The computer said, “You can’t sell me. I have to get back to Bombay. I’m sure my surgery can’t be completed if I’m not there. I must go back. You must take me back.”
Wang Jun nodded in agreement. Three-Fingers smirked. He Dan said, “We need to unplug him. Without some form of stimuli he may go crazy before you can decide what to do with him.”
“Wait,” said the Dalai Lama. “Please don’t unplug me yet. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being gone again.”
“Unplug him,” said Three-Fingers.
“Wait,” said the computer. “You must listen to me. If my body is dead, you must destroy this computer you keep me in. I fear that I will not reincarnate. Even Palden Lhamo may not be able to find my soul. She is powerful, but though she rides across an ocean of blood astride the skin of her traitorous son, she may not find me. My soul will be trapped here, unnaturally preserved, even as my body decomposes. Promise me, please. You must not leave me —”
He Dan shut off the computer.
Three-Fingers raised his eyebrows at He Dan.
He Dan shrugged. “It could be that it is the Dalai Lama. If there are people chasing the beggar-child, it lends credence to its claims. It would not be hard to upload his identity matrix while he was undergoing surgery.”
“Who would do that?”
He Dan shrugged. “He is at the center of so many different political conflicts, it would be impossible to say. In a datacube, he makes a convenient hostage. Tibetan extremists, Americans, us, perhaps the EU; they would all be interested in having such a hostage.”
Three-Fingers said, “If I’m going to sell him, I’ll need to know who put him in there.”
He Dan nodded, and then the door exploded inward. Splinters of wood flew about and shafts of light illuminated the dim room. Outside there was a whine of VTOLs and then there were bright lights lancing through the door, followed by the rapid thud of heavy boots. Wang Jun ducked instinctively as something seemed to suck the air out of the room and the monitors exploded, showering glass on the technicians and Wang Jun. People were shouting everywhere around him and Wang Jun smelled smoke. He stood up and pulled the datacube out of its adapter and rolled underneath a table as a barrage of pellets ratcheted across the wall above him.
He saw Three-Fingers fumble with something at his belt and then stiffen as red blossoms appeared on his chest. Other technicians were falling, all of them sprouting bloody stains on their bodies. Wang Jun huddled deeper under the table as forms in black armor came through the door. He put the datacube in his mouth, thinking he might swallow it before they could find him. More explosions came and suddenly the wall beside him was gone in a cacophony of bricks and rubble. He scrambled over the collapsed wall as shouts filled the air. Hunched low and running, he became nothing except a small child shadow. An irrelevant shadow in the rain and the play of lights from the troops left behind.
He crouched in a doorway’s shadow, turning the datacube in his hands, stroking its blue plastic surface with reverential fascination. Rain fell in a cold mist and his nose dripped with the accumulated moisture. He shivered. The datacube was cold. He wondered if the Dalai Lama felt anything inside. People walked along the side-street, ignoring his small shadow in the doorway. They rose as forms out of the mist, became distinct and individual under the street lamps and then disappeared back into shadows.
He had seen the VTOLs rise from a distance, their running lights illuminating their forms in the darkness. He had watched their wings lower and lock above the wet tile roofs. Then they were gone in a hissing acceleration. Against his better judgment he had returned, joining other residents in a slow scavenging across the rubble of the destroyed building. They moved in a methodical stooped walk. Picking at brick. Turning shattered monitor screens. Fumbling at the pockets of the bodies left behind. He had found no trace of Three-Fingers and doubted he was alive. He Dan he found, but only in pieces.
He turned the datacube again in his hands.
“Where did you get that?”
He jerked skittishly and moved to run, but a hand was holding him and he was immobile. It was a Chinese woman and she wore white gloves. He stared at the hand which held him.
“Do you have something for me?” she asked. Her Mandarin was clear and educated, perfect, as though she came from Beijing itself.
“I don’t know.”
“Is that yours?”
“No.”
“Were you supposed to give it to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I missed you at the bridge.”
“Why didn’t you come?”
“There were delays,” she said, and her eyes became hooded and dark.
Wang Jun reached out to hand her the datacube. “You have to be careful with it. It has the Dalai Lama.”
“I know. I was coming to you. I was afraid I had lost you. Come.” She motioned him. “You are cold. There is a bed and food waiting for you.” She motioned again and he followed her out of the doorway and into the rain.
She led him through the wet streets. In his mind, the images of VTOLs and exploding monitors and Three-Fingers’s blossoming red mortality made him wary as they crossed intersections and bore along the old streets of Chengdu.
The woman held his hand firm in hers, and she bore him with direction and purpose so that no matter how many twists and turns they took, they were always closer to the organic skeleton of the city core. It rose above them, glowing. Dwarfing them and the constructors who swung from it on gossamer lines. They swarmed it as ants might, slowly growing their nest.
Then they were under its bones, walking through the wet organic passageways of the growing creature. Wang Jun smelled compost and death. The air grew warm and humid as they headed deeper into the architectural animal. Glowing chips embedded in the woman’s wrists passed them through construction checkpoints until they came to a lift, a cage that rose up through Huojianzhu’s internals, sliding on smooth organic rails. Through the bars of the cage Wang Jun saw levels completed, shining and habitable, the walls with the appearance of polished steel, and fluorescent lamps, glowing, in their brackets. He saw levels where only the segmented superstructure of the beast existed. A monster with its bones exposed; wet slick things sheened with a biological ooze. Hardening silicon mucus coated the bones, flowed, and built up successive layers to form walls. Huojianzhu grew and where it grew the Biotects and constructors oversaw, guiding and ensuring that its growth followed their carefully imagined intentions. The beautiful woman, and Wang Jun with her, rose higher.
They came to a level nearly complete. Her feet echoed in a hallway, and she came to a door. Her hand leaned gently on the surface of the door and its skin moved slightly under her pressure so that Wang Jun was unsure if the door molded to her hand or reached out to caress it. The door swung open and Wang Jun saw the luxury of the heights of which he had always dreamed.
In a room with a bed so soft his back ached and with pillows so fluffy he believed he smothered, he woke. There were voices. “—a beggar. No one,” she said.
“Then blank him and turn him out.”
“He helped us.”
“Leave his pocket with money, then.”
Their voices became distant, and though he wished he could stay awake, he slept again.
Wang Jun sank into the enveloping cushions of a chair so deep that his feet could not touch the polished elegance of the real wooden floors. He was well rested now, having climbed finally out of the womb of bedding and pillows which had tangled him. Around him, shanshui paintings hung from smooth white walls, and recessed shelves held intricately fired vases from China’s dynasties, long dead and gone. The kitchen he had already made acquaintance with, watching the lady who looked Chinese but wasn’t as she prepared a mountain of food for him on burners that flared like suns, and made tea with water that scalded as it came from the faucet. In other rooms, lights glowed on and off as he entered and departed, and there was carpet, soft expanses of pale fiber that were always warm
under his feet. Now he sat in the enveloping chair and watched with dark eyes as the lady and her foreign companion paced before him. Behind them, the Dalai Lama’s cube sat on a shelf, blue and small.
“Sile?”
Wang Jun started at the sound of her voice, and he felt his heart beating. Outside the windows of the apartment thick Chengdu mist hung, stagnant and damp. No more rain. He struggled out of the chair and went to look out the windows. He could not see the lights of Chengdu’s old city below. The mist was too thick. The woman watched him as her counterpart spoke. “Yeah, either the Chinese or the Europeans blew his head full of holes. They’re just annoyed because they lost him.”
“What should we do?”
“I’m waiting for an indication from the embassy. The Tibetans want us to destroy him. Keep whining about how his soul won’t be reborn, if we don’t destroy it.”
She laughed. “Why not write him onto a new body?”
“Don’t be sacrilegious.”
“That’s how they see it? Fanatics can be so —”
“—intractable,” he finished for her.
“So this whole mission is a waste?”
“He’s not much good to us without his body. The Tibetans won’t recognize him if we write him onto a new body and he’s no good as leverage against the Chinese if he doesn’t have a following.”
She sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to work with them.”
“Without the Tibetans, we wouldn’t even have known to look for the kid.”
“Well, now they’re threatening that if we don’t give him back, the Pali Lama is going to flay our skins, or something.”
“Palden Lhamo,” said the man.
“What?”
He repeated, “Palden Lhamo. She’s a Tibetan goddess. Supposed to be the protector of Tibet and our digital friend.” He jerked his head at the datacube sitting on its shelf. “The paintings of her show her riding a mule across seas of blood and using the flayed skin of her son as a saddle blanket.”
“What a lovely culture they’ve got.”
“You should see the paintings: red hair, necklaces of skulls —”
“Enough.”
Wang Jun said, “Can I open the window?”
The woman looked over at the man; he shrugged.
“Suibian,” she said.
Wang Jun undid the securing clasps and rolled the wide window open. Chill air washed into the room. He peered down into the orange glow of the mist, leaning far out into the air. He stroked the spongy organic exoskeleton of the building, a resilient honeycomb of holes. Below, he could just make out the shifting silhouettes of constructors clambering across the surface of the structure. Behind him the conversation continued.
“So what do we do?”
He waved at the datacube. “We could always plug his eminence into a computer and ask him for advice.”
Wang Jun’s ears perked up. He wanted to hear the man inside the computer again.
“Would the Chinese be interested in a deal, even if his body is gone?”
“Maybe. They’d probably keep his cube in a desk drawer. Let it gather dust. If he never reincarnated, it would be fine with them. One less headache for them to deal with.”
“Maybe we’ll be able to trade him for something still, then.”
“Not much, though. So what if he does reincarnate? It’ll be twenty years before he has an effect on them.” He sighed. “Trade talks start tomorrow. This operation’s starting to look like a scrub at the home office. They’re already rumbling about extracting us before the talks begin. At least the EU didn’t get him.”
“Well, I’ll be glad to get back to California.”
“Yeah.”
Wang Jun turned from his view and asked, “Will you kill him?”
The pair exchanged looks. The man turned away, muttering under his breath. Wang Jun held in his response to the man’s rudeness. Instead he said, “I’m hungry.”
“He’s hungry, again,” muttered the man.
“We only have instants, now,” said the woman.
“Xing,” said Wang Jun.
The woman went into the kitchen and Wang Jun’s eyes fastened on the dark blue sheen of the datacube, sitting on its shelf.
“I’m cold,” said the man. “Close the window.”
Wang Jun sniffed at the aroma of frying food coming from the woman and the kitchen. His belly rumbled, but he went to the window. “Okay.”
The mist clung to him as he clung to the superstructure of the biologic city. His fingers dug into its spongy honeycomb skin and he heard the rush of Chengdu far below, but could not see it through the mist. He heard curses and looked up. Light silhouetted the beautiful woman who looked Chinese but wasn’t and the man as they peered out of their luxury apartment window from high above.
He dug a fist deeper into the honeycomb wall and waved at them with his free hand, and then climbed lower with the self-confident ease of a beggar monkey. He looked up again to see the man make to climb out the window, and then the woman pulled him back in.
He descended. Slipping deeper into the mist, clambering for the slick safety of the pavement far below. He passed constructors and Biotects, working late-night shifts. They all hung precariously from the side of the mountainous building, but only he was so daring as to climb the skin of the creature without the protection of a harness. They watched him climb by with grave eyes, but they made no move to stop him. Who were they to care if his fingers slipped and he fell to the infinitely distant pavement? He passed them and continued his descent.
When he looked up again, seeking the isolated window from which he had issued, it was gone. Lost in the thickness of the chill mist. He guessed the man and woman would not follow. That they would have more pressing concerns than to find a lone beggar boy with a useless datacube somewhere in the drizzling streets of Chengdu. He smiled to himself. They would pack and go home to their foreign country and leave him to remain in Chengdu. Beggars always remained.
His arms began to shake with strain as his descent continued. The climb was already taking him longer than he had guessed possible. The sheer size of the core was greater than he had ever imagined. His fingers dug into the spongy biomass of Huojianzhu’s skin, seeking another hold. The joints of his fingers ached and his arms trembled. It was cold this high even though the night air was still. The wet mist and the damp spongy walls he clung to chilled his fingers, numbing them and making him unsure of his handholds. He watched where he placed each hand in an agony of care, seeking stability and safety with every grip.
For the first time he wondered how long it would be until he fell. The descent was too long, and the clinging chill was sinking deeper into his bones. The mists parted and he could see the lights of Chengdu proper, spread out below him. His hopes sank as he saw finally how high he hung above the city.
He dug for another handhold and when he set his weight against it, the spongy mass gave way and he was suddenly dangling by a single weak hand while the Chengdu lights spun crazily below him. He scrabbled desperately for another handhold. He dug his feet deep into the spongy surface and found one. He saw where his slipping hand had torn away the wall. There was a deep rent, and from it, the milky blood of the bio-structure dripped slowly. His heart beat faster staring at Huojianzhu’s mucus wound and he imagined himself slipping and falling; spattering across the pavement while his blood ran slick and easy into the street gutters. He fought to control his rising panic as his arms trembled and threatened to give way. Then he forced himself to move his limbs and descend, to seek some respite from the climb, a hope of survival on the harsh skin of the core.
He spoke to himself. Told himself that he would survive. That he would not fall and die on the pavement of the street. Not he. Not Xiao Wang. No. Not Xiao Wang at all. Not Little Wang anymore. Wang Jun; Soldier Wang. Twisted and bent though he was, Soldier Wang would survive. He smiled to himself. Wang Jun would survive. He continued his descent with shaking arms and numbed fingers, picking each ho
ld carefully, and eventually when he began to believe that he could climb no more, he found a hole in Huojianzhu’s skin and swung himself into the safety of the ducts of the animal structure.
Standing on a firm surface he turned and looked out at Chengdu’s spread lights. In a few more years all of Chengdu would be overwhelmed by the spreading core. He wondered where a beggar boy would run then. What streets would be left open for those such as he? He reached into his pocket and felt the hard edges of the datacube. He drew it from his pocket, and gazed on its smooth blue perfect surface. Its perfect geometric edges. So much consternation over the man who lived inside. He hefted the cube. It was light. Too light to hold the whole of a person. He remembered his brief interaction with the Dalai Lama, in a dark room under the glow of monitors. He squeezed the cube tight in his hand and then went to the edge of the duct. Chengdu lay below him.
Diverse Energies Page 18
