Chapter 34

WUWEI

Darkness lay on the water like oil. It was almost dawn, but day would be a month coming this far north. They lay there silently in the flat boats, half a li from the shore of the island, waiting for the signal in their heads. At ten minutes past five it came and they began to move in, their faces and hands blacked up, their wet suits blending with the darkness.

Hans Ebert, commanding the raiding party, was first ashore. He crouched on the slick stone steps, waiting, listening for sounds above the steady slapping of the water on the rocks below.

Nothing. All was well. A few seconds later the second signal sounded in his head and he moved on quickly, his body acting almost without thought, doing what it had rehearsed a hundred times in the last few days.

He could sense his men moving in the darkness all about him; two hundred and sixty-four of them, elite-trained. The best in City Europe.

At the top of the steps Ebert stopped. While his sergeant, Auden, set the charge on the solid metal door he looked back through the darkness at the mainland. Hammerfest lay six li to the east, like a vast slab of glacial ice, thrusting out into the cold northern sea. To north and south of it the great wall of the City’s edge ran into the distance like a jagged ribbon, its pale whiteness lit from within, tracing the shoreline of the ancient Finnmark of Norway. He shivered and turned back, conscious of the unseen presence of the old fortress walls towering above him in the moonless dark. It was a bugger of a place. Just the kind of site one would expect SimFic to build a special research unit in.

Auden came back to him. Together they crouched behind the blast shield, lowering their infrared lenses over their eyes. The charges would be fired automatically by the third signal. They waited. Without warning the night was rent by a whole series of detonations, some near, some further off. They let the shield fall forward and, not waiting for the smoke to clear, charged through the gaping doorway, followed by a dozen other men. At fifteen other points about the island the same thing was happening. Even as he entered the empty corridor he could hear the first bursts of small-arms fire.

The first intersection was exactly where it should have been. Ebert stood at the corner, looking to his left, his gun held against his shoulder, searching out targets in the darkness up ahead. He waited until his squad was formed up behind him, then counted them through, Auden first. Up ahead was the first of the guard posts, if the plans were accurate, and beyond that the first of the laboratories.

Ebert touched the last man’s arm as he went through, then glanced back the way he’d come. For a moment he thought he saw movement and hesitated, but there was nothing in the infrared. He turned back quickly, then set off, running hard after his squad, hearing their boots echoing on the floor up ahead of him. But he had gone only ten or so strides when the floor seemed to give in front of him and he was tumbling forward down a slope.

He spread his legs behind him to slow himself and tried to dig his gun into the glassy surface of the floor. He slowed marginally, slewing to the left, then, abruptly, thumped into the wall. For a moment he was disoriented, his body twisted about violently. He felt his gun clatter away from him, then he was sliding again, head first this time, the yells closer now, mixed with a harsh muttering. A moment later he thumped bruisingly into a pile of bodies.

Ebert groaned, then looked up and saw Auden above him, the heated recognition patch at his neck identifying him.

‘Is anyone hurt?’ Ebert said softly, almost breathlessly, letting Auden help him to his feet.

Auden leant close and whispered in his ear. ‘I think Leiter’s dead, sir. A broken neck. He was just behind me when it went. And there seem to be a few other minor injuries. But otherwise…’

‘Gods…’ Ebert looked about him. ‘Where are we?’

‘I don’t know, sir. This isn’t on the plans.’

To three sides of them the walls went up vertically for forty, maybe fifty ch’i. It felt like they were at the bottom of a big, square-bottomed well. Ebert stepped back and stared up into the darkness overhead, trying to make something out. ‘There,’ he said, after a moment, pointing upward. ‘If we can fire a rope up there we can get out.’

‘If they don’t pick us off first.’

‘Right.’ Ebert took a breath, then nodded. ‘You break up the surface about six or eight ch’i up the slope. Meanwhile, let’s keep the bastards’ heads down, eh?’

The sergeant gave a slight bow and turned to bark an order at one of his men. Meanwhile Ebert took two grenades from his belt. It was hard to make out just how far up the entrance to the corridor was. Thirty ch’i, perhaps. Maybe more. There was only the slightest change in the heat emission pattern – the vaguest hint of an outline. He hefted one of the grenades, released the pin, then leaned back and hurled it up into the darkness. If he missed…

He heard it rattle on the surface overhead. Heard shouts of surprise and panic. Then the darkness was filled with sudden, brilliant light. As it faded he threw the second grenade, more confident this time, aiming it at the smouldering red mouth of the tunnel. Someone was screaming up there – an awful, unnatural, high-pitched scream that chilled his blood – then the second explosion shuddered the air and the screaming stopped abruptly.

Ebert turned. Auden had chipped footholds into the slippery surface of the slope. Now he stood there, the big ascent gun at his hip, waiting for his Captain’s order.

‘Okay,’ Ebert said. ‘Try and fix it into the roof of the tunnel. As soon as it’s there I’ll start up. Once I’m at the top I want a man to follow me every ten seconds. Got that?’

‘Sir!’

Auden looked up, judging the distance, then raised the heavy rifle to his shoulder and fired. The bolt flew up, trailing its thin, strong cord. They heard it thud into the ceiling of the tunnel, then two of the men were hauling on the slack of the cord, testing that the bolt was securely fixed overhead.

One of them turned, facing Ebert, his head bowed. ‘Rope secure, sir.’

‘Good.’ He stepped forward and took the gun from the soldier’s shoulder. ‘Take Leiter’s gun, Spitz. Or mine if you can find it.’

‘Sir!’

Ebert slipped the gun over his right shoulder, then took the rope firmly and began to climb, hauling himself up quickly, hands and feet working thoughtlessly. Three-quarters of the way up he slowed and shrugged the gun from his shoulder into his right hand, then began to climb again, pulling himself up one-handedly towards the lip.

They would be waiting. The grenades had done some damage, but they wouldn’t have finished them off. There would be backups.

He stopped just beneath the lip and looked back down, signalling to Auden that he should begin. At once he felt the rope tighten beneath him as it took the weight of the first of the soldiers. Turning back, Ebert freed the safety with his thumb, then poked the barrel over the edge and squeezed the trigger. Almost at once the air was filled with the noise of return fire. Three, maybe four of them, he estimated.

Beneath him the rope swayed, then steadied again as the men below took the slack. Ebert took a long, shuddering breath, then heaved himself up, staring over the lip into the tunnel beyond.

He ducked down quickly, just as they opened up again. But he knew where they were now. Knew what cover he had up there. Quickly, his fingers fumbling at the catch, he freed the smoke bomb from his belt, twisted the neck of it sharply, then hurled it into the tunnel above him. He heard the shout of warning and knew they thought it was another grenade. Taking another long breath, he pulled the mask up over his mouth and nose, then heaved himself up over the lip and threw himself flat on the floor, covering his eyes.

There was a faint pop, then a brilliant glare of light. A moment later the tunnel was filled with billowing smoke.

Ebert crawled forward quickly, taking cover behind two badly mutilated bodies that lay one atop the other against the left-hand wall. It was not a moment too soon. Bullets raked the tunnel wall only a hand’s width above his head. He waited a second, then, taking the first of his targets from memory, fired through the dense smoke.

There was a short scream, then the firing started up again. But only two of them this time.

He felt the bullets thump into the corpse he was leaning on and rolled aside quickly, moving to his right. There was a moment’s silence. Or almost silence. Behind him he heard sounds – strangely familiar sounds. A soft rustling that seemed somehow out of context here. He lifted his gun, about to open fire again, when he heard a faint click and the clatter of something small but heavy rolling towards him.

A grenade.

He scrabbled with his left hand, trying to intercept it and throw it back, but it was past him, rolling towards the lip.

‘Shit!’

There was nothing for it now. He threw himself forward, his gun held chest-high, firing into the dense smoke up ahead. Then the explosion pushed him off his feet and he was lying amongst sandbags at the far end of the tunnel, stunned, his ears ringing.

‘Light!’ someone was saying. ‘Get a fucking light here!’

Auden. It was Auden’s voice.

‘Here!’ he said weakly and tried to roll over, but there was something heavy across the back of his legs. Then, more strongly. ‘I’m here, sergeant!’

Auden came across quickly and reached down, pulling the body from him. ‘Thank the gods, sir! I was worried we’d lost you.’ He leaned forward and hauled Ebert to his feet, supporting him.

Ebert laughed, then slowly sat back down, his legs suddenly weak. ‘Me too.’ He looked up again as one of the soldiers brought an arc lamp across to them.

‘Shit!’ he said, looking about him. ‘What happened?’

‘You must have blacked out, sir. But not before you did some damage here.’ Ebert shuddered, then half turned, putting his hand up to his neck. There were two bodies sprawled nearby, face down beside the sandbags. He looked up at Auden again.

‘What are our losses?’

‘Six men, sir. Including Leiter. And Grant has a bad head wound. We may have to leave him here for now.’

‘Six men? Fuck it!’ He swallowed, then sat forward. ‘Do we know how the other squads are doing?’

Auden looked down. ‘That’s another problem, sir. We’ve lost contact. All the channels are full of static.’

Ebert laughed sourly. ‘Static? What the fuck’s going on?’

Auden shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know, sir. But it’s odd. There’s an intersection up ahead that isn’t on the map. And when you went up…’ Auden hesitated, then went on. ‘Well, it seems they must have had a sluice or something at the bottom of the slope. One moment I was standing there, helping get the men on the rope, the next I was knee-deep in icy water.’

Ebert looked down. So that was the strange sound he had heard. He shivered, then looked back up at Auden. ‘I wondered. You know that? As I was climbing the rope I was asking myself why they hadn’t finished us off at once. Just a couple of grenades. That’s all it would have taken. But that explains it, doesn’t it? They meant to drown us. But why? What difference would it make?’

Auden smiled grimly back at him. ‘I don’t know, sir, but if you’re feeling all right we’d best press on. I don’t like this quiet. I have the feeling they’re watching us all the while, getting ready to hit us again.’

Ebert smiled and reached out to touch his sergeant’s shoulder briefly. ‘Okay. Then let’s get moving, eh?’

Auden hesitated a moment longer. ‘One last thing, sir. Something you ought to know.’

Ebert saw how Auden’s eyes went to one of the corpses and felt himself go cold inside. ‘Don’t tell me. They’re like the copies at the wedding. Is that it?’

Auden shook his head, then went across and turned over one of the corpses, tugging off its helmet.

‘Gods!’ Ebert got up slowly and went across, then crouched above the body and, taking his knife from his belt, slit the jacket open, exposing the naked chest beneath.

He looked up at Auden and saw his own surprised bemusement mirrored back at him. ‘The gods preserve us!’ He looked back down at the soft curves of the corpse’s breasts, the soft, brown, blinded eyes of the nipples, and shuddered. ‘Are they all like this?’

Auden nodded. ‘All the ones I’ve looked at so far.’

Ebert pulled the jacket back across the dead woman’s breasts then stood up, his voice raised angrily. ‘What does it all mean? I mean, what in hell’s name does it all mean?’

Auden shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir. But I know one thing. Someone told them we were coming. Someone set us up.’

General Tolonen dismissed the two guards, locked the door, then turned to face the young prince, his head bowed.

‘I am sorry I had to bring you here, young master, but I couldn’t chance letting our enemies know of this, however small the risk.’

Li Yuan stood there stiffly, his chin raised slightly, a bitter anger in his red-rimmed eyes. He was barely half the General’s height and yet his air of command, even in grief, left no doubt as to who was master, who servant there. The prince was wearing the cheng fu, the rough, unhemmed sackcloth of traditional mourning clothes, his feet clad in simple, undecorated sandals, his hands and neck bare of all jewellery. It was all so brutally austere – so raw a display of grief – it made Tolonen’s heart ache to see him so.

They were in a Secure Room at the heart of the Bremen fortress. A room no more than twenty ch’i square, cut off on all six sides from the surrounding structure, a series of supporting struts holding it in place. It was reached by way of a short corridor with two airlocks, each emptied to total vacuum after use. Most found it an uncomfortable, uneasy place to be. Once inside, however, absolute secrecy could be guaranteed. No cameras looked into the room and no communications links went out from there. In view of recent developments, Tolonen welcomed its perfect isolation. Too much had happened for him to take unnecessary risks.

‘Have you spoken to him yet?’ Li Yuan asked, anger burning in his eyes. ‘Did the bastard lie through his teeth?’

The young boy’s anger was something to be seen. Tolonen had never dreamed he had it in him. He had always seemed so cold and passionless. Moreover, there was an acid bitterness to the words that struck a chord in Tolonen. Li Yuan had taken his brother’s death badly. Only vengeance would satisfy him. In that they were alike.

Tolonen removed his uniform cap and bowed to him. ‘You must be patient, young master. These things take time. I want solid evidence before I confront our friend Berdichev.’

The eight-year-old turned away sharply, the abruptness of the gesture revealing his inner turmoil. Then he turned back, his eyes flaring. ‘I want them dead, General Tolonen. Every last one of them. And I want their families eradicated. To the third generation.’

Tolonen bowed his head again. I would, he thought, were that my T’ang’s command. But Li Shai Tung has said nothing yet. Nothing of what he feels, or wants, or of what was said in Council yesterday. What have the Seven decided? How are they to answer this impertinence?

Yes, little master, I would gladly do as you say. But my hands are tied.

‘We know much more now,’ he said, taking Li Yuan’s shoulder and steering him across the room to where two chairs had been placed before a screen. He sat, facing Li Yuan, conscious not only of the boy’s grief and anger but also of his great dignity. ‘We know how it was done.’

He saw how Li Yuan tensed.

‘Yes,’ Tolonen said. ‘The key to it all was simulated vision.’ He saw that it meant nothing to Li Yuan and pressed on. ‘We discovered it in our raid on the SimFic installation at Punto Natales. They had been conducting illegal experiments with it there for more than eight years, apparently. It seems that the soft-wire they found in Chao Yang’s head was part of one of their systems.’

Li Yuan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand you, General. SimFic have been conducting illegal experiments? Is that it? They’ve been wilfully flouting the terms of the Edict?’

Tolonen nodded but raised a hand to fend off Li Yuan’s query. This was complex ground and he did not want to get into a discussion about how all Companies conducted such experiments, then lobbied to get their supposedly ‘theoretical’ products accepted by the Ministry.

‘Setting that aside a moment,’ he said, ‘what is of primary importance here is the fact that Pei Chao Yang was not to blame for your brother’s murder. It seems he had brain surgery for a blood clot almost five years ago – an operation that his father, Pei Ro-hen, kept from the public record. Chao had a hunting accident, it seems. He fell badly from his horse. But the operation was a success and he had had no further trouble. That is, until the day of the wedding. Now we know why.’

‘You mean, they implanted something in his head? Something to control him?’

‘Not to control him, exactly. But something that would make him see precisely what they wanted him to see. Something that superimposed a different set of images. Even a different set of smells, it seems. Something that made him see Han Ch’in differently…’

‘And we know who carried out this… operation?’

Tolonen looked back at the boy. ‘Yes. But they’re dead. They’ve been dead for several years, in fact. Whoever arranged this was very thorough. Very thorough indeed.’

‘But SimFic are to blame? Berdichev’s to blame?’

He saw the ferocity on Li Yuan’s face and nodded. ‘I believe so. But maybe not enough to make a conclusive case in law. It all depends on what we find at Hammerfest.’

She came at him like a madwoman, screeching, a big, sharp-edged hunting knife in her left hand, a notched bayonet in her right.

Ebert ducked under the vicious swinging blow and thrust his blade between her breasts, using both hands, the force of the thrust carrying her backwards, almost lifting her off her feet.

‘Gods…’ he said, looking down at the dying woman, shaken by the ferocity of her attack. ‘How many more of them?’

It was five minutes to six and he was lost. Eight of his squad were dead now, two left behind in the corridors, badly wounded. They had killed more than twenty of the defending force. All of them women. Madwomen, like the one he had just killed. And still they came at them.

Why women? he kept asking himself. But deeper down he knew why. It gave his enemy a psychological edge. He didn’t feel good about killing women. Neither had his men felt good. He’d heard them muttering among themselves. And now they were dead. Or good as.

‘Do we go on?’ Auden, his sergeant, asked.

Ebert turned and looked back at the remnants of his squad. There were four of them left now, including himself. And not one of them had ever experienced anything like this before. He could see it in their eyes. They were tired and bewildered. The past hour had seemed an eternity, with no knowing where the next attack would come from.

The ground plans they had been working from had proved completely false. Whoever was in charge of this had secretly rebuilt the complex and turned it into a maze: a web of deadly cul-de-sacs and traps. Worse yet, they had flooded the corridors with ghost signals, making it impossible for them to keep in contact with the other attacking groups.

Ebert smiled grimly. ‘We go on. It can’t be far now.’

At the next junction they came under fire again and lost another man. But this time the expected counter-attack did not materialize. Perhaps we’re almost there, thought Ebert as he pressed against the wall, getting his breath. Maybe this is their last line of defence. He looked across the corridor and met Auden’s eyes. Yes, he thought, if we get out of this I’ll commend you. For you’ve saved me more than once this last hour.

‘Get ready,’ he mouthed. ‘I’ll go first. You cover.’

Auden nodded and lifted his gun to his chest, tensed, ready to go.

The crossway was just ahead of them. Beyond it, about ten paces down the corridor and to the right, was a doorway.

Ebert flung himself across the open space, firing to his left, his finger jammed down on the trigger of the automatic. Behind him Auden and Spitz opened up noisily. Landing awkwardly, he began to scrabble forward, making for the doorway.

He heard her before he saw her. Turning his head he caught a glimpse of her on the beam overhead, her body crouched, already falling. He brought his gun up sharply, but it was too late. Even as he loosed off the first wild shot, her booted feet crashed into his back heavily, smashing him down into the concrete floor.

The film had ended. Tolonen turned in his seat and looked at the boy.

‘There are two more, then we are done here.’

Li Yuan nodded but did not look back at him. He was sitting there rigidly, staring at the screen as if he would burn a hole in it. Tolonen studied him a moment longer, then looked away. This was hard for the boy, but it was what his father wanted. After all, Li Yuan would be T’ang one day and a T’ang needed to be hard.

Tolonen sat back in his chair again, then pressed the handset, activating the screen again.

On the evening of the wedding the walls of the Yu Hua Yuan had been lined with discreet security cameras. The logistics of tracking fifteen hundred individuals in such a small, dimly lit space had meant that they had had to use flat-image photography. Even so, because each individual had been in more than one camera’s range at any given moment, a kind of three-dimensional effect had been achieved. A computer programmed for full-head recognition of each of the individuals present had analysed each of the one hundred and eighty separate films and produced fifteen hundred new, ‘rounded’ films of seventeen minutes’ duration – timed to bracket the death of Han Ch’in by eight minutes either side. The new films eliminated all those moments when the heads of others intruded, enhancing the image whenever the mouth was seen to move, the lips to form words. What resulted was a series of individual ‘response portraits’ so vivid one would have thought the lens had been a mere arm’s length in front of each face.

They had already watched five of the seventeen minute films. Had seen the unfeigned surprise – the shock – on the faces of men whom they thought might have been involved.

‘Does that mean they’re innocent?’ Li Yuan had asked.

‘Not necessarily,’ Tolonen had answered. ‘The details might have been kept from them deliberately. But they’re the money men. I’m sure of it.’

This, the sixth of the films, showed one of Tolonen’s own men, a captain in the elite force; the officer responsible for the shao lin posted in the garden that evening.

Li Yuan turned and looked up at Tolonen, surprised.

‘But that’s Captain Erikson.’

The General nodded. ‘Watch. Tell me what you think.’

Li Yuan turned back and for a time was silent, concentrating on the screen.

‘Well?’ prompted Tolonen.

‘His reactions seem odd. His eyes… It’s almost as if he’s steeled himself not to react.’

‘Or as if he was drugged, perhaps? Don’t you think his face shows symptoms similar to arfidis trance? He’s not been known to indulge before now, but who knows? Maybe he’s an addict.’

Li Yuan turned and looked up at the General again. Between the words and the tone in which they had been said lay a question mark.

‘You don’t believe that, do you?’ he said after a moment. ‘You don’t think he would have risked public exposure of his habit.’

Tolonen was silent, watching the boy closely. Li Yuan looked away again, then started, understanding suddenly what the General had really been saying.

‘He knew! That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Erikson knew, but… but he didn’t dare show it. Is that right? You think he risked taking arfidis in public?’

‘I think so,’ said Tolonen quietly. He was pleased with Li Yuan. If one good thing had come out of this rotten business it was this: Li Yuan would be T’ang one day. A great T’ang. If he lived long enough.

‘Then that explains why no shao lin were close enough to act.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Erikson?’

‘He’s dead. He killed himself an hour after the assassination. At first I thought it was because he felt he had failed me. Now I know otherwise.’

Tolonen stared up at Erikson’s face, conscious of the misery behind the dull glaze of his eyes. He had suffered for his betrayal.

Li Yuan’s voice was strangely gentle. ‘What made him do it?’

‘We’re not certain, but we think he might have been involved in the assassination of Lwo Kang. He was on DeVore’s staff at the time, and is known to have been in contact with DeVore in a private capacity while the latter was in charge of Security on Mars.’

‘I see.’

The film ended. The next began. Lehmann’s face filled the screen.

Something was wrong. That much was clear at once. Lehmann seemed nervous, strangely agitated. He talked fluently but seemed distanced from what he was saying. He held his head stiffly, awkwardly and his eyes made small, erratic movements in their sockets.

‘He knows!’ whispered Li Yuan, horrified, unable to tear his eyes away from the image on the screen. ‘Kuan Yin, sweet Goddess of Mercy, he knows!’

There, framed between Lehmann’s head and the screen’s top edge, he could see his brother standing with his bride, laughing with her, talking, exchanging loving glances…

No, he thought. No-o-o! Sheer dread welled up in him, making his hands tremble, his stomach clench with anguish. Lehmann’s face was huge, almost choking the screen. Vast it was, its surface a deathly white, like the springtime moon, bleak and pitted, filling the sky. And beyond it stood his brother, Han, sweet Han, breathing, talking, laughing-alive! – yes, for that frozen, timeless moment still alive – and yet so small, so frail, so hideously vulnerable.

Lehmann turned and looked across to where Han was talking to the Generals. For a moment he simply stared, his hostility unmasked, then he half turned to his right, as if in response to something someone had said, and laughed. That laughter – so in contrast with the coldness in his eyes – was chilling to observe. Li Yuan shivered. There was no doubting it now. Lehmann had known what was about to happen.

Slowly, almost unobtrusively, Lehmann moved back into the circle of his acquaintances, until, as the newly-weds stopped before Pei Chao Yang, he was directly facing them. Now there was nothing but his face staring down from the massive screen; a face that had been reconstructed from a dozen separate angles. All that lay between the lens and his face had been erased, the intruding images of murder cleared from the computer’s memory.

‘No…’ Li Yuan moaned softly, the pressure in his chest almost suffocating him, the pain growing with every moment.

Slowly, so slowly the seconds passed, and then Lehmann’s whole face seemed to stiffen.

‘His eyes,’ said Tolonen softly, his voice filled with pain. ‘Look at his eyes…’

Li Yuan groaned. Lehmann’s features were shaped superficially into a mask of concern, but his eyes were laughing, the pupils wide, aroused. And there, in the dark centre of each eye, was the image of Pei Chao Yang, struggling with Han Ch’in. There – doubled, inverted in the swollen darkness.

‘No-o-o!’ Li Yuan was on his feet, his fists clenched tightly, his face a rictus of pain and longing. ‘Han!… Sweet Han!’

When Ebert came to, the woman was lying beside him, dead, most of her head shot away. His sergeant, Auden, was kneeling over him, firing the big automatic into the rafters overhead.

He lifted his head, then let it fall again, a sharp pain accompanying the momentary wave of blackness. There was a soft wetness at the back of his head where the pain was most intense. He touched it gingerly, then closed his eyes again. It could be worse, he thought. I could be dead.

Auden let off another burst into the overhead, then looked down at him. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

Ebert coughed, then gave a forced smile. ‘I’m fine. What’s happening?’

Auden motioned overhead with his gun, his eyes returning to the web-like structure of beams and rafters that reached up into the darkness.

‘There was some movement up there, but there’s nothing much going on now.’

Ebert tried to focus, but found he couldn’t. Again he closed his eyes, his head pounding, the pain engulfing him. Auden was still talking.

‘It’s like a rat’s nest up there. But it’s odd, sir. If I was them I’d drop gas canisters or grenades. I’d have set up a network of automatic weapons.’

‘Perhaps they have,’ said Ebert weakly. ‘Perhaps there’s no one left to operate them.’

Auden looked down at him again, concerned. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, sir?’

Ebert opened his eyes. ‘My head. I’ve done something to my head.’

Auden set his gun down and lifted Ebert’s head carefully with one hand and probed gently with the other.

Ebert winced. ‘Gods…’

Auden knelt back, shocked by the extent of the damage. He thought for a moment, then took a small aerosol from his tunic pocket and sprayed the back of Ebert’s head. Ebert gritted his teeth against the cold, fierce, burning pain of the spray but made no sound. Auden let the spray fall and took an emergency bandage, a hand-sized padded square, from another pocket and applied it to the wound. Then he laid Ebert down again, turning him on his side and loosening the collar of his tunic. ‘It’s not too bad, sir. The cut’s not deep. She was dead before she could do any real damage.’

Ebert looked up into Auden’s face. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’

Auden had picked up his gun and was staring up into the overhead again. He glanced down quickly and shook his head. ‘No need, sir. It was my duty. Anyway, we’d none of us survive long if we didn’t help each other out.’

Ebert smiled, strangely warmed by the simplicity of Auden’s statement. The pain was subsiding now, the darkness in his head receding. Looking past Auden, he found he could see much more clearly. ‘Where’s Spitz?’

‘Dead, sir. We were attacked from behind as we crossed the intersection.’

‘So there’s only the two of us now.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Auden scanned the overhead one last time, looked back and front, then slipped his gun onto his shoulder. ‘I’ll have to carry you, sir. There’s a stairwell at the end of this corridor. If we’re lucky we’ll find some of our own up top. I’ve heard voices up above. Male voices. I think they’re some of ours.’

Putting his hands under Ebert’s armpits, he pulled the wounded man up into a sitting position, then knelt and, putting all his strength into it, heaved his captain up onto his shoulder. For a moment he crouched there, getting his balance, then reached out with his right hand and picked up his gun.

Li Yuan found her in the eastern palace at Sichuan, seated amidst her maids. It was a big, spacious room, opening on one side to a balcony, from which steps led down to a wide, green pool. Outside the day was bright, but in the room it was shadowed. Light, reflected from the pool, washed the ornate ceiling with ever-changing patterns of silver and black, while beneath all lay in darkness.

Fei Yen wore the ts’ui and the shang, the coarse hemp cloth unhemmed, as was demanded by the first mourning grade of chan ts’ui. Three years of mourning lay before her now – twenty-seven months in reality. All about her her maids wore simple white, and in a white, rounded bowl beside the high-backed chair in which she sat was a dying spray of flowers, their crimson and golden glory faded.

She looked up at him through eyes made dark from days of weeping, and summoned him closer. She seemed far older than he remembered her. Old and bone-tired. Yet it was only four days since the death of Han Ch’in.

He bowed low, then straightened, waiting for her to speak.

Fei Yen turned slowly and whispered something. At once her maids got up and began to leave, bowing to Li Yuan as they passed. Then he was alone with her.

‘Why have you come?’

He was silent a moment, daunted by her; by the unexpected hostility in her voice.

‘I… I came to see how you were. To see if you were recovering.’

Fei Yen snorted and looked away, her face bitter. Then, relenting, she looked back at him.

‘Forgive me, Li Yuan. I’m mending. The doctors say I suffered no real physical harm. Nothing’s broken…’

She shuddered and looked down again, a fresh tear forming in the corner of her eye. Li Yuan, watching her, felt his heart go out to her. She had loved his brother deeply. Even as much as he had loved him. Perhaps that was why he had come: to share with her both his grief and the awful denial of that love. But now that he was here with her, he found it impossible to say what he felt – impossible even to begin to speak of it.

For a while she was perfectly still, then she wiped the tear away impatiently and stood up, coming down to him.

‘Please forgive me, brother-in-law. I should greet you properly.’

Fei Yen embraced him briefly, then moved away. At the opening to the balcony she stopped and leaned against one of the pillars, staring out across the pool towards the distant mountains.

Li Yuan followed her and stood there, next to her, not knowing what to say or how to act.

She turned and looked at him. Though eight years separated them he was not far from her height. Even so, she always made him feel like a child beside her. Only a child. All that he knew – all that he was – seemed unimportant. Even he, the future T’ang, was made to feel inferior in her presence. Yes, even now, when her beauty was clouded, her eyes filled with resentment and anger. He swallowed and looked away, but still he felt her eyes upon him.

‘So now you will be T’ang.’

He looked back at her, trying to gauge what she was thinking, for her words had been colourless, a statement. But what did she feel? Bitterness? Jealousy? Anger that no son of hers would one day be T’ang?

‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘One day.’

Much earlier he had stood there in his father’s study, staring up at the giant image of Europe that filled one wall – the same image that could be seen from the viewing circle in the floating palace, 160,000 li above Chung Kuo.

A swirl of cloud, like a figure 3, had obscured much of the ocean to the far left of the circle. Beneath the cloud the land was crudely shaped. To the east vast plains of green stretched outward towards Asia. All the rest was white; white with a central mass of grey-black and another, smaller mass slightly to the east, making the whole thing look like the skull of some fantastic giant beast with horns. The white was City Europe; glacial, in the grip of a second age of ice.

From up there the world seemed small, reduced to a diagram. All that he saw his father owned and ruled. All things, all people there were his. And yet his eldest son was dead, and he could do nothing. What sense did it make?

He moved past her, onto the balcony, then stood there at the stone balustrade, looking down into the pale green water, watching the fish move in the depths. But for once he felt no connection with them, no ease in contemplating them.

‘You’ve taken it all very well,’ she said, coming up beside him. ‘You’ve been a brave boy.’

He looked up at her sharply, bitterly; hurt by her insensitivity, strangely stung by her use of the word ‘boy’.

‘What do you know?’ he snapped, pushing away from her. ‘How dare you presume that I feel less than you?’

He rounded on her, almost in tears now, his grief, his unassuaged anger making him want to break something; to snap and shatter something fragile. To hurt someone as badly as he’d been hurt.

She looked back at him, bewildered now, all bitterness, all jealousy drained from her by his outburst. ‘Oh, Yuan. Little Yuan. I didn’t know…’ She came to him and held him tight against her, stroking his hair, ignoring the pain where he gripped her sides tightly, hurting the bruises there. ‘Oh, Yuan. My poor little Yuan. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. How was I to know, my little one? How was I to know?’

The stairs led up to a wide landing cluttered with crates. Three corridors led off. Two were cul-de-sacs, the third led to another, much longer stairwell. Auden went up again, his gun poked out in front of him, the safety catch off, his trigger finger aching with the tension of preparedness. Ebert was a numbing weight on his left shoulder.

Near the top of the steps he slowed and looked about him, his eyes on the level of the floor, his gun searching for targets. It was a vast, open space, like the floor of a warehouse, broken every now and then by huge, rectangular blockhouses. The ceiling was high overhead and criss-crossed with tracks. Stacks of crates stood here and there and electric trolleys were parked nearby. Otherwise the place seemed empty.

‘I don’t like it,’ Auden said quietly for Ebert’s benefit. ‘All that back there. And then nothing. We can’t have got them all. And where are our men?’

‘What is it?’

‘Some kind of loading floor. A huge big place. And there are blockhouses of some kind. They look empty, but they might easily be defended.’

Ebert swallowed painfully. His head ached from being carried upside down and he was beginning to feel sick. His voice was weak now. ‘Let’s find somewhere we can shelter. Somewhere you can set me down.’

Auden hesitated. ‘I’m not sure, sir. I think it’s a trap.’

Ebert’s weariness was momentarily tinged with irritation. ‘Maybe. But we’ve little choice, have we? We can’t go back down. And we can’t stay here much longer.’

Auden ignored the sharpness in his captain’s voice, scanning the apparent emptiness of the loading floor once again. Nothing. He was almost certain there was nothing out there. And yet his instincts told him otherwise. It was what he himself would have done. Hit hard, then hit hard again and again and again. And then, when your enemy expected the very worst, withdraw. Make them think they had won through. Allow them to come at you without resistance. Draw them into the heart of your defences. And then…

Ebert’s voice rose, shattering the silence. ‘Gods, sergeant, don’t just stand there, do something! I’m dying!’

Auden shuddered. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll find shelter. Somewhere to put you down.’

He breathed deeply for a few seconds, then hauled himself up the last few steps, expecting at any moment to be raked with heavy automatic fire or cut in half by one of the big lasers, but there was nothing. He ran as fast as he could, crouching, wheezing now, the weight of Ebert almost too much for him.

He made the space between two stacks of unmarked boxes and turned, looking back at the stairwell. For a moment he could have sworn he saw a head, back there where he had just come from. He took two shuddering breaths, then put his gun down and gently eased Ebert from his shoulder, setting him down on his side.

‘We need to get help for you, sir. You’ve lost a lot of blood.’

Ebert had closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said painfully, his voice a whisper now. ‘Go on. Be quick. I’ll be all right.’

Auden nodded and reached behind him for his gun. His hand searched a moment, then closed slowly, forming a fist. Instinct. He should have trusted to instinct. Raising his hands, he stood up and turned slowly, facing the man with the gun who stood there only three paces away.

‘That’s right, sergeant. Keep your hands raised and don’t make any sudden movements. Now come out here, into the open.’

The man backed away as Auden came forward, keeping his gun levelled. He was a tall, gaunt-looking Han with a long, horse-like face and a wide mouth. He wore a pale green uniform with the SimFic double-helix insignia on lapel and cap. His breast-patch showed a bear snatching at a cloud of tiny, silken butterflies, signifying that he was a fifth rank officer – a captain. As Auden came out into the open other guards came from behind the stacks to encircle him.

‘Good,’ said the captain. Then he signalled to some of his men. ‘Quick now! Get the other one to the infirmary. We don’t want him to die, now do we?’

Auden’s eyes widened in surprise. He half turned, watching them go to Ebert and lift him gently onto a stretcher. ‘What’s happening here?’ he asked, looking back at the SimFic captain. ‘What are you playing at?’

The captain watched his fellows carry Ebert away, then turned back to Auden and lowered his gun. ‘I’m sorry, sergeant, but we couldn’t take risks. I didn’t want to lose any more men through a misunderstanding between us.’ Unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘You’re safe now. The base has been liberated. The insurrection has been put down.’

Auden laughed, not believing what he was hearing. ‘Insurrection? What do you mean?’

The Han’s smile became fixed. ‘Yes. Unknown to the Company, the installation was infiltrated and taken over by a terrorist organization. We only learned of it this morning. We came as soon as we could.’

‘Quite a coincidence,’ said Auden, sickened, realizing at once what had happened. It was like he’d said to Ebert. They had been set up. The whole thing had been a set-up. A charade. And all to get SimFic off the hook.

‘Yes. But fortunate too, yes? If we had not come you would all be dead. As it is, more than a dozen of your men have got out alive.’

Auden shivered, thinking of all the good men he’d fought beside. Dead now. Dead, and simply to save some bastard’s butt higher up the levels. ‘And the terrorists?’

‘All dead. They barricaded themselves into the laboratories. We had to gas them, I’m afraid.’

‘Convenient, eh?’ He glared at the Han, bitter now.

The captain frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you, sergeant. This whole business… it was unfortunate, but it could not be helped, neh? I lost more than thirty of my own men in the fighting.’

Auden stared back at him. Yes, he thought, loathing the slick-tongued Han who stood before him; you lost thirty ‘men’ – but not to terrorists, that’s for certain!

There was the sound of raised voices in the corridor outside. At the same moment, the light on the desk intercom began to flash urgently. Soren Berdichev, Head of SimFic, looked up past the five men who were seated round the desk with him and straightened his small, round-rimmed glasses, clearing the computer-generated figures that were displayed in duplicate on their inner surfaces.

‘What in heaven’s name…?’

It was just after eight in the morning and they were two hours into their weekly strategy conference.

The man closest to him on his left stood, then turned and bowed to him. ‘Excuse me, sir. Shall I find out what the trouble is?’

Berdichev put his hand over the cancel on the intercom and looked up at his Senior Executive. He spoke coldly, sternly. ‘Thank you, Paul. Please do. If it’s a member of staff you will dismiss them immediately. I’ll not tolerate such behaviour in these offices.’

Moore bowed again and turned to do as he was bid. But he had got barely halfway across the room when the door crashed open.

Tolonen stood there in the doorway, tall and grey-haired, his eyes burning with anger, his whole manner menacing. He was wearing full combat uniform, the helmet loose about his neck, a light automatic in the holster at his waist, as if he had come straight from action. Behind him several members of Berdichev’s staff stood with their heads bowed, shamed that they had not been able to prevent the intrusion.

Berdichev got up slowly, his own outrage tightly, deliberately controlled. ‘General Tolonen… I hope you have good reason for bursting in on me like this?’

Tolonen ignored the comment. He looked about the room, then came in, striding past Moore without a glance, making straight for Berdichev. Shoving between two of the seated men, he leaned across and brought his fist down hard on the table.

‘You know perfectly well why I’m here, you wall lizard!’

Berdichev sat back composedly and put his hands together. ‘Your manners leave much to be desired, General. If you had had the common courtesy to talk to my secretary I would have seen you this afternoon. But now… Well, you can be certain that I’ll be reporting your behaviour to the House committee on Security matters. These are private offices, General, and even you cannot enter without permission.’

Angrily, Tolonen straightened up and took the warrant from his tunic pocket, then flung it down on the desk in front of Berdichev. ‘Now explain yourself! Or I’ll come round and choke the bloody truth from you!’

Berdichev picked up the small, card-like warrant and studied it a moment, then threw it back across the table at Tolonen. ‘So you have a right to be here. But legality doesn’t excuse your poor manners, General. My complaint still stands. Your behaviour has been atrocious. You have insulted me and openly threatened me before witnesses. I…’

Tolonen cut him short. He leaned across the table and roared at him. ‘Hsin fa ts’ai! What do you know of manners, you hsiao jen!’

For the first time Berdichev bristled. The insults had stung him, but inwardly he felt a small satisfaction. His tactic had the General rattled. The fact that he had slipped into Mandarin revealed just how emotionally off-balance Tolonen was.

He leaned forward, undaunted, and met the General’s eyes. ‘Now that you’re here, you’d best tell me what you want of me. I’m a busy man, social upstart or not, little man or not. I have an empire to run… if you’ll excuse the phrase.’

Tolonen glared at him a moment longer, then straightened up again. ‘Dismiss these men. I need to talk to you alone.’

Berdichev looked to the nearest of his men and gave a slight nod. Slowly, reluctantly, they began to leave. His Senior Executive, Moore, stood his ground, however, staring concernedly at his superior. Only as he was about to turn and leave did Berdichev look back at him.

‘Paul… please stay. I’d like a witness to what is said here.’

‘I said…’ began Tolonen, but Berdichev interrupted him.

‘I assure you, General, I will say nothing without a witness present. You see, there are no cameras in this room, no tapes. Much is said here that is of a secret nature. Things we would not like to get to the ears of our competitors. You understand me, General? Besides which, you have made threats to me. How can I feel safe unless one of my own is here to see that my rights are not violated?’

Tolonen snorted. ‘Rights! Fine words from you, who has so little respect for the rights of others!’

Berdichev looked down. ‘Again you insult me, General. Might I ask why? What have I done that should make you treat me thus?’

‘You know damn well what you’ve done! And all this acting won’t save your arse this time! You’re implicated to the hilt, Shih Berdichev! I’m talking about the murder of Li Han Ch’in, not some petty matter of manners. Two of your installations are directly involved. And that means that you’re involved. You personally!’

Berdichev took off his glasses and polished the lenses, then looked back at the General. ‘I assume you mean the business at Hammerfest.’

Tolonen laughed, astonished by the sheer effrontery of the man. ‘The business at Hammerfest… Yes. I mean the matter of your duplicity.’

‘My duplicity?’ He stared at the General, shaking his head sadly. ‘Again, I don’t understand you, General. Have I not been totally open? Have I not given you copies of all the documents relating to both our Punto Natales installation and the base at Hammerfest? Indeed, were it not for my men, I understand that you would have lost all of your force to the terrorists, Klaus Ebert’s son amongst them.’

‘Terrorists! That’s just more of your nonsense! You know damned well there were no terrorists!’

‘You can prove that, General?’

Tolonen lowered his voice. ‘I have no need to prove it. I know it. Here…’ he tapped his heart, ‘…and here,’ he tapped his head.

‘And what does that mean?’ Berdichev leaned forward, his thin face hardening, his glasses glinting in the overhead light. ‘You are making serious accusations, General, and I hope you can substantiate them. I regret what happened at Hammerfest, but I am not responsible for it.’

Tolonen shook his head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Berdichev. The research undertaken at both installations was illegal and has been directly linked to the assassination of Li Han Ch’in. Such work was undertaken in the name of SimFic, carried out on properties leased by SimFic and even funded by SimFic. As Head of SimFic you are directly responsible.’

‘I disagree. Some projects, undertaken in our name, may well have been illegal, as you say. They may – though it remains to be proved conclusively – be linked to Li Han Ch’in’s most unfortunate death. But just because something is done under our corporate name, it does not mean to say that we knew about it, or that we sanctioned it. As you know, General, as soon as I found out what was happening I ordered full cooperation with the Security forces and even ordered my own security squads to assist you.’

Tolonen was silent a moment, his face coldly furious. ‘You want me to believe that you didn’t know what was going on?’

‘To be frank with you, General, I don’t really care what you believe. I care only for the truth of the matter.’ He pointed past Tolonen at a huge chart on the right-hand wall. ‘See that there, General? That is a chart of my organization. Its structure, if you like. You’ll see how it divides and then subdivides. How certain parts of the organization have a degree of autonomy. How others are buried deep in a long chain of sub-structures. A company like SimFic is a complex creation. A living, functional entity, changing and evolving all the time.’

‘So?’

Berdichev folded his arms and sat back again. ‘How many men do you command, General? Half a million? A million?’

Tolonen stood straighter. ‘I command four Banners. Two million men in all.’

‘I see.’ He turned to his Senior Executive. ‘Paul… How many men do we employ in our African operation?’

‘Four hundred and eighty thousand.’

‘And in North America?’

‘Seven hundred and forty thousand.’

‘And in the Asian operation?’

‘One million, two hundred thousand.’

Berdichev looked back at the General. ‘Those three comprise a third of our total operations, the major part of which is based here, in City Europe. So you see, General, my own “command” is three times the size of your own. Now, let me ask you a question. Do you know what all of your men are doing all of the time?’

Tolonen huffed. ‘Why, that’s absurd! Of course I don’t!’

Berdichev smiled coldly. ‘And yet you expect me to know what all of my managers are up to all of the time! You expect me to be responsible for their actions! Aren’t you, by the same argument, responsible for DeVore’s actions? For his betrayal?’

Tolonen did not answer, merely stared back at Berdichev, an undisguised hatred in his eyes.

‘Well?’ Berdichev asked after a moment. ‘Are you finished here?’

Tolonen shook his head; his whole manner had changed with the mention of DeVore. He was colder now, more distant. ‘I have only one more thing to say to you, Shih Berdichev. You claim you are not responsible. So you say. Nonetheless, you will find out who was responsible for this. And you will deliver their heads or your own, understand? I give you three days.’

‘Three days!’ Berdichev sat forward. ‘By what authority…?’

Tolonen went to the door, then turned and looked back at Berdichev. ‘Three days. And if you don’t I shall come for you myself.’

When he was gone, Berdichev leaned forward and placed his hand on the intercom. ‘Did you get all of that?’

A voice answered at once. ‘Everything. We’re checking now, but it looks like all six angles were fine. We’ll have the edited tape to you in an hour.’

‘Good!’ He closed contact and looked up at Moore. ‘Well, Paul?’

Moore was still staring at the door. ‘You push him too far, Soren. He’s a dangerous man. You should be more cautious of him.’

Berdichev laughed. ‘Tolonen? Why, he’s an impotent old fool! He can’t even wipe his own arse without his T’ang’s permission, and Li Shai Tung won’t give him authority to act against us in a thousand years – not unless he has proof positive. No, we’ve done enough, Paul. That just now was all bullshit and bluster. Don’t fear. Tolonen will do nothing unless it’s sanctioned by his T’ang!’

Tolonen’s audience with the T’ang was three hours later. Shepherd, the T’ang’s advisor, had got there some time before and had updated Li Shai Tung on all relevant matters. As soon as Tolonen arrived, therefore, they got down to more important business.

The T’ang sat there, in a seat placed at the foot of the dais, dressed in the rough, unhemmed hempcloth of mourning, subdued and solemn, a thousand cares on his shoulders. He had not left the Imperial Palace since the murder of his son, neither had he eaten. At his neck was stitched a broad square of white cloth and in his left hand he held a bamboo staff. Both symbolized his grief.

There were only the three of them in the vast, high-ceilinged Throne Room, and the T’ang’s voice, when he spoke, echoed back to them.

‘Well, Knut? What do you suggest?’

The General bowed, then outlined his plan, arguing in favour of a pre-emptive strike. War, but of a contained nature, attacking specific targets. A swift retribution, then peace with all other factions.

Li Shai Tung listened, then seemed to look deep inside himself. ‘I have lost the most precious thing a man has,’ he said at last, looking at each of them in turn. ‘I have lost my eldest son. To this I cannot be reconciled. Neither can I love my enemies. Indeed, when I look into my heart I find only hatred there for them. A bitter hatred.’ He let out a long breath, then stared fixedly at Tolonen. ‘I would kill them like animals if it would end there, Knut. But it would not. There would be war, as you say, but not of the kind you have envisaged. It would be a dirty, secretive, incestuous war, and we would come out poorly from it.’

He smiled bleakly at his General, then looked away, the misery in his dark eyes so eloquent that Tolonen found his own eyes misting in response.

‘For once, my good General, I think you are wrong. I do not believe we can fight a contained war. Indeed, the Seven have known that for a long time now. Such a contest would spread. Spread until the Families faced the full might of the Above, for they would see it as a challenge; an attack upon their rights – upon their very existence as a class.’

Tolonen looked down, recalling the look in Lehmann’s eyes, the foul effrontery of Berdichev, and shuddered. ‘What then, Chieh Hsia?’ he said bluntly, almost belligerently. ‘Shall we do nothing? Surely that’s just as bad?’

Li Shai Tung lifted his hand abruptly, silencing him. It was the first time he had done so in the forty-odd years he had known the General and Tolonen looked back at him wide-eyed a moment before he bowed his head.

The T’ang looked at the staff he held. It was the very symbol of dependency; of how grief was supposed to weaken man. Yet the truth was otherwise. Man was strengthened through suffering, hardened by it. He looked back at his General, understanding his anger; his desire to strike back at those who had wounded him. ‘Yes, Knut, to do nothing is bad. But not as bad as acting rashly. We must seem weak. We must bend with the wind, sway in the storm’s mouth and bide our time. Wuwei must be our chosen course for now.’

Wuwei. Non-action. It was an old Taoist concept. Wuwei meant keeping harmony with the flow of things – doing nothing to break that flow.

There was a moment’s tense silence, then Tolonen shook his head almost angrily. ‘Might I say what I feel, Chieh Hsia?’ The formality of the General’s tone spoke volumes. This was the closest the two men had ever come to arguing.

The T’ang stared at his General a moment, then looked away. ‘Say what you must.’

Tolonen bowed deeply, then drew himself erect. ‘Just this. You are wrong, Li Shai Tung. Execute me for saying so, but hear me out. You are wrong. I know it. I feel it in my bones. This is no time for wuwei. No time to be cool-headed and dispassionate. We must be like the tiger now. We must bare our claws and teeth and strike. This or be eaten alive.’

The T’ang considered for a moment, then leaned further forward on his throne. ‘You sound like Han Ch’in,’ he said, amusement and bitterness in even measure in his voice. ‘He too would have counselled war. “They have killed me, father,” he would have said, “so now you must kill them back.”’ He shivered and looked away, his expression suddenly distraught. ‘Gods, Knut, I have considered this matter long and hard. But Han’s advice was always brash, always hasty. He thought with his heart. But I must consider my other son now. I must give him life, stability, continuity. If we fight a war he will die. Of that I am absolutely certain. They will find a way – just as they found a way to get to Han Ch’in. And in the end they will destroy the Families.’

Li Shai Tung turned to Shepherd, who had been silent throughout their exchange. ‘I do this for the sake of the living. You understand that, Hal, surely?’

Shepherd smiled sadly. ‘I understand, Shai Tung.’

‘And the Seven?’ Tolonen stood there stiffly, at attention, his whole frame trembling from the frustration he was feeling. ‘Will you not say to them what you feel in your heart? Will you counsel them to wuwei?’

The T’ang faced his General again. ‘The Seven will make its own decision. But, yes, I shall counsel wuwei. For the good of all.’

‘And what did Li Yuan say?’

Tolonen’s question was unexpected, was close to impertinence, but Li Shai Tung let it pass. He looked down, remembering the audience with his son earlier that day. ‘For your sake I do this,’ he had said. ‘You see the sense in it, surely, Yuan?’ But Li Yuan had hesitated and the T’ang had seen in his eyes the conflict between what he felt and his duty to his father.

‘Li Yuan agreed with me. As I knew he would.’

He saw the surprise in his General’s eyes; then noted how Tolonen stood there, stiffly, waiting to be dismissed.

‘I am sorry we are not of a mind in this matter, Knut. I would it were otherwise. Nonetheless, I thank you for speaking openly. If it eases your mind, I shall put your view to the Council.’

Tolonen looked up, surprised, then bowed. ‘For that I am deeply grateful, Chieh Hsia.’

‘Good. Then I need keep you no more.’

After Tolonen had gone, Li Shai Tung sat there for a long while, deep in thought. For all he had said, Tolonen’s conviction had shaken him. He had not expected it. When, finally, he turned to Shepherd, his dark eyes were pained, his expression troubled. ‘Well, Hal. What do you think?’

‘Knut feels it personally. And, because he does, that clouds his judgement. You were not wrong. Though your heart bleeds, remember you are T’ang. And a T’ang must see all things clearly. Whilst we owe the dead our deepest respect, we must devote our energies to the living. Your thinking is sound, Li Shai Tung. You must ensure Li Yuan’s succession. That is, and must be, foremost in your thinking, whatever your heart cries out for.’

Li Shai Tung, T’ang, senior member of the Council of Seven and ruler of City Europe, stood up and turned away from his advisor, a tear forming in the corner of one bloodshot eye.

‘Then it is wuwei.’

The small girl turned sharply, her movements fluid as a dancer’s. Her left arm came down in a curving movement, catching her attacker on the side. In the same instant her right leg kicked out, the foot pointing and flicking, disarming the assailant. It was a perfect movement and the man, almost twice her height, staggered backward. She was on him in an instant, a shrill cry of battle anger coming from her lips.

‘Hold!’

She froze, breathing deeply, then turned her head to face the instructor. Slowly she relaxed her posture and backed away from her prone attacker.

‘Excellent. You were into it that time, Jelka. No hesitations.’

Her instructor, a middle-aged giant of a man she knew only as Siang, came up to her and patted her shoulder. On the floor nearby her attacker, a professional fighter brought in for this morning’s training session only, got up slowly and dusted himself down, then bowed to her. He was clearly surprised to have been bested by such a slip of a girl, but Siang waved him away without looking at him.

Siang moved apart from the child, circling her. She turned, wary of him, knowing how fond he was of tricks. But before she had time to raise her guard he had placed a red sticker over the place on her body shield where her heart would be. She caught his hand as it snaked back, but it was too late.

‘Dead,’ he said.

She wanted to laugh but dared not. She knew just how serious this was. In any case, her father was watching and she did not want to disappoint him. ‘Dead,’ she responded earnestly.

There were games and there were games. This game was deadly. She knew she must learn it well. She had seen with her own eyes the price that could be paid. Poor Han Ch’in. She had wept for days at his death.

At the far end of the training hall the door opened and her father stepped through. He was wearing full dress uniform, but the uniform was a perfect, unblemished white, from boots to cap. White. The Han colour of death.

The General came towards them. Siang bowed deeply and withdrew to a distance. Jelka, still breathing deeply from the exercise, smiled and went to her father, embracing him as he bent to kiss her.

‘That was good,’ he said. ‘You’ve improved a great deal since I last saw you.’

He had said the words with fierce pride, his hand holding and squeezing hers as he stood there looking down at her. At such moments he felt a curious mixture of emotions – love and apprehension, delight and a small, bitter twinge of memory. She was three months short of her seventh birthday, and each day she seemed to grow more like her dead mother.

‘When will you be back?’ she asked, looking up at him with eyes that were the same breath-taking ice-blue her mother’s had been.

‘A day or two. I’ve business to conclude after the funeral.’

She nodded, used to his enigmatic references to business, then, more thoughtfully. ‘What will Li Shai Tung do, Daddy?’

He could not disguise the bitterness in his face when he answered. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘He will do nothing.’ And as he said it he imagined that it was Jelka’s funeral he was about to go to; her death he had seen through others’ eyes; her body lying there in the casket, young as spring yet cold as winter.

If it were you, my blossom, I would tear down Chung Kuo itself to get back at them.

But was that a deficiency in him? Were his feelings so unnatural? Or was the lack in Li Shai Tung, putting political necessity before what he felt? To want to destroy those who have hurt your loved ones – was that really so wrong? Was he any less of a man for wanting that?

Tolonen shuddered, the thought of his darling Jelka dead filling him with a strange sense of foreboding. Then, conscious of his daughter watching him, he placed his hands on her shoulders. His hands so large, her bones so small, so fragile beneath his fingers.

‘I must go,’ he said simply, kneeling to hug her.

‘Keep safe,’ she answered, smiling at him.

He smiled back at her, but his stomach had tightened at her words. It was what her mother had always said.

A cold wind was blowing from the west, from the high plains of Tibet, singing in the crown of the tree of heaven and rippling the surface of the long pool. Li Shai Tung stood alone beneath the tree, staff in hand, his bared head bowed, his old but handsome face lined with grief. At his feet, set into the dark earth, was the Family tablet, a huge rectangle of pale cream stone, carved with the symbols of his ancestors. More than half the stone – a body’s length from where he stood – was marble smooth, untouched by the mortician’s chisel. So like the future, he thought, staring at Han Ch’in’s name, fresh cut into the stone. The future… that whiteness upon which all our deaths are written.

He looked up. It was a small and private place, enclosed by ancient walls. At the southern end a simple wooden gate led through into the northern palace. Soon they would come that way with the litter.

He spoke, his voice pained and awful; like the sound of the wind in the branches overhead. ‘Oh, Han… Oh, my sweet little boy, my darling boy.’

He staggered, then clenched his teeth against the sudden memory of Han’s mother, his first wife, Lin Yua, sitting in the sunlight at the edge of the eastern orchard by the lake, her dresses spread about her, Han, only a baby then, crawling contentedly on the grass beside her.

Bring it back, he begged, closing his eyes against the pain; Kuan Yin, sweet Goddess of Mercy, bring it back! But there was no returning. They were dead. All dead. And that day no longer was. Except in his mind.

He shuddered. It was unbearable.

Li Shai Tung drew his cloak about him and began to make his slow way back across the grass, leaning heavily on his staff, his heart a cold, dark stone in his breast.

They were waiting for him in the courtyard beyond the wall; all those he had asked to come. The Sons of Heaven and their sons, his trusted men, his son, his dead son’s wife and her father, his brothers, and, finally, his own third wife. All here, he thought. All but Han Ch’in, the one I loved the best.

They greeted him solemnly, their love, their shared grief unfeigned, then turned and waited for the litter.

The litter was borne by thirty men, their shaven heads bowed, their white, full-length silks fluttering in the wind. Behind them came four officials in orange robes and, beyond them, two young boys carrying a tiny litter on which rested an ancient bell and hammer.

Han lay there in the wide rosewood casket, dressed in the clothes he had worn on his wedding day. His fine, dark hair had been brushed and plaited, his face given the appearance of perfect health. Rich furs had been placed beneath him, strewn with white blossom, while about his neck were wedding gifts of jewels and gold and a piece of carmine cloth decorated with the marriage emblems of dragon and phoenix.

At the foot of the coffin lay a length of white cotton cloth, nine ch’i in length, Han Ch’in’s own symbolic mourning for his father – for tradition said that the son must always mourn the father before he himself was mourned.

Li Yuan, standing at his father’s side, caught his breath. It was the first time he had seen his brother since his death, and, for the briefest moment, he had thought him not dead but only sleeping. He watched the litter pass, his mouth open, his heart torn from him. Merciful gods, he thought; sweet Han, how could they kill you? How could they place you in the earth?

Numbed, he fell into line behind the silent procession, aware only vaguely of his father beside him, of the great lords of Chung Kuo who walked behind him, their heads bared, their garments simple, unadorned. In his mind he reached out to pluck a sprig of blossom from his brother’s hair, the petals a perfect white against the black.

At the far end of the long pool the procession halted. The tomb was open, the great stone door hauled back. Beyond it, steps led down into the cold earth.

Most of the bearers now stood back, leaving only the six strongest to carry the litter down the steps. Slowly they descended, followed by the officials and the two boys.

His father turned to him. ‘Come, my son. We must lay your brother to rest.’

Li Yuan held back, for one terrible moment overcome by his fear of the place below the earth. Then, looking up into his father’s face, he saw his own fear mirrored and found the strength to bow and answer him.

‘I am ready, father.’

They went down, into candlelight and shadows. The bearers had moved away from the litter and now knelt to either side, their foreheads pressed to the earth. Han lay on a raised stone table in the centre of the tomb, his head to the south, his feet to the north. The officials stood at the head of the casket, bowed, awaiting the T’ang, while the two boys knelt at the casket’s foot, one holding the bell before him, the other the hammer.

Li Yuan stood there a moment at the foot of the steps, astonished by the size of the tomb. The ceiling was high overhead, supported by long, slender pillars that were embedded in the swept earth floor. Splendidly sculpted tomb figures, their san-t’sai glazes in yellow, brown and green, stood in niches halfway up the walls, candles burning in their cupped hands. Below them were the tombs of his ancestors, huge pictograms cut deep into the stone, denoting the name and rank of each. On four of them was cut one further symbol – the Ywe Lung. These had been T’ang. His father was fifth of the Li family T’ang. He, when his time came, would be the sixth.

A small table rested off to one side. On it were laid the burial objects. He looked up at his father again, then went over and stood beside the table, waiting for the ritual to begin.

The bell sounded in the silence, its pure, high tone like the sound of heaven itself. As it faded the officials began their chant.

He stood there, watching the flicker of shadows against stone, hearing the words intoned in the ancient tongue, and felt drawn up out of himself.

Man has two souls, the officials chanted. There is the animal soul, the p’o, which comes into being at the moment of conception, and there is the hun, the spirit soul, which comes into being only at the moment of birth. In life the two are mixed, yet in death their destiny is different. The p’o remains below, inhabiting the tomb, while the hun, the higher soul, ascends to heaven.

The officials fell silent. The bell sounded, high and pure in the silence. Li Yuan took the first of the ritual objects from the table and carried it across to his father. It was the pi, symbol of Heaven, a large disc of green jade with a hole in its centre. Yin, it was – positive and light and male. As the officials lifted the corpse, Li Shai Tung placed it beneath Han’s back, then stood back, as they lowered him again.

The bell sounded again. Li Yuan returned to the table and brought back the second of the objects. This was the tsung, a hollow, square tube of jade symbolizing Earth. Yang, this was – negative and dark and female. He watched as his father placed it on his brother’s abdomen.

Each time the bell rang he took an object from the table and carried it to his father. First the huang, symbol of winter and the north, a black jade half-pi which his father laid at Han’s feet. Then the chang, symbol of summer and the south, a narrow tapered tablet of red jade placed above Han’s head. The kuei followed, symbol of the east and spring, a broad tapered tablet of green jade, twice the size of the chang, which was laid beside Han’s left hand. Finally Li Yuan brought the hu, a white jade tiger, symbol of the west and autumn. He watched his father place this at his dead brother’s right hand, then knelt beside him as the bell rang once, twice, and then a third time.

The chant began again. Surrounded by the sacred symbols, the body was protected. Jade, incorruptible in itself, would prevent the body’s own decay. The p’o, the animal soul, would thus be saved.

Kneeling there, Li Yuan felt awed by the power, the dignity of the ritual. But did it mean anything? His beloved Han was dead and nothing in heaven or earth could bring him back. The body would decay, jade or no jade. And the souls…? As the chant ended he sat back on his haunches and looked about him, at stone and earth and the candlelit figures of death. When nothing returned to speak of it, who knew if souls existed?

Outside again he stood there, dazed by it all, the chill wind tugging at his hair, the afternoon light hurting his eyes after the flickering shadows of the tomb. One by one the T’ang came forward to pay their respects to his father and once more offer their condolences, the least of them greater in power and wealth than the greatest princes of the Tang or Sung or Ch’ing dynasties. Wang Hsien, a big, moon-faced man, T’ang of Africa. Hou Ti, a slender man in his forties, T’ang of South America. Wei Feng, his father’s closest friend among his peers, T’ang of East Asia, his seemingly ever-present smile absent for once. Chi Hu Wei, a tall, awkward man, T’ang of the Australias. Wu Shih, T’ang of North America, a big man, built like a fighter, his broad shoulders bunching as he embraced Li Yuan’s father. And last Tsu Tiao, T’ang of West Asia, the old man leaning on his son’s arm.

‘You should have stayed inside,’ Li Shai Tung said, embracing him and kissing his cheeks. ‘This wind can be no good for you, Tsu Tiao. I thought it would be sheltered here with these walls.’

Tsu Tiao reached out and held his arm. He seemed frail, yet his grip, like his voice, was strong. ‘High walls cannot keep the cold wind from blowing, neh, old friend? I know what it is to lose a son. Nothing would have kept me from paying my respects to Li Han Ch’in.’

Li Shai Tung bowed, his face grim. ‘That is true, Tsu Tiao.’ He turned to the son. ‘Tsu Ma. Thank you for coming. I wish we had met in happier circumstances.’

Tsu Ma bowed. He was a strong, handsome man in his late twenties who had, until recently, led a headstrong, dissolute life. Now, with his father ill, he had been forced to change his ways. It was rumoured Tsu Tiao was grooming him for regent, but this was the first time he had appeared publicly at his father’s side.

‘I too regret that we should meet like this, Chieh Hsia. Perhaps you would let me visit you when things are easier?’

Both Tsu Tiao and Li Shai Tung nodded, pleased by the initiative. ‘That would be good, Tsu Ma. I shall arrange things.’

Li Yuan’s uncles were next to pay their respects – Li Yun-Ti, Li Feng Chiang and Li Ch’i Chun. Advisors to Li Shai Tung, they stood in the same relationship to his father as he once had to his brother. Their lives were as his own might once have been. But it was different now. For Han Ch’in was dead and now he, Li Yuan, was destined to be T’ang.

He had seen the sudden change in them. Eyes that had once passed through him now checked their course and noted him, as if his brother’s death had brought him substance. Now strangers bowed and fawned before him. Men like his uncles. He saw how obsequious they had become; how their distant politeness had changed to fear.

Yes, he saw it even now, the fear behind the smiles.

It amused him in a bitter way. Old men afraid of a boy not yet nine. Would I, he asked himself, have grown like them, twisted from my true shape by fear and envy? Perhaps. But now I’ll never know.

Others came and stood before them. Fei Yen and her father, the old man almost as devastated as his daughter, his earnest, kindly eyes ringed with darkness.

Last were his father’s men, Hal Shepherd and the General.

‘This is an ill day, old friend,’ said Shepherd. He embraced the T’ang, then stood back, looking around him. ‘I hoped not to see this place in my lifetime.’

‘Nor I,’ said Tolonen. For a moment he stared outward at the distant mountains of the Ta Pa Shan. And when his eyes fell upon the tomb, it was almost as if his son lay there beneath the earth, such broken love lay in his gaze.

Tolonen stared at the tomb a moment longer, then looked back at his T’ang. ‘We must act, Chieh Hsia. Such bitterness cannot be borne.’

‘No, Knut. You’re wrong. It must and can be borne. We must find the strength to bear it.’

‘The Council has made its decision?’

‘Yes. An hour back.’

The General bowed his head, his disappointment clear. ‘Then it is wuwei?’ ‘Yes,’ the T’ang answered softly. ‘Wuwei. For all our sakes.’

The House was in session and Speaker Zakhar was at the lectern, delivering a speech on expansion funding, when the big double doors at the far end of the chamber burst open. Zakhar turned, astonished.

‘General Tolonen! What do you mean by this?’

Then Zakhar saw the armed guards pouring in after the General and fell silent. House security was breached. These were the General’s own men – his elite guards. They formed up around the upper level of the chamber, their long snub-nosed rifles pointed down into the heart of the assembly.

The General ignored the storm of protests. He moved swiftly, purposefully towards the bench where the senior representatives were seated, and went straight for Under Secretary Lehmann.

Lehmann was shouting, as vehement as any other in his protest. Tolonen stood there a moment, facing him, as if making certain this was the man he wanted, then reached across the desk and grabbed Lehmann by the upper arms.

There was a moment’s shocked silence, then the uproar grew fierce. Tolonen had dragged Lehmann over the desk and was jerking him along by his hair, as if dealing with the lowest cur from the Clay. Lehmann’s face was contorted with pain and anger as he struggled to get free, but the General had a firm grip on him. He tugged him out into the space between the benches of the Upper Council and the seats of the General Assembly, then stopped abruptly and pulled Lehmann upright. Lehmann gasped, but before he had time to act, Tolonen turned him and pulled his arm up sharply behind his back. The General had drawn his ceremonial dagger and now held it at Lehmann’s throat.

He stood there, waiting for them to be silent, scowling at any who dared come too close. Above him, encircling the chamber, his men stood patiently, their laser rifles raised to their shoulders.

He had only a second or two to wait. The House grew deathly still, the tension in the chamber almost tangible. Tolonen tugged gently at Lehmann’s arm to keep him still, the point of his dagger pricking the Under Secretary’s skin and drawing a tiny speck of blood.

‘I’ve come for justice,’ Tolonen said, staring about him defiantly, looking for those faces he knew would be most interested, most fearful at this moment. They never imagined I would come here for them. The thought almost made him smile, but this was not a moment for smiling. His face remained grim, determined. Nothing would stop him now.

A low murmur had greeted his words and a few shouts from nearer the back of the hall. He had stirred up a hornet’s nest here and Li Shai Tung would be furious. But that did not matter now. Nothing mattered but one thing. He had come to kill Lehmann.

As he stood there, three of his men brought a portable trivee projector down into the space beside him and set it up. The image of Lehmann’s face, ten times its normal size, took form in the air beside the frightened reality.

‘I want to show you all something,’ Tolonen said, raising his voice. He seemed calm, deceptively benign. ‘It is a film we took of our friend here at Li Han Ch’in’s wedding. At the private ceremony afterwards, in the Imperial Gardens. I should explain, perhaps. The Under Secretary is looking towards where the T’ang’s son was standing with his bride. The rest, I think, you’ll understand.’

Tolonen scanned the crowded benches again, noting how tense and expectant they had become, then turned and nodded to his ensign. At once the great face came to life, but Tolonen did not look at it. He had seen it too many times already; had seen for himself the effect it had had on Li Yuan.

For the next few minutes there was silence. Only during the final moments of the film was there a growing murmur of unease. They did not have to be told what was happening. The image in the blown-up eye told the story as clearly as any words.

The image faded from the air. Lehmann, who had turned his head to watch, began to struggle again, but the General held him tightly, drawing his arm as far up his back as it would go without breaking, making Lehmann whimper with pain.

‘Now you’ve seen,’ said Tolonen simply. ‘But understand. I do this not for Li Shai Tung but for myself. Because this man has shamed me. And because such vileness must be answered.’ He raised his chin defiantly. ‘This act is mine. Do you understand me, ch’un tzu? Mine.’

The words were barely uttered when Tolonen drew his knife slowly across Lehmann’s throat, the ice-edged blade tearing through the exposed flesh as if through rice paper.

For what seemed an eternity, the General held the body forward as it gouted blood, staring about him at the shocked faces in the chamber. Then he let the body fall, blood splashing as it hit the floor, and stepped back, the trousers of his white ceremonial uniform spattered dark red.

He made no move to wipe it away, but stood there, defiant, his dagger raised, as if to strike again.