The White Mountain (43 page)

It waited, the minutes passing slowly, its stillness unnatural, like the stillness of a machine, and then the answer came.

It shuddered, then broke connection, drawing its wrist back sharply from the panel, a strange sigh, like the soughing of the wind through trees, escaping its narrow lips.

Reaching across, it took the hand from where it lay and lined it up carefully against the wrist, letting the twelve strong plastic latches – six in the hand, six in the wrist – click into place. The hand twitched, the fingers trembling, then was still again.

It turned, looking out through the dark square of the window. Fifty
ch'i
away, at the edge of the concrete apron, was a wire fence. Beyond the fence was the forest. For a time it stood there, staring out into the darkness, then it turned, making its way through.

For the past few nights it had dreamed. Dreams of a black wind blowing from beyond; of a dark and silent pressure at the back of it. A dream that was like the rush of knowledge down its spine; that set its nerve ends tingling in a sudden ecstasy. And with the dream had come a vision – a bright, hard vision of a world beneath the surface of this world. Of a world ruled by the game. A game of dark and light. Of suns and moons. Of space and time itself. A game that tore the dark veil from reality, revealing the whiteness of the bone.

On the terrace it paused, considering. From Tao Yuan to Tashkent was six thousand
li
. If it travelled in the dark it could make eighty, maybe a hundred
li
a night for the first ten days or so. Later on, crossing the great desert, it could increase that, travelling in the heat of the day, when no patrols flew. With any luck it would be there in fifty days.

It smiled, recalling DeVore's instructions. In Tashkent it would be met and given new papers. From there it would fly west, first to Odessa, then on to Nantes. From Nantes it would take a ship – one of the big ships that serviced the great floating Cities of the Mid-Atlantic. There it would stay a while, biding its time, working for the big ImmVac company of North America,
putting down roots inside that organization, until the call came.

For a moment longer it stood there, like a silvered god, tall, powerful, elegant in the moonlight, then it jumped down, crossing the circle of light quickly, making for the fence and the darkness beyond.

DeVore looked up from the communications panel and stared out into the darkness of the Martian night. It was just after two, local time, and the lights of the distant City were low. Beyond them was a wall of darkness.

He stood, yawning, ready for sleep now that the message had come, then turned, looking across at the sleeping man.

Hans Ebert lay on the camp bed, fully clothed, his kit bag on the floor beside him. He had turned up four days back, scared, desperate for help, and had ended here, ‘rescued' by DeVore from the Governor's cells.

DeVore went across and stood there over the sleeping man, looking down at him. Ebert looked ill, haggard from exhaustion. He had lost a lot of weight and – from the smell of him – had had to rough it in ways he had never experienced before. His body had suffered, but his face was still familiar enough to be recognized anywhere in the system.

Well, maybe that was a problem, and maybe it wasn't. A familiar face might prove advantageous in the days to come. Especially when behind that face was a young prince, burning with ambition and eager for revenge. And that was why – despite the obvious dangers – he had taken Ebert in. Knowing that what was discarded now might prove extremely useful later on.

He bent down, drawing the blanket up over Ebert's chest, then turned away, looking outwards, conscious once more of the guards patrolling the frosted perimeter, the great, blue-white circle of Chung Kuo high above them in the Martian sky.

Chen crouched there on the mountainside, looking down the valley to where the dark, steep slopes ended in a flat-topped arrowhead of whiteness. It was like a vast wall, a dam two
li
in height, plugging the end of the valley, its surface a faintly opalescent pearl, lit from within.
Ch'eng
it was. City and wall.

The moon was high. Was a perfect circle of whiteness in the velvet dark. Chen stared at it a moment, mesmerized, held by its brilliant, unseeing eye,
then looked down, his fingers searching amongst the ashes.

He turned, looking across at Karr, then lifted the shard of broken glass, turning it in his hand, remembering.

‘What is this place?' Karr asked, coming closer, his face cloaked in shadow.

Chen stared at him a while, then looked away.

‘This is where it began. Here on the mountainside with Kao Jyan. We lit a fire, just there, where you're standing now. And Jyan… Jyan brought a bottle and two glasses. I remember watching him.'

A faint breeze stirred dust and ash about his feet, carrying the scent of the Wilds.

He stood, then turned, looking north. There, not far from where they stood, the City began, filling the great northern plain of Europe. Earlier, flying over it, they had seen the rebuilt Imperial Solarium, which he had helped bomb a dozen years before. Chen took a long breath, then turned back, looking at the big man.

‘Did you bring the razor, as I asked?'

Karr stared at him fixedly a moment, then took the fine blade from his tunic. ‘What did you want it for?'

Chen met his eyes. ‘Nothing stupid, I promise you.'

Karr hesitated a moment longer, then handed him the razor. Chen stared at it a moment, turning it in the moonlight, then tested it with the edge of his thumb. Satisfied, he crouched again, and, taking his queue in the other hand, cut the strong dark hair close to the roots.

‘Kao Chen…'

He looked up at the big man, then, saying nothing, continued with the task. Finished, he stood again, offering Karr the blade, his free hand tracing the shape of his skull, feeling the fine stubble there.

Karr took the razor, studying his friend. In the moonlight, Chen's face had the blunt, anonymous look of a thousand generations of Han peasants. The kind of face one saw everywhere below. A simple, nondescript face. Until one met the eyes…

‘Why are we here, my friend? What are we looking for?'

Chen turned, looking about him, taking in everything: the mountains; the sky; the great City, stretched out like a vast glacier under the brilliant moon. It was the same. Twelve years had done little to change this scene.
And yet it was quite different. Was, in the way he saw it, utterly transformed. Back then he had known nothing but the Net. Had looked at this scene with eyes that saw only the surfaces of things. But now he could see right through. Through to the bone itself.

He nodded slowly, understanding now why he had had to come here. Why he had asked Karr to divert the craft south and fly into the foothills of the Alps. Sometimes one had to go back – right back – to understand.

He shivered, surprised by the strength of the returning memory. It was strange how clearly he could see it, even now, after almost thirty years. Yes, he could picture quite vividly the old Master who had trained him to be
kwai;
a tall, willowy old Han with a long, expressionless face and a wispy beard who had always worn red. Old Shang, they had called him. Five of them, there had been, from Chi Su, the eldest, a broad-shouldered sixteen-year-old, down to himself, a thin-limbed, ugly little boy of six. An orphan, taken in by Shang.

For the next twelve years Old Shang's apartment had been his home. He had shared the
kang
with two others, his sleeping roll put away at sixth bell and taken out again at midnight. And in between, a long day of work; harder work than he had ever known, before or since. He sighed. It was strange how he had hidden it from himself all these years, as if it had never been. And yet it had formed him, as surely as the tree is formed from the seed. Shang's words, Shang's gestures had become his own. So it was in this world. So it had to be. For without that a man was shapeless, formless, fit only to wallow in the fetid darkness of the Clay.

He turned, meeting Karr's eyes. ‘He had clever hands. I watched him from where you're standing now. Saw how he looked into his glass, like this, watching the flames flicker and curl like tiny snakes in the darkness of his wine. At the time I didn't understand what it was he saw there. But now I do.'

Karr looked down. It was Kao Jyan he was talking about. Kao Jyan, his fellow assassin that night twelve years ago.

‘A message came,' he offered. ‘From Tolonen.'

Chen was still looking back at him, but it was as if he were suddenly somewhere else, as if, for a brief moment, his eyes saw things that Karr was blind to.

‘He confirms that Li Yuan has ordered the closure of Kibwezi.'

‘Ah…' Chen lowered his eyes.

Karr was silent a moment, watching his friend, trying to understand, to empathize with what he was feeling, but for once it was hard. He crouched, one hand sifting the dust. ‘Your friend, Kao Jyan… What
did
he see?'

Chen gave a small laugh, as if surprised that the big man didn't know, then looked away again, smoothing his hand over the naked shape of his skull.

‘Change,' he said softly, a tiny tremor passing through him. ‘And flames. Flames dancing in a glass.'

IN TIMES TO COME

I
n
Monsters of the Deep
, the ninth volume in the
Chung Kuo
saga, the long-repressed divisions within the Council of the Seven finally come to the surface in a bitter internecine struggle. From the outset, Li Yuan, Tsu Ma and Wu Shih form a secret triumvirate, dedicated to ensuring the survival of Chung Kuo and its traditions and institutions, but, as ever, outside forces conspire against them.

In America, a new breed of young men has risen up, impatient to inherit. The heirs of powerful men, they have recently emerged from imprisonment, determined to grasp political power in the soon-to-be-reopened House of Representatives at Weimar. Chief among these is Michael Lever, heir to ImmVac, the giant pharmaceuticals company of North America. His attempts to revolutionize the politics of his City bring him mixed fortunes as the forces of conservatism, led by his father, Charles, line up against him.

In Europe, Jan Mach's revolutionary party, the Yu, continues its campaign against corruption and the decadent excesses of the Above, escalating their Program of Purity until it threatens the Seven themselves. Meanwhile in the very depths of the City, Stefan Lehmann, the albino lieutenant of DeVore, re-enters the fray, his ruthless ambition unbounded as he takes on the six great Triads that run the lawless regions down below.

Across the silent divide of space, on Mars, DeVore is busy reorganizing his forces and preparing the geno-technology by which he will wage the next stage of the great War of the Two Directions. Back on Chung Kuo, however, Li Yuan has instigated changes – radical amendments to the great
Edict of Technology, the cornerstone of Han stasis – which might yet allow him to face and overcome the seemingly inevitable onslaught.

For Li Yuan this is again a time of some contentment. A baby son and three loving wives transform him, but, as ever, he has to learn that love is a frail and fragile thing. Once again his character is put severely to the test, but this time he finds decisions forced upon him as the pace of change accelerates and events outstrip his plans.

In this period of great instability, Li Yuan must rely on his servants heavily, and none more so than Major Karr and his Captain, Kao Chen. To them falls the task of policing the reforms Li Yuan has set under way. But their task is not an easy one as they soon find out. Chung Kuo is rotten to the core and it will take far more than mere persuasion to change the system. Their struggle with the decaying corpse of Chung Kuo's officialdom leads them beyond their given brief and into the greatest danger they have yet faced.

Beyond the City's walls, these prove fruitful years for Ben Shepherd as he begins to create the first of his great works of art, but even in the peaceful setting of the Domain – his idyllic West Country valley – he is unable to escape the dark tide of change and finds himself thrown into conflict; a conflict in which he must succeed or die.

For Kim Ward these are years of promise. Wooed by the Old Men of North America, who want to secure his talents for their great Immortality program, he struggles to set up his own small company, trading upon his unique inventiveness. But things are far from straightforward, neither at work, nor in his relationship with Marshal Tolonen's daughter, Jelka. Kim's experience of the mercantile world – of its deviousness and power games – is a sobering lesson: one that forces him to make a choice. A choice that will ultimately bring him into conflict with the Above.

For thirteen years – since the assassination of Li Shai Tung's Minister, Lwo Kang – the threat of change has hung over the great changeless empire of Chung Kuo, but now, at last, change is set to come. Gone are the golden days of peace and stability. Gone are all hopes that the Seven might rule for ten thousand years. Ahead lies only darkness.