Ice and Fire

It was two in the morning and outside the Berdichev mansion, in the ornamental gardens, the guests were still celebrating noisily. A line of sedans waited on the far side of the green, beneath the lanterns, their pole-men and guards in attendance nearby, while closer to the house a temporary kitchen had been set up. Servants moved busily between the guests, serving hot bowls of soup or noodles, or offering more wine.

Berdichev stood on the balcony, looking down, studying it all a moment. Then he moved back inside, smiling a greeting at the twelve men gathered there.

He looked across at the servant, waiting at his request in the doorway, and gave the signal. The servant – a ‘European’, like all his staff these days – returned a moment later with a tray on which was a large, pot-bellied bottle and thirteen delicate porcelain bowls. The servant placed the tray on the table, then, with a deep bow, backed away and closed the door after him.

Berdichev’s smile broadened. ‘You’ll drink with me, Chun t’zu?’ He held up the bottle – a forty-year-old Shou Hsing peach brandy – and was greeted with a murmur of warm approval.

He poured, then handed out the tiny bowls, conscious that the eyes of the ‘gentlemen’ would from time to time move to the twelve thick folders laid out on the table beside the tray.

‘Beautiful!’ said Moore with a small shudder. ‘Where did you get it, Soren? I didn’t think there was a bottle of Shou Hsing left in all Chung Kuo that was over twenty years old.’

Berdichev smiled. ‘I have two cases of it, John. Allow me to send you a bottle.’ He looked about him, his smile for once unforced, quite natural. ‘And all of you chun t’zu, of course.’

Their delight was unfeigned. Such a brandy must be fifty thousand yuan a bottle at the least! And Berdichev had just given a case of it away!

‘You certainly know how to celebrate, Soren!’ said Parr, coming closer and holding his arm a moment. Parr was an old friend and business associate, with dealings in North America.

Berdichev nodded. ‘Maybe. But there’s much to celebrate tonight. Much more, in fact, than any of you realize. You see, my good friends, tonight is the beginning of something. The start of a new age.’

‘Yes.’ He went to the table and picked up one of the folders. ‘It has to do with these. You’ve noticed, I’m sure. Twelve of you and twelve folders.’ He looked about the circle of them, studying their faces one last time, making certain before he committed himself.

Yes, these were the men. Important men. Men with important contacts. But friends, too – men he could trust. They would start it for him. A thing that, once begun, would prove irresistible. And, he hoped, irreversible.

‘You’re all wondering why I brought you up here, away from the celebrations? You’re also wondering what it has to do with the folders. Well, I’ll keep you wondering no longer. Refill your glasses from the bottle, then take a seat. What I’m about to tell you may call for a stiff drink.’

There was laughter, but it was muted, tense. They knew Soren Berdichev well enough to know that he never played jokes, or made statements he could not support.

‘Before you open them, let me ask each of you something.’ He turned and looked at Moore. ‘You first, John. Which is more important to you: a little of your time and energy – valuable as that is – or the future of our race, the Europeans?’

Berdichev nodded. ‘Okay. Then let me ask you something more specific. If I were to tell you that in that folder in front of you was a document of approximately two hundred thousand words, and that I wanted you to hand-copy it for me, what would you say to that?’

‘Unexplained, I’d say you were mad, Soren. Why should I want to hand-copy a document? Why not get some of my people to put it on computer for me?’

‘Of course.’ Berdichev’s smile was harder. He seemed suddenly more his normal self. ‘But if I were to tell you that this is a secret document. And not just any small corporate secret, but the secret, would that make it easier to understand?’

Moore sat back slightly. ‘What do you mean, the secret? What’s in the file, Soren?’

‘I’ll come to that. First, though, do you trust me? Is there anyone here who doesn’t trust me?’

There was a murmuring and a shaking of heads. Parr spoke for them all. ‘You know there’s not one of us who wouldn’t commit half of all they owned on your word.’

Berdichev smiled tightly. ‘I know. But what about one hundred per cent? Is anyone here afraid to commit that much?’

Another of them – a tall, thin-faced man named Ecker – answered this time. A native of City Africa, he had strong trading links with Berdichev’s company, SimFic.

‘Do you mean a financial commitment, Soren, or are you talking of something more personal?’

Berdichev bowed slightly. ‘You are all practical men. That’s good. I’d not have any other kind of men for friends. But to answer you, in one sense you’re correct, Edgar. I do mean something far more personal. That said, which of us here can so easily disentangle their personal from their financial selves?’

There was the laughter of agreement at that. It was true. They were moneyed creatures. The market was in their blood.

‘Let me say simply that if any of you choose to open the folder you will be committing yourselves one hundred percent. Personally and, by inference, financially.’ He put out a hand quickly. ‘Oh, I don’t mean that I’ll be coming to you for loans or anything like that. This won’t affect your trading positions.’

Parr laughed. ‘I’ve known you more than twenty years now, Soren, and I realize that – like all of us here – you have secrets you would share with few others. But this kind of public indirectness is most unlike you. Why can’t you just tell us what’s in the folder?’

Berdichev nodded tersely. ‘All right. I’ll come to it, I promise you, Charles. But this is necessary.’ He looked slowly about the table, then bowed his head slightly. ‘I want to be fair to you all. To make certain you understand the risks you would be taking in simply opening the folder. Because I want none of you to feel you were pushed into this. That would serve no one here. In fact, I would much rather have anyone who feels uncomfortable with this leave now before he commits himself that far. And no blame attached. Because once you take the first step – once you find out what’s inside the folder – your lives will be forfeit.’

Parr leaned forward and tapped the folder. ‘I still don’t understand, Soren. What’s in here? A scheme to assassinate the Seven? What could be so dangerous that simply to know of it could make a man’s life forfeit?’

‘The secret. As I said before. The thing the Han have kept from us all these years. As for why it’s dangerous simply to know, let me tell you about a little-known statute that’s rarely used these days – and a Ministry whose sole purpose is to create an illusion, which even they have come to believe is how things really are.’

Parr laughed and spread his hands. ‘Now you are being enigmatic, Soren. What statute? What Ministry? What illusion?’

‘It is called, simply, the Ministry, it is situated in Bremen and Pei Ching, and its only purpose is to guard the secret. Further, it is empowered to arrest and execute anyone knowing of or disseminating information about the secret. As for the illusion…’ He laughed sourly. ‘Well, you’ll understand if you choose to open the folder.’

One of those who hadn’t spoken before now sat forward. He was a big, powerful-looking man with a long, unfashionable beard. His name was Ross and he was the owner of a large satellite communications company in East Asia.

Ross stroked his beard thoughtfully and looked about him. Then, almost casually, he opened his folder, took out the stack of papers and began to examine the first page.

Berdichev looked about the table. Twelve folders lay empty, the files removed. He shivered then looked down, a faint smile on his lips.

There was a low whistle from Moore. He looked up at Berdichev, his eyes wide. ‘Is this true, Soren? Is this really true?’

‘It’s true,’ Berdichev said firmly. They were all watching him now. ‘Which of us here has not been down into the Clay and seen the ruins? When the tyrant Tsao Ch’un built his City he buried more than the architecture of the past, he buried its history, too.’

‘Yes. Carefully, painstakingly, over the years. You see, his intention wasn’t simply to eradicate all opposition to his rule, he wanted to destroy all knowledge of what had gone before him. As the City grew, so his officials collected all books, all film, all recordings, allowing nothing that was not Han to enter their great City. Most of what they collected was simply burned. But not everything. Much was adapted. You see, Tsao Ch’un’s advisors were too clever simply to create a gap. That, they knew, would have attracted curiosity. What they did was far more subtle and, in the long run, far more persuasive to the great mass of people. They set about reconstructing the history of the world – placing Chung Kuo at the centre of everything, back in its rightful place, as they saw it.’

He drew a breath, then continued, conscious momentarily of noises from the party in the gardens outside. ‘It was a lie, but a lie to which everyone subscribed, for in the first decades of the City merely to question their version of the past-even to suggest it might have happened otherwise – was punishable by death. But the lie was complex and powerful, and people soon forgot. New generations arose who knew little of the real past. To them the whispers and rumours seemed mere fantasy in the face of the reality they had been taught and saw all about them. The media fed them the illusion daily until the illusion became, even to those responsible for its creation, quite real.’

And this – this Aristotle File… is this the truth Tsao Ch’un suppressed?’

Berdichev smiled. ‘Slowly. Piece by piece. For the last fifteen years I’ve been searching – making my own discreet investigations. Following up clues. And this – this file – is the end result of all that searching.’

Ross sat back. ‘I’m impressed. More than that, Soren, I’m astonished! Truly, for the first time in my life I’m astonished. This is…’ He laughed strangely. ‘Well, it’s hard to take it in. Perhaps it’s the brandy but…’

There was laughter at that, but all eyes were on Ross as he tried to articulate their feelings.

‘Well… I know what my friend, John Moore, means. It is fantastic. Perhaps too much so to swallow at a single go like this.’ He reached forward and lifted the first few pages, then looked at Berdichev again. ‘It’s just that I find it all rather hard to believe.’

Berdichev leaned forward, light glinting from the lenses of his glasses. ‘That’s just what they intended, Michael. And it’s one of the reasons why I want you all to hand-write a copy. That way it will get rooted in you all. You will have done more than simply read it. You will have transcribed it. And in doing so the reality of it will strike you forcibly. You will see how it all connects. Its plausibility – no, its truth! – will be written in the blood of every one of you.’

Ross smiled. ‘I see that the original of this was written in your own hand, Soren. You ask us to commit ourselves equally?’

‘Then I for one am glad to do so. But what of the copy we make? What should we do with it? Keep it safe?’

Berdichev smiled, meeting his friend’s eyes. Ross knew. He had seen it already. ‘You will pass your copy on. To a man you trust like a brother. As I trust you. He, in his turn, will make another copy and pass it on to one he trusts. And so on, forging a chain, until there are many who know. And then…’ He sat back. ‘Well, then you will see what will happen. But this – this here tonight – is the beginning of it. We are the first. From here the seed goes out. But harvest time will come, I promise you all. Harvest time will come.’

‘Hung Mao or Han, what does it matter? They’re Above. They despise us Clayborn.’

The three boys were sitting on the edge of the pool, their feet hanging out over the water.

Kim was looking down into the mirror of the water, his eyes tracing the patterns of the stars reflected from the Tun Huang map overhead. He had been silent for some while, listening to the others speak, but now he interrupted them.

‘I know what you mean, Anton, but it’s not always like that. There are some…’

Kim nodded. He had told them what had happened in the Casting Shop. ‘Yes, like Chan Shui.’

Anton laughed. ‘You probably amuse him. Either that or he thinks that he can benefit somehow by looking after you. As for liking you…’

Josef cut in. ‘Be honest, Kim. They hate us. I mean, what has this Chan Shui done that’s really cost him anything? He’s stood up to a bully. Fine. And that’s impressed you. That and all that claptrap T’ai Cho has fed you about Han justice. But it’s all a sham. All of it. It’s like Anton says. He’s figured you must be important – something special – and he’s reckoned that if he looks after you there might be something in it for him.’

Anton laughed dismissively. ‘We understand. But it seems like you’re going to have to learn it the hard way. They don’t want us, Kim. Not for ourselves, anyway – only for what we are. They use us like machines, and if we malfunction they throw us away. That’s the truth of the matter.’

Kim shrugged. There was a kind of truth to that, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He thought of Matyas and Janko. What distinguished them? They were both bullies. It had not mattered that he, Kim, was Clay like Matyas. Neither was it anything Kim had done to him. It was simply that he was different. So it was with Janko. But to some that difference did not matter. T’ai Cho, for instance, and Chan Shui. And there would be others.

‘It’s them and us,’ said Anton, laughing bitterly. ‘That’s how it is. That’s how it’ll always be.’

‘No!’ Kim was insistent now. ‘You’re wrong. Them and us. It isn’t like that. Sometimes, yes, but not always.’

Anton shook his head. ‘Always. Deep down it’s always there. You should ask him, this Chan Shui. Ask him if he’d let you marry his sister.’

Kim looked away, unconsciously stroking the bruise on his neck. Shame and guilt. It was always there in them, just beneath the skin. But why did they let these things shape them? Why couldn’t they break the mould and make new creatures of themselves?

‘Maybe I miss your point, but I’d rather think well of Chan Shui than succumb to the bleakness of your view.’ His voice was colder, more hostile than he had intended, and he regretted his words at once – true as they were.

Anton stood up slowly, then looked down coldly at his fellow. ‘Come on, Josef. I don’t think we’re wanted here any more.’

Kim sat there a while longer, distressed by what had happened. But maybe it was unavoidable. Maybe he could only have delayed the moment. Because he was different – even from his own kind.

He laughed. There! He had betrayed himself: had caught himself in his own twisted logic. For either they were all of one single kind – Han, Hung Mao and Clay – or he was wrong. And he could not be wrong. His soul cried out not to be wrong.

He looked up at the dull gold ceiling, stretching and easing his neck, then shivered violently. But what if he was? What if Anton was right?

‘No.’ He was determined. ‘They’ll not make me think like that. Not now. Not ever.’ He looked down at his clenched fists and slowly let the anger drain from him. Then he stood and began to make his way back. Another morning in the Casting Shop lay ahead.

The machine flexed its eight limbs, then seemed to squat and hatch a chair from nothingness.

Chan Shui, balanced on his haunches at Kim’s side, turned his head to look at him, joining in with his laughter. ‘I know what you mean. It’s that final little movement, isn’t it?’

‘An arachnoid. That’s what it is, Shui!’ Kim nodded to himself, studying the now-inert machine. Then he turned and saw the puzzlement in the older boy’s face.

‘It’s just a name I thought of for them. Spiders – they’re arachnids. And machines that mimic life – those are often called androids. Put the two together and…’

Chan Shui’s face lit up. It was a rounded, pleasant face. A handsome, uncomplicated face, framed by neat black hair.

Kim looked at him a moment, wondering, then, keeping his voice low, asked the question he had been keeping back all morning. ‘Do you like me, Chan Shui?’

There was no change in Chan Shui’s face. It smiled back at him, perfectly open, the dark eyes clear. ‘What an absurd question. What do you think?’

Kim bowed his head, embarrassed, but before he could say anything more, Chan Shui had changed the subject.

Chan Shui seemed pleased. ‘That’s right. But did you know that we have other, more flowery names for them? You see, for us they have always been creatures of good omen. When a spider lowers itself from its web they say, “Good luck descends from heaven.”’

Chan shook his head, then stood up and began examining the control panel. ‘There are no spiders. Not nowadays. Only caged birds and fish in artificial ponds.’ He looked back at Kim, a rueful smile returning to his lips. ‘Oh, and us.’

His bitterness had been momentary, yet it was telling. No spiders? How was that? Then Kim understood. Of course. There would be no insects of any kind within the City proper – the quarantine gates of the Net would see to that.

Chan Shui pulled the tiny phial from its slot in the panel and shook it. ‘Looks like we’re out of ice. I’ll get some more.’

The Han hesitated, then smiled. ‘Okay. It’s over there, on the far side. There’s a refill tank – see it? – yes, that’s it. All you have to do is take this empty phial back, slip it into the hole in the panel at the bottom of the tank and punch in the machine number. This here.’ Chan Shui pointed out the serial number on the arachnoid’s panel. ‘It’ll return the phial after about a minute, full. Okay?’

Kim nodded and set off, threading his way between the benches. Returning, he took another, different path through the machines, imagining himself a spider moving swiftly along the spokes of his web. He was halfway back when he realized he had made a mistake. Chan Shui lay directly ahead of him, but between them stood Janko, beside his machine, a cruel smile on his face.

Kim slipped the phial into the top pocket of his scholar’s robe, then looked about him. One of the big collection trays had moved along the main gangway and now barred his way back, while to the left and right of him stacks of freshly-manufactured furniture filled the side gangways.

He looked back at Janko, unafraid, concerned only not to break the phial. If he did there would be a fine of a day’s wages for both him and Chan Shui. For himself he didn’t mind. But for Chan Shui…

Janko turned, facing Chan Shui’s challenge. ‘It’s none of your business, Han! Stay out of this!’

Chan Shui just laughed. ‘None of my business, eh? Is that so, you great bag of putrid rice? Why should you think that?’

Surprisingly Janko ignored the insult. He turned his back on Chan Shui, then faced Kim again. His voice barked out. ‘Come here, you little rat’s arse. Come here and kneel!’

Kim bent his knees slightly, tensing, preparing to run if necessary, but there was no need. Chan Shui had moved forward quickly, silently and had jumped up onto Janko’s back, sending him sprawling forward.

Janko bellowed and made to get up, but Chan Shui pulled his arm up tightly behind his back and began to press down on it, threatening to break it.

‘Now just leave him alone, Janko. Because next time I will break your arm. And we’ll blame it on one of the machines.’

He gave one last, pain-inducing little push against the arm, then let Janko go, getting up off him.

Chan Shui held out his arm. ‘Come on, Kim. He won’t touch you, I promise.’

But even as Kim made to pass Janko, Janko lashed out, trying to trip him, then scrambled to his feet quickly, facing Chan Shui.

Chan Shui laughed. ‘Your verbal inventiveness astonishes me, Janko. Where did you learn your English, in the sing-song house where your mother worked?’

Janko roared angrily and rushed at Chan Shui. But the young Han had stepped aside, and when Janko turned awkwardly, flailing out with one arm, Chan Shui caught the arm and twisted, using Janko’s weight to lift and throw him against the machine.

Janko banged against the control panel, winding himself, then turned his head, frightened, as the machine reared up over him.

The watching boys laughed, then fell silent. But Janko had heard the laughter. He looked down, wiping his bloodied mouth, then swore under his breath.

At that moment the door at the far end of the Casting Shop slid open and Supervisor Nung came out. As he came down the gangway he seemed distracted, his eyes unfocused. Coming closer he paused, smiling at Kim as if remembering something. ‘Is everything okay, Chan Shui?’ he asked, seeming not to see Janko lain there against the machine.

Chan Shui bowed his head, suppressing a smile. ‘Everything is fine, Supervisor Nung.’

Back at their machine Kim questioned him about the incident. ‘Is Nung okay? He seemed odd.’

Chan Shui laughed briefly, then shook his head. ‘Now there’s a man who’ll be his own ruin.’ He looked at Kim. ‘Supervisor Nung has a habit. Do you understand me, Kim?’

‘He takes drugs. Harmless, mainly, but I think he’s getting deeper. These last few weeks… Anyway, hand me that phial.’

Kim passed him the phial, then looked across, letting his eyes rest briefly on Janko’s back.

‘By the way, thanks for what you did, Shui. I appreciate it. But really, it wasn’t necessary. I’m quick. Quicker than you think. He’d never have caught me.’

Chan Shui smiled, then looked up at him again, more thoughtful than before. ‘Maybe. But I’d rather be certain. Janko’s a bit of a head case. He doesn’t know quite when to stop. I’d rather he didn’t get near you. Okay?’

Kim smiled and looked down. He felt a warmth like fire in his chest. ‘Okay.’

Kim looked up from his desk console and nodded. ‘I’m a little tired, that’s all, T’ai Cho.’

‘Ah.’ That was unusual. T’ai Cho studied the boy a moment. He was a handsome boy now that the feral emaciation of the Clay had gone from his face. A good diet had worked wonders, but it could not undo the damage of those earliest years. T’ai Cho smiled and looked back down at the screen in front of him. What might Kim have been with a proper diet as an infant? With the right food and proper encouragement? T’ai Cho shuddered to think.

T’ai Cho looked up again. ‘We’ll leave it for now, neh, Kim? A tired brain is a forgetful brain.’ He winked. ‘Even in your case. Go and have a swim. Then get to bed early. We’ll take this up again tomorrow.’

When Kim had gone, he sat there, thinking about the last week. Kim seemed to have settled remarkably well into the routine of the Casting Shop. Supervisor Nung was pleased with him, and Kim himself was uncomplaining. Yet something worried T’ai Cho. There was something happening in Kim – something deep down that perhaps even Kim himself hadn’t recognized as yet. And now this. This sleeplessness. Well, he would watch Kim more closely for the next few days and try to fathom what it was.

He got up and went across to Kim’s desk, then activated the memory. At once the screen lit up.

T’ai Cho laughed, surprised. Kim had been doodling. He had drawn a web in the centre of the screen. A fine, delicate web from which hung a single thread that dropped off the bottom of the screen.

But then he leaned closer and, adjusting the controls, magnified the image until the spider’s features filled the screen: the familiar, dark-eyed features of a child.

T’ai Cho frowned, then switched the machine off. He stood there a moment, deep in thought, then nodded to himself. Yes. He would watch him. Watch him very carefully indeed.

DeVore sat up, startled into wakefulness. He had had the dream three times now. The same dream, almost identical in its detail.

He looked about him at the room. Red dust lay in tiny drifts against the walls, blown in by the airlock. It was a cold, barren room. More cell than resting place.

In the dream he had been out there – out on the very edge of the void, enfolded in a darkness that no light could ever reach, no warmth ever touch; distant beyond all measure. He had sat there on that iced and barren rock, or rather... crouched, for there was something wrong about him. Not that he could get the tiniest glimpse of himself. Only... it felt like he’d been coated with lacquer, like a clay figure fresh from the kiln. It felt...

DeVore shuddered. For once he had no words for it. Only that discomforting sense of otherness. Even now, awake again, he felt it still: that sense of being uncomfortable in his own skin. More than uncomfortable. As if this form of his were somehow alien.

Yes. That was it. One form contained within the other, like Russian dolls. Some other creature, flexing and unflexing within him. Wearing him like a coat. Unnatural. And yet not unfamiliar.

No. There was nothing darker than what he’d glimpsed. Nothing colder or more isolate. It went beyond mere seeing.

A dream, he told himself. Only a dream. But part of him knew otherwise. Part of him trusted to these messages. Saw the truth in them. And awaited revelation, knowing it would come.

Kim floated on his back in the water, his eyes closed. He had been thinking of Chung Kuo, and of the people he had met in the Above. What had any of them in common? Birth, maybe. That and death, and perhaps a mild curiosity about the state between. He smiled. And that was it. That was what astonished him most of all. Their lack of curiosity. He had thought it would be different up here, in the Above. He had believed that simple distance from the Clay would bring enlightenment. But it was not so. There was a difference in them, yes, but that difference was mainly veneer. Scratch away that surface and they proved themselves every bit as dull, every bit as incuriously wedded to their senses, as the most pitiful creature of the Clay.

That was the trouble. They followed an idea only to a certain stage – pursued its thread only so far – and then let it fall slack, as if satisfied there was no more to see, no more left to discover. Take the Aristotle File. They had been happy to see it only as a game he had devised to test his intellect and stretch himself. They had not looked beyond that. That single explanation was enough for them. But had they pushed it further – had they dealt with it, even hypothetically, as real, even for one moment – they would have seen at once where he had got it from. Even now they might wake to it. But he thought not.

It was strange, because they had explained it to him in the first place; had told him how intricately connected the finances and thus the computer systems of Chung Kuo were. It was they who had explained about ‘discrete systems’ cut off from all the rest; islands of tight-packed information, walled round with defences. And it was they who had told him that the Project’s system was ‘discrete’.

He had discovered none of that himself. All he had discovered was that the Project’s files were not alone within the walled island of their computer system. There was another file buried inside the system – an old, long-forgotten file that had been there a century or more, dormant, undisturbed, until Kim had found it. And not just any file. This was a library. More than that. It was a world. A world too rich to have been invented, too consistent – even in its errors – to have been anything less than real.

So why had the Seven hidden it? What reason could they have had for burying the past?

Freed from the burden of his secret he had spent the last two nights considering just this. He’d looked at it from every side, trying to see what purpose they’d had in mind. And finally he’d understood. It was to put an end to change. They had lied to end the Western dream of progress. To bring about a timeless age where nothing changed. A golden age.

But that left him with the problem of himself, for what was he if not Change personified? What if not a bacillus of that selfsame virus they had striven so long and hard to eradicate?

Kim opened his eyes and rolled over onto his front, then kicked out for the deeper water.

He saw it clearly now. What he was made him dangerous to them – made him a threat to the Seven and their ways. Yet he was also valuable. He knew, despite their efforts to hide it from him, what SimFic had paid for his contract. But why had they paid so vast a sum? What did they think to use him for?

Push in deeper, he told himself. Be curious. Is SimFic just a faceless force? A mechanism for making profits? Or does it have a personality?

The name came instantly. He had heard it often enough of late in the news. Soren Berdichev.

Yes, but who is he? A businessman. Yes. A Dispersionist. That too. But beyond that, what? What kind of man is he? Where does he come from? What does he want? And – most important of all – what does he want of me?

Kim ducked his head beneath the surface then came up again, shaking the water from his hair, the tiredness washed suddenly from his mind. He felt a familiar excitement in his blood and laughed. Yes, that was it! That would be his new task. To find out all he could about the man.

He drifted, letting the thread fall slack. Best not anticipate so far. Best find out what he could and then decide.

Soren Berdichev sat in the shadowed silence of his study, the two files laid out on the desk in front of him. The Wu had just gone, though the sweet, sickly scent of his perfume lingered in the air. The message of the yarrow stalks was written on the slip of paper Berdichev had screwed into a ball and thrown to the far side of the room. Yet he could see it clearly even so.

The light has sunk into the earth:

The image of darkening of the light.

Thus does the superior man live with the great mass:

He veils his light, yet still shines.

He banged the desk angrily. This threw all of his deliberations out. He had decided on his course of action and called upon the Wu merely to confirm what he had planned. But the Wu had contradicted him. And now he must decide again.

He could hear the Wu’s scratchy voice even now as the old man looked up from the stalks; could remember how his watery eyes had widened; how his wispy grey beard had stuck out stiffly from his chin.

‘K’un, the Earth, in the above, Li, the Fire, down below. It is Ming I, the darkening of the light.’

It had meant the boy. He was certain of it. The fire from the earth. He veils his light, yet still he shines.

‘Is this a warning?’ he had asked, surprising the old man, for he had never before interrupted him in all the years the elder had been casting the I Ching for him.

‘A warning, Shih Berdichev?’ The Wu had laughed. ‘The Book Of Changes does not warn. You mistake its purpose. Yet the hexagram portends harm…injury.’

Berdichev had nodded and fallen silent. But he had known it for what it was. A warning. The signs were too strong to ignore. So now he must decide again.

He laid his glasses on the desk and picked up the newest of the files containing the genotype reports he had had done.

He spread the two charts on the desk before him, beside each other, then touched the pad, underlighting the desk’s surface.

There was no doubt about it. Even without the expert’s report on the matter, it could be seen at once. The similarities were striking. He traced the mirrored symbols on the spiralling trees of the two double helices and nodded to himself.

‘So you are Edmund Wyatt’s son, Kim Ward. I wonder what Edmund would have made of that?’

He laughed sadly, realizing for the first time how much he missed his dead friend’s quiet strengths, then sat back, rubbing his eyes.

The genotyping and the Aristotle File, they were each reason enough in themselves to have Kim terminated. The first meant he was the son of the traitor, Wyatt, the second breached the special Edict that concealed Chung Kuo’s true past. Both made Kim’s life forfeit under the law, and that made the boy a threat to him. And so, despite the cost – despite the huge potential profit to be made from him – he had decided to play safe and terminate the boy, at the same time erasing all trace of those who had prepared the genotype report for him. But then the Wu had come.

The sun in the earth. Yes, it was the boy. There was no doubt about it. And, as he had that first time he had used the services of the Wu, he felt the reading could not be ignored. He had to act on it.

A small shiver ran through him, remembering that first time, almost nine years ago now. He had been sceptical and the Wu had angered him by laughing at his doubt. But only moments later the Wu had shocked him into silence with his reading.

The wind drives over the water:

The image of dispersion.

Thus the kings of old sacrificed to the Lord

And built temples.

It had been the evening before his dinner with Edmund Wyatt and Pietr Lehmann – a meeting at which he was to decide whether or not he should join their new Dispersion faction. And there it was. The fifty-ninth hexagram – Huan. He remembered how he had listened, absorbed by the Wu’s explanation, convinced by his talk of high goals and the coming of spring after the hardness of winter. It was too close to what they had been talking of to be simple chance or coincidence. Why, even the title of the ancient book seemed suddenly apt, serendipitous – The Book Of Changes. He had laughed and bowed and paid the Wu handsomely before contacting Edmund at once to tell him yes.

And so it had begun, all those years ago. Neither could he ever think of it without seeing in his mind the movement of the wind upon the water, the budding of leaves upon the branches. So how could he argue with it now – now that he had come to this new beginning?

He switched off the underlighting, slipped the charts back into the folder, then picked up his glasses and stood, folding them and placing them in the pocket of his pau.

The sun in the earth… Yes, he would leave the boy for now. But in the morning he would contact his man in the Mid Levels and have him bomb the laboratory where they had prepared the genotypes.

Supervisor Nung sat himself behind his desk and cleared a pile of documents onto the floor before addressing Kim.

‘Chan Shui is not here today,’ he explained, giving Kim the briefest glance. ‘His father has been ill and the boy is taking some time off to look after him. In the circumstances I have asked Tung Lian to look after you until Chan Shui is back with us.’

The office was far more untidy than Kim remembered it. Crates, paper, even clothes, were heaped against one wall, while a pile of boxes had been left in front of the bank of screens.

Nung looked up again distractedly, then nodded. ‘He’ll be here any moment.’ Then, realizing his tone had been a little too sharp, he smiled at Kim before looking down again.

A moment later there was a knock and a young Han entered. He was a slightly built, slope-shouldered boy a good two or three years younger than Chan Shui. Seeing Kim, he looked down shyly, avoiding his eyes, then moved closer to the desk.

Tung Lian gave a jerky bow. Then, making a gesture for Kim to follow him, he turned away.

Walking back through the Casting Shop, Kim looked about him, feeling a slight sense of unease, but there was no sign of Janko. Good. Perhaps he would be lucky. But even if Janko did turn up, he’d be all right. He would simply avoid the older boy: use guile and quickness to keep out of his way.

The machine was much the same as the one he had operated with Chan Shui and, seeing that the boy did not wish to talk to him, Kim simply got on with things.

He was sitting in the refectory at the mid-morning break when he heard a familiar voice call out to him from the far side of the big room. It was Janko.

He finished his ch’a and set the bowl down, then calmly got up from the table.

Janko was standing in the doorway to the Casting Shop, a group of younger boys gathered about him. He was showing them something, but, seeing Kim approach, he wrapped it quickly in a cloth.

Kim had glimpsed something small and white in Janko’s hand. Now, as Janko faced him, his pocked face split by an ugly smile, he realized what it had been. A tooth. Janko had lost a tooth in his fight with Chan Shui yesterday.

He almost laughed. He had heard the words in his head a moment before Janko had uttered them. Predictable, Kim thought, that’s what you are. Even so, he remembered what Chan Shui had said about not pushing him too far.

That was not the right thing, either, but it had come unbidden, as if in challenge, from his darker self.

Janko sneered. ‘We’ll see how pleased you are…’ But as he moved forward, Kim ducked under and round him and was through the doorway before he could turn. ‘Come back here!’ Janko bellowed, but the bell was sounding and the boys were already filing out to get back to their machines.

For the rest of the morning Janko kept up a constant stream of foul-mouthed taunts and insults, his voice carrying above the hum of the machines to where Kim was at work. But Kim blocked it all out, looking inward, setting himself the task of connecting two of the sections of his star-web – something he had never attempted before. The problems were of a new order of difficulty and absorbed him totally, but finally he did it and, delighted, turned, smiling, to find himself facing Janko again.

‘Didn’t you hear the bell?’ Janko continued, and the group of boys behind him laughed, as if it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said.

Dull-wits, thought Kim, surprised that he had missed the bell. He glanced across at Tung Liang and saw at once how uneasy he was. Strangely, he found himself trying to reassure the young Han. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m all right, Tung Lian. Really I am.’

Janko echoed back his words, high-pitched, in what he must have thought was a good imitation of Kim’s voice, and the ghouls behind him brayed once more.

He felt a slight twinge of fear at the pit of his stomach, but nothing that cowed him or made him feel daunted in anyway by the boy in front of him.

‘Fight?’ Janko laughed, surprised, then leaned towards Kim menacingly. ‘Who said anything about fighting? I just want to beat the shit out of you, rat’s arse!’

Kim looked about him. Boys blocked both his way back and his route to the entrance doorway. He looked up. Yes, he had thought as much. The two overhead cameras were covered over with jackets. He had been set up. They had planned this. Perhaps since they’d heard Chan Shui was absent.

‘Please, Janko…’ Tung Liang began feebly, but Janko barked at him to be quiet and he did so, moving back out of the way.

So I’m alone, Kim thought. Just as Anton said I’d be. Them and us. Or, in this case, them and me. The humour of it pleased him. Made him laugh.

‘You,’ said Kim, no longer caring what he said. ‘You big strutting bag of bird shit.’

But Janko merely smiled. He moved a pace closer, knowing there was nowhere for Kim to run this time.

But run Kim did, not towards the door or back away from Janko, but directly at Janko – up, onto his chest and over the top of him as he fell backwards, his mouth open wide in surprise, then away towards the toilets.

‘Stop him!’ yelled Janko, clambering to his feet again. ‘Block the little bastard off!’

Kim ran, dodging past anyone who tried to stop him. He would lock himself in. Hold out until Nung came out to investigate, or T’ai Cho came up to see why he’d not returned.

But they had pre-empted him. Someone had sealed all the locks to the toilet doors with an ice-based glue. He checked them all quickly, just in case he had been mistaken, then turned. Janko was standing there, as Kim knew he would be, watching him.

Kim looked up. Of course. They had covered the camera here, too. Very thorough, Kim thought, and knew from its thoroughness that Janko had not been involved in planning this. This was all far too clever for him. Janko was only the front-man, the gullible dupe who would carry out the plan. No, he wasn’t its architect: he had been manipulated to this point by someone else.

The realization made Kim go cold. There was only one of them in the whole Casting Shop capable of planning this. And he was not here…

Janko laughed and began to come at him. Kim could feel the hatred emanating from the boy, like something real, something palpable. And this time his hands weren’t empty. This time they held a knife.

He turned. Director Andersen’s secretary was running down the corridor after him.

She was close to tears. ‘I don’t know!’ she wailed. ‘Supervisor Nung’s note was only brief. He gave no details.’

‘Gods!’ T’ai Cho beat his brow with the palm of his left hand, then began to hurry her back towards Director Andersen’s offices.

Outside Andersen’s door he stopped, then spoke to her slowly, making sure she understood what she had to do.

‘I know it’s embarrassing, but it’ll be more embarrassing for the Director if he doesn’t get to hear about this. Whatever sing-song house he’s in, get a message to him fast and get him back here. Here! Understand me, woman?’

When she hesitated he barked at her. ‘Just do it! I’ll go and see how the boy is and sort out things that end. But Director Andersen must be contacted. The whole Project’s in jeopardy unless you can get him here.’

The firmness of his instructions seemed to calm her. She bowed and went inside, to do as she’d been told.

T’ai Cho found Nung slumped over his desk. OD’d. He had been ready to lay hands on the supervisor to get at the truth of things but it was too late for that now. The message to Andersen must have been the last thing he managed to do in his worthless life.

He looked about him, then noticed one of the boys hanging about at the far end of the Casting Shop. He ran across to him, grabbing the boy by the arm so that he could not make off.

He noticed the strange look of revulsion the boy gave him at the mention of Kim, but held on, shaking the boy until he got some sense from him. Then he threw him aside and ran on, towards the lifts.

They had taken him to the local Security post. Of course! Where else? But he was not thinking straight, he was just acting now, following his instincts, trying to get to Kim before they hurt him any more.

The soldier at the desk told him to sit and wait. He lifted up the barrier and went through anyway, ignoring the shout from behind him. Then, when the soldier laid hands on him from behind, he whirled about and shouted at the man.

The tone of absolute authority in his voice – a tone he had once used to cower unruly boys fresh from the Clay – worked perfectly. The soldier backed off a pace and began to incline his head. T’ai Cho pressed the advantage before the soldier could begin to think again.

‘My uncle is the Junior Minister, T’ai Feng, responsible for Security Subsidies. Lay a finger on me and he’ll break you, understand me?’

This time the soldier bowed fully and brought his hand up to his chest in salute.

‘Good! Now take me to your commanding officer at once. This is a matter of the utmost urgency both to myself and to my uncle.’

As the soldier bowed again and moved past him, T’ai Cho realized fleetingly that it was his robes that had helped create the right impression. He was wearing his lecturer’s pau with the bright blue patch, in many ways reminiscent of the sort of gown worn by a high official.

The soldier barely had time to announce him – and no time to turn and query his name – before he burst in behind him and took a chair in front of the Security officer.

This officer was less impressed by tones and gowns and talk of uncles. He asked immediately to see T’ai Cho’s permit card. T’ai Cho threw it across the desk at him, then leaned across almost threateningly.

The officer looked up at him, then down at the permit card. Then he threw the card back at T’ai Cho.

‘If I were you, Shih T’ai, I’d leave here at once, before you get into any more trouble.’

T’ai Cho ignored the card. He glared at the officer. ‘Where’s the boy? I’m not leaving until I’ve seen the boy!’

The officer began to get up from his chair, but T’ai Cho leaned right across and pulled him down.

T’ai Cho shivered. He had never felt such anger or fear or urgency before. They shaped his every action now.

The officer moved his hand slightly and pressed a pad on the desk, summoning help. He was certain now he had another madman on his hands.

‘Understand me, Shih T’ai. The boy is in safe hands. We’re seeing to the matter. It’s a simple case of assault of a citizen by a non-registered being. We’ll be terminating the NRB in about an hour or so, once authorization has come down from above.’

‘You’re doing what?!’ T’ai Cho screamed. He stood up violently, making the officer do the same; his hands out defensively, expecting attack.

The door slid open quietly behind T’ai Cho, but he heard it even so and moved around the desk, so that his back was against the wall.

‘You have no jurisdiction here,’ the officer said, his voice calmer now that he had assistance. ‘Whatever your relationship to the boy, I’m afraid the matter is out of your hands.’

T’ai Cho answered him at once. ‘It’s you who doesn’t understand. Kim Ward is not an NRB, as you so ridiculously put it, but one of the most brilliant and important scientific minds in the whole of Chung Kuo. SimFic have negotiated a contract for his services for ten million yuan.’

He had said the last three words slowly and clearly and with maximum emphasis and saw the effect the fantastic sum had on them.

‘Ten million?’ The officer gave a brief, thoughtful laugh. Then he shook his head. ‘Oh, no. I don’t believe you, Shih T’ai. This is just more of your talk of important uncles!’

T’ai Cho shook his head, then spoke again, his voice ringing with firmness and determination. ‘There’s one more thing you don’t understand. I don’t care what happens to me. But you do. That makes me stronger than you. Oh, you can think me a liar or a madman, but just consider – if you ignore my warning and go ahead without checking up, then you’ll be liable directly to SimFic for unauthorized destruction of their property.’ He laughed, suddenly horrified by this nightmare, sickened that he should even need to do this. Couldn’t they see he was only a little boy – a frightened little boy who’d been savagely attacked?

T’ai Cho yelled at the man; using language he had never before in his life used. ‘Fuck your procedures! Get on to Director Andersen at once. Unless you really want to be sued for ten million yuan!’

The officer blanched, then consulted his compatriot a second. Swallowing, he turned back to T’ai Cho. ‘Would you be willing to wait in a cell for half an hour while we make checks?’

T’ai Cho bowed. ‘Of course. That’s all I want you to do. Here,’ he took a jotpad from the pocket of his robe and, with the stylus from the officer’s desk, wrote Andersen’s office contact number and his name on the tiny screen. ‘You’ll find they’ll switch you through twice, so hold on. It’s a discrete service.’

The officer hesitated, then gave the smallest bow, half-convinced now that T’ai Cho had calmed down.

‘That’s right. He might not be there at once, but keep trying. I’ve asked his secretary to get him back there as soon as possible.’

An hour later T’ai Cho and four soldiers were taking Kim back to the Project. Kim was heavily sedated and secured in a special carrying harness. It was hard to see what injuries, if any, he had received in the fight with the other boys. His face seemed unmarked. But he was alive and he was not going to be ‘terminated’, as that bastard in the Security Post had termed it.

Director Andersen met him at the top gate. ‘I owe you, T’ai Cho,’ he said, slapping the tutor’s back. But T’ai Cho turned on him angrily.

Andersen swallowed, noting the open disrespect. ‘I… I…’ he blustered, then he bowed. ‘I’m sorry, T’ai Cho. I know you didn’t. Even so, I’m indebted. If there’s anything…’

But T’ai Cho simply strode past him, disgusted, thinking of Nung and what had been allowed to happen to Kim. All of it was indirectly Andersen’s fault. For not making all the right checks beforehand. If there was any justice, Berdichev would have his hide for it!

Andersen looked at the package the messenger had delivered ten minutes earlier and repeated what he had said.

‘The boy’s family are suing us for assault by a property owned by the Project. They’ve started a suit for fifteen million yuan.’

Andersen laughed bitterly. ‘If that’s the case, T’ai Cho, why is their boy on the critical list and not Kim? Here, look at these injuries! They’re horrific! More than seventeen broken bones and his left ear bitten off. Bitten off! The little savage!’

T’ai Cho glared at him, then looked down at the 2D shots the family’s advocate had sent with his package. Gods! he thought, revolted despite himself. Did Kim do this? And he was afraid Matyas would kill him!

Andersen was muttering to himself now. ‘Fuck him! Fuck the little bastard! Why did he have to go and attack one of them?’ He looked at T’ai Cho. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was capable of this?’

T’ai Cho went to protest, then thought of all that had been happening the last week or so. Were there warning signs? The restless nights? The problems with Matyas? Should he have foreseen this? Then he rejected all that. He threw the photos down and, with all the angry indignation of the parent of a wronged child, he stood and shouted at Andersen across the table.

‘He didn’t attack this boy! I know he didn’t! They attacked him! They must have! Don’t you understand that yet?’

Andersen looked up at him scornfully. ‘Who gives a shit, eh? We’re all out of a job now. There’s no way we can contest this. Nung’s dead and the cameras were all covered over. There’s not a bruise on Kim and the other lad’s in critical’ He laughed. ‘Who in their right mind would believe Kim was the victim?’

T’ai Cho was watching the Director closely now. ‘So what are you going to do?’

Andersen pushed the package aside and leaned across the table. ‘The Project’s advocate suggests there are ways we can contain the damage. You see, there’s not just the matter of the Project’s liability to the parents of the injured boy but the question of personal responsibility.’ He looked directly at T’ai Cho. ‘Yours and mine, in particular. Now, if Kim had actually died in the fight…’

T’ai Cho shook his head in disbelief. His voice, when he found it again, came out as a whisper. ‘What have you done, Andersen? What, in the gods’ names, have you done?’

Andersen looked away. ‘I’ve signed the order. He’ll be terminated in an hour.’

Berdichev went to the cell to see the boy one last time before they sent him on. Kim lay there, pale, his dark eyes closed, the bulky secure-jacket like an incomplete chrysalis, disguising how frail he really was.

Well, well, Berdichev thought, you have tried your hardest to make my decision an empty one, haven’t you? But perhaps it was just this that the Wu had foretold. The darkening of the light.

He knelt and touched the boy’s cheek. It was cooler than his own flesh, but still warm. Yes, it was fortunate he had got here in time – before that arsehole Andersen had managed to bugger things up for good and all. He had T’ai Cho to thank for that.

And now it was all his. Kim and the Project. And all for the asking price often million yuan he had originally contracted purely for the boy.

Berdichev laughed. It had all been rather easy to manage in the circumstances. The Board had agreed the deal at once, and to help facilitate matters he had offered eight of the ten sitting members an increase in their yearly stipend. The other two he had wanted out anyway, and when the vote went against them he had accepted their resignations without argument. As for the matter of the aggrieved parents, their claim was dropped when they received his counter-claim for two hundred million – his estimate of the potential loss of earnings SimFic would suffer if Kim was permanently brain-damaged. They had been further sweetened by an out-of-court no-liability-accepted settlement of fifty thousand yuan. More than enough in exchange for their dull-witted son.

But what damage had it done? What would Kim be like when the wraps came off and the scars had healed? Not the physical scars, for they were miraculously slight, but the deeper scars – the psychological ones?

He shuddered, feeling suddenly closer to Kim than he had ever been. As if the Wu’s reading had connected him somehow to the boy. The sun was buried in the earth once more, but would it rise again? Would Kim become again what he had been? Or was he simple, unawakened Clay?

Ten million yuan. That was how much he had gambled on Kim’s full and complete recovery. And the possible return? He laughed. Maybe a thousand times as much! Maybe nothing.

Berdichev got up and wiped his hands on his jacket, then turned to the two SimFic guards, indicating that they should take the boy away. Then, when they had gone, he crossed the cell and looked at its second occupant. This one was also trussed.

He laughed and addressed the corpse of the Director. ‘You thought you’d fuck with me, eh, Andersen? Well, no one does that and gets away with it. No one. Not even you.’