Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (78 page)

He looked back
at her, shaking his head. "No. That was all on the tape. Every
last bit of it."

"No!"
She shook her head fiercely. "I mean, I saw you there. Sitting
there across from me. It
was
you. I know it was. You said . .
." She strained to remember, then nodded to herself. "You
said that I shouldn't be afraid of them. You said that it was their
instinct to fly."

"I said
that once, yes. But not to you. And not in the Cafe Burgundy."

She sat up, her
hands grabbing at his arms, feeling the smooth texture of the cloth,
then reaching up to touch his face, feeling the roughness of his
cheeks where he had yet to shave. Again he laughed, but softly now.

"You can't
tell, can you? Which is real. This or the other thing. And yet you're
here, Catherine. Here, with me. Now."

She looked at
him a moment longer, then tore her gaze away, frightened and
confused.

"That
before," he said, "that thing you thought happened. That
was a fiction. My fiction. It never happened.
I made it."

He reached out,
holding her chin with one hand, gently turning her face until she was
looking at him again. "But this—this is real. This now."
He moved his face down to hers, brushing her lips with his own.

Her eyes grew
large, a vague understanding coming into her face. "Then . . ."
But it was as if she had reached out to grasp at something, only to
have it ' vanish before her eyes. The light faded from her face. She
looked down, shaking her head.

He straightened
up, stepping out from the frame. Taking his blue silk
pau
from
the bed he turned back, offering it to her.

"Here, put
this on."

She took the
robe, handling it strangely, staring at it as if uncertain whether it
existed or not; as if, at any moment, she would wake again and find
it all a dream.

He stood there,
watching her, his eyes searching hers for answers, then turned away.

"Put it on,
Catherine. Put it on and I'll make some coffee."

* *
*

SHE lay THERE on
his bed, his blue silk
pan
wrapped about her, a mound of
pillows propped up behind her, sipping at her coffee.

Ben was pacing
the room, pausing from time to time to look across at her, then
moving on, gesturing as he talked, his movements extravagant,
expansive. He seemed energized, his powerful, athletic form balanced
between a natural grace and an unnatural watchfulness, like some
strange, magnificent beast, intelligent beyond mere knowing. His eyes
flashed as he spoke, while his hands turned in the air as if they
fashioned it, molding it into new forms, new shapes.

She watched him,
mesmerized. Before now she had had only a vague idea of what he was,
but now she knew. As her mind cleared she had found herself awed by
the immensity of his achievement. It
had been so real. . .

He paused beside
the empty frame, one hand resting lightly against the upright.

"When I
said I had a problem, I didn't realize how wrong it was to think of
it as such. You see, it wasn't something that could be circumvented
with a bit of technical trickery; it was more a question of taking
greater pains. A question of harnessing my energies more intensely.
Of being more watchful."

She smiled at
that. As if anyone could be more watchful than he.

"So I began
with a kind of cartoon. Ten frames a second, rough-cast. That gave me
the pace, the shape of the thing. Then I developed it a stage
further. Put in the detail. Recorded it at twenty-five a second.
Finally I polished and honed it, perfecting each separate strand,
rerecording at fifty a second. Slowly making it more real."

His hands made a
delicate little movement, as if drawing the finest of wires from
within a tight wad of fibers.

"It
occurred to me that there really was no other way of doing it. I
simply had to make it as real as I possibly could."

"But how? I
can't see how you did it. It's . . ." She shrugged, laughing,
amazed by him. "No. It's simply not possible. You
couldn't
have!"

And yet he had.

"How?"
He grew very still. A faint smile played on his lips, then was gone.
For a moment she didn't understand what he was doing with his body,
with the expression on his face. Then, suddenly, her mouth fell open,
shocked by the accuracy of his imitation, his stance, the very look
of him.

And then he
spoke. "But how? I can't see how you did it. It's . . ." He
shrugged and laughed, a soft, feminine laugh of surprise. "No.
It's simply not possible. You couldn't have!"

It was perfect.
Not
her
exactly, yet a perfect copy all the same of her
gestures, her facial movements, her voice. Every nuance and
intonation caught precisely. As if the mirror talked.

She sat forward,
spilling her coffee. "That's ..."

But she could
not say. It was frightening. She felt her nerves tingle. For a moment
everything slowed about her. She had the sensation of falling, then
checked herself.

He was watching
her, seeing how she looked: all the time watching her, like a camera
eye, noting and storing every last nuance of her behavior.

"You have
to look, Catherine. Really look at things. You have to try to see
them from the other side. To get right inside of them and see how
they feel. There's no other way."

He paused,
looking at her differently now, as if gauging whether she was still
following him. She nodded, her fingers wiping absently at the spilled
coffee on his robe, but her eyes were half-lidded now, uncertain.

"An
artist—any artist—is an actor. His function is mimetic,
even at its most expressive. And, like an actor, he must learn to
play his audience." He smiled, opening out his arms as if to
encompass the world, his eyes shining darkly with the enormousness of
his vision. "You've seen a tiny piece of it. You've glimpsed
what it can be. But it's bigger than that, Catherine. Much, much
bigger. What you experienced today was but the merest suggestion of
its final form."

He laughed, a
short, sharp explosion of laughter that was like a shout of joy.

"The
art—that's what I'm talking about! The thing all true
artists dream of!"

Slowly he
brought down his arms. The smile faded on his lips and his eyes grew
suddenly fierce. Clenching his fists, he curled them in toward his
chest, hunching his body into itself like a dancer's. For a moment he
held himself there, tensed, the whole of him gathered there at the
center.

"Not art
like you know it now. No . . ." He shook his head, as if in
great pain. "No. This would be something almost unendurable.
Something terrible and yet beautiful. Too beautiful for words."

He laughed
coldly, his eyes burning now with an intensity that frightened her.

"It would
be an art to fear, Catherine. An art so cold it would pierce the
heart with its iciness yet so hot that it would blaze like a tiny
sun, burning in the darkness of the skull.

"Can you
imagine that? Can you imagine what such an art would be like?"
Hi's laughter rang out again, a pitiless, hideous sound. "That
would be no art for the weak. No. Such an art would destroy the
little men!"

She shuddered,
unable to take her eyes from him. He was like a demon now, his eyes
like dark, smoldering coals. His body seemed transfigured; horrible,
almost alien.

She sat forward
sharply, the cup falling from her hands.

Across from her
Ben saw it fall and noted how it lay; saw how its contents spread
across the carpet. Saw, and stored the memory.

He looked up at
her, surprised, seeing how her breasts had slipped from within the
robe and lay between the rich blue folds of cloth, exposed, strangely
different.

And as he
looked, desire beat up in him fiercely, like a raging fire.

He sat beside
her, reaching within the robe to gently touch the soft warmth of her
flesh, his hands moving slowly upward until they cupped her breasts.
Then, lowering his face to hers, he let his lips brush softly against
her lips.

She tensed,
trembling in his arms; then, suddenly, she was pressing up against
him, her mouth pushing urgently against his, her arms pulling him
down. He shivered, amazed by the sudden change in her, the hunger in
her eyes.

For a moment he
held back, looking down into her face, surprised by the strength of
what he suddenly felt. Then, gently, tenderly, he pushed her down,
accepting what she offered, casting off the bright, fierce light that
had had him in its grasp only moments before, letting himself slip
down into the darkness of her, like a stone falling into the heart of
a deep, dark well.

wELL
,
MINISTER HENG, what was it you wished to see me about?" Heng
Yu had been kneeling, his head touched to the cold, stone floor.

Now he rose,
looking up at his T'ang for the first time.

Li Shai Tung was
sitting in the throne of state, his tall, angular body clothed in
imperial yellow. The Council of Ministers had ended an hour earlier,
but Heng Yu had stayed on, requesting a private audience with his
T'ang. Three broad steps led up to the presense dais. At the bottom
of those steps stood the T'ang's Chancellor, Chung Hu-yan. In the
past few months, as the old man had grown visibly weaker, more power
had devolved onto the shoulders of the capable and honest Chung; and
it was to Chung that Heng had gone, immediately the Council had
finished. Now Chung gave the slightest smile as he looked at Heng.

"I am
grateful for this chance to talk with you,
Chieh Hsia,"
Heng
began. "I would not have asked had it not been a matter of the
greatest urgency."

The T'ang
smiled. "Of course. But please, Heng Yu, be brief. I am already
late for my next appointment."

Heng bowed
again, conscious of the debt he owed the Chancellor for securing this
audience.

"It is
about young Shepherd,
Chieh Hsia."

The T'ang raised
an eyebrow. "Hal's boy? What of him?"

"He is at
College, I understand,
Chieh Hsia.
"

Li Shai Tung
laughed. "You know it for a certainty, Heng Yu, else you would
not have mentioned the matter. But what of it? Is the boy in
trouble?"

Heng hesitated.
'"I am not sure,
Chieh Hsia.
It does not seem that he is
in any
immediate
danger, yet certain facts have come to my
notice that suggest he might be in the days ahead."

Li Shai Tung
leaned forward, his left hand smoothing his plaited beard.

"I see. But
why come to me, Heng Yu? This is a matter for General Nocenzi,
surely?"

Heng gave a
small bow. "Normally I would agree,
Chieh Hsia,
but in
view of the father's illness and the boy's possible future
relationship with Prince Yuan . . ."

He left the rest
unsaid, but Li Shai Tung took his point. Heng was right. This was
much more important than any normal Security matter. Whatever Ben
said just now of his intentions, he had been bred to be Li Yuan's
advisor; and genes, surely, would win out eventually? For anything to
happen to him now, therefore, was unthinkable.

"What do
you suggest, Heng Yu?"

In answer, Heng
Yu bowed, then held out the scroll he had prepared in advance. Chung
Hu-yan took it from him and handed it up to the T'ang who unfurled it
and began to read. When he had finished he looked back at Heng.

"Good. You
have my sanction for this, Heng Yu. I'll sign this and give the
General a copy of the authority. But don't delay. I want this acted
upon at once."

"Of course,
Chieh Hsia."

"And Heng
Yu . . ."

"Yes,
Chieh
Hsia
?"

"I am in
your debt in this matter. If there is any small favor I can offer in
return, let Chung Hu-yan know and it shall be done."

Heng Yu bowed
low. "I am overwhelmed by your generosity,
Chieh Hsia,
but,
forgive me, it would not be right for me to seek advantage from what
was, after all, my common duty to my Lord. As ever,
Chieh Hsia
,
I ask for nothing but to serve you."

Straightening,
he saw the smile of satisfaction on the old man's lips and knew he
had acted wisely. There were things he needed, things the T'ang could
have made easier for him; but none, at present, that were outside his
own broad grasp. To have the T'ang's good opinion, however, that was
another thing entirely. He bowed a second time, then lowered his head
to Chung Hu-yan, backing away. One day, he was certain, such
temporary sacrifices would pay off, would reap a thousandfold the
rewards he now so lightly gave away. In the meantime he would find
out what this business with the Novacek boy was all about, would get
to the bottom of it and then make sure that it was from him that the
T'ang first heard of it.

As the great
doors closed behind him, he looked about him at the great halls and
corridors of the palace, smiling. Yes, the old T'ang's days were
numbered now. And Prince Yuan, when his time came, would need a
Chancellor. A younger man than Chung Hu-yan. A man he could rely on
absolutely.

Heng Yu walked
on, past bowing servants, a broad smile lighting his features.

So why not
himself? Why not Heng Yu, whose record was unblemished, whose loyalty
and ability were unquestioned?

As he approached
them, the huge, leather-paneled outer doors of the palace began to
ease back, spilling bright sunlight into the shadows of the broad
high-ceilinged corridor. Outside, the shaven-headed guards of the
T'ang's elite squad bowed low as he moved between them. Savoring the
moment, Heng Yu, Minister to Li Shai Tung, T'ang of City Europe, gave
a soft small laugh of pleasure.
Yes,
he thought, looking up at
the great circle of the sun.
Why not?