Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #213

by TTA Press Authors

I finally let the matter rest, and checked the recovery I had launched on the laptop. I had not been expecting much, but what I saw was enlightening. He Zhen's computer was now on open session: all you had to do to make it work was to turn it on. But that had not always been the case. Eight nights ago, someone had switched the core routines from private ID session (which required a login, password and fingerprints to start up the computer) to open session.

  It was an odd move. I'd have expected the reverse if He Zhen had had some files to protect. I fiddled a bit with the computer, and asked it to retrieve the log history. Which, of course, had been erased. But the log history was always in the same place on the hard disk, perfect to launch another recovery.

  When I turned away from the computer the waitbar on the screen was displaying a two-hour search, and it kept slowing down. Someone had gone to great trouble to change those parameters, and not be discovered.

  I left the computer to run its analysis and called my client, He Chan-Li.

  She appeared on my screen already dressed for work: white makeup applied liberally to her face until no patch of skin remained uncovered, and a smart set of robes emphasizing the curves of her body, prominently displaying the qi'lin insignia. “So?” she asked. “Any progress, Mr Brooks?"

  "Yes,” I said, going straight to the point. “I understand why you haven't called the tribunal militia into this."

  Her eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?"

  "You know who Wen Yi is, don't you. That's why you're so afraid."

  She stood, quietly, against a background painted a soft white. She did not move, did not look at me. From a Xuyan, it was as good as an admission.

  "Did He Zhen know?” I asked.

  He Chan-Li said, “The company ... has trouble. Financial trouble. Wen Yi offered..."

  "Support.” I tried to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “In exchange for a docile wife. Did she know about Wen Yi's other activities, Mistress He?"

  Her voice, when she finally answered me, was emotionless. “No. Zhen was very honest. She..."

  "She wouldn't have stood for it. And Wen Yi would not have tolerated a refusal. Is this what you think happened?"

  He Chan-Li looked at me, and would not answer.

  "There's blood where they found the tracking implant. Your daughter's blood."

  It was hard to tell with the makeup, but I think she had gone pale underneath. “He wouldn't have dared—"

  "Do you truly think that?” I asked, watching her eyes, the minute flicker of emotion that crossed them.

  She said, at last, “Zhen never understood—that the company was everything that kept us afloat. She never understood the meaning of filial duty.” Her voice was bitter.

  I pitied her then, for she was the one who had not understood her daughter. I only said, “I see."

  "Have you...” He Chan-Li swallowed “...found her?"

  Her body. “No. I'm still working on a couple of things. I'll keep you informed.” And I cut the conversation before she could take it further.

  I sat for a while, thinking. If Wen Yi had indeed killed He Zhen that night, why was he so worried? He could not possibly have left any evidence in her room.

  Think of it another way. If He Zhen's blood did indeed mean she was dead, why had Wen Yi killed her? He had her mother's agreement, and in Xuyan law that was enough for a wedding. If the bride was not docile—well, there were ways to tame her into submission, ways I was all too familiar with from a hundred sordid cases.

  I remembered the searched bedroom, and the erased files on He Zhen's laptop. He had not killed her because she had protested, he had killed her because she threatened him. Because she had the only thing that would make him fall: proof of his ties with the White Lotus, proof the tribunal could not ignore.

  It was a long shot. But not an absurd one.

  Smoking Mirror. If He Zhen had indeed gathered proof, she would have been smart enough not to leave them on her computer. I could think of several places on the net where she could have opened an online storage account. I tried them one by one, entering ‘Mexica', ‘Tezcatlipoca’ and ‘Smoking Mirror’ as usernames.

  On the fifteenth try, I hit paydirt. There was a ‘smokingmirror’ account opened two years ago on treasurechest.xy; and after a maddening hour of fiddling with a password-breaking program, I was finally granted access.

  He Zhen's treasure trove, though, was nothing like I'd expected. I thought I'd find ties to the White Lotus, things that would make Wen Yi feel threatened enough to kill. What I found instead was a shrine to Mexica culture. There were pictures of the ball-game champions, leaping beneath the vertical stone hoop with proud grins; videos of religious processions ending in blood-soaked sacrifices at the great pyramids; images of Jaguar Knights laying down their lives in the Tripartite Wars before American rifles; icons of gods and goddesses with their hollow eyes turned towards the viewer.

  After a while, I turned away from the accumulation of data, and checked the storage capacity. The account was almost full. If I wanted to look at everything, it would take me several days. I suspected I'd stop long beforehand. Some admire the Mexica's self-sacrificing spirit and their relentless devotion. I think it is a sick religion, and an even sicker civilisation, making thousands of sacrifices every year for no other reason than blood-thirst.

  Well, I knew the meaning of the butterfly's wings, and it did not feel like a lot of progress. I turned off the computer, checked my log recovery—which still displayed a four-hour wait—and went into the kitchen to prepare lunch. As I was picking some coriander from the fridge, a glint from the window caught my eye. I put down the stalks I'd been holding and raised the curtains.

  An aircar waited underneath my building: a slick, red limo with tinted windows, conveniently masking the view of its driver and passengers.

  There was an itch between my shoulder-blades: a familiar sign of danger. A sign, too, that I was onto something.

  All I had to do was find out what.

  * * * *

  I gobbled up my steamed rice and eggs, trying not to focus on the aircar, and came back before my desk to find He Zhen's computer blinking. My recovery of the log history was complete.

  I stared at the screen, at the last few lines of the log. It had been He Zhen who had connected last, a few hours after midnight eight days ago, a remote session launched from an unknown router address.

  Could it have been someone else? I thought for a while, but decided against it. If someone else had had He Zhen's login, password and fingerprints, they wouldn't have bothered with changing the session system.

  I tracked the router address, which turned out to be a network centre not far from the Gardens of Felicity. What had He Zhen been doing? Erasing things from her computer?

  I stared at the timestamp, and saw that the connection had been broken after thirty seconds. Far too short to log in and erase multiple files, unless He Zhen had set up some kind of script. But I knew she hadn't been planning to run away, so there was no reason for her to have done so.

  My phone was beeping—an incoming call that I had not seen for several minutes.

  "Yes?” I asked, pressing the button to light up the screen.

  It was Wen Yi, now dressed in purple silk with serpentine animals embroidered on the sleeves. The animals looked very close to Chinese dragons, but not close enough to give offence; in Xuya, as in China, the only people entitled to the dragon were members of the Imperial Family.

  "Mr Brooks? I wanted to check on your progress.” He was speaking English, though he knew I could speak perfect Xuyan. By this he subtly relegated me to a rank of inferior, the worst kind of immigrant, the one who could not fit into Xuyan society.

  "You are checking,” I said, curtly. “Is that red aircar yours?"

  He laughed. “You Americans!"

  It was a deliberate insult, and it smarted. But I would not give in to anger, that would only reinforce his low opinion of me. “Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Tell
me how things are going."

  "I do not think I can do that,” I said. “My client—"

  "I am not a man you can dismiss that easily, Mr Brooks."

  "I do not doubt that. Still, my progress is my own."

  Wen Yi said, “I am told you are working hard. That is a good thing, Mr Brooks. But you should not forget, when you do succeed in your search, who is paying you in the end."

  An unmistakable reference: he was He Zhen's future husband, and almost part of the family, with the engagement finalised. “If I succeed,” I said.

  "You will,” Wen Yi said, raising a long-nailed finger, lazily, as if admiring a dagger. “You have ... drive, Mr Brooks. Take care not to lose that, or there will be ... consequences."

  "I see,” I said. “Consequences.” He was telling me that no matter what happened, I had to continue the search for He Zhen. Which, in turn, meant that she was still alive.

  I had no time to focus on the consequences of that, because I needed all my wits about me. A conversation with a Xuyan, especially a powerful one, always felt like navigating between pits of acid.

  "Do not think yourself overly safe, Mr Brooks. There are many paths a man can take."

  Another, subtler threat: I would not protect He Zhen if I abandoned the investigation. He would merely find someone else to duplicate the little I'd done.

  "I see,” I said, again. I did not want to provoke him further.

  Wen Yi was still staring at me. “A pity. You are a smart man. And yet you refuse to fit in among us. Even your Xuyan friend was unable to impress the bases of our society on you."

  I wanted to tell him he had no right to bring my lover Mei-Lin into the conversation, no right to sully her memory. But that would have been folly. So I simply shook my head.

  "There could be a bright future, among us."

  I couldn't give him a satisfying answer.

  Wen Yi said, “It is not for nothing that we dominate North America. It is not for nothing that our motherland China has triumphed over the Whites in Asia."

  "I know your worth,” I said, slowly. “I do not doubt your might. But my ways are my own. There is little for me in Xuya.” And I realised, as I said those words, that they were true, that nothing tied me to that dingy office in Fenliu, beyond the memory of Mei-Lin, and the knowledge I could go nowhere else.

  It was not the best of times for such a sobering thought.

  Wen Yi's face remained impassive. But his eyes took on a darker glaze, and his voice, when he spoke again, was clipped and precise. “Very well. I had thought you more capable of grasping the opportunities at hand, Mr Brooks. No matter. Do what you are paid to do. It will be enough."

  And he cut off the communication.

  So. I had learnt several things, most of which were unpleasant. Mei-Lin had advised me to leave the White Lotus alone, once, in what seemed like another lifetime. I knew that in that, as in so many things, she had been right.

  The only thing I could focus on was Wen Yi's admission that he was looking for He Zhen. Ergo, that He Zhen was still alive, laying low for fear of the White Lotus—

  No. If I'd been her, if I'd gone to that meeting and been wounded, and known that if I came home my mother would simply hand me over to my future husband, I wouldn't have remained in Fenliu. I'd have gone to a place where the White Lotus had no reach.

  Greater Mexica, or the United States.

  Given what I already knew, it had to be Greater Mexica.

  But she had to get past the border. It wasn't that easy, especially to get into Greater Mexica, which had all but closed its borders. The entry requirements were stiff for the border towns, and got stiffer the further south you went. To settle permanently into the capital at Tenochtitlan for a non-Mexica was near impossible, unless you had serious leverage. You needed outside help.

  I knew a couple of people who specialised in passing foreigners into Greater Mexica. They were easy to find if one insisted badly enough. They were also easy with their promises; most foreigners they ferried across the border ended up indentured in some brothel in Cuauhpamoc or Itzohuacan, or in the silver mines, breathing dust until they choked on it.

  I plucked the picture of He Zhen from the table and went out, back to the Gardens of Felicity, and the network centre she'd connected from eight nights ago.

  Then I moved in ever-widening circles, questioning those human smugglers I could find, showing them He Zhen's picture. I got only blank looks. The thirtieth or so I tried, though, shrugged, and said, “You'll want Doc Smith for that. He always gets the strays."

  Doc Smith was American-Irish by birth, judging by the impressive mop of red hair. I found him in a sordid bar in the Fragrant Hermitage district, the poor White neighbourhood. He was nursing a cup of rice alcohol between quivering hands. When I showed him the picture, he stared at it with rheumy eyes. “No,” he said. “Never seen her."

  He was lying. He'd looked at the picture for far too long. “She'd have come here eight days ago,” I said. “Possibly wounded. She'd have been desperate to get across the border."

  "What's it to you?” he asked.

  "Her family wants her."

  "Some family,” he snorted. “Let the dead dogs sleep, boy. We'll both feel better for it."

  "Wish I could, Doc. But I have a job to do."

  "Sounds like a crappy job if you ask me."

  Yes, a crappy job. Tracker for the White Lotus, because there was no other choice if I wanted to save He Zhen, if I wanted to save my skin. I focused on the task at hand. “Is your job better? False promises to clients?"

  He shook his head. “I've never cheated a client before. Don't intend to start now. I gave her what she wanted."

  "And what was that?"

  He smiled. “Safety. And I won't tell you more, boy. Old Doc is no fool."

  "I'm not with them."

  "That's what they allow you to think,” he said, with a slow, sure smile. “Trust me, boy. Give it up and go home."

  I stared at my hands for a while, thinking of He Zhen, of the lie that had been her life—years spent dreaming of another place, only to find out marriage would be no refuge. “I can't,” I said. “She's not safe where you sent her. She won't ever be safe."

  "So you're meddling? It's an unhealthy occupation."

  I spread my hands on the table, thinking back to Mei-Lin, of our brief months of happiness in Xuya before death had taken her. “I have nothing else left,” I said. Doc smiled. He slid his mug of rice alcohol towards me, but I refused it. “I'm not here for oblivion. I'm here for answers."

  "I can see that.” He stared at me, and it occurred to me that the rheumy eyes saw far more than they let on. “It's no place for tender hearts, Xuya. No wonder they all want to get out."

  "Give me her address,” I said. “Or I'll call the militia here."

  "That's an empty threat, and you know it as well as I do. No Chinaman is going to enter this area."

  "If I could track her here,” I said, “someone else will. Someone else will come, and they'll tear her address out of you. Don't you think she ought to be warned at least?"

  He cocked his head like an owl studying its prey before swooping. “I'll give you a contact address,” he said. “That's all. You're on your own after that."

  "Thanks."

  His hand closed over my wrist. “I'm trusting you. I trust that you have a heart and a brain. Don't you disappoint me."

  I could no longer make any promises.

  * * * *

  The address Doc gave me was a temporary electronic mailing folder, where I left a concise message to He Zhen, appealing to her family sense. I also left something else: a spy program that would monitor the connections to the server. And then I waited.

  It took two days, during which Wen Yi called at least three times. I never answered.

  I got a mail in return, unsigned. Let matters rest. I erased it, for what I was most interested in was where the mail had originated.

  As I suspected, it came from Greater
Mexica. More specifically, from a network centre in the inner suburbs of Tenochtitlan. Damn. It looked like I was going to have to pull a few strings of my own.

  I went back to the Fragrant Hermitage, into one of the seedy bars, and paid for forged travel documents—a fake e-visa that attested to my being a faithful practitioner of the Mexica religion. The visa mentioned that I was entitled to travel to Tenochtitlan, for a pilgrimage at the Great Temple.

  After checking the visa carefully, to make sure I had not been cheated, I spent the next few days reading about the Mexica gods and the sacrifices, preparing myself for embarrassing questions at the border. Then I made the rest of my travel preparations, and within two days was on the way south in a rented aircar, being followed at a distance by two red airlimos.

  * * * *

  Greater Mexica was not a beautiful country. The North was a desert dotted with casinos and brothels. As you moved south, the land gave way to marshes, and to the electronics plants that brought in most of Greater Mexica's wealth.

  My progress was slow. The Mexica took their immigration very seriously. In each town I was stopped for my papers by two or three officials in feather regalia. I hoped the red aircars behind me would be stopped too, but knew better than to rely on such a thing.

  It was a prosperous country, in spite of the aridity: in every hotel were brand-new computers with butterfly symbols, and hotspots where you could access the network for no extra charge. I could almost feel the communications saturating the optic fibres beneath my feet.

  On the fifth day, I reached the outskirts of Tenochtitlan, and joined the queue of vehicles being checked at immigration. I spent the fifth night in my car, slowly inching forward towards the lights of the big city.

  The immigration officials spent some time with me, but not overmuch. They injected nano-trackers into my blood to be sure I would indeed be leaving Greater Mexica at the end of my ‘holidays'.

  For a foreigner, it is forbidden to sleep in the heart of Tenochtitlan. I found myself a hotel in the suburb of Tzopalli, some twenty miles from the centre, and used the network connection to leave a message on He Zhen's electronic inbox.

  In the morning, I went to the network centre, found myself a nearby bar, and settled before a mug of hot cocoa. I still had my spy program in the inbox, set to send me a mail as soon as someone accessed it.