The Middle Kingdom (9 page)

"It is
being said that you had most to gain from Lwo Kang's death. His
refusal to accommodate you in the matter of new licenses. His recent
investigations into the validity of certain patents. Most of all his
rigid implementation of the Edict. That last, particularly, has
harmed you and your faction more than most."

"My
faction? You mean the Dispersionists?" Lehmann was quiet a
moment, considering. "And by removing him I'd stand to gain?"
He shook his head. "I know I've many enemies, Howard, but surely
even they credit me with more subtlety than that."

They walked on
in silence. As they reached the pagoda, the two men on the terrace
came across and stood at the top of the slatted steps.

"Soren!
Edmund!" DeVore called out to them, mounting the narrow stairway
in front of Lehmann. "How are you both?" They exchanged
greetings, then went inside, into a large, hexagonal room. Black
lacquered walls were inset with porcelain in intricate and richly
colored designs. The ceiling was a single huge mosaic; a double helix
of tiny, brightly colored pythons surrounded by a border of vivid
blue-white stars. Four simple backless stools with scrolled,
python-headed feet stood on the polished block-tile floor,
surrounding a low hexagonal table. On the table was a small green
lacquered box.

Despite the
heaviness, the formality of design, the room seemed bright and airy.
Long, wide-slatted windows looked out onto the lake, the orchard, and
the surrounding meadows. The smell of blossom lingered in the air.

It was almost
more Han than the Han, DeVore observed uneasily, taking a seat next
to Lehmann. A rootless, unconscious mimicry. Or was it more than
that? Was it Han culture that was the real virus in the bloodstream
of these
Hung Mao;
undermining them, slowly assimilating them,
"as a silkworm devours a mulberry leaf." He smiled wryly to
himself as the words of the ancient historian Ssu Ma Ch'ien came to
mind. Ah, yes, we know their history, their sayings. These things
have usurped our own identity. Well, by such patience shall I, in
turn, devour them. I'll be the silkworm delving in their midst.

"So how's
the Security business?"

DeVore turned on
his stool, meeting Edmund Wyatt's query with a smile.

"Busy. As
ever in-this wicked world."

Despite long
years of acquaintanceship Wyatt and he had never grown close. There
had always been a sense of unspoken hostility beneath their surface
politeness. It was no different now.

Wyatt was a
slightly built man with an oddly heavy head. Someone had once
commented that it was as if he had been grafted together from two
very different men, and that impression, once noted, was hard to
shake. At a glance his face revealed a strong, unequivocal character:
aristocratic, his dark green eyes unflinching in their challenge, his
chin firm, defiant. But looking down at the frame of the man it was
noticeable at once how frail he seemed, how feminine. His hands were
soft and thin and pale, the nails perfectly manicured. Slender
tiao
tuo,
bracelets of gold and jade, hung bunched at both wrists.

Such things made
him seem a weak man, but he was far from that. His father's ruin
might have destroyed a lesser man, but Wyatt had shown great courage
and determination. He had gambled on his own talents and won:
rebuilding his father's empire and regaining his place on First
Level.

DeVore studied
him a moment longer, knowing better than to underestimate the
intelligence of the man, then gave the slightest bow. "And you,
Edmund—you're doing well, I see. There's talk your company will
soon be quoted on the Index."

Wyatt's eyes
showed a mild surprise. He was unaware how closely DeVore kept
himself briefed on such things. "You follow the markets, then?"

"It makes
sense to. Insurrection and business are close allies in these times.
The Hang Seng is an indicator of much more than simple value—it's
an index of power and ruthlessness, a club for like-minded men of
similar ambitions."

He saw how Wyatt
scrutinized him momentarily, trying to make out the meaning behind
his words. The Hang Seng Index of Hong Kong's stock market was the
biggest of the world's seven markets and the most important. But,
like the House, it was often a front for other less open activities.

DeVore turned
slightly in his seat to face Berdichev, a warm smile lighting his
features. "And how are you, Soren? I see far too little of you
these days."

Soren Berdichev
returned the smile bleakly, the heavy lenses of his small, rounded
glasses glinting briefly as he bowed. He was a tall, thin-faced man
with pinched lips and long, spatulate fingers; a severe, humorless
creature whose steel-gray eyes never settled for long. He was a hard
man with few social graces, and because of that he made enemies
easily, often without knowing what he did; yet he was also extremely
powerful—not a man to be crossed.

"Things are
well, Howard. Progressing, as they say."

DeVore smiled at
Berdichev's understatement. SimFic, his company, was one of the
success stories of the decade. It had been a small operation when he
had bought it in eighty-eight, but by ninety-one it had been quoted
on the Hang Seng 1000 Index, along with Chung Kuo's other leading
companies. Since that time he had made great advances, leading the
market in the production of HeadStims and Wraps. In five short years
SimFic had achieved what had seemed impossible and revolutionized
personal entertainment. Now they were one of the world's biggest
companies and were quoted in the Top 100 on the Index.

For a while they
exchanged pleasantries. Then, as if at a signal, Berdichev's features
formed into a cold half-smile. "But forgive me, Howard. I'm sure
you haven't come here to talk market." He turned away brusquely
and looked pointedly at Wyatt. "Come, Edmund, let's leave these
two. I believe they have business to discuss."

Wyatt looked
from Lehmann to DeVore, his whole manner suddenly alert, suspicious.
"Business?"

There was a
moment's awkwardness, then DeVore smiled and nodded. "I'm afraid
so."

Wyatt set down
his glass and got up slowly. Giving a small bow to Lehmann he made to
follow Berdichev, then stopped and turned, looking back at Lehmann.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes revealing a deep concern
for his friend.

Lehmann gave the
slightest of nods, meeting Wyatt's eyes openly as if to say, Trust
me.
Only then did Wyatt turn and go.

DeVore waited a
moment, listening to Wyatt's tread on the steps. Then, when it was
silent again, he got up and went to the table, crouching down to open
the small green box. Reaching up to his lapel, he removed the tiny
device that had been monitoring their conversation and placed it
carefully inside the box. Lehmann came and stood beside him, watching
as he switched on the tape they had recorded three weeks before.
There was the cry of a peacock, distant, as if from the meadows
beyond the room, and then their voices began again, continuing from
where they had left off. DeVore smiled and gently closed the lid,
then he straightened up, letting out a breath.

"The
simplest ways are always best," he said, and gave a short laugh.
Then, more soberly, "That was unfortunate. What does Wyatt
know?"

Lehmann met
DeVore's eyes, smiling, then put an arm about his shoulders.
"Nothing. He knows nothing at all."

Slowly, DeVore
peeled off his gloves and laid them on the table.

"Good. Then
let's speak openly."

THE STONE DRAGON
was a big, low'Ceilinged inn at the bottom of the City; a sprawl of
interconnected rooms, ill lit and ill decorated; a place frequented
only by the lowest of those who lived in the ten levels below the
Net. A stale, sweet-sour stench permeated everything in its cramped
and busy rooms, tainting all it touched. Machines lined the walls,
most of them dark. Others, sparking, on the verge of malfunction,
added their own sweet, burning scent to the heavy fug that filled the
place. Voices called out constantly, clamoring for service, while
shabbily dressed waitresses, their makeup garishly exaggerated, made
their way between the tables, taking orders.

The two men sat
in the big room at the back of the inn, at a table set apart from the
others against the far wall. They had come here directly, two hours
back, unable to sleep, the enormity of what they'd done playing on
both their minds. To celebrate, Kao Jyan had ordered a large bottle
of the Dragon's finest
Shen,
brought down from Above at an
exorbitant price, but neither man had drunk much of the strong rice
wine.

Jyan had been
quiet for some while now, hunched over an untouched tumbler,
brooding. Chen watched him for a time, then looked about him.

The men at
nearby tables were mainly Han, but there were some
Hung Mao.
Most
of them, Han and Hung Moo alike, were wide eyed and sallow faced,
their scabbed arms and faces giving them away as addicts. Arfidis was
cheap down here and widely available and for some it was the only way
out of things. But it was also death, given time, and Chen had kept
his own veins clear of it. At one of the tables farther off three Han
sat stiffly, talking in dialect, their voices low and urgent. One of
them had lost an eye, another was badly scarred about the neck and
shoulder. They represented the other half of the Stone Dragon's
clientele, noticeable by the way they held themselves— somehow
lither, more alert, than those about them. These were the gang men
and petty criminals who used this place for business. Chen stretched
his neck and leaned back against the wall. Nearby a thick coil of
smoke moved slowly in the faint orange light of an overhead panel,
like the fine, dark strands of a young girl's hair.

"It's like
death," he said, looking across at Jyan.

"What?"
Jyan said lazily, looking up at Chen. "What did you say?"

Chen leaned
forward and plucked a bug from beneath the table's edge, crushing it
between his thumb and forefinger. It was one of the ugly,
white-shelled things that sometimes came up from the Clay. Blind
things that worked by smell alone. He let its broken casing fall and
wiped his hand on his one-piece, not caring if it stained. "This
place. It's like death. This whole level of things. It stinks."

Jyan laughed.
"Well, you'll be out of it soon enough, if that's what you
want."

Chen looked at
his partner strangely. "And you don't?" He shook his head,
suddenly disgusted with himself. "You know, Jyan, I've spent my
whole life under the Net. I've known nothing but this filth. It's
time I got out. Time I found something cleaner, better than this."

"I know how
you feel," Jyan answered, "but have you thought it through?
Up there you're vulnerable. Above the Net there are pass laws and
judges, taxes and Security patrols." He leaned across and spat
neatly into the bowl by his feet. "I hate the thought of all
that shit. It would stifle the likes of you and me. And anyway, we
hurt a lot of people last night when the quarantine gates came down.
Forget the assassination—someone finds out you were involved in
that
and you're dead."

Chen nodded. It
had meant nothing at the time, but now that the drug had worn off he
could think of little else. He kept seeing faces; the faces of people
he had passed up there in Pan Chao Street. People who, only minutes
later, would have been panicking, eyes streaming, half choking as
Security pumped the deck full of sterilizing gases. Children too.
Yes, a lot of them would have been just children.

He hadn't
thought it through; hadn't seen it until it was done. All he'd
thought about was the five thousand
yuan
he was being paid for
the job: that and the chance of getting out. And if that meant
breaking through the Net, then that's what he would do. But he hadn't
thought it through. In that, at least, Jyan was right. The Net. It
had been built to safeguard the City; as a quarantine measure to
safeguard the Above from plague and other epidemics, and from
infiltration by insects and vermin. And from us, thought Chen, a sour
taste in his mouth. From vermin like us.

He looked
across, seeing movement in the doorway, then looked sharply at Jyan.
"Trouble. ..." he said quietly. Jyan didn't turn.

"Who is
it?" he mouthed back. Chen groomed an imaginary moustache.

"Shit!"
said Jyan softly, then sat back, lifting his tumbler.

"What does
he want?" Chen whispered, leaning forward so that the movements
of his mouth were screened by Jyan from the three men in the doorway.

"I owe him
money."

"How much?"

"A thousand
yuan.
"

"A
thousand!" Chen grimaced, then leaned back again, easing his
knife from his boot and pinning it with his knee against the
underside of the table. Then he looked across again. The biggest of
the three was looking directly at them now, grinning with recognition
at the sight of Jyan's back. The big man tilted his head slightly,
muttering something to the other two, then began to come across.

Whiskers Lu was
a monster of a man. Almost six
ch'i
in height, he wore his
hair wild and uncombed and sported a ragged fur about his shoulders
like some latter-day chieftain from a historical romance. He derived
his name from the huge tangled bush of a moustache which covered much
of his facial disfigurement. Standing above Jyan, his left eye stared
out glass-ily from a mask of melted flesh, its rawness glossed and
mottled like a crab's shell. The right eye was a narrow slit, like a
sewn line in a doll's face. Beneath the chin and on the lower
right-hand side of his face the mask seemed to end in a sunken line,
the normal olive of his skin resuming.

Ten years back,
so the story went, Whiskers Lu had tried to come to an arrangement
with Chang Fen, one of the petty bosses of these levels. Chang Fen
had met him, smiling, holding one hand out to welcome Lu, his other
hand holding what looked like a glass of wine. Then, still smiling,
he had thrown the contents of the glass into Lu's face. It was acid.
But the man had not reckoned with Whiskers Lu's ferocity. Lu had'held
on tightly to the man's hand, roaring against the pain, and, drawing
his big hunting knife, had plunged it into Chang Fen's throat before
his lieutenants could come to his aid. Half blinded he had fought his
way out of there, then had gone back later with his brothers to
finish the job.