Son of Heaven

by David Wingrove

  He had seen that too in the old black and white documentaries of the camps. Seen how families clung together at the last, as if it could protect them, when all that awaited them was the ovens.

  He closed his eyes and groaned.

  This was why he’d packed the cart. To try to avoid this moment. To have a few last weeks with them. And yet he had known, this morning, even as he loaded up the cart, that it wasn’t escape, only delay.

  Now even that had been taken from him.

  The soldiers were in among the buildings now. They were kicking down doors and searching every house, making sure that no one was overlooked. And then, suddenly, all of the villagers were being moved, four men in brutal-looking uniforms – their helmets and armour making them look utterly anonymous – driving them on before them like sheep.

  Out into the space behind the New Inn.

  There, like some monolithic alien spaceship, sat the Han craft, its huge bulk taking up almost the whole of the lower slope. It completely blocked the view, its blackness seeming to cancel out the daylight.

  Jake felt his legs go weak. He had not thought such power still existed in the world. A cold, technological savagery seemed to emanate from within that blackness. It was not so much an object as a concept. Not so much a weapon as an instrument to implement their will.

  Like the great city they were building, it was not a continuation but a breach. Seeing that awesome ship, Jake finally understood. What he had witnessed them begin, some twenty-odd years ago, had been but a prelude to this. A clearing away before they began anew.

  Differently. With Chinese characteristics.

  He looked to Mary and the girls, beckoning to them to come closer, only they seemed frozen where they were, terrified of what was to come.

  Boy growled again. A long, low growl that ended in a bark.

  They had not noticed Boy before, but now one of the soldiers – a captain by the look of him – hurried across, unbuttoning the holster of his handgun as he came.

  Peter, reading his intention, screamed at him. ‘No! Leave him be!’

  Only the soldier didn’t listen. Raising his gun, he fired at Boy, even as the dog jumped up and turned away, making to escape.

  The man fired again, and then a third time, bringing Boy down. The poor dog was whimpering pitifully now, lying there in a pool of his own blood, the life pulsing out of him. Standing over him, the soldier delivered the coup de grâce.

  As the shot rang out, Peter let out a cry. Seeing what was about to happen, Jake grabbed at him desperately. For a moment the boy tried to evade Jake’s grip, fighting to break free, to throw himself at the soldier. Only Jake held on tight, wrestling with his son, knowing that if he let him go he was dead.

  ‘Jesus,’ someone said. ‘It was just a dog…’

  One of the soldiers came across at that, slapping the man, gabbling at him in his native tongue.

  Peter was gripping Jake tightly now, his face pressed into Jake’s chest, his whole body shaking as he sobbed.

  The soldier stood there still, next to Boy, gun raised, as if hoping Jake would make something of it.

  Jake glared at him. ‘You cunt…’

  The man’s face twitched. Maybe he didn’t know the word, for a moment later he backed away.

  Jake looked about him; saw the shock in people’s faces. But he just felt numb. He kept seeing how casual it had been, as if Boy were just an object, at most a piece of vermin to be disposed of, not a cherished pet.

  He gripped Peter tighter, whispering to him, so that the soldiers wouldn’t hear.

  ‘It’s okay, son. We’re going to be okay.’

  Only he knew that wasn’t the truth. Killing Boy was only the start of it. He could not see much of their faces beneath their helmets, but he could see their eyes, see how they enjoyed exercising their power.

  A number of the soldiers, in black uniforms not the more common green, had begun to go among the villagers, instructing some to stay where they were, others to move further down the slope, towards where a second, smaller craft was parked.

  It seemed an ominous development. Only before Jake could work out what it meant, he was being separated from Peter, one of the soldiers dragging him by the arm, forcing him into one of the lines they were forming.

  ‘In line,’ one of them barked, pushing him roughly. ‘Get in line!’

  At the front of each of the queues, a helmet-less soldier now sat at a desk, a second soldier stood just behind, taking pictures with a polaroid camera. They were asking questions now: name, age, place of birth. Simple stuff. And they were conducting other tests, too: fingerprinting, swabs for DNA, retinal scans.

  Jake looked around; saw Mary and the girls in one of the other lines.

  The murmur of voices grew.

  ‘Quiet!’ one of the officers yelled, looking about him sternly, hands on hips. ‘No talking in the lines! You hear me? No talking!’

  It grew quiet again. The only voices that could be heard were those of the interviewing officials.

  Peter was just in front of him, in the queue to his right. He was quiet now, his head down.

  He’s a sensible boy. He’ll get through this. If only for Meg’s sake.

  As Jake looked away from his son, he noticed, to one side, away from the mêlée, another of them standing there and looking on. Only this one wasn’t a soldier. This one wore flowing silks of lilac and yellow, like a mandarin of old; a long-sleeved, elegant gown that was in total contrast to the rest.

  As he slowly drifted past the uniformed men, so each would bow respectfully, in the fashion of their kind.

  Jake was surprised to see such traditional clothing. Then, beneath the silks, he glimpsed the teflon-plated jacket.

  So just what was he?

  Jake was curious now. All of this testing and questioning, what was it for? Or were they, like the Nazis before them, simply concerned with listing who they had ‘processed’?

  He hoped not.

  Jake studied the stranger. He was older than himself, though probably not by much. There were strands of grey in his fine dark hair that was, Jake noted, as long as a woman’s. Compared to the brutality of the soldiers surrounding him his appearance was almost effeminate, yet the man had an air of great refinement. He seemed to shine inwardly, like a crystal, clear and pure and clean.

  Just then the Han seemed to notice Jake’s particular attention. Calling a man over to him, he whispered something in his ear, then stood back, watching as the soldier ran directly to where Jake was standing and took him from the line.

  Watched by all his neighbours, Jake let the man rough-handle him, half pushing, half dragging him across, until he stood there, not two yards from the Han in the silks.

  The soldier forced his head down. Made him bow low. The other was watching him, as if awaiting his reaction. Only Jake knew almost instinctively not to speak. Not to say a word.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the Han said, after a moment. ‘About the dog, I mean… The guard… He was only acting as instructed.’

  Jake was surprised by how good the man’s English was. But then, why so? The Chinese had been learning English as a second language for fifty years now. Only this was polished. Was better English than any of the villagers possessed, himself included. If he’d not known better, he would have said it was Oxbridge.

  The apology made him understand, however. Whatever rank this man possessed, however refined he might be, he was still only a supervisor, a carrier-out of orders. Someone else, Tsao Ch’un or his successor, called the shots. The rest of them danced like puppets to his command.

  ‘I am Jiang Lei,’ the man said, after a moment. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Jake Reed,’ he said. Only even as he said it, he wondered whether it was wise to say it; whether, after all these years, someone still wanted him dead.

  But why? How could he harm them? Look how powerful they were.

  ‘Well, Mister Reed… who should I speak to were I to wish to find out more about these people?’


  Jake looked away.

  ‘Very well… Only it would have made things so much easier. Now, however…’

  Jake moistened his lips. ‘You could speak to me. Only…’

  The Han looked at him, calmly, as one intelligent man to another. ‘Go on…’

  ‘Only what exactly do you want?’

  ‘Exactly… Now that’s hard to say. Nothing is exact, neh?’

  The Han turned and snapped his fingers. At once, a small, servile- looking man with a shaven head came hurrying across.

  ‘My slate, Ho… now!’

  As the man brought Jiang Lei his ‘slate’, the Han studied Jake.

  ‘I have been doing this two years now, Mister Reed, and I have witnessed many things…’ He sighed, then, as if confiding, leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘This is always the trickiest time, you understand. If any of your people have concealed any guns and try to use them… well… it would be hard to restrain my men. Only that hasn’t happened in some time. I pride myself on my restraint. Few generals of the Banners can say as much.’

  Jake stared at him. A general? He almost laughed. Then he looked about him, saw how organized it all was, how efficient, and the laughter fled. He might wear silks, this one, yet he was still a powerful man.

  The servant returned, bowing low as he handed Jiang Lei his slate.

  Jiang took the slate and began to touch its surface. Jake, watching him, recognized the machine from before the crash. They had just been coming in. A lot of dealers had switched to them only weeks before it had all happened.

  Another piece of the puzzle, maybe?

  ‘Okay… R E E D, is that right? Jake as in Jacob. And what… forty-eight years old?’

  ‘Forty-nine.’

  ‘Born in?’

  ‘Windsor... Berkshire.’

  The general hesitated a moment, and then his face lit up. ‘Well, I never… Jake Reed… so here you are!’

  Jiang sat on his own inside the craft, musing over this latest, most interesting development.

  He had sent Wang Yu-Lai back outside, telling Ma Feng to keep an eye on him. There was little Wang could do to mess things up, now that the initial processing was done; now that the villagers had accepted their fate. The very worst he could do was draw his gun and shoot one of them, but Jiang was pretty sure he wouldn’t do that. Not without good reason.

  As for Reed…

  The procedure was straightforward. Though Reed had been removed from the official list more than fifteen years ago, his was still a file that interested the Ministry, and any news of him was to be notified to them immediately.

  Only Jiang Lei hadn’t.

  Without Wang knowing, he had had Reed separated from the rest and kept under guard inside the inn.

  Now, sat there in the cool interior of the craft, Jiang worked his way through what was known of Reed, trying to gauge what kind of threat, if any, he was.

  When the time had come, back in ’43, there had been a ‘list’. More than twenty-three thousand names had been on that list, Jake Reed’s among them.

  Tsao Ch’un claimed he had had the idea while watching an old American movie, Godfather II, where a gangland boss dealt with all his rivals on the day of his godson’s christening. Only Tsao Ch’un, as ever, conceived things on a different scale. With his scheme, he would take out not merely the heads, but the brains of the West’s most powerful institutions. He would eradicate them totally, sending the system into shock. For without its keenest, sharp -est minds, what was it? A megalith of mediocrity. A lumbering dinosaur of a system.

  In the months leading up to the Collapse, Tsao Ch’un had carefully placed his men in position, like stones on a wei chi board – tens of thousands of them, sent to pose as trade delegates and businessmen, there in the West to serve the great cause of globalization; to feed the great furnace of consumerism. Only trade was the last thing on their minds. They were there to observe; to take in every detail of the behaviour of their chosen targets. To know where they went and who they saw, so that on the day, when the order came, they could act swiftly and decisively.

  In the three days following the first assault on the Market, they had taken out more than five-sixths of the names on that list. The rest were in hiding, or were dead and untraced, victims of the bloody savagery that followed.

  Over the subsequent years they had traced a number more. Yet in these past few years such ‘sightings’ had been rare.

  It was a good enough reason to want to talk to one of them. Only there was another, more specific reason why Jiang Lei was interested. A personal reason.

  Jiang Lei cleared the tiny screen, then sat back, considering what he was going to do.

  It wasn’t feasible to think he could hide the man from Wang for more than a day or two. He would have to hand him over at some point. Yet it would be nice to question the man alone – to sound him, without the odious Wang breathing down his neck and listening to every word.

  He let out a long sigh. There was only one way. To put Wang Yu-Lai in charge of the Kung Tso squad.

  Jiang Lei stood, then paced the cabin for a time. Which was the greater evil? To allow Wang Yu-Lai his sadistic sport, or to hand the man, Reed, over to Wang’s Masters? Either course was an abomination. Yet there was nothing he could do about the fate of those Tsao Ch’un had excluded from his city, and it would, at the very least, buy him a day without Wang peering over his shoulder and looking into his every action.

  He would do it. He would give Wang Yu-Lai charge of the Kung Tso, and turn a blind eye to whatever followed.

  Even so, it troubled him.

  And the dog, he thought. Why did they have to shoot the dog like that? Why couldn’t they have taken it away somewhere and done the job? He had seen, from the faces of the villagers, just what an effect it had had on them, destroying whatever small trust they might have had.

  Jiang Lei huffed. He would have to have a word. But first he’d speak to Wang. Give him the ‘good news’ and send him on his way.

  ‘Steward Ho…’

  Ho was there in an instant, head bowed, his back arched towards his Master. ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘Send for Wang Yu-Lai. Oh, and bring Ma Feng while you’re at it. But tell him to wait until Cadre Wang has gone. I have a job for him.’

  Jake sat there in that empty, familiar room, waiting for it to begin.

  They had tied him to a chair, then left him to stew in his own fears. To imagine the very worst while still hoping for the best.

  Was this how it felt, then? he asked himself. This sick uncertainty? This awful limbo of the soul?

  Better dead than this, he thought. Only it wasn’t true. For right then he knew he would do almost anything to live. Make any kind of deal to save Peter and himself.

  And that was the worst of it. The not knowing how they were. Peter and Mary and the girls. Where were they now? What was happening to them?

  What if they used them to get at him? What if they tortured them, not him? For he’d heard of such things.

  He closed his eyes and gave the softest groan.

  The door behind him opened, spilling sunlight into the darkened room.

  ‘You are an interesting man, Mister Reed.’

  It was the Han. The refined one. Jung-something.

  They hadn’t gagged him. He could speak if he wanted. Only he’d not been asked a question.

  Jake waited, his heart beating twenty to the dozen.

  The door closed. Soft footsteps came across the wooden floor.

  ‘You don’t understand yet, do you?’

  The general had changed out of his silks. He was wearing a military costume now. A formal blue one-piece with a huge square of silk at the chest, some colourful, stylized animal – it was hard to say what it was – em -broidered into the square.

  Jake cleared his throat. ‘Understand what?’

  ‘What we’re doing. Why we are doing it. I thought… well, I thought you would probably want to know, seeing as you were there
, right in the very centre of things, when it began.’

  Jake looked down. It was true. He did want to know. He had spent twenty-two years wanting to know.

  The Han came closer. ‘Can I trust you to behave?’

  Jake looked up at him and frowned. What did he mean?

  ‘Oh, I could threaten to kill your son, or… oh, many different things, but what I really mean is… can I trust you? If I were to unbind you…’

  ‘Oh…’

  Jake was surprised. He met the other’s eyes, then nodded.

  ‘Good.’

  As the Han unfastened the cords, Jake found himself wondering what kind of man this was. Could he trust to appearances, or was this all some subtle game? Some devious scheme to make Jake reveal more than he other -wise would?

  Only that made no sense. What could he possibly get Jake to say that simple, brutal torture couldn’t dislodge?

  As the Han came around to the front of him again, Jake looked up at him.

  ‘Your name…? I didn’t quite…’

  ‘Jiang Lei,’ he said pronouncedly. ‘Zhi-ang Lay-ee.’

  ‘And you’re a general?’

  ‘Of the Eighteenth Banner.’

  ‘Ah… and how many Banners are there?’

  Jiang Lei smiled but did not answer.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink of some kind?’

  ‘My wife, Mary… and my son, Peter…?’

  Again Jiang did not answer.

  Jake sighed, then nodded. ‘Yes… Thank you.’

  ‘Water? Or tea, perhaps? Or something stronger, maybe? You used to like whisky…’

  ‘Water will do. I just thought…’

  Jiang Lei raised a hand to silence him. He went to the door and, opening it a fraction, gave an order in his native tongue.

  He returned.

  ‘Your family will be all right. None of them will be hurt. But we are not here to speak of them. Not now, anyway.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’

  ‘Because you were there. You saw it, didn’t you? On that last day, when Tsao Ch’un gave the order. I was there, you know, in the imperial palace. I had been giving a reading. And then suddenly it was all gone. The old world. And a new world had been born. Do you understand?’