everywhere. It was all very tightly coordinated. Their deaths were all within a minute of each other, timed to coincide with the very hour of the original attack."

"And were they all Han?" Tsu Ma asked, his features registering the shock they all felt.

Wei Feng shook his head. "No. They were evenly distributed, Han and Hung Mao. Whoever arranged this knew what he was doing. It was quite masterful."

"And a lie," said Wu Shih, angrily.

"Of course. But the masses will see it otherwise. If I had known I would have stopped the pictures going out."

"And the rumors?" Tsu Ma shook his head. "No, you could not have hushed this up, Wei Feng. It would have spread like wildfire. But you are right. Whoever organized this understood the power of the gesture. It has changed things totally. Before, we had a mandate to act as we wished against them. But now . . ."

Li Shai Tung laughed bitterly. "It changes nothing, Cousin. I will crush them anyway."

"Is that wise?" Wei Feng asked, looking about him to gauge what the others felt.

"Wise or not, it is how I will act. Unless my cousins wish it otherwise?"

Li Shai Tung looked about him, challenging them, a strange defiance in his eyes;

then he turned and hurried from the room, his every movement expressive of a barely controlled anger.

"Follow him, Tsu Ma," Wei Feng said, reaching out to touch his arm. "Catch up with him and try to make him see sense. I understand his anger, but you are right— this changes things. You must make him see that."

Tsu Ma smiled, then looked away, as if following Li Shai Tung's progress through the walls. "I will try, Wei Feng. But I promise nothing. Bremen has woken something in our cousin. Something hard and fierce. I fear it will not sleep until he has assuaged it."

"Maybe so. But we must try. For all our sakes."

CHAPTER TWO

Gods of the Flesh

KUAN YIN, preserve us! What is that?"

DeVore turned, looking at his new lieutenant. "Haven't you ever seen one of these, Schwarz?" He stroked the blind snout of the nearest head, the primitive nervous system of the beast responding to the gentleness of his touch. "It's a jou tung wu, my friend, a meat-animal."

The jou tung wu filled the whole of the left-hand side of the factory floor, its vast pink bulk contained within a rectangular mesh of ice. It was a huge mountain of flesh, a hundred ch'i to a side and almost twenty ch'i in height. Along one side of it, like the teats of a giant pig, three dozen heads jutted from the flesh; long, eyeless snouts with shovel jaws that snuffled and gobbled in the conveyor-belt trough that moved constantly before them.

The stench of it was overpowering. It had been present even in the elevator coming up, permeating the whole of the stack, marking the men who tended it with its rich indelible scent.

The factory was dimly lit, the ceiling somewhere in the darkness high overhead. A group of technicians stood off to one side, talking softly, nervously, among themselves.

Schwarz shuddered. "Why does it have to be so dark in here?"

DeVore glanced at him. "It's light-sensitive, that's why," he said, as if that were all there was to it; but he didn't like it either. Why had Gesell wanted to meet them here? Was the lighting a factor? Was the bastard planning something?

DeVore looked past Schwarz at Lehmann. "Stefan. Here."

Lehmann came across and stood there silently, like a machine waiting to be instructed.

"I want no trouble here," DeVore said, his voice loud enough to carry to the technicians. "Even if Gesell threatens me, I want you to hold off. Understand me?

He'll be angry. Justifiably so. But I don't want to make things any more difficult than they are."

Lehmann nodded and moved back.

There was the sound of a door sliding back at the far end of the factory. A moment later five figures emerged from the shadows—Gesell; the woman, Ascher; and three others, big men they hadn't seen before. Looking at them, DeVore realized they were bodyguards and wondered why Gesell had suddenly found the need to have them.

The Ping Tiao leader wasted no time. He strode across and planted himself before DeVore, his legs set apart, his eyes blazing, the three men formed into a crescent at his back menacingly.

"You've got some talking to do this time, Shih Turner. And you'd better make it good!"

It was the second time Gesell had threatened DeVore. Schwarz started to take a step forward, but found Lehmann's hand on his arm, restraining him.

"You're upset," DeVore said calmly. "I understand that. It was a fuck-up and it cost us dearly. Both of us."

Gesell gave a small laugh of astonishment. "You⁷. What did it cost you? Nothing! You made sure you kept your hands clean, didn't you?"

"Are you suggesting that what happened was my fault? As I understand it, one of your squads moved into place too early. That tipped off a Security captain. He reported in to his senior commander. At that point the plug had to be pulled. The thing wouldn't have worked. If you calmed down a while and thought it through you'd see that. My man on staff had to do what he did. If he hadn't, they'd have been in place, waiting for your assault squads. They'd have taken some of them alive. And then where would you be? They may have been brave men, Shih Gesell, but the T'ang's servants have ways of getting information from even the stubbornest of men.

"As for what I lost. I lost a great deal. My fortunes are bound up with yours. Your failure hurt me badly. My backers are very angry."

DeVore fell silent, letting the truth of what he'd said sink in.

Gesell was very agitated, on the verge of striking DeVore, but he had been listening—thinking through what DeVore had been saying—and some part of him knew that it was true. Even so, his anger remained, unassuaged.

He drew his knife. "You unctuous bastard . . ."

DeVore pushed the blade aside. "That'll solve nothing."

Gesell turned away, leaning against the edge of the trough, the jou tung uiu in front of him. For a moment he stood there, his whole body tensed. Then, in a frenzy of rage, he stabbed at the nearest head, sticking it again and again with his knife, the blood spurting with each angry thrust, the eyeless face lifting in torment, the long mouth shrieking with pain, a shriek that was taken up all along the line of heads, a great ripple running through the vast slab of red-pink flesh.

Gesell shuddered and stepped back, looking about him, his eyes blinking, then threw the knife down. He looked at DeVore blankly, then turned away, while, behind him the blind snouts shrieked and shrieked, filling the fetid darkness with their distress.

The technicians had held back. Now one of them, appalled by what the Ping Tiao leader had done, hurried across, skirting Gesell. He jabbed a needle-gun against the wounded head, then began rubbing salve into the cuts, murmuring to the beast all the while as if it were a child. After a moment the head slumped. Slowly the noise subsided, the heads grew calm again, those nearest falling into a matching stupor.

"Still," DeVore said after a moment, "you've contained the damage rather well. I couldn't have done better myself."

He saw how Gesell glanced uncertainly at Ascher and knew at once that he'd had nothing to do with the ritual suicides. He was about to make comment when a voice came from the darkness to his left. "You liked that? It was my idea."

DeVore turned slowly, recognizing Mach's voice. He narrowed his eyes, not understanding. Mach was the last person he would have expected to have tried to save the reputation of the Ping Tiao. No. The collapse of the "Levelers" could only bolster the fortunes of his own secret movement-within-a-movement, the Yu. Unless ... He turned back, watching Gesell's face as Mach came toward him. Of course! Gesell was out! Mach was now the de facto leader of the Ping Tiao. It was what he had sensed earlier—why Gesell had been so touchy, why he had begun to surround himself with thugs. Gesell knew. Even if it hadn't been said, he knew. And was afraid.

Mach seemed taller, broader at the shoulder than before. Then DeVore understood. He was wearing a uniform—the uniform of the Security Reserve Corps. His long dark hair was coiled tightly in a bun at the back of his head and he had shaved off the beard he usually wore. He strode across casually, smiling tightly at Gesell, then turned his back on his colleagues.

"You've got balls, Turner, I'll grant you that. If I'd been in your shoes, this is the last place I'd come."

DeVore smiled. "I gambled. Guessed that the surprise of seeing me here would make you listen to me. Even your friend, the hothead over there."

Gesell glared back at him, but said nothing. It was as if Mach's presence neutralized him.

Mach was nodding. "I'm sorry about that. Bent lets things get on top of him at times. But he's a good man. He wants what I want."

DeVore looked from one to the other, trying to make out exactly what their new relationship was. But one thing was clear: Mach was number one. He alone spoke for the Ping Tiao now. Overnight the illusion of equality—of committee—had dissipated, leaving a naked power struggle. A struggle that Mach had clearly won. But had he won anything of substance? Had he won it only to see the Ping Tiao destroyed? If so, he seemed remarkably calm about it.

"And what do you want?" he asked. "Something new, or the same old formula?" Mach laughed. "Does it matter? Are you interested any longer?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Mach nodded, a slightly more thoughtful expression coming to his face. "Yes." Again he laughed. It was strange. He seemed more relaxed than DeVore had ever seen him. A man free of cares, not burdened by them.

"You know, 1 was genuinely surprised when you contacted us. I wondered what you could possibly want. After Bremen I thought you'd have nothing to do with us. I did what I could to repair the damage, but. . ." He shrugged. "Well, we all know how it is. We are small fish in the great sea of the people, and if the sea turns against us . . ."

DeVore smiled inwardly. So Mach knew his Mao. But had he Mao's dour patience? Had he the steel in him to wait long years to see his vision made real? His creation of the Yu suggested that he had. And that was why he had come. To keep in touch with Mach. To cast off the Ping Tiao and take up with the Yu. But it seemed that Mach had not yet finished with the Ping Tiao. Why? Were the Yu not ready yet? Did he need the Ping Tiao a while longer—as a mask, perhaps, for his other activities?

He looked down, deciding how to play it; then he smiled, meeting Mach's eyes again.

"Let's just say that I believe in you, Shih Mach. What happened was unfortunate. Tragic, let's say. But not irreparable. We have patience, you and I. The patience to rebuild from the ashes, neh?"

Mach narrowed his eyes. "And you think you can help?"

DeVore reached into his tunic pocket and took out the ten slender chips, handing them across to Mach.

Mach looked at them, then laughed. "Half a million yuan. And that'll solve all our problems?"

"That and four of my best propaganda men. They'll run a leaflet campaign in the lower levels. They'll reconstruct what happened at Bremen until even the most cynical unbeliever will have it on trust that the Seven butchered fifteen thousand of their own to justify a campaign against the Ping Tiao."

Mach laughed. "And you think that will work?"

DeVore shook his head. "No. 1 know it'll work. The Big Lie always does."

"And in return?"

"You attack the plantations."

Mach's eyes widened. "You're mad. They'll be waiting for us now."

"Like they were at Bremen?"

Mach considered. "I take your point. But not now. We've lost too many men. It'll take time to heal our wounds, and even more to train others to take the place of those we lost."

"How long?"

"A year, perhaps. Six months at the very least."

DeVore shook his head. "Too long. Call it a month and I can promise twenty times the money I've just given you."

Mach's mouth opened slightly, surprised. Then he shook his head. "For once it's not a question of money. Or haven't you heard? The T'ang's men raided more than a dozen of our cells this afternoon. To all intents and purposes the Ping Tiao has ceased to exist in large parts of City Europe. Elsewhere we're down to a bare skeleton. That's where I Ve been, inspecting the damage. Touring the ruins, if you like."

DeVore looked past Mach at the others. No wonder the woman had been so quiet. They had known. Even so, his reasoning remained sound. Until the fortresses were ready, he needed an organization like the Ping Tiao to burrow away at the foundations of the City and keep the Seven under pressure. The Ping Tiao, or maybe the Yu. When the Yu were ready.

He was silent a moment, then nodded. "I see. Then you had best use my men to bolster your numbers, Shih Mach. Five hundred should be enough, don't you think? I'll arrange for Schwarz here to report to you two days from now. You'll have command, naturally."

Mach narrowed his eyes. "I don't understand. Why don't you just attack them yourself? I don't see what you get out of doing it this way."

"You don't trust me, then?"

"Damn right, I don't!" Mach laughed and half turned away, then turned back, coming right up close to DeVore.

"Okay. Let's have no more games between us, Major. I know who you are, and I know what you've done. I've known it some while now. It explains a lot. But this • • . this just doesn't fit together."

DeVore stared back at him, undaunted. Of course he knew. Who did he think let him know?

"Start thinking clearly, Mach. How could I get that many men into position without Security finding out about it? No. I need you, Mach. I need you to find false identities for these men. To find them places to live. To organize things for me. Beyond that we both need this. In my case to placate my backers, to let them see that something real, something tangible, is being done against the Seven. You to bring new blood to your movement, to prove that the Ping Tiao isn't moribund."

Mach looked away thoughtfully, then nodded. "All right. We'll do as you say. But I want the funds up front, and I want them three days from now. As token of your good faith."

It would be difficult, but not impossible. In any case, Ebert would pay. He'd fucked things up, so he could foot the bill. DeVore offered his hand. "Agreed." Mach hesitated, then took his hand. "Good. Three days then. I'll let you know where we'll meet and when."

As he made his way back to the transporter, DeVore considered what had been said and done. Whatever happened now, Gesell was dead. After the raid on the plantations if necessary, but before if it could be arranged. That was the last time he would put himself at risk with that fool.

He smiled. It had all seemed very bleak yesterday, when the news had first broken, but it was going to be all right. Maybe even better than before, in fact, because this gave him a chance to work much closer with Mach. To make him his tool.

In that Mach and the jou tung wu were alike. Neither was conscious of the role they served. Of how they were fattened only to be slaughtered. For that was their ultimate purpose in life. To eat shit and feed others. The jou tung wu to feed the mei yujen wen, the "subhumans" of the City, and Mach—a finer, tastier meat—to feed him.

He laughed. Yes, Mach, I mean to eat you. To make your skull my rice bowl and feast upon your brains. Because that's how it is in this little world of ours. It's man eat man, and always has been.

He slowed as he came closer to the transporter, checking for signs that anything was wrong; then, satisfied, he ducked inside, leaving his lieutenants to follow in the second craft.

He sat down at once, strapping himself in, the craft rising steeply even before the door was fully closed, the pilot following his earlier instructions to the letter, making sure there was no possibility of pursuit, no chance of ambush.

As the ground fell away he smiled, thinking of the equation he had made in his head. Yes, they were all meat-animals, every last one of them, himself included. But he could dream. Ah yes, he could dream. And in his dreams he saw them— finer, cleaner beasts, all trace of grossness excised from their natures. Tall, slender creatures, sculpted like glass yet hard as steel. Creatures of ice, designed to survive the very worst the universe could throw at them. Survivors.

No . . . More than that. Inheritors.

He laughed. That was it—the name he had been looking for. Inheritors. He keyed the word into his wrist set, then closed his eyes and let his head fall back, relaxing.

Yes. Inheritors. But first he must destroy what stopped them from coming into being. In that, Tsao Ch'un had been right. The new could not come into being while the old remained. His inheritors could not stand tall and straight in that cramped little world of levels. So the old must go. The levels must be leveled, the walls torn down, the universe opened up again. In order that they might exist. In order that things could go forward again, onward to the ultimate—the mind's total control of matter. Only then could they stop. Only then could there be surcease.

He shivered. That was the dream. The reason—no—the motivating force behind each action that he took, the dark wind blowing hard and cold at his back. To bring them into being. Creatures of ice. Creatures better than himself.

What finer aim was there? What finer aim?

HANS EBERT stopped in the doorway, lowering his head in a bow of respect, then went in, the fully laden tray held out before him. As he came near, Nocenzi, Tolonen, and the T'ang moved back slightly, letting him put it down in the space they had cleared. They had been closeted together three hours now, discussing the matter of reprisals and the new Security measures.

Li Shai Tung smiled, accepting a bowl of ch'a from the young Major. "You shouldn't have, Hans. I would have sent a servant."

Ebert's head remained lowered a moment longer. "You were in deep discussion, Chieh Hsia. I felt it best to see to things myself."

The old T'ang laughed softly. "Well, Hans, I'm glad you did. I did not realize how much time had passed or how thirsty I had grown."

The T'ang made to sip from the bowl, but Ebert cleared his throat. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia. But if you'd permit me?"

Li Shai Tung frowned, then saw what Ebert meant. He handed him the bowl, then watched as the young man sipped, then wiped where his lips had touched with a cloth before handing back the bowl.

The T'ang looked to Tolonen and Nocenzi and saw how his own pleasure was mirrored in their faces. Ebert was a splendid young man, and he had been right to insist on tasting the ch'a before he drank it.

"One cannot be too careful, Chieh Hsia."

Li Shai Tung nodded. "You are quite right, Hans. What would your father say, eh?"

"To you, nothing, Chieh Hsia. But he would most certainly have chastised me for failing in my duties as his son if I had let you sip the ch'a untasted."

Again the answer pleased the three older men greatly. With a last bow to his T'ang, Ebert turned and began to pour for the General and the Marshal.

"Well, Knut," continued the T'ang where he had left off, "do you think we got them all?"

Tolonen straightened slightly, taking the bowl from Ebert before he answered.

"Not all, Chieh Hsia, but I'd warrant it'll be a year or more before we have any more trouble from them, if then. Hans did a fine job. And it was good that we acted when we did. If we had left it even an hour later we wouldn't have got anyone to inform on the scum and we would never have got to those cells. As it was . . ." As it was they had practically destroyed the Ping Tioo. After the awfulness of Bremen there had been smiles again. Grim smiles of satisfaction at a job well done. "I wish I had known," the T'ang said, looking away. "I might have pushed things a little less hard in Council. Might have waited a while and tried to convince my fellow T'ang rather than coerce them."

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but you acted as you had to," Nocenzi said, his voice free of doubt. "Whether the threat be from the Ping Tioo or from another group, the problem remains. And as long as population outstrips food production it can only get worse."

"Yes, Vittorio, but what can I do? The Council will hear nothing of population measures and I have done all that can be done to increase productivity. What remains?"

Nocenzi looked to Tolonen, who gave the slightest nod, then turned to young Ebert. "Hans, you know the facts and figures. Would you like to spell it out for us?" . Ebert looked to his T'ang, then set his ch'a down. "Chieh Hsia?"

"Go ahead, Major."

Ebert hesitated, then bowed his head. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but when I learned what had been planned against the plantations, I decided, after consultation with Marshal Tolonen, to commission a report. One separate from those you had asked us to compile."

The T'ang looked briefly to Tolonen, then frowned. "I see. And what was in this report?"

"It was quite simple, Chieh Hsia. Indeed, it asked but one highly specific question. What would it cost in terms of manpower and finances to adequately guard the plantations?"

"And the results of your report?"

Tolonen interrupted. "You must understand, Chieh Hsia, that Ebert acted only under my strict orders. Nor would I have mentioned this had you been successful in Council. It's just that I felt we should be prepared for the worst eventuality. For the failure of our action against the Ping Tioo and the—the hostility, let us say, of the Seven to your scheme."

The T'ang looked down, then laughed. "I am not angry, Knut. Gods, no. I'm glad to have such fine men as you three tending to my interests. If I seem angry, it is at the need for us to take such measures. At the wastefulness of it all. Surely there's no need for us to breed and breed until we choke on our own excess of flesh!"

He looked about him angrily, then calmed, nodding to himself. "Well, Hans? What would the cost be?"

Ebert bowed. "In men we're talking of a further half-million, Chieh Hsia. Six-hundred-and fifty thousand to be absolutely safe. In money—for food, billeting, equipment, salaries, and so forth—it works out to something like eighty-five thousand yuan per man, or a total somewhere between forty-two and fifty-five billion yuan per year.

"However, this scenario presumes that we have half a million trained Security guards ready for placement. The truth is, if we took this number of men from their present duties there would be a substantial increase in criminal activity throughout the levels, not to say a dramatic rise in civil disturbance at the very bottom of the City. It would reduce current strength by over twenty-five percent, and that could well result in a complete breakdown of law and order in the lowest fifty levels."

"And the alternative?"

"To take a much smaller number, say fifty thousand, from present strength, then recruit to make up numbers. This, too, creates problems, primarily in training. To accommodate such an influx we would have to expand our training program considerably. And the cost . . . forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but that alone would account for an estimated twenty billion, even before we equipped and trained the first recruit."

Li Shai Tung considered a moment, then shook his head. "I don't like it, ch'un tzu. To finance this would mean making cuts elsewhere, and who knows what troubles that would bring? But what choice do we have? Without enough food. . ."

He shrugged. It came back to the same thing every time. Population and food.

Food and population. How fill the ever-growing rice bowl of Chung Kuo?

Tolonen hesitated, then bowed his head. "Might I suggest a solution, Chieh Hsia?"

"Of course."

"Then what of this? What if we were to adopt part of Hans's scheme? Aim for a force of, say, a quarter-million, to be stationed on the plantations, concentrated at key points to maximize their effectiveness. This to be phased in by degrees, at a rate of, say, fifty thousand every six months. That would take the strain off the training facilities while at the same time minimizing the social effects." "But that would take too long, surely?"

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but the one thing Hans neglects to mention in his report is the effectiveness of his action against the Ping Tioo. If our problems of recruitment and training are great, imagine theirs. They've been routed. They won't easily recover from that. As I said earlier, it'll be a year at the very least before they're in any fit state to cause us problems, and there's no terrorist group of comparable size to take their place."

The T'ang considered a moment, then nodded. "All right. We shall do as you say, Knut. Draw up the orders and I'll sign them." He turned, looking at Ebert.

"You have served me well today, Hans Ebert, and I shall not forget it. Nor shall my son. But come, let's drink this fine ch'a you brought before it cools. The three men bowed as one. "Chieh Hsw . . ."

Li YUAN looked up from the document he was reading and yawned.

"You should take a break, my Lord," Chang Shih-sen, his personal secretary said, looking across at him from his desk on the far side of the room. "I'll finish off. There are only a few things remaining."

Li Yuan smiled. They had been working since seven and it was almost midday. "A good idea, Shih-sen. But it's strange that my father hasn't contacted me. Do you think he's all right?"

"I am certain of it, my Lord. You would be the first to hear were your father ill." "Yes . . ." He looked down at Minister Heng's memorandum again, then nodded. "It's interesting, this business with the Shepherd boy, don't you think?" -<.

"My Lord . . ." Chang Shih-sen was watching him, smiling, Li Yuan laughed. "All right. I know when I'm being bullied for my own good. I'll go, Shih-sen. But make sure you get an acknowledgment off to Heng Yu this afternoon. I've kept him waiting two days as it is."

"Of course, my Lord. Now go. Enjoy the sunshine while you can." Li Yuan went out into the brightness of the Eastern Courtyard, standing there a moment at the top of the broad steps, his hand resting on the cool stone of the balustrade. He looked about him, feeling totally at peace with the world. There was such order here. Such balance. He stretched, easing the tiredness of sitting from his limbs, then went down, taking the steps two at a time before hurrying across the grass, his silk pau flapping about him.

There was no sign of Fei Yen and her maids in the gardens, or in the long walk. The ancient wall-enclosed space was still and silent. At the stone arch he turned, considering whether he should go to her rooms, then decided not to. She needed her rest. Now more than ever. For their son's sake.

As ever the thought of it made him feel strange. He looked across at the ancient, twisted shapes of the junipers that rested in the shade of the palace walls, then turned his head, tracing the curved shape of the pool with his eyes. He held himself still, listening, and was rewarded with the singing of a bird, the sound distant, from across the valley. He smiled, sniffing the cool, late morning air, finding a faint scent of herbs underlying it. It was a good day to be alive.

He turned, looking at the great upright of the arch, then let his fingers trace the complex interwoven patterns in the stone. All this had stood here a thousand years and yet the pattern seemed freshly cut into the stone. As if time had no power here.

He turned, making his way toward the stables. It had been some time since he had seen his horses. Too long. He would spend an hour and make a fuss over them. And later, perhaps, he would exercise Fei's horse, Tai Huo.

The great barn of the stables was warm and musty. The grooms looked up from their work as he entered, then hurried forward to form a line, bowing from the waist.

"Please," he said, "carry on. I'll not disturb you."

They backed away respectfully, then turned, returning to their chores. He watched them a while, some part of him envying the simplicity of their existence, then he looked upward, drawing in the strong, heady scents of the barn—scents that seemed inseparable from the darkly golden shadows of the stalls.

Slowly he went down the line, greeting each of the horses in its stall. The dark-maned barb, Hei Jian, "Black Sword," lifted her broad muzzle in greeting, letting him pat, then smooth her flank. Mei Feng, "Honey Wind," the elegant akhal-teke, was more skittish, almost petulant; but after a moment he relented, letting Li Yuan smooth the honey-gold of his flank, his sharp ears pricked up. He was the youngest of the six horses, and the most recently acquired, a descendant of horses that had served the wild herdsmen of West Asia thousands of years earlier.

Next was his brother's horse, the black Arab he had renamed Chi Chu, "Sunrise." He spent some time with it, rubbing his cheek against its neck, feeling a kinship with the mare that he felt with none of the others. Beside it was the white Arab, the horse he had bought for Fei Yen—Tai Huo, "Great Fire." He smiled, seeing the creature, remembering the night he had brought Fei Yen blindfolded to the stables to see him for the first time. That time they had made love in the stall.

He turned, looking past the horse's rump, then frowned. The fifth stall was empty. The Andalusian—his father's present to him on his twelfth birthday—was not there. He stood at the head of the stall, looking into the empty space, then turned, summoning the nearest of the grooms.

"Where is the Andalusian?"

The groom bowed low, a distinct color in his cheeks. "I... I..." he stammered.

Li Yuan turned, looking back at the stall, his sense of wrongness growing. From outside he heard a clamor of voices. A moment later a tall figure appeared in the great doorway. Hung Feng-chan, the Chief Groom.

"My Lord . . ." he began hesitantly.

Li Yuan turned, facing him. "What is it, Hung?"

Hung Feng-chan bowed low. "The Andalusian is being . . . exercised, my Lord."

Li Yuan frowned, his eyes returning to the empty stall. "Exercised, Hung? I thought they were only exercised first thing. Is something wrong with the animal?"

"My Lord, I . . ."

"The gods help us, Hung! What is it? Are you keeping something from me?"

He looked about him, seeing how the grooms had stopped their work and were looking on, their flat Han faces frightened now.

"Is the horse dead, Hung? Is that it?"

Hung bowed his head lower. "No, my Lord ..."

"Then in the gods' names, what is it?"

"Nan Hsin is being ridden, my Lord."

Li Yuan straightened up, suddenly angry. "Ridden? By whom? We have no guests. Who gave permission for anyone to ride the beast?"

Hung Feng-chan was silent, his head bowed so low that it almost touched his slightly bent knees.

Li Yuan's bark of anger was unexpected. "Well, Hung? Who is riding Nan Hsin?

Or do I have to have it beaten from you?"

Hung raised his head, his eyes beseeching his young master. "My Lord, forgive me. I tried to talk her out of it. . ."

"Tried to—" He stopped, sudden understanding coming to him. Fei Yen. He was ^ talking about Fei Yen. It couldn't be anyone else. No one else would have dared countermand his orders. But Fei was seven months pregnant. She couldn't go riding, not in her condition. The child . . .

He rushed past the Chief Groom and stood in the great doorway, looking out. The palace was to his left, the hills far off to the right. He looked, scanning the long slope for a sight of her, but there was nothing. Then he turned back, concern for her making him forget himself momentarily, all control gone from his voice, a naked fear shaping his words.

"Where is she, Hung? Where in the gods' names is she?" "I ... I don't know, my Lord."

Li Yuan strode across to him and took his arms, shaking him. "Kuan Yin preserve us, Hung! You mean you let her go out, alone, unsupervised, in her condition?"

Hung shook his head miserably. "She forbade me, My Lord. She said—" "Forbade you?! What nonsense is this, Hung? Didn't you realize how dangerous, how stupid this is?" "My Lord, I—"

Li Yuan pushed him away. "Get out of my sight!" He looked about him, furious now. "Go! All of you! Now! I don't want to see any of you here again!"

There was a moment's hesitation, then they began to leave, bowing low as they moved about him. Hung was last. "My Lord . . . ?" he pleaded.

But Li Yuan had turned his back on the Chief Groom. "Just go, Hung Feng-chan. Go now, before I make you pay for your foolishness."

Hung Feng-chan hesitated a moment longer, then, bowing to the back of his Prince, he turned and left dejectedly, leaving Li Yuan alone.

HANS EBERT ran up the steps of the Ebert Mansion, grinning, immensely pleased with his day's work. It had been easy to manipulate the old men. They had been off-balance, frightened by the sudden escalation of events, only too eager to believe the worst-case scenario he had spelled out for them. But the truth was otherwise. A good general could police the East European Plantations with a mere hundred thousand men, and at a cost only one tenth of what he had mentioned. As for the effect on the levels, that, too, had been exaggerated, though even he had to admit that it wasn't known precisely what effect such an attack would have at the lowest levels of the City.

He went through to his suite of rooms to shower and change. As he stripped, he stood over his personal comset, scrolling through until he came upon a cryptic message from his uncle.

Beattie asks if you'll settle his bar bill for him. He says a thousand will cover it. Love, Uncle Lutz.

Beattie was DeVore. Now what did DeVore want ten million for? Ebert kicked off his shorts and went across to the shower, the water switching on as soon as he stepped beneath the spray. Whatever DeVore wanted, it was probably best to give him just now. To pacify him. It would be easy enough to reroute that much. He would get onto it later. Just now, however, he felt like making his regular sacrifice to the gods of the flesh. He closed his eyes, letting the lukewarm jets play on him invigoratingly. Yes, it would be good to have an hour with the mui tsai. To get rid of all the tensions that had built up over the last few days.

He laughed, feeling his sex stir at the thought of her.

"You were a bargain, my lovely," he said softly. "If I'd paid ten times as much, you'd have been a bargain."

The thought was not an idle one. For some time now he had thought of duplicating her. Of transferring those qualities that made her such a good companion to a vat-made model. After all, what wouldn't the Supernal pay for such delicious talents? GenSyn could charge five times the price of their current models. Fifty times, if they handled the publicity properly.

Yes, he could see the campaign now. All the different, subtle ways of suggesting it without actually saying it: of hiding the true function of their latest model and yet letting it be known ...

He laughed, then stepped out, into the drying chamber, letting the warm air play across his body. Or maybe he would keep her for himself. After all, why should every jumped-up little merchant be able to buy such pleasures?

He threw on a light silk gown and went down a small flight of steps into the central space. The Mansion was shaped irregularly, forming a giant G about the gardens. A small wooden bridge led across a narrow stream to a series of arbors. Underfoot was a design of plum blossom, picked out in small pale-pink and gray pebbles, while on every side small red-painted wooden buildings, constructed in the Han style, lay half-hidden among the trees, their gently sloping roofs overhanging the narrow ribbon of water that threaded its way backward and forward across the gardens.

The gardens were much older than the house. Or at least, their design was, for his grandfather had had them modeled on an ancient Han original, naming them the Gardens of Peace and Prosperity. The Han character for Longevity was carved everywhere, into stone and wood, and inlaid into mosaic at the bottom of the clear, fast-running stream. Translucent, paper-covered windows surrounded the garden on all sides, while here and there a moon-door opened onto new vistas—onto another tiny garden or a suite of rooms.

Hans stopped in the middle of the gardens, leaning on the carved wooden balustrade, looking down at his reflection in the still, green water of the central pond. Life was good. Life was very good. He laughed, then looked across at the three ancient pomegranate trees on the far side of the pool, noting how their trunks were shaped like flowing water, how they seemed to rest there, doubled in the stillness of the water. Then, as he watched, a fish surfaced, rippling the mirror, making the trees dance violently, their long, dark trunks undulating like snakes.

And then he heard it, unmistakable. The sound of a baby crying.

He turned, puzzled. A baby? Here? Impossible. There were no children here. He listened then heard it again, clearer now, from somewhere to his left. In the servants' quarters.

He made his way around the pool and across the high-arched stone bridge, then stood there, concentrating, all thoughts of the mui tsai gone.

A baby. It was unmistakably a baby. But who would dare bring a baby here? The servants knew the house rules. His mother's nerves were bad. They knew that, and they knew the rules . . .

He pulled the robe tighter about him, then climbed the steps, hauling himself up onto the terrace that ran the length of the servants' quarters. The sound came regularly now; a whining, mewling sound, more animal than human. An awful, irritating sound.

He went inside, finding the first room empty. But the noise was louder here, much louder, and he could hear a second sound beneath it—the sound of a woman trying to calm the child.

"Hush now," the voice said softly. "Hush, my pretty one."

He frowned, recognizing the voice. It was Golden Heart, the girl he had bought from Mu Chua's singsong house ten years ago. The girl he had taunted Fest with before he'd killed him.

Yes, Golden Heart. But what was she doing with a baby?

He made his way through, slowly, silently, until he stood there in the doorway of her room, looking in. The girl was crouched over a cot, her back to him, cooing softly to the child. The crying had stopped now and the baby seemed to be sleeping. But whose child was it? And who had given permission for it to be brought into the house? If his mother found out she would have them dismissed on the spot.

"Golden Heart?"

The girl started, then turned to face him, the blood drained from her face.

"Excellency . . ." she said breathlessly, bowing low, her body placed between him and the cot, as if to hide the child.

He stepped into the room, looking past her. "What's happening here?"

She half-turned her head, clearly frightened, taking one small step backward so that she bumped against the edge of the cot.

"Whose child is that?"

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. "Excellency . . ." she repeated, her voice small, intimidated.

He saw and understood. He would get nothing out of her by frightening her, but it was important that he know whose child it was and why it had been brought here. Whoever it was, they would have to go, because this was too serious a breach of house rules to be overlooked. He moved closer, then crouched down before the girl, taking her hands and looking up into her face.

. "I'm not angry with you, Golden Heart," he said softly, "but you know the rules. The child shouldn't be here. If you'll tell me who the mother is, I'll arrange for her to take the child away, but you can't keep her here. You know you can't."

He saw doubt war with a strange, wild hope in her face and looked down, puzzled. What was happening here? He looked up at her again, his smile encouraging her.

"Come, Golden Heart. I'll not be angry. You were only looking after it, after all. Just tell me who the mother is."

She looked away, swallowing almost painfully. Again there was that strange struggle in her face, then she looked back at him, her eyes burning wildly.

"The child is yours. Your son."

"Mine?" He laughed sourly, shaking his head. "How can it be mine?"

"And mine," she said softly, uncertainly. "Our child . . ."

He stood, a cold anger spreading through him. "What is this nonsense? How could you have a child? You were sterilized years ago."

She bowed her head, taken aback by the sudden sharpness of his voice. "I know," she said, "but I had it reversed. There's a place—"

"Gods!" he said quietly, understanding what she had done. Of course. He saw it now. She must have stolen some jewelery or something to pay for it. But the child . . .

He pushed past her, looking down at the sleeping infant. It was a large baby, five or six months in age, with definite Eurasian features. But how had she kept him hidden? How had she kept her pregnancy from being noticed? "No ... 1 don't believe you."

She came and stood beside him, resting her hands against the rail of the cot, her chest rising and falling violently, a strange expectation in her face. Then she bent down and lifted the child from the cot, cradling him.

"It's true," she said, turning, offering the child to him. "He's yours, Hans. When I knew I'd fallen I had him removed and tended in a false uterus. After the birth I had him placed in a nursery. I'd visit him there. And sometimes I'd bring him back here. Like today."

"Secretly," he said, his voice calm, distant, a thousand li from his thoughts.

"Yes . . ." she said, lowering her head slightly, willing now to be chastised. But still she held the child out to him, as if he should take it and acknowledge it.

"No," he said, after a moment. "No, Golden Heart. You had no child. Don't you understand that? That thing you hold doesn't exist. It can't be allowed to exist. GenSyn is a complex business and you had no right to meddle in it. That thing would be an impediment. A legal nightmare. It would—inconvenience things.

Can't you see that?"

A muscle twitched beneath her left eye, otherwise she made no sign that she had understood the meaning of his words.

"It's all right," he said. "You won't be punished for your foolishness. But this"— he lifted his hand vaguely, indicating the sleeping child—"this can't be allowed. I'll have someone take it now and destroy it."

Her whimper of fear surprised him. He looked at her, saw the tears that were welling in her eyes, and shook his head. Didn't she understand? Had she no sense at all?

"You had no right, Golden Heart. You belong to me. You do what I say, not what you want. And this—this is ridiculous. Did you really think you could get away with it? Did you really believe for a moment . . . ?" He laughed, but the laughter masked his anger. No. It was not acceptable. And now his mood was broken. He had been looking forward to the mui tsai, but now even the thought of sex was suddenly repugnant to him. Damn her! Damn the stupid girl with her addle-brained broodiness! He should have known something was up. Should have sensed it. Well, she'd not have another chance, that was certain. He'd have the doctors make sure of it this time. Have them make it irreversible.

And the child? It was as he'd said. The child didn't exist. It could not be allowed to exist. Because GenSyn would be threatened by its existence: the very structure of the company undermined by the possibility of a long, protracted inheritance battle in the courts.

He looked at the girl again, at the pathetic bundle she held out before her, and shook his head. Then he turned away, calling out as he did so, summoning his servants to him.

LI SHAI TUNG'S figure filled the tiny overhead screen, his face grave, the white robes of mourning he wore flowing loosely about him as he came slowly down the steps to make his offering before the memorial plaque. Beneath the screen, its polished surface illuminated by the flickering light from the monitor, another, smaller plaque had been set into the foot of the wall, listing all those who had died in this small section of the deck.

Axel Haavikko knelt before the plaque, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched forward. His face was gaunt, his eyes red from weeping. He had not slept since the news had come.

He had thought himself alive again, reborn after years of self-destruction—years spent in idle, worthless dissipation—that moment in Tolonen's office twelve years before, when Hans Ebert had betrayed him, put behind him finally, his life redeemed by his friendship with Karr and Chen, made sense of by their common determination to expose Ebert—to show him for the hollow, lying shit he was. But all that was as nothing now. The light that had burned in him anew had gone out. His sister was dead. Vesa, his beloved Vesa, was dead. And nothing—nothing— could redeem the waste of that.

He took a shivering breath, then looked up again, seeing the image of the T'ang reflected in the plaque where Vesa's name lay. Vesa Haavikko. It was all that remained of her now. That and the relentless ghosts of memory.

On that morning he had gone walking with her. Had held her arm and shared her laughter. They had got up early and gone down to see the old men and their birds in the tree-lined Main at the bottom of Bremen stack. Had sat at a cafe and talked about their plans for the future. And afterward he had kissed her cheek and left her to go on duty, never for a moment suspecting that it was the last time he would ever see her.

He moaned softly, pressing his hands against his thighs in anguish. Why her? She had done nothing. If anyone, it was he who deserved punishment. So why her?

He swallowed painfully, then shook his head, but the truth would not be denied. She was dead. His beloved Vesa was dead. Soulmate and conscience, the best part of himself, she was no more.

He frowned, then looked down, suddenly bitter, angry with himself. It was his fault. He had brought her here, after all. After long years of neglect he had finally brought her to him. And to what end?

A tear welled and trickled down his cheek.

He shuddered, then put his hand up to his face. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, trying to fend off the images that came—those dreadful imaginings of her final moments that tore at him, leaving him broken, wishing only for an end to things.

An end . . . Yes, there would be an end to everything. But first he had a score to settle. One final duty to perform.

He took a deep breath, summoning the energy to rise, then grew still, hearing a noise behind him, a gentle sobbing. He half turned and saw her there, kneeling just behind him to his right, a young woman, a Hung Moo, dressed in mourning clothes. Beside her, his tiny hand clutching hers, stood a child, a Han, bemusement in his three-year-old face.

He looked down, swallowing. The sight of the boy clutching his mother's hand threw him back across the years; brought back the memory of himself, standing there before his mother's plaque; of looking down and seeing Vesa's hand, there in his own, her fingers laced into his, her face looking up at him, not understanding.

Two she had been, he five. And yet so old he had felt that day; so brave, they'd said, to keep from crying.

No, he had never cried for his mother. But now he would. For mother and sister and all. For the death of all that was good and decent in the world.

Li yuan was standing in the stable doorway when she returned, his arms folded across his chest, his face closed to her. He helped her from the saddle, coldly silent, his manner overcareful, exaggeratedly polite.

She stared at him, amused by this rare display of anger, trying to make him acknowledge her presence, but he would not meet her eyes.

"There," she said, pressing one hand against the small of her back to ease the ache there. "No harm done."

She smiled and went to kiss him.

He drew back sharply, glaring at her, then took her hand roughly and led her into the dark warmth of the stable. She went reluctantly, annoyed with him now, thinking him childish.

Inside he settled the horse in its stall, then came back to her, making her sit, standing over her, his hands on his hips, his eyes wide with anger.

"What in hell's name do you think you were doing?"

She looked away. "1 was riding, that's all."

"Riding . . ." he murmured, then raised his voice. "1 said you weren't to ride!"

She looked up, indignation rising in her. "I'm not a child, Li Yuan. I can decide for myself what's best for me!"

He laughed scornfully, then turned, taking three steps away from her. "You can decide, eh?" He stopped, looking directly at her, his expression openly contemptuous. "You . . ." He shook his head. "You're seven months pregnant and you think riding is best for you?"

"No harm was done," she repeated, tossing her head. She would not be lectured by him! Not in ten thousand years! She turned her face aside, shaking now with anger.

He came across and stood over her, for a moment the image of his father, his voice low but menacing. "You say that you're not a child, Fei Yen, yet you've acted like one. How could you be so stupid?"

Her eyes flared. Who was he to call her stupid? This—this—boyl He had gone too far. She pulled herself up awkwardly from the chair and pushed past him. "I shall ride when I like! You'll not prevent me!"

"Oh, won't I?" He laughed, but his mouth was shaped cruelly and his eyes were lit with a sudden determination. "Watch! I'll show you how—"

She was suddenly afraid. She watched him stride across the straw-strewn tiles, a coldness in her stomach. He wouldn't. . . But then the certainty of it hit her and she cried out "No-o-oh.¹," knowing what he meant to do. She screamed it at his back, then went after him, nausea mixing with her fear and anger.

At the far end of the stable he turned, so abruptly, that she almost ran into him. He seized her upper arms, his fingers gripping the flesh tightly, making her wince.

"You'll stand here and watch. You'll witness the price of your stupidity!"

There was so much anger, so much real venom in his words that she swayed, feeling faint, paralyzed into inaction by this sudden change in him. As she watched, he took the power-gun from the rack and checked its charge, then went down the row of horses.

At the end stall he paused and turned to look at her, then went in, his hand smoothing the flank of the dark horse, caressing its long face, before he placed the stubby gun against its temple.

"Good-bye," he whispered, then squeezed the trigger, administering the high-voltage shock.

The horse gave a great snort, then collapsed onto the floor of the stall, dead. Fei Yen, watching, saw how he shuddered, then stepped back, looking at what he'd done, his face muscles twitching violently.

Appalled, she watched him move down the stalls, her horror mounting as the seconds passed.

Five mounts lay dead on the straw. Only the last of them remained, the horse in the third stall, the black Arab that had once been Han's. She stood there, her hands clenched into tight fists, looking in at it. She mouthed its secret name, a cold numbness gripping her, then turned, looking at Li Yuan.

Li Yuan was breathing deeply now. He stood there in the entrance to the stall, for a moment unaware of the woman at his side, looking in at the beautiful beast that stood so proudly before him, its head turned, its dark eyes watching him. His anger had drained from him, leaving only a bitter residue: a sickness gnawing at the marrow of his bones. He shook his head, wanting to cry out for all the pain and anger she had made him feel, then turned and looked at her, seeing now how ill her beauty sat on her.

Like a mask, hiding her selfishness.

He bit his lip, struggling with what he felt, trying to master it. There was the taste of blood in his mouth.

For a moment longer he stood there, trembling, the gun raised, pointed at her.

Then he threw it down.

For a time afterward he stood there, his hands empty, staring down at the red-earth floor, at the golden spill of straw that covered it, a blankness at the very core of him. When he looked up again she was gone. Beyond the stable doors the sky was a vivid blue. In the distance the mountains showed green and gray and white, swathed in mist.

He went out and stood there, looking out into the beauty of the day, letting his numbness seep down out of him, into the earth. Then he turned back and went inside again, bending down to pick up the gun.

The child, that was all that mattered now; all that was important. To make the Seven strong again. "I'm sorry, Han," he whispered gently, laying his face against the horse's neck. "The gods know 1 didn't wish for this." Then, tears blurring his vision, he stepped back and rested the gun against the horse's temple, easing back the trigger.

CHAPTER THREE

The Way of Deception

FEI YEN went back to her father's house. For a week Li Yuan did nothing, hoping she would return of her own free will; then when there was no sign of her returning, he went to see her, taking time off from his duties.

The Yin house defenses tracked him from twenty li out, checking and rechecking his codes before granting him permission to set down. He landed his private craft in the military complex at the back of the estate, in a shadowy hangar where the sharp sweet scents of pine and lemon mingled with the smell of machine oils.

Two of Yin Tsu's three sons, Sung and Chan, were waiting there to greet him, bowed low, keeping a respectful silence.

The palace was on an island at the center of a lake; an elegant, two-story building in the Ming style, its red, corbelled roof gently sloped, its broad, paneled windows reminiscent of older times. Seeing it, Li Yuan smiled, his past memories tinged with present sadness.

The two sons rowed him across the lake, careful not to embarrass him with their attentions. Fei's father, Yin Tsu, was waiting on the landing stage before the palace, standing beneath an ancient willow whose shadow dappled the sunlit water.

He bowed low as Li Yuan stepped from the boat.

"You are welcome, Li Yuan. To what do I owe this honor?"

Yin Tsu was a small, neat man. His pure-white hair was cut short about his neck in an almost occidental style, slicked back from his high forehead. He held himself stiffly now, yet despite his white hair and seventy-four years he was a sprightly man with a disposition toward smiles and laughter. Just now, however, his small, fine features seemed morose, the tiny webs of lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth drawn much deeper than before.

Li Yuan took his hands. Small hands, like a woman's, the skin smooth, almost silky, the fingernails grown long.

"I need to see my wife, Honored Father-in-Law. 1 must talk with her."

A faint breeze was blowing off the water. Fallen leaves brushed against their feet then slowly drifted on.

Yin Tsu nodded his head. Looking at him, Li Yuan saw the original of his wife's finely featured face. There was something delicate about it; some quality that seemed closer to sculpture than genetic chance.

"Come through. I'll have her join us."

Li Yuan bowed and followed the old man. Inside it was cool. Servants brought ch'a and sweetmeats while Yin Tsu went to speak to his daughter. Li Yuan sat there, waiting, rehearsing what he would say.

After a while Yin Tsu returned, taking a seat across from him.

"Fei Yen will not be long. She wants a moment to prepare herself. You understand?"

"Of course. I would have notified you, Yin Tsu, but I did not know when I could come."

The old man lifted his chin and looked down his tiny nose at his son-in-law. Unspoken words lay in the depth of his eyes. Then he nodded, his features settling into an expression of sadness and resignation.

"Talk to her, Yuan. But please, you must only talk. This is still my house.

Agreed?"

Li Yuan bowed his head. Yin Tsu was one of his father's oldest friends. An affront to him would be as an affront to his father.

"If she will not listen, then that will be an end to it, Yin Tsu. But I must try. It is my duty as a husband to try."

His words, like his manner, were stilted and awkward. They hid how much he was feeling at that moment: how much this meant to him.

Yin Tsu went to the window, staring out across the lake. It was difficult for him too. There was a tenseness to each small movement of his that revealed how deeply he felt about all this. But then, that was hardly surprising. He had seen his hopes dashed once before, when Yuan's brother Han had been killed.

Li Yuan sipped at his ch'a, then put it down. He tried to smile, but the muscles in his cheeks pulled the smile too tight. From time to time a nerve would jump beneath his eye, causing a faint twitch. He had not been sleeping well since she had left. "How is she?" he asked, turning to face Yin Tsu.

"In good health. The child grows daily." The old man glanced across, then looked back at the lake. His tiny hands were folded together across his stomach.

"That's good."

On the far side of the room, beside a lacquered screen, stood a cage on a long, slender pole. In the cage was a nightingale. For now it rested silently on its perch, but once it had sung for him—on that day he had come here with his father to see Yin Tsu and ask him for his daughter's hand in marriage.

He sat there, feeling leaden. She had left him on the evening of the argument. Had gone without a word, taking nothing, leaving him to think on what he had done.

"And how is Li Shai Tung?"

Li Yuan looked up blankly. "I beg your pardon, Honored Father?"

"Your father. How is he?"

"Ah," he breathed in deeply, returning to himself. "He is fine now, thank you. A little weak, but. . ."

"None of us are growing any younger." The old man shook his head, then came across and sat again, a faint smile on his lips. "Not that we would even if we could, eh, Yuan?"

Yin Tsu's remark was far from innocuous. He was referring to the new longevity process. Already, it was said, more than a thousand of the Above had had the operation and were taking the drugs regularly—without concrete evidence of the efficacy of the treatment, without knowing whether there were any traceable side-effects. Such men were desperate, it seemed. They would grasp at any promise of extended life.

"Only ill can come of it, Yuan. I guarantee." He leaned forward, lifting the lid to look into the ch'a kettle, then summoned the servant across. While the servant hurried to replenish it, Li Yuan considered what lay behind his father-in-law's words. This was more than small talk, he realized. Yin Tsu was talking to him not as a son but as a future colleague. It was his way of saying that whatever transpired they would remain friends and associates. The interests of the Families—both Major and Minor—superseded all else. As they had to.

When the servant had gone again, Yin Tsu leaned forward, his voice a whisper, as if he were afraid of being overheard.

"If it helps at all, Li Yuan, my sympathy's with you. She acted rashly. But she's a headstrong young woman, I warn you. You'll not alter that with bit and bridle."

Li Yuan sighed, then sipped at his ch'a. It was true. But he had wanted her both as she was and as he wanted her; like caging fire. He glanced up at Yin Tsu and saw the concern there, the deep-rooted sympathy. And yet in this the old man would support his daughter. He had sheltered her; given her refuge against her husband. He might sympathize but he would not help.

There was a sound, movement, from the far end of the long room. Li Yuan looked up and saw her in the doorway. He stood up as Yin Tsu looked around.

"Fei Yen, come in. Li Yuan is here to see you."

Li Yuan stepped forward, moving to greet her, but she walked past him, as though he were not there. He turned, pained by her action, watching her embrace her father gently.

She seemed paler than he remembered her, but her tiny form was well rounded I now, seven and a half months into its term. He wanted to touch the roundness of _{ the belly, feel the movements of the growing child within. For all her coldness to him, he felt as he had always felt toward her. All of it flooded back, stronger than ever; all the tenderness and pain; all of his unfathomable love for her.

"Fei Yen. . ." he began, but found he could say no more than that. What could he say? How might he persuade her to return? He looked pleadingly to Yin Tsu. The old man saw and giving the slightest of nods, moved back, away from his daughter.

"Forgive me, Fei, but I must leave now. I have urgent business to attend to."

"Father..." she began, her hand going out to touch him, but he shook his head.

"This is between you two alone, Fei. You must settle it here and now. This indecision is unhealthy."

She bowed her head, then sat.

"Come," Yin Tsu beckoned to him. He hesitated, seeing how she was sitting, her ' -head down, her face closed to him; then went across and sat, facing her. Yin Tsu stood there a moment longer, looking from one to the other. Then, without another word, he left.

For a time neither spoke or looked at the other. It was as if an impenetrable screen lay between them. Then, unexpectedly, she spoke.

"My father talks as if there were something to decide. But I made my decision when I left you." She looked up at him, her bottom lip strangely curled, almost pinched. It gave her mouth a look of bitterness. Her eyes were cold, defiant. And yet beautiful. "I'm not coming back, Li Yuan. Not ever."

He looked at her, meeting her scorn and defiance, her anger and bitterness, and finding only his own love for her. She was all he had ever wanted in a woman. All he would ever want.

He looked down, staring at his perfectly manicured nails as if they held some clue to things.

"I came to say that I'm sorry, Fei. That I was wrong."

When he looked up again he saw that she had turned her face aside. But her body was hunched and tensed, her neck braced, the muscles stretched and taut. She seemed to draw each breath with care, her hands pressed to her breasts as if to hold in all she was feeling.

"I was wrong, Fei. I ... I overreacted."

"You killed them!" She spat the words out between her teeth.

You almost killed my child . . . But he bit back the retort that had come to mind, closing his eyes, calming himself. "I know . . ."

There was a second silence, longer, more awkward than the first. Fei Yen broke this one too. She stood, making to leave.

He went across and held her arm, keeping her there. She looked down at his hand where it gripped her arm, then up at his face. It was a harsh, unsparing look; a look of unfeigned dislike. There was defiance in her eyes, but she made no move to take her arm away.

"We have not resolved this, Fei."

"Resolved." She poured all the scorn she could muster into the word. "I'll tell you how you could resolve this, Li Yuan." She turned to face him, glaring at him, the roundness of her stomach pressed up hard against him. "You could take this from my belly and keep it safe until its term is up! That's what you could do!" The words were hard, unfeeling. She laughed bitterly, sneering at him. "Then you could take your gun and—"

He put his hand over her mouth.

She stepped back, freeing herself from his grip. Then she looked at him, rubbing her arm where he had held it, her eyes watching him all the while, no trace of warmth in them.

"You never loved me," she said. "Never. I know that now. It was envy. Envy of your brother. You wanted everything he had. Yes, that was it, wasn't it?" She nodded, a look of triumph, a hideous smile of understanding on her lips.

It was cruel. Cruel and untrue. He had loved his brother dearly. Had loved her too. Still loved her, even now, for all she was saying. More than the world itself.

But he could not say it. His face had frozen to a mask. His mouth was dry, his tongue stilled by her anger and bitterness and scorn.

For a moment longer he watched her, knowing that it ended here, that all he had wanted was in ruins now. He had killed it in the stables that day. He turned and went to the door, determined to go, not to look back, but she called out to him, "One thing you should know before you leave."

He turned, facing her across the room. "What is it?"

"The child." She smiled, an ugly movement of the mouth that was the imperfect copy of a smile. "It isn't yours." She shook her head, still smiling. "Do you hear me, Li Yuan? I said the child isn't yours."

In the cage at the far end of the room the bird was singing. Its sweet notes filled the silence.

He turned away, moving one leg at a time until he was gone from there, keeping his face a blank, his thoughts in check. But as he walked he could hear her voice, almost kind for once. One thing, it said, then laughed. One thing.

"Is this it?" DeVore asked, studying the statue of the horse minutely, trying to discern any difference in its appearance.

The man looked across at him and smiled. "Of course. What were you expecting? Something in an old lead bottle, marked with a skull and crossbones? No, that's it, all right. It'd make arsenic seem like honeydew, yet it's as untraceable as melted snow."

DeVore stood back, looking at the man again. He was nothing like the archetypal scientist. Not in his dress, which was eccentrically Han, nor in his manner, which was that of a low-level drug dealer. Even his speech—scattered as it was with tiny bits of arcane knowledge—seemed to smack of things illicit or alchemical. Yet he was good. Very good indeed, if Ebert could be trusted on the matter.

"Well? Are you happy with it, or would you like me to explain it once more?"

DeVore laughed. "There's no need. I have it by heart."

The lexicologist laughed. "That's good. And so will your friend, eh? Whoever he is."

DeVore smiled. And if you knew exactly who that was, you would as soon sell me this as cut your own throat.

He nodded. "Shall we settle, then? My friend told me you liked cash. Bearer credits. Shall we call it fifty thousand?"

He saw the light of greed in the man's eyes and smiled inwardly. "1 thought a hundred. After all, it was a difficult job. That genetic pattern—I've not seen its like before. I'd say that was someone special. Someone well bred. It was hard finding the chemical key to break those chains down. I—well, let's say I had to improvise. To work at the very limit of my talents. I'd say that deserved rewarding, wouldn't you?"

DeVore hesitated, going through the motions of considering the matter, then bowed his head. "As you say. But if it doesn't work—"

"Oh, it will work, my friend. I'd stake my life on it. The man's as good as dead, whoever he is. As I said, it's perfectly harmless to anyone else, but as soon as he handles it the bacteria will be activated. The rest," he said, laughing, "is history." "Good." DeVore felt in his jacket pocket and took out the ten bearer credits— the slender chips identical in almost every respect to those he had given Mach a week earlier. Only in one crucial respect were they different; these had been smeared with a special bacteria—one designed to match the toxicologist's DNA. A bacteria prepared only days earlier by the man's greatest rival from skin traces DeVore had taken on his first visit here.

DeVore watched the man handle, then pocket the chips. Dead, he thought, smiling, reaching out to pick up the statue the man had treated for him. Or as good as, give a week or two.

And himself? Well, he was the last person to take such chances. He had made sure he wore a false skin over both hands before handling the things. Just in case.

Because one never knew, did one? And a poisoner was a poisoner, after all.

He smiled, holding the ancient statue to his chest, then laughed, seeing how the man joined his laughter, as if sharing the cruel joke he was about to play.

"And there's no antidote? No possible way of stopping this thing once it's begun?"

The man shook his head, then gave another bark of laughter. "Not a chance in hell."

IT WAS DARK where Chen sat. Across from him a ceiling panel flickered intermittently, as if threatening to come brightly, vividly, alive again, but never managing more than a brief, fitful glow. Chen had been nursing the same drink for more than an hour, waiting for Haavikko to come, his ill ease growing with every passing minute. More than ten years had passed since he had last sat in the Stone Dragon—years in which he had changed profoundly—yet the place remained unchanged.

Still the same shit-hole, he thought. A place you did well to escape from as quickly as you could. As he had.

But now he was back, if only briefly. Still, Haavikko could hardly have known, could he?

No. Even so, the coincidence made Chen's flesh crawl. He looked about him uncomfortably, as if the ghost of Kao Jyan or the more substantial figure of Whiskers Lu should manifest themselves from the darkness and the all-pervading fug to haunt him.

"You want wings?"

He glanced at the thin young girl who had approached him and shook his head, letting disgust and a genuine hostility shape his expression.

"You prefer I suck you? Here, at table?"

He leaned toward her slightly. "Vanish, scab, or I'll slit you throat to tail."

She made a vulgar hand sign and slipped back into the darkness, but she wasn't the first to have approached him. They were all out to sell something. Drugs or sex or worse. For a price, you could do anything you liked down here. It hadn't been so in his day, but now it was. Now the Net was little different from the Clay.

He sat back. Even the smell of the place nauseated him. But that was hardly surprising; the air filters couldn't have been changed in thirty years. The air was recycled, yes, but that meant little here. He swallowed, keeping the bile from rising. How many times had each breath he took been breathed before? How many foul and cankered mouths had sighed their last, drug-soured breath into this putrid mix?

Too many, he thought. Far, far too many.

He looked across. There was someone in the doorway. Someone tall and straight and wholly out of place in this setting. Haavikko. He'd come at last.

He got up and went across, embracing his friend, then holding him off at arm's length, staring up into his face.

"Axel. . . how are you? It's been a long time since you came to us. Wang Ti and the boys . . . they've missed you. And I ... well, I was worried. I'd heard . . ." He paused, then shook his head, unable to say.

Haavikko looked aside momentarily, then met his friend's eyes. "I'm sorry, Chen, but it's been hard. Some days I've felt. . ." He shrugged, then formed his face into a sad little smile. "Well. . . I've got what you asked for. 1 had to cheat a little, and lie rather a lot, not to mention a little bit of burglary, but then it's hard being an honest man when all about you are thieves and liars. One must pretend to take on their coloring a little simply to survive, neh?" ;

Chen stared at him a moment, surprised by the hardness in his voice. His sister's death had changed him. Chen squeezed his shoulder gently, turning him toward his table.

"Come. Let's sit down. You can tell me what you've been up to while I go through the file."

Axel sat. "You remember Mu Chua's?" Chen took the seat across from him. "No. I don't think 1 do." "The House of the Ninth Ecstasy?" Chen laughed. "Ah ... Is that still going?"

Haavikko stared down at his hands. "Yes, it's still going. And guess what? Our friend Ebert is still frequenting it. It seems he visited there no more than a week ago."

Chen looked up, frowning. "Ebert? Here? Why would he bother?" Haavikko looked back at him, a bitter resentment in his eyes. "He had a meeting, it seems. With a Shih Reynolds." "How do you know this?"

"The Madam, Mu Chua, told me. It's funny ... I didn't even raise the matter of Ebert, she just seemed to want to talk about him. She was telling me about this girl she'd sold to Ebert—a thirteen-year-old named Golden Heart. I remember it, strangely enough. It was more than ten years ago, so the girl could well be dead now; but Mu Chua was anxious to find out about her, as if the girl were her daughter or something. Anyway, she told me about a dream this girl had had— about a tiger coming from the west and mating with her and about a pale-gray snake that died. It seems this was a powerful dream—something she couldn't get out of her mind—and she wanted me to find out what became of the girl. I said I would and in return she promised to let me know if Ebert or his friend returned. It could be useful, don't you think?"

"This Reynolds—do we know who he is or what he was meeting Ebert about?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. But Mu Chua thinks he's been there before. She said there was something familiar about him." "Ping Tioo, perhaps?"

"Perhaps ..."

Chen looked down at the file, touching his wrist band to make it glow, illuminating the page beneath his fingers. For a while he was silent, reading, then he looked up, frowning. "Is this all?"

Haavikko looked back at him blankly a moment, his mind clearly elsewhere, then nodded. "That's it. Not much, is it?"

Chen considered a moment, then grunted. Hans Ebert had supposedly instigated an investigation into the disappearance of his friend Fest, but the investigation had never actually happened. No witnesses had been called, no leads followed up. All that existed was this slender file.

"And Fest? Is there any sign of him?"

Haavikko shook his head. "He's dead. That's what the file means. They did it. Ebert and Auden. Because we'd got to Fest, perhaps, or maybe for some other reason—I've heard since that Fest was getting a bit too talkative for Ebert's liking even before we approached him. But whatever, they did it. That file makes me certain of it."

Chen nodded. "So what now?"

Haavikko smiled tightly. "The girl, Golden Heart. I'm going to find out what happened to her."

"And then?"

Haavikko shrugged. "I'm not sure. Let's see where this leads."

"And Ebert?"

Haavikko looked away, the tightness in his face revealing the depth of what he felt.

"At first I thought of killing him. Of walking up to him in the Officers Club and putting a bullet through his brain. But it wouldn't have brought her back. Besides, I want everyone to know what he is. To see him as I see him."

Chen was quiet a moment, then reached out and touched Haavikko's arm, as if consoling a child. "Don't worry," he said softly. "We'll get him, Axel. I swear we will."

klaus EBERT stood on the steps of his mansion, his hands extended to the Marshal. Jelka watched as he embraced her father, then stood back, one hand resting on Tolonen's shoulder. She could see how deep their friendship ran, how close they were. More like brothers than friends.

Ebert turned, offering his hands to her, his eyes lighting at the sight of her.

He held her close, whispering at her ear. "You really are quite beautiful, Jelka. Hans is very lucky." But his smile only made her feel guilty. Was it really so hard to do this for them?

"Come. We've prepared a feast," Ebert said, turning, putting his arm about her shoulders. He led her through, into the vast high-ceilinged hallway.

She turned her head, looking back at her father and saw how he was smiling at her. A fierce, uncompromising smile of pride.

It all went well until she saw him. Until she looked across the room and met his eyes. Then it came back to her: her deep-rooted fear of him, something much greater than dislike. Dread, perhaps. Or the feeling she had in her dreams sometimes. That fear of drowning in darkness. Of a cold, sightless suffocation.

She looked down, afraid that her eyes would reveal what she was thinking. It was a gesture that, to a watching eye, seemed the very archetype of feminine modesty: the bride obedient, her husband's possession, to be done with as he willed. But it wasn't so.

Her thoughts disturbed her. They hung like a veil at the back of her eyes, darkening all she saw. Head bowed, she sat beside her future mother-in-law, a sense of horror growing in her by the moment.

"Jelka?"

The voice was soft, almost tender, but it was Hans Ebert who stood before her, straight-backed and cruelly handsome. She looked up, past the silvered buttons of his dark-blue dress uniform to his face. And met his eyes. Cold, selfish eyes, little different from how she had remembered them, but now alert to her. Alert and open to her womanhood. Surprised by what he saw.

She looked away, frightened by what she saw, by the sudden interest where before there had only been indifference. Like a curse, she thought. My mother's curse, handed down to me. Her dying gift. But her mouth said simply, "Hans,"

acknowledging his greeting.

"You're looking very nice," he said, his voice clear, resonant. She looked up, the strength of his voice, its utter conviction, surprising her. Her beauty had somehow pierced the shell of his self-regard. He was looking down at her with something close to awe. He had expected a child, not a woman. And not a beautiful woman, at that. Yes, he was surprised by her, but there was also something else—something more predatory in that look.

She had changed in his eyes. Had become something he wanted. His sisters stood behind him, no longer taller than her. They watched her enviously. She had eclipsed them overnight and now they hated her. Hated her beauty. "Come! Drinks everyone!" Klaus Ebert called, smiling at her as he passed, oblivious of the dark, unseen currents of feeling that swirled all about him in the room. And all the while his son watched her. Her future husband, his eyes dark with the knowledge of possession.

She looked away, studying the palatial vastness of the room. It was a hundred ch'i across, high-ceilinged and six-sided, each wall divided into five by tall, red-painted pillars. The walls were a dark, almost primal green; double doors were set into the center of each wall. Those doors filled the space between floor and ceiling, pillar and pillar. Vast doors that made her feel as though she had shrunk in size. GenSyn giants stood before the pillars to either side of each door, the dark-green uniforms of the half-men blending in with the studded leather of the door covering.

A border of tiles, glassy black and bright with darkness, surrounded the central hexagonal space. Huge, claw-footed plinths rested on this polished darkness, each bearing a man-sized vase; brutal-lipped and heavy vases, decorated in violent swirls of red and green and black. Elongated animals coiled about the thick trunk of each vase, facing each other with bared fangs and flaring eyes. On the walls beyond hung huge, wall-sized canvases in thick gilt frames, so dark as to seem in permanent shadow; visions of some ancient forest hell, where huntsmen ran on foot, ax or bow in hand, after a wounded stag. Again there was the green of primal forest, the black of shadows, the red of blood; these three repeated in each frame, melting into one another as in a mist.

A dark-red carpet lay lush, luxuriant beneath her feet, while the ceiling above was the black of a starless night.

A voice spoke to her, close by. She smelled a sickly sweetness, masking some deeper, stronger scent. Turning, she met a pink-eyed stare. A three-toed hand held out a glass. The voice was burred, deep, sounding in the creature's throat. She looked at it aghast, then took the offered glass.

The creature smiled and poured the blood-red liquid into the slender crystal. Again she saw the lace at its cuffs, the neat whiteness of its collar. But now she saw the bright, red roughness of the sprouting hairs on its neck, the meat-pink color of its flesh, and felt her skin crawl in aversion.

She stood and brushed past it, spilling her wine over the creature's jacket, the stain a vivid slash of color on the ice-white velvet of its sleeve.

The creature's eyes flared briefly, following her figure as she crossed the room toward her father. Then it looked down at its sleeve, its brutal lips curled back with distaste at the spoiled perfection there.

Li s H AI TUNG sat at his desk, his hands resting lightly on either side of the tiny porcelain figure, his face a mask of pain and bitter disappointment. He had tried to deny it, but there was no doubting it now. Tsu Ma's last message made it clear. It was Wang Ta Chuan. Wang, his trusted Master of the Inner Palace, who was the traitor.

The old T'ang shuddered. First the boy Chung Hsin and now Wang Ta Chuan. Was there no end to this foulness? Was there no one he could trust?

He had done as Tsu Ma had suggested after the last meeting of the Council. He had looked for the spy within his household and concluded that only four people had been privy to the information Wang Sau-leyan had used against him, four of his most senior and trusted men: Chung Hu-yan, his Chancellor; Nan Ho, Master of Yuan's chambers; Li Feng Chiang, his brother and advisor; and Wang Ta Chuan.

At first it had seemed unthinkable that any one of them could have betrayed him. But he had done as Tsu Ma said; had brought each to him separately and sown in them—casually, in confidence—a single tiny seed of information, different in each instance.

And then he had waited to hear what Tsu Ma's spies reported back, hoping beyond hope that there would be nothing. But this morning it had come. Word that the false seed had sprouted in Wang Sau-leyaris ear.

He groaned, then leaned forward, pressing the summons pad. At once Chung Hu-yan appeared at the door, his head bowed.

"Chieh Hsia?"

Li Shai Tung smiled, comforted by the sight of his Chancellor.

"Bring Wang Ta Chuan to me, Hu-yan. Bring him, then close the doors and leave me with him,"

Li Shai Tung saw the slight query in his Chancellor's eyes. Chung Hu-yan had been with him too long not to sense his moods. Even so, he said nothing, merely bowed and turned away, doing his master's bidding without question.

"A good man . . ." he said softly, then sat back, closing his eyes, trying to compose himself.

Wang Ta Chuan was a traitor. There was no doubt about it. But he would have it from the man's lips. Would have him bow before him and admit it.

And then?

He banged the table angrily, making the tiny porcelain statue shudder.

The man would have to die. Yet his family might live. If he confessed. If he admitted of his own free will what he had done. Otherwise they, too, would have to die. His wives, his sons, and all his pretty grandchildren—all to the third generation as the law demanded. And all because of his foolishness, his foulness.

Why? he asked himself for the hundredth time since he had known. Why had Wang Ta Chuan betrayed him? Was it envy? Was it repayment for some slight he felt had been made to him? Or was it something darker, nastier than that? Did Wang Sau-leyan have some kind of hold on him? Or was it simply greed?

He shook his head, not understanding. Surely Wang had all he wanted? Status, riches, a fine, healthy family. What more did a man need?

Li Shai Tung reached out and drew the statue to him, studying it while he mulled over these thoughts, turning it in his hands, some part of him admiring the ancient craftsman's skill—the beauty of the soft-blue glaze, the perfect, lifelike shape of the horse.

It was strange how this had returned to him. Young Ebert had brought it to him only that morning, having recovered it in a raid on one of the Ping Tioo cells. It was one of the three that had been taken from the safe in Helmstadt Armory and its discovery in the hands of the Ping Tioo had confirmed what he had always believed.

But now the Ping Tioo were broken, the horse returned. There would be no more trouble from that source.

There was a knocking on the outer doors. He looked up, then set the statue to one side. "Come!" he said imperiously, straightening in his chair.

Chung Hu-yan escorted the Master of the Inner Palace into the room, then backed away, closing the doors behind him.

"Chieh Hsial" Wang Ta Chuan said, bowing low, his manner no less respectful, no less solicitous than it had always been.

"Come closer," Li Shai Tung ordered. "Come kneel before the desk."

Wang Ta Chuan lifted his head briefly, surprised by his T'ang's request, then did as he was told.

"Have I displeased you, Chieh Hsia?"

Li Shai Tung hesitated, then decided to broach the matter directly; but before he could open his mouth, the doors to his study burst open and Li Yuan stormed in.

"Yuan! What is the meaning of this?" he said, starting up from his chair.

"I am sorry, Father, but I had to see you. It's Fei. . . She . . ." Li Yuan hesitated, taking in the sight of the kneeling man, then went across and touched his shoulder. "Wang Ta Chuan, would you leave us? I must talk with my father."

"Yuan!" The violence of the words surprised both the Prince and the kneeling servant. "Be quiet, boy! Have you forgotten where you are?"

Li Yuan swallowed, then bowed low.

"Good!" Li Shai Tung said angrily. "Now hold your tongue and take a seat. I have urgent business with Master Wang. Business that cannot be put off."

He came from behind the desk and stood over Wang Ta Chuan. "Have you something to tell me, Wang Ta Chuan?"

"Chieh Hsia?" The tone—of surprise and mild indignation—was perfect, but Li Shai Tung was not fooled. To be a traitor—to be the perfect copy of a loyal man— one needed such tricks. Tricks of voice and gesture. Those and a stock of ready smiles.

"You would rather have it otherwise, then, Master Wang? You would rather I told you?"

He saw the mask slip. Saw the sudden calculation in the face and felt himself go cold. So it was true.

Li Yuan had stood. He took a step toward the T'ang. "What is this, Father?"

"Be quiet, Yuan!" he said again, taking a step toward him, the hem of his robes brushing against the kneeling man's hands.

"Father.'"

He turned at Yuan's warning, but he was too slow. Wang Ta Chuan had grabbed the hem of the T'ang's ceremonial pau, twisting the silk about his wrist, while his other hand searched among his robes and emerged with a knife.

Li Shai Tung tried to draw back, but Wang Ta Chuan tugged at the cloth viciously, pulling him off balance. Yet even as the T'ang began to fall, Li Yuan was moving past him, high-kicking the knife from Wang's hands, then spinning around to follow through with a second kick that broke the servant's nose.

Li Shai Tung edged back, watching as his son crouched over the fallen man.

"No, Yuan— No!"

But it was no use. Li Yuan was as if possessed. His breath hissed from him as he kicked and punched the fallen man. Then, as if coming to, he stepped back, swaying, his eyes glazed.

"Gods . . ." Li Shai Tung said, pulling himself up against the edge of the desk, getting his breath.

Li Yuan turned, looking at him, his eyes wide. "He tried to kill you, Father!

Why? What had he done?"

The old T'ang swallowed dryly, then looked away, shaking his head, trying to control himself, trying not to give voice to the pain he felt. For a moment he could say nothing; then he looked back at his son.

"He was a spy, Yuan. For Wang Sau-leyan. He passed on information to our cousin."

The last word was said with a venom, a bitterness that surprised them both.

Li Yuan stared at his father, astonished. "A traitor?" He turned, looking down at the dead man. "For a moment I thought it was one of those things. Those copies that came in from Mars. I thought. . ."

He stopped, swallowing, realizing what he had done.

Li Shai Tung watched his son a moment longer, then went back around his desk and took his seat again. For a time he was silent, staring at his hands, then he looked up again. "I must thank you, Yuan. You saved my life just then. Even so, you should not have killed him. Now we will never know the reason for his treachery. Nor can I confront our cousin without the man's confession."

"Forgive me, Father. I was not myself."

"No ... I could see that." He hesitated, then looked at his son more thoughtfully. "Tell me. When you came in just now—what did you want? What was so important that it made you forget yourself like that?"

For a moment it seemed that Yuan would answer; then he shook his head. "Forgive me, Father, it was nothing."

Li Shai Tung studied his son a moment longer, then nodded and reached out, holding the tiny statue to him as if to draw comfort from it.

klaus ebert and the Marshal stood face to face, their glasses raised to each other.

"To our grandchildren!"

Ebert nodded his satisfaction, then leaned closer. "1 must say, Jelka is lovelier than ever, Knut. A real beauty she's become. She must remind you of Jenny."

"Very much."

Tolonen turned, looking across. Jelka was sitting beside Klaus's wife, Berta, her hands folded in her lap, her blond hair set off perfectly by the flowing sky-blue dress she was wearing. As he watched, Hans went across and stood over her, handsome, dashingly elegant. It was the perfect match. Tolonen turned back, almost content, only the vaguest unease troubling him. She was still young, after all. It was only natural for her to have doubts.

"Hans will be good for her," he said, meeting his old friend's eyes. "She needs a steadying influence."

Klaus nodded, then moved closer. "Talking of which, Knut, I've been hearing things. Unsettling things." He lowered his voice, his words for the Marshal only. "I hear that some of the young bucks are up to old tricks. That some of them are in rather deep. And more than youthful pranks."

Tolonen stared at him a moment, then nodded curtly. He had heard something similar. "So it is, I'm sad to say. The times breed restlessness in our young men. They are good apples gone bad."

Ebert's face showed a momentary distaste. "Is it our fault, Knut? Were we too strict as fathers?"

"You and I?" Tolonen laughed softly. "Not we, Klaus. But others?" He considered. "No, there's a rottenness at the very core of things. Li Shai Tung has said as much himself. It is as if Mankind cannot live without being at its own throat constantly. Peace, that's at the root of it. We have been at peace too long, it seems."

It was almost dissent. Klaus Ebert stiffened, hearing this bitterness from his friend's lips. Things were bad indeed if the Marshal had such thoughts in his head.

"Ach, I have lived too long!" Tolonen added, and the sudden ironic tone in his voice brought back memories of their youth, so that both men smiled and touched each other's arms.

"All will be well, Klaus, I promise you. We'll come to the root of things soon enough. And then"—he made a movement that suggested pulling up and discarding a plant—"then we shall be done with it."

They looked at each other grimly, a look of understanding passing between them. They knew the world and its ways. Few illusions remained to them these days.

Tolonen turned to get a fresh drink, and caught sight of Jelka, getting up hastily, the contents of her glass splashing over the serving creature who stood beside her. He frowned as she came across.

"What is it, my love? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

She shook her head, but for the moment could not speak. There was a distinct color in her cheeks. Klaus Ebert looked at her, concerned.

"Did my creature offend you, Jelka?" He looked at her tenderly, then glared at the creature across the room.

"No . . ." She held on to her father's arm, surprised by her reaction to the creature. "It's just. . ."

"Did it frighten you?" her father asked gently.

She laughed. "Yes. It did. It—surprised me, that's all. I'm not used to them." Ebert relaxed. "It's my fault, Jelka. I forget. They're such gentle, sophisticated creatures, you see. Bred to be so."

She looked at him, curious now. "But why?" She was confused by this. "I mean, why are they like that? Like goats?"

Ebert shrugged. "I suppose it's what we're used to. My great-grandfather first had them as servants and they've been in the household ever since. But they really are the most gentle of creatures. Their manners are impeccable. And their dress sense is immaculate."

She thought of the fine silk of the creature's sleeves, then shuddered, recalling childhood tales of animals that talked.

That and the musk beneath the scent; the darkness at the back of those blood-pink eyes. Impeccable, immaculate, and yet still an animal at the back of all. A beast for all its breeding.

She turned to look, but the serving creature had gone, as if it sensed it was no longer welcome. Good manners, she thought, but there was little amusement to be had from it. The thing had scared her.

"They breed true," Ebert added. "In fact, they're the first of our vat-bred creatures to attain that evolutionary step. We're justly proud of them."

Jelka looked back at her future father-in-law, wondering at his pride in the goat-thing he had made. But there was only human kindness in his face.

She looked away, confused. So maybe it was her. Maybe she was out of step.

But it was ugly, she thought. The thing was ugly. Then, relenting, she smiled and took the glass of wine Klaus Ebert was holding out to her.

AN HOUR LATER the ritual began.

Overhead the lighting dimmed. At the far end of the room, the huge doors slowly opened.

It was dark in the hallway beyond, yet the machine glowed from within. Like a pearled and bloated egg, its outer skin as dark as smoked-glass, it floated soundlessly above the tiled floor, a tightly focused circle of light directly beneath it. Two GenSyn giants guided it, easing it gently between the pillars of the door and out across the jet-black marble of the tiles.

Jelka watched it come, her stomach tight with fear. This was her fate. Unavoidable, implacable, it came, gliding toward her as in a dream, its outer case shielding its inner brilliance, masking the stark simplicity of its purpose.

She held her father's arm tightly, conscious of him at her side, of how proudly he stood there. For him this moment held no threat. Today his family was joined to Klaus Ebert's by contract—something he had wished for since his youth. And how could that be wrong?

The machine stopped. The GenSyn servants backed away, closing the doors behind them. Slowly the machine sank into the lush carpeting: dark yet pregnant with its inner light.

Beyond it, in the shadows, a stranger stood at Klaus Ebert's side. The two were talking, their hushed tones drifting across to where she stood. The man was much smaller than Ebert, a tiny creature dressed entirely in red. The Consensor. He looked at her with a brief, almost dismissive glance, then turned back.

Dry-mouthed, she watched him turn to the machine and begin to ready it for the ceremony.

"Nu shi Tolonen?" He stood before her, one hand extended. It was time.

She took his hand. A small, cool hand, dry to the touch. Looking down, she saw that he wore gloves, fine sheaths of black through which the intense pallor of his skin showed. Holding her hand, he led her to the machine.

The casing irised before her, spilling light. She hesitated, then stepped up into the brilliance.

He placed her hands on the touch-sensitive pads and clamped them there, then pushed her face gently but firmly against the molded screen of transparent ice, reaching around her to attach the cap to her skull, the girdle about her waist. The movements of his hands were gentle, and for a time her fear receded, lost in the soothing comfort of his touch; but then, abruptly, he moved back and the door irised closed behind her, leaving her alone, facing the empty space beyond the partition.

There was a moment of doubt so great her stomach seemed to fall away. Then the wall facing her irised open and Hans Ebert stepped up into the machine.

Her heart began to hammer in her breast. She waited, exposed to him, her body held fast against the ice-clear partition.

He smiled at her, letting the Consensor do his work. In a moment he was secured, his face pressed close against her own, his hands to hers, only the thinnest sheet of ice between them.

She stared into his eyes, unable to look elsewhere, although she felt so vulnerable, so hideously exposed to him that she wanted to close her eyes and tear herself away. The feeling grew in her until she stood there, cowed before his relentless stare, reduced to a frightened child. And then he spoke.

"Don't be afraid. I'd never hurt you, Jelka Tolonen."

The words seemed to come from a thousand U away, distant, disembodied, from the vast emptiness beyond the surface of his pale-blue eyes. And yet it was as if the words had formed in her head, unmediated by tongue or lip.

And still he looked at her. Looked through her. Seeing all she was thinking. Understanding everything she was feeling. Emptying her. Until there was nothing there but her fear of him.

Then, in her mind, something happened. A wall blew in and three men in black stepped through. There was the smell of burning and something lay on the floor beside her, hideously disfigured, bright slivers of metal jutting from its bloodied flesh.

She saw this vividly. And in the eyes that faced hers something happened: the pupils widened, responding to something in her own. For a moment she looked outward, recognizing Hans Ebert, then the memory grabbed at her again and she looked back inward, seeing the three men come toward her, their guns raised. Strangely, the memory calmed her. I survived, she thought. I danced my way to life. The partition between them darkened momentarily, leaving them isolated. Then it cleared, a circular pattern of pictograms forming in the ice; a tiny circle of coded information displayed before each of their pupils, duplicated so that each half of their brains could read and comprehend. Genotypings. Blood samplings. Brain scans. Fertility ratings. Jelka felt the girdle tighten, then a momentary pain as it probed her.

Figures changed. The ice glowed green. They were a perfect genetic match. The machine stored the figures dispassionately, noting them down on the contract.

The green tinge faded with the pictograms. Again she found herself staring into his eyes.

He was smiling. The skin surrounding his eyes was pulled tight in little creases, his eyes much brighter than before.

"You're beautiful," said the voice in her head. "We'll be good together. Strong, healthy sons you'll give me. Sons we'll both be proud of."

She pictured the words forming in the darkness behind his eyes: saw them lift and float across, piercing the ice between them; entering her through her eyes.

Her fear had subsided. She was herself again. Now, when she looked at him, she saw only how cruel he was, how selfish. It was there, at the front of his eyes, like a coded pictogram.

As the machine began its litany she calmed herself, steeling herself to outface him: No. You''II not defeat me, Hans Ebert. I'm stronger than you think. I'll survive you. She smiled, and her lips moved, saying yes, sealing the contract, putting her verbal mark to the retinal prints and EGG traces the machine had already registered as her identifying signature. But in her head the yes remained conditional.

I'll dance my way to life, she thought. See if I don't.

DEVORE LOOKED DOWN at the indicator at his wrist, then peeled off the gas mask. Outside his men were mopping up, stripping the corpses before they set fire to the level.

resell was unconscious on the bed, the Han girl beside him.

He pulled back the sheet, looking down at them. The woman had small firm breasts with large dark nipples and a scar that ran from her left hip almost to her knee. DeVore smiled and leaned forward, running a finger slowly down the cleanshaven slit of her sex. Too bad, he thought. Too bad.

He looked across. Gesell lay on his side, one arm cradling his head. A thick dark growth of hair covered his arms and legs, sprouted luxuriantly at his groin and beneath his arms. His penis lay there, like a newborn chick in a nest, folded softly into itself.

Looking at the man, DeVore felt a tight knot of anger constrict his throat. It would be easy to kill them now. Never to let them wake. But it wasn't enough. He wanted Gesell to know. Wanted to spit in his face before he died.

Yes. For all the threats he'd made. All the shit he'd made him eat.

He drew the needle-gun from his pocket and fitted a cartridge, then pushed it against GeselPs chest, just above the heart. Discarding the empty cartridge, he fitted another and did the same to the girl. Then he stepped back, waiting for the antidote to take effect.

The woman was the first to wake. She turned slightly, moving toward Gesell, then froze, sniffing the air.

"I'd keep very still if I were you, Mao Liang."

She turned her head, her eyes taking in his dark form, then gave a tiny nod.

"Good. Your boyfriend will be back with us in a moment. It's him I want. So behave yourself and you won't get hurt. Understand?"

Again she nodded, then shifted back slightly as Gesell stirred.

DeVore smiled, drawing the gun from inside his tunic. "Good morning, my friend. I'm sorry to have to disturb your sleep like this, but we've business."

Gesell sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, then went very still, seeing the gun in DeVore's hand.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" he said softly, his eyes narrowed.

"I bought my way in. Your guards were only too happy to sell you to me."

"Sell. . ." Understanding came to his face. He glanced at the girl, then looked back at DeVore, some eternal element of defiance in his nature making him stubborn to the last.

"Mach will get you for this, you fucker."

DeVore shrugged. "Maybe. But it won't help you, eh, Bent? Because you're dead. And all those things you believed in—they're dead too. I've wiped them out. There's only you left. You and the girl here."

He saw the movement almost peripherally; saw how her hand searched beneath the pillow and then drew back; heard the tiny click as she took off the safety.

He fired twice as she lifted the gun, the weighted bullets punching two neat holes in her chest, just below her heart. She fell back, dead.

Gesell moved forward sharply, then stopped, seeing how DeVore's gun was trained on him, pointed directly at his head.

"You were always a loud-mouth, Gesell."

Gesell glared at him. "We should never have worked with you. Emily was right. You never cared for anyone but yourself."

"Did I ever say otherwise?"

Gesell sat back, his face tense. "So why don't you do it? Get it over with?"

"I will. . . don't worry, but not with this."

He threw the gun down. Gesell stared back at him a moment, then made his move, scrambling for the gun. DeVore stepped back, drawing the spray can from his pocket, watching as Gesell turned and pointed the gun at him.

"It's empty."

Gesell pulled the trigger. It clicked then clicked again.

DeVore smiled, then stepped closer, lifting the spray, his finger holding down the button as the fine particles hissed from the nozzle.

He watched Gesell tear at the thin film of opaque, almost translucent ice that had formed about his head and shoulders; saw how his fingers fought to free an airhole in the soft, elastic stuff, but already it was growing hard. Desperation made ' Gesell throw himself about, bellowing; but the sound was distant, muted. It came ^; from behind a screen that cut him off from the air itself.

DeVore emptied the can, then cast it aside, stepping back from the struggling figure. GeselPs arms and hands were stuck now, welded firmly to his face. For a moment longer he staggered about, then fell down, his legs kicking weakly. Then he lay still.

DeVore stood over Gesell a moment, studying his face; satisfied by the look of panic, of utter torment, he could see through the hard, glasslike mask, then looked up. Mach was watching him from the door.

"He's dead?"

DeVore nodded. "And the woman, too, I'm afraid. She drew a gun on me."

Mach shrugged. "It's all right. It would have been difficult. She was in love with him."

"And Ascher?"

Mach shook his head. "There's no trace of her."

DeVore considered that a moment, then nodded. "I'll find her for you."

"Thanks." Mach hesitated, then came in, looking down at Gesell. "I liked him, you know. I really did. But sooner or later he would have killed me. He was like that."

DeVore stood, then reached out, touching Mach's arm. "Okay. We've finished here. Let's be gone. Before the T'ang's men get here."

CHAPTER FOUR

Carp Pool and Tortoise Shell

KIM TURNED in his seat, looking at Hammond. "Well? What do you think he wants?"

Hammond glanced at him, then looked away nervously, conscious of the overhead camera.

Kim looked down. So it was like that. Spatz was putting pressure on him. Well, it made sense. After all, it wasn't every day that Prince Yuan came to visit the Project.

He looked about him, noting how Spatz had had his suite of offices decorated specially for the occasion, the furnishings replaced. It was a common joke on the Project that Spatz's offices were larger—and cost more in upkeep—than the rest of the Project put together. But that was only to be expected. It was how assholes like Spatz behaved.

Kim had been on the Wiring Project for almost a year now, though for most of that time he had been kept out of things by Spatz. Even so, he had learned a lot, keeping what he knew from Spatz and his cronies. From the outset he had been dismayed to learn how little they'd progressed. It was not that they didn't know about the brain. The basic information they needed had been discovered more than two centuries before. No, it was simply that they couldn't apply it. They had tried out various templates—all of them embellishments on what already existed—but none of them had shown the kind of delicacy required. In terms of what they were doing, they were crude, heavy-handed models, more likely to destroy the brain than control it; systems of blocks and stimulae that set off whole chains of unwanted chemical and electrical responses. As it was, the wiring system they had was worthless. A frontal lobotomy was of more use. Unless one wanted a population of twitching, jerking puppets.

And now, in less than five hours, Prince Yuan would arrive for his first annual inspection. Spatz, of course, was taking no chances. He remembered the last visit he had had—from Marshal Tolonen—and was determined to keep Kim away from things.

Well, let him try, Kim thought. Let him try.

As if on cue, Spatz arrived, Ellis, his assistant, trailing behind him with a thick stack of paper files under his arm. He had seen this aspect of officialdom before. Most of the time they shunned real paperwork, preferring to keep as much as possible on computer; yet whenever the big guns arrived, out would come thick stacks of paper.

And maybe it worked. Maybe it did impress their superiors.

"Ward," Spatz said coldly, matter-of-factly, not even glancing at Kim as he sat behind his desk.

"Yes, Shih Spatz?"

He saw the tightening of the man's face at his refusal to use his full title. Spatz was a fool when it came to science, but he knew disrespect when he saw it. Spatz looked up at Ellis and took the files from him, sorting through them with a great deal of self-importance before finally setting them aside and looking across at Kim.

"I understand you've requested an interview with Prince Yuan."

Kim stared back at him, making no response, wanting to see how Spatz would deal with his intransigence; how he would cope with this direct assault on his authority.

"Well. . ." Spatz masked his anger with a smile. His face set, he raised a hand and clicked his fingers. At once Ellis went across and opened the door.

Kim heard footsteps behind him. It was the Communications Officer, Barycz. He marched up to the desk and handed over two slender files to add to the pile at Spatz's elbow.

Are you trying to build a wall against me, Spatz? Kim thought, smiling inwardly. Because it won't work. Not toda^, anyway. Because today Prince Yuan will be here. And I'II let him know exactly what you've been doing. You know that, and it scares you. Which is why I'm here. So that you can offer me some kind of deal But it won't work. Because there's nothing you can offer me. Nothing at all.

Spatz studied the first of the files for a while, then held it out to Hammond.

Kim saw the movement in Hammond's face and knew, at once, that the file had to do with himself.

Hammond read through the file, the color draining from his face, then looked up at Spatz again. "But this . . ."

Spatz looked away. "What is the matter, Shih Hammond?"

Hammond glanced at Kim fearfully.

"Is it a problem, Shih Hammond?" Spatz said, turning to look at his Senior Technician. "You only have to countersign. Or is there something you wish to query?"

Kim smiled sourly. He understood. They had constructed a new personnel file. A false one, smearing him.

"Sign it, Joel," he said. "It doesn't matter."

Spatz looked at him and smiled. The kind of smile a snake makes before it unhinges its jaws and swallows an egg.

Hammond hesitated, then signed.

"Good," Spatz said, taking the document back. Then, his smile broadening, he passed the second file to Ellis. "Give this to the boy."

Kim looked up as Ellis approached, conscious of the look of apology in the Assistant Director's eyes.

"What is this?"

Spatz laughed humorlessly. "Why don't you open it and see?"

Kim looked across. Hammond was looking down, his shoulders hunched forward, as if he knew already what was in the second file.

Kim opened the folder and caught his breath. Inside was a sheaf of paper. Hammond's poems and his own replies. A full record of the secret messages they had passed between them.

He looked at Spatz. "So you knew?" But he knew at once that neither Spatz nor Barycz was behind this. They were too dull-witted. There was no way either of them could have worked out what was going on. No, this was someone else. Someone much sharper than either of them. But who?

Spatz leaned forward, his sense of dignity struggling with his need to gloat.

"You thought you were being clever, didn't you, Ward? A regular little smart-ass. I bet you thought you were so superior, neh?" He laughed, then sat back, all humor drainin/g from his face. "For your part in this, you're under report, Hammond, from this moment. But you, Ward—you're out."

"Out?" Kim laughed. "Forgive me, Shih Spatz, but you can't do that. I'm Prince Yuan's appointment. Surely only he can say whether I'm out or not."

Spatz glanced at him disdainfully. "A formality. He'll have my recommendation, backed by the personnel file and the complaints of disruption filed against you by several staff members."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hammond start forward. "But you promised—"

Spatz interrupted Hammond, his face hard. "I promised nothing, if you recall. Now for the gods' sakes, hold your tongue! Even better, leave the room. You've served your purpose."

Hammond rose slowly. "I've served my purpose, eh? Too fucking right I have." He leaned forward, setting his hands firmly on the edge of the desk, facing the Director. As if sensing what he intended, Spatz drew the file toward him, then handed it to Ellis at his side.

"If you say another word—"

Hammond laughed, but his face was filled with loathing for the man in front of him. "Oh, I've nothing more to say, Director Spatz. Just this . . ."

He drew his head back and spat powerfully, cleanly, catching Spatz in the center of his face.

Spatz cried out, rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his gown; then, realizing what he had done, he swore.

"You bastard, Hammond! My silks . . ."

Spatz stood, his face livid with anger, his hands trembling.

"Get out! Get your things and be gone! As from this moment you're off the Project."

For a moment longer, Hammond stood there, glaring at him, then he moved back, a tiny shudder passing through him.

"Joel, I ..." Kim began, reaching out to him, but Hammond stepped back, looking about him, as if coming to from a bad dream.

"No. It's fine, Kim. Really it is. I'll survive. The Net can't be worse than this. At least I won't have to pawn myself every day to hsiao jen like this pig-brained cretin here!"

Spatz trembled with rage. "Guards!" he yelled. "Get the guards here, now!" Hammond laughed. "Don't bother, I'm going. But fuck you, Spatz. Fuck you to hell. I hope Prince Yuan has your ass for what you're trying to do here today." He I turned, then bent down, embracing Kim. "Good luck, Kim," he whispered. "I'm |

sorry. Truly I am."

Kim held him out at arm's length. "It's all right. I understand. You're a good man, |

Joel Hammond. A good man."

He stood, watching him go, then turned back, facing Spatz.

"So what now?"

Spatz ignored him, leaning forward to talk into the intercom. "Send in the nurse. We're ready now."

Kim looked at Ellis; saw how the man refused to meet his eyes. Then at Barycz. Barycz was pretending to study the chart on the wall behind Spatz.

"Prince Yuan will ask about me," Kim said. "He's certain to."

Spatz smiled coldly. "Of course he will. But you won't be there, will you?"

He heard the door open, the nurse come in.

"And then he'll ask why I'm not there—" he began, but the words were choked off. He felt the hypodermic-gun pressed against his neck and tried to squirm away, struggling against the strong hand that held his shoulder; but it was too late.

The hand released him. Slumping down into the chair, he felt a fiery cold spreading through his veins, leaving him numb, his nerve ends frozen. "I-wb . . ." he said, his eyes glazing. "I-jibw . . ." Then he fell forward, scattering the sheaf of poems across the floor beside him.

LI YUAN stepped down from his craft and sighed, looking about him. The roof of the City stretched away from him like a vast field of snow, empty but for the small group of officials who were gathered, heads bowed, beside the open hatchway.

He looked north to where the City ended abruptly on the shores of the icy Baltic, then turned to smile at his personal secretary, Chang Shih-sen.

"Have you ever seen it when the cloud is low, Chang? The cloud seems to spill from the City's edge like water over a fall. But slowly, very slowly, as in a dream."

"I have never seen that, my Lord, but I should imagine it was beautiful."

Li Yuan nodded. "Very beautiful. I saw it once at sunset. All the colors of the sky seemed captured in those endless folds of whiteness."

Chang Shih-sen nodded, then, softly, mindful of his place, added, "They are waiting, my Lord."

Li Yuan looked back at him and smiled. "Let them wait. The day is beautiful. Besides, I wish a moment to myself before I join them."

"My Lord . . ." Chang backed away, bowing.

Li Yuan turned, moving out from the shadow of the craft into the mid-afternoon sunlight. Chang was a good man. Kind, hard-working, thoughtful. But his father's Master of the Inner Palace, Wang Ta Chuan, had been the same. It made one think. When the fate of so many were in one person's hands, who could one trust?

He took a deep breath, enjoying the freshness, the warmth of the sunlight on his arms and back. Last night, for the first time since he had married Fei Yen, he had summoned a woman to his bed—one of the serving girls from the kitchens— purging himself of the need that had raged in his blood like a poison. Now he was himself again.

Or almost himself. For he would never again be wholly as he was. Fei Yen had changed that.

Who was it? he wondered for the thousandth time. Who slept with you whik I was gone? Was it one of my servants? Or was it someone you knew before our time together?

He huffed out his sudden irritation. It was no good dwelling on it. Madness lay that way. No, best set such thoughts aside, lest he find himself thinking of nothing else.

And what use would I then be to my father?

He shivered, then, calming himself, turned back, summoning Chang.

"Is this all?"

Spatz, stood before the seated Prince, bowed his head. "I am afraid so, my Lord. But you must understand—I have been working under the most severe restraints."

Li Yuan looked up, his disappointment clear. "Just what do you mean, Director?"

Spatz kept his head lowered, not meeting the Prince's eyes. "To begin with, I have been effectively two short on my team throughout my time here."

Li Yuan leaned forward. "I do not understand you, Director. There is no mention in your report of such a thing."

"Forgive me, my Lord, but the matter I am referring to is in the second file. I felt it best to keep the main report to matters of—of science, let us say."

The Prince sat back, irritated by the man's manner. If he'd had his way, Spatz would have been replaced as Director, but Spatz was his father's appointment, like Tolonen.

He set the top file aside, then opened the second one. It was a personnel report on the boy, Ward.

Li Yuan looked up, surprised. Could Spatz have known? No. He couldn't possibly have known about Kim and the special projects. But that, too, had been a disappointment. After the first report he had heard nothing from the boy. Nothing for ten months. At first he had assumed that it was taking much longer than the boy had estimated or that his work on the Project was taking up his time, but this explained it all.

He read it through, then looked up again, shaking his head. The boy had been at best lethargic, uncooperative, at worst disruptive to the point of actual physical violence.

"Why was I not told of this before now?"

Spatz hesitated. "I. . .1 wished to be charitable to the boy, my Lord. To give him every chance to change his ways and prove himself. I was conscious of his importance to you. Of your special interest. So—"

Li Yuan raised his hand. "I understand. Can I see the boy?"

"Of course, my Lord. But you must understand his condition. I am told it is a result of his 'restructuring' at the clinic. Occasionally he falls into a kind of torpor' where he won't speak or even acknowledge that anyone is there."

"I see." Li Yuan kept the depth of his disappointment from his face. "And is he like that now?"

"I am afraid so, my Lord."

"And his tutor, T'ai Cho?"

Spatz gave a small shrug of resignation. "A good man, but his loyalty to the boy is—shall we say, misguided. He is too involved, my Lord. His only thought is to keep the boy from harm. I'm afraid you'll get little sense from him either."

Li Yuan studied Spatz a moment longer, then closed the file.

"You wish to see the boy, my Lord?"

Li Yuan sighed, then shook his head. "No. I think I've seen enough." He stood. "I'm disappointed, Spatz. Hugely disappointed. I expected far greater progress than this. Still, things are on the right lines. I note that youVe made some headway toward solving things on the technical side. That's good, but I want more. I want a working model twelve months from now."