Gateways (6 page)

Quang Lu would not be happy if he ruined this route. But right now, Wer had other worries. He shaded his eyes to peer along the coast, toward a line of surfline ruins—the former beachfront mansions where his simple shorestead lay. Glare off the water stung his eye, but there seemed to be
nothing unusual going on. He was pretty sure he could see the good luck banner from Ling’s home county, fluttering in a vague breeze. She was supposed to take it down, in the event of trouble.

His heart pounded as he tore strips off an awning to wrap around his hands. Clambering over the guardrail, he tried not to look down as he slid down the other side, until he could support himself with one arm on the gravel deck, while the other hand groped and fumbled with the twin lines.

It was awkward, because holding on to just one strand wouldn’t do. The pulley would let him plummet like a stone. So he wound up wrapping both slender ropes around his hand. Before swinging out, Wer closed his eyes for several seconds, breathing steadily and seeking serenity, or at least some calm.
All right, let’s go.

He let go of the ledge and swung down.

Not good! Full body weight tightened the rope like a noose around his hand, clamping a vice across his palm and fingers. Groaning till he was almost out of breath, Wer struggled to ease the pressue by grabbing both cables between his legs and tugging with his other hand, till he finally got out of the noose. Fortunately, his hands were so calloused that there appeared to be no damage. But it took a couple moments for the pain to stop blurring his vision . . .

. . . and when it cleared, he made the mistake of glancing straight down. He swallowed hard—or tried to. A terror that seemed to erupt from somewhere at the base of his spine, ran along his back like a monkey. An eel thrashed inside his belly.

Stop it!
he told the animals within.
I am a man. A man with a duty to perform and luck to fulfill. And a man is all that I am.

It seemed to work. Panic ebbed, like an unpleasant tide, and Wer felt buoyed by determination.

Next, he tried lowering himself, hand over hand, by strength alone. His wiry muscles were up to the task, and certainly he did not weigh enough to be much trouble. But it was hard to hold on to both strings equally. One or the other kept trying to snap free. Wer made it down three stories before one of them yanked out of his grip. It fled upward, toward the pulley while Wer, clinging to the remaining strand, plunged the other way, grabbing at the escapee desperately—

—and finally seized the wild cord. Friction quickly burned through the makeshift padding and into his flesh. By the time he came to a halt, smoke, anguish, and a foul stench wafed from his hand. Hanging there, swaying and bumping against a nearby window, he spent unknown minutes just
holding on tight, waiting for his heart to settle and pain speckles to depart his eyes.

Did I cry out?
he wondered. Fortunately, the window next to him was blocked by heavy drapes—the glare off the Huangpu was sharp this time of day. Many of the others were boarded up. People still used this building, but most would still be at work or school. Nor would there be much ai in a high-rise hovel.

I don’t think I yelled. I think I’m all right.
His descent should be masked by heat plumes and glaring sunlight reflections off metal and concrete, making daylight much preferable over making the passage at night, when his body temperature would flare on hundreds of infrared-sensitive cams, triggering anomaly-detection programs.

Learning by trial and error, Wer managed to hook one leg around each of the strands and experimented with letting them slide along his upper thighs, one heading upward and the other going down. It was awkward and painful, at first, but the tough pants could take it, if he took it slow and easy.

Gradually, he approached the dull gray concrete levee from above, and Wer found himself picturing how far it stretched—extending far beyond vision to the left, hugging the new coastline till it reached a great marsh that used to be Shandong Province . . . and to the right, continuing along the river all the way to happy regions far upstream, where the Chang became the Yangtze, and where people had no fear of rising waters. How many millions were employed building the
New Great Wall
? And how many millions more labored as prisoners, consigned on one excuse or another to the titanic task of staving off China’s latest invader. The sea.

Drawing close, Wer kept a wary eye on the barrier. This section looked okay—a bit crumbly from cheap, hurried construction, two decades ago, after Typhoon Mariko nearly drowned the city. Still, he knew that some stretches were laced with nasty stuff—razor-sharp wires, barely visible to the eye, or heat-seeking tendrils tipped with toxins.

When the time came, he vaulted over, barely touching the obstacle with the sole of one sandal, landing in the old marina with a splash.

It was unpleasant, of course, a tangle of broken boats and dangerous cables that swirled in a murk of weeds and city waste. Wer lost no time clambering onto one wreck and then leaping to another, hurrying across the obstacle course with an agility learned in more drowned places than he could remember, spending as little time as possible in the muck.

Actually, it looks as if there might be a lot of salvage in here,
he thought. Perhaps he might come back—if luck neither veered high nor low,
but stayed on the same course as his life had been so far. Moderately, bearably miserable.

Maybe I will risk it, after all,
he thought.
Try to find a broker who can offer the big white stone for sale, in some way that might keep us safe. . . .

Before climbing over the final, rocky berm, separating the marina from the sea, he spotted a rescue buoy, bobbing behind the pilot house of one derelict. It would come in handy, during the long swim ahead.

It was nearing nightfall when he approached the shorestead from the west, with the setting sun behind him.

Of course, by now the tide was low and the main gates were open—and Wer was feeling foolish.
I might have made it home by now, just by waiting in town.
In hindsight, his initial panic now seemed overwrought and exaggerated.
I might have sold those lesser stones, had a beer by the fishmonger stands, and already have made it home by now, having dinner while showing Ling a handful of cash.

Soon, he faced the familiar outlines—the sagging northside wall. . . the metlon poles and supercord bracings . . . the solar distillery . . . the patches where he had begun preparing two of the upper-story rooms for occupation . . . he even caught a scent of that Vietnamese
nuk mam
sauce that Ling added to half her preparations. It all looked normal. Still, he circled the half-ruined mansion, checking for intruder signs. Oil in the water. Tracks in the muddy sand. Any kind of presence lurking below.

Nothing visible. So far so good.

A wasted day, then. A crazy, draining adventure that I could scarcely afford. Some lost stones . . .

. . . though there are more where those came from.

In fact, he had begun to fashion a plan in his head. The smuggler, Quang Lu, had many contacts. Perhaps, while keeping the matter vague at first, Wer might use Quang to set up a meeting, in such a time and place where treachery would be difficult. Perhaps arranging for several competitors to be present at once. How did one of the ancient sages put it?

In order not to be trampled by an elephant, get many of them to push against each other.

All right, maybe no sage actually said that. But one should have. Surely, Wer did not have to match the power of any of the great lords of government, wealth, and commerce. What he needed was a situation where they canceled out each other! Enough to get them openly bidding to obtain what he had. Open enough so that no one could benefit by keeping him quiet.

First thing, I must find a good hiding place for the stone. Then come up with the right story, for Quang.

It took real effort just to haul himself out of the water, Wer’s body felt limp and soggy with fatigue. He was past hunger and exhaustion, making his way from the atrium dock to the stairs, then across the roof, and finally to the entrance of the tent-shelter. It flapped with a welcoming rhythm, emitting puffs of homecoming aromas that made his head swim.

Ducking to step inside, Wer blinked, adjusting to the dimmer light. “Oh, what a day I have had. You won’t believe, when I tell you. Is that sautéed prawn? The ones I caught this morning? I’m glad you chose to cook those—”

Ling had been stirring the wok. At first, as she turned around, he thought she smiled. Only then Wer realized . . . it was a grimace. She did not speak, but fear glistened in her eyes, which darted to her left—alerting him to swivel and look—

A creature stood on their little dining table. A large
bird
of some kind, with a long, straight beak. It gazed back at Wer, regarding him with a tilt of its head, first one way and then the other. A moment later, it spread stubby wings, stretching them, and he numbly observed.

There are no feathers. A penguin? What would a penguin be doing here in sweltering Shanghai?

Then he noticed its talons.
Penguins don’t have—

The claws gripped something that still writhed on the tabletop, gashed and torn. It looked like a
snake
. . . Only, instead of oozing blood or guts, there were bright flashes and electric sizzles.

A machine. They are both machines.

Without moving its beak, the bird spoke.

“You must not fear. There is no time for fear.”

Wer swallowed. His lips felt chapped and dry. “What . . . who are you?”

“I am an instrumentality, sent by those who might save your life.” The bird-thing abruptly bent and pecked hard at the snake. Sparks flew. It went dark and limp. An effective demonstration, as if Wer needed one.

“Please go to the window,” the winged mechanism resumed, gesturing with its beak. “And bring the stone here.”

Well, at least it was courteous. He turned and saw that the white, egg-shaped relic lay on the ledge, soaking in sunlight—instead of wrapped in a dark cloth, as they had agreed. He glanced back sharply at his wife, but Ling was now holding little Xie Xie. She merely shrugged as the baby squirmed and whimpered, trying to nurse.

With a low sigh, Wer turned back toward the stone, whose opalescent surface seemed to glow with more than mere reflections, as he took two steps. Wer could sense the bird leaning forward, eagerly.

As he raised his hands, the whitish surface turned milky and began to swirl. Now it was plain to the eye, how this thing differed from the Havana Artifact that he had seen briefly through an ailectronics store window. It seemed a bit smaller, narrower, and considerably less smooth. One end was marred by pits, gouges, and blisters that tapered into thin streaks across the elongated center. And yet, the similarities were unmistakable. Especially when his hands approached within a few centimeters. A spinning sense of depth grew more intense. And, swiftly, a faint shape began to form, coalescing within, as if emerging from a fog.

Demons,
Wer thought.

Or rather,
a
demon, as he realized—there was just a single figure, bipedal, shaped vaguely like a man.

With reluctance—wishing he had never laid eyes on it—Wer made himself plant hands on both tapered ends, gritting his teeth as a brief, faint tremor ran up the inner surface of his arms. He hefted the heavy stone, turned and carried it away from the sunlight. At which point, the glow seemed only to intensify, filling and chasing the dim shadows of the tent-shelter.

“Put it down here, on the table, but please do not release it from your grasp,” the bird-thing commanded, still polite, but insistent. Wer obeyed, though he wanted to let go. The shape that gathered form within the stone was one that he had seen before. More humanlike than the demons he had glimpsed on TV, shown conversing with world delegates in Washington—but still a demon. Like the frightening penguin-creature, whose wing now brushed his arm as it bent next to him, eager for a closer look.

“The legends are true!” it murmured. Wer felt the bird’s voice resonate, emitting from an area on its chest. “Worldstones are said to be picky. They may choose one human to work with, or sometimes none at all. Or so go the stories.” The robot regarded Wer with a glassy eye. “You are fortunate in more ways than you might realize.”

Nodding without much joy, Wer knew at least one way.

I am needed, then. It will work only for me.

That means they won’t just take the thing and leave us be.

But it also means they must keep me alive. For now.

The demon within the stone—it had finished clarifying, though the image remained rippled and flawed. Approaching on two oddly-jointed legs, it reached forward with powerfully muscular arms, as if to touch or seize
Wer’s enclosing hands. The mouth—appearing to have four lips arranged like a flattened diamond—moved underneath a slitlike nose and a single, ribbonlike organ where eyes would have been. With each opening and closing of the mouth, a faint buzzing quivered the surface under Wer’s right palm.