Nobody fitting He Zhen's description came, but my spy sent me a mail all the same. I looked into the network centre and found only a small child of ten or so years, wearing the square steel collar of slaves. A messenger, then.
I followed the child through the alleys and canals of Tenochtitlan, and lost him when he hopped onto a black barge that sped away from me. A barge with a cactus-and-eagle insignia. The emblem of the family of the Revered Speaker, the Emperor of Greater Mexica.
Damn.
I asked a few discreet questions, and ascertained that this particular boat was the property of one Yaotl-tzin, a minor member of the imperial family who lived on an island some ten miles south of Tenochtitlan. I also got rumours about that house, definitely on the unsavoury side: of virgins brought from Greater Mexica or from abroad, to serve as fodder for private orgies.
With a growing hollow in my stomach, I recalled Doc Smith's words to me: I gave her what she wanted. Safety. If that was safety, he had a very sick sense of humour.
Rather dispiritedly, I asked for an interview with Yaotl-tzin—the Honourable Yaotl—under the pretext of writing a memoir. I wasn't expecting much, but Yaotl-tzin acceded to my request.
* * * *
On the day of the meeting, the black barge came to pick me up on the quays of Tenochtitlan. It was manned by a dozen slaves, sturdy men who busied themselves with the controls and ignored all my attempts at starting conversation.
As the shores of the city receded I wondered, not for the first time, if I was making a mistake. No one would go looking for me if I vanished now. I'd been carrying He Zhen's pendant ever since entering Greater Mexica; I could not help fingering it from time to time, looking for reassurance.
Yaotl-tzin's house was a huge villa by the shores of the lake: a maze of patios and arcades decorated with Mexica frescoes. I followed my escort through several courtyards with pine trees, through corridors with wall-screens displaying the history of Greater Mexica, from the short-lived war with Hernan Cortes and his conquistadores—a war Chinese gunpowder and cannons had soon ended—to modern times, the Tripartite Wars and Mexica dominion on silicon chips and high-grade electronics.
I was shown into a living room with glass cases displaying old codices. Near the window was an ebony desk of Xuyan facture, loaded with papers and ephemeral chips, and a wicker chair where I seated myself, not sure of what else I could do.
I waited. Invisible loudspeakers broadcast Mexica hymns, with flutes and drums giving an odd resonance to each verse.
When the curtain of the door was lifted to a tinkle of bells, I rose, ready to confront Yaotl-tzin with my feeble excuses.
But it wasn't Yaotl. It was a woman dressed in the fashion of the Mexica, with an elaborate blouse and matching skirt, decorated with patterns of running deer and parrots. Her hair fell to her shoulders, Mexica-style; her skin was the yellow of corn, so prized by Mexica that young girls would lather themselves with makeup. I knew it to be no dye.
For, unmistakably, the woman confronting me was Xuyan. “You are a stubborn man, Mr Brooks,” she said, in accented English.
I bowed in the Xuyan fashion, with both hands slid into the folds of my sleeves. “Mistress He Zhen,” I said.
She shook her head. “No more. Here I am known as Tlazoxochitl, Precious Flower."
"It suits you,” I said, without irony. She looked Mexica—the quiet, sure way in which she moved was more Mexica than Xuyan, as if she had indeed blossomed there.
"Why did you come here?” she asked.
"Why did you?"
She shrugged. “You know why. I had no choice. I will not marry a man like him."
"And that was your solution?” I asked. “To be some whore in a stylish brothel?” I realised I was being unfair, but I felt used, knowing all I had done in finding her was bringing the White Lotus here.
She smiled in a slow, secret way that reminded me of the effigies of Buddha in the temples. “I am no whore. I am mistress of this house."
"That was how Doc Smith got you past the border?” I asked.
"Of course, Mr Brooks. It is the fashion of the court, to have Xuyan wives who are pretty and know how to hold themselves in society. Yaotl needed a paper wife he could display at family parties. He thought I was perfect."
"Perfect,” I said, slowly, staring at her.
She smiled. “You forget family does not always include ties of blood and flesh. Tell me why you came here."
"You know. Your mother hired me."
Her face darkened. “Yes. But you are no fool. You know the real reason. And still you came."
"You are in danger here,” I said. “Wen Yi is looking for you. I need the proof you brought to your meeting with him."
She crossed her arms over her chest—one of them still moved awkwardly, and I guessed she had not completely healed from those gunshots. “Why?"
"Because I need to expose him."
"I could have exposed him at any time,” He Zhen said. “I chose to come here instead. I am safe. I do not need you, Mr Brooks, or anyone else. This is a fortress safer than anything my mother could devise.” She had moved towards the window. I followed her, and saw in the courtyard Xuyans being dragged to their knees by burly Mexica. As I watched, the Mexica raised automatics, and methodically shot the Xuyans in the head. “The White Lotus has no reach here, and never will have,” He Zhen said.
"No,” I said, at last, feeling my stomach roil at the casual violence. He Zhen's face was still emotionless. “Tell me, was it worth the price, He Zhen? Was your safety worth that price? Tell me if you're happy."
She smiled again, but there was bitterness in her expression. “Am I happy, moving from one arranged marriage to another? I do not know, Mr Brooks. Here I wield what power I can in the house. Here I am not sold like a piece of flesh to save the family fortune. What would you have done in my place?"
"I don't know,” I said. “But if I had been your father, I wouldn't have let you be so bitter so young."
"But you are not my father. How fortunate.” He Zhen moved between the glass cases, laying her hands over the beautiful codices. “You learn, you know. Living in my mother's house, you learn very fast."
"It can't have been so bad,” I protested, moved to defend He Chan-Li through some obscure instinct.
She smiled again. “You know nothing. You are a lucky man, Mr Brooks."
"I know that your fiancé tried to kill you. Do you find running away such an easy solution?"
Her face darkened again. “I am no coward."
"Then prove it."
"By coming back like a bird to the slaughter? I am no fool."
I sighed. “No, you are no fool. And yet what did you think you'd achieve, that night?"
She shrugged. “Foolish things. You are right. I thought I could break a marriage contract by myself. Life taught me otherwise."
"I can still get the man who shot you.” I thought back to the picture of He Zhen her mother had given me, of the radiant, innocent smile, and knew that nothing I did would bring that back.
He Zhen looked at me with dead, emotionless eyes. “Why should I help you? You came here to save your skin."
"I came for you,” I said, knowing it to be a lie.
"I have no need of you."
"You've already said it."
"That does not make it any less true,” she said. “Go away."
"No,” I said. “I will not leave without proof."
"Go away. Find yourself a hiding place, Mr Brooks. Somewhere the White Lotus hasn't touched. They still exist.” Her smile was ironic.
Once, ten years before, I had run away. I had crossed the border in the middle of the night with Mei-Lin by my side, going forth into the darkness with no idea of what I would find.
The world had shrunk since then. Mei-Lin had died, and I had traced my own path, to stand here, in the heart of the Mexica Empire, facing a girl who was no longer young. “I will not run away,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I will see justice brought.
"
"Then you are brave,” He Zhen said. “Foolish, as well, for all your words."
Perhaps she was right. But I could not walk away. I had not come all this way for nothing. I had one last thing left, one last toss of the coin to convince her. “You may not care about what Wen Yi did to you, but others do."
"My mother?” He Zhen laughed—a sick, disabused laughter.
"You have a grandmother,” I said, and saw her flinch.
But still she faced me, unmovable. “I had,” she said. “Here it doesn't matter any more."
I reached inside my pocket for the one thing I'd taken all the way from Fenliu to Tenochtitlan: the jade pendant He Lai had given me, the one she'd said was He Zhen's favourite. Gently, I laid it on one of the glass cases, and saw He Zhen's gaze turn sharply towards it. “Your grandmother thought I should return this to you,” I said. “She hoped I would not have to bring it back to her."
He Zhen said nothing. Her gaze had turned inwards, as remote as that of a statue.
"What should I tell her?” I asked, softly.
"It doesn't matter,” He Zhen repeated, with much less conviction. For the first time emotion had come into her voice. She stared at the pendant for a while, biting her lip.
Then, slowly, agonisingly slowly, she reached out, snapped her hands shut around it. Her face still had no expression.
I did not speak, simply watched her wrestle with herself.
She said, at last, “Very well. You are a hard man to refuse, Mr Brooks. My servants will give you what you need. Do what you want with it. And then leave."
"Thank you,” I said.
I walked back to the door in silence, leaving her standing before the open window, silhouetted in light. Beneath her, in the courtyard, lay the corpses of the White Lotus's agents.
When I lifted the curtain to exit the room, I heard her call me. “Mr Brooks?"
I did not turn around.
"I am not happy,” she said, very quietly. “But don't tell her that. Tell her that I did the best I could, with the little I had. And that it will have to be enough. After all, isn't it the same for everyone?” And for the first time I heard a sixteen-year-old, bewildered girl, wondering if she had done the right thing.
I said nothing. In truth, I had no answer, and she must have known it. I walked away without looking back.
* * * *
Before I left Greater Mexica, I went back to my hotel, and used my connection to tinker with things. I forwarded the proof He Zhen had given me to the tribunal of Fenliu. I would have liked to send it in my own name, even to face Wen Yi myself and tell him who had delivered the final blow, but I knew this was foolishness. If I did this, there would be no safe haven for me in Fenliu, nor anywhere in Xuya. The White Lotus always avenged its own.
So, to cover my tracks, I manipulated the router addresses until it looked as if He Zhen herself had sent the incriminating evidence.
It was the most satisfying thing I had done in a while.
As I drove back to Xuya, I followed the development of events with interest; although I wasn't in Fenliu, images of Wen Yi's arrest made the news even in Greater Mexica. The newscasters were betting on a strangling at the very least. Xuya did not joke with corruption of government officials.
In Fenliu, I dropped off the car at the rental agency, and took the maglev to He Chan-Li's house.
She met me at the door, still dressed in her business suit. Behind her was her mother He Lai, in the same traditional costume she'd worn when I'd first come to the house. “Mr Brooks. You come at a difficult time,” He Chan-Li said.
"I know.” Leiming Tech's value had plummeted on the market, and the banks were withdrawing out of it, fast. “I came to tell you your daughter is well, but that she won't come home."
He Chan-Li's face did not move, but I could feel the hatred emanating from her. “She never did know what family was."
"No,” I said. “Aren't you glad that she's alive?” But I already knew the answer to that. I knew why He Zhen had felt so oppressed in that house. He Chan-Li turned away from me, and walked back towards her house.
I was left with He Lai, who was quietly staring at me.
"I am glad,” she said, softly, as I pressed into her hands the other thing He Zhen had given me: a small pendant in the shape of the red lotus, the Xuyan symbol for filial devotion.
I asked, at last, “You were the one who erased the files on He Zhen's computer, weren't you? That's why she had to change the session from private to open, because otherwise the computer would have asked you for fingerprints."
He Lai said, not looking at me, “She is my only granddaughter. What else was I to do? Sometimes our paths take us far away from what seems truth, but they are still the ones the gods ordained for us.” There were tears in her eyes now, and she was making no effort to hide them.
"I know,” I said at last. “I'm sorry."
"Thank you. I'll see to it that you are paid."
"This isn't about money,” I protested.
"Most things are,” He Lai said. “You will be glad for it, trust me. Goodbye, Mr Brooks. I trust we will not meet again."
No. I did not think we would.
I rode the maglev back to my flat, staring at the patch of sky I could see between the skyscrapers. At this hour of the night, I was one of the only passengers. I listened to the familiar whine of the train, like a symphony welcoming me home. I would go back to my flat, rise in the morning and go again through the routine of my life, filling the days and nights as I had done since Mei-Lin's death. I wondered whether this was worth it, or whether I did it because I had no other choice. I wondered if it mattered, and thought back to He Zhen's words.
I did the best I could, with the little I had. And it will have to be enough.
Yes. It would have to be enough, day after day, night after night.
It would have to be.
[Back to Table of Contents]
LASER FODDER—Tony Lee's Regular Review of DVD Releases
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Stephen King's Riding The Bullet (2004) is directed by Mick Garris, who seems to be the adapter of choice for King nowadays. It's 1969, and Halloween hitchhiker Alan (Jonathan Jackson) struggles to get home and visit his widowed mother in hospital. On the road trip down memory lane he meets a sinister old codger, violent rednecks, and a ghost psycho driving the car from Christine (1983). Stars like Barbara Hershey, Cliff Robertson and David Arquette do what they can with this tiredly conventional material but cannot save a plainly dull film. Intended as a surreal night ride through whimsical answers to childhood fears with melancholic responses to tragedies solved by folksy homilies, this is moribund when it needs to be macabre, serving only cheap, cheesy scares in the approved EC horror comix manner. Frissons that were parodied in Creepshow (1982) are dishonestly recycled as if brand new. Compared to recently unleashed weirdness by David Lynch, this is unimaginative and flimsy drama fuelled by comforting revelations about second chances in life, overly familiar genre in-jokes, and simplistic metaphors for juvenile anxieties (the title's Bullet is a roller-coaster).
* * * *
An effective vanguard for Jon Favreau's live-action Iron Man, due in 2008, Marvel's animated feature The Invincible Iron Man (2007) is reasonably faithful to the superhero character's 1963 origin story on several key points. However, it's updated to China not Vietnam, the villains include a secret mystic cabal instead of a guerrilla warlord, and the chief menaces are elemental beings and the ancient Mandarin's evil spirit instead of conventional military troops. As voiced by Marc Worden (who also played Iron Man in both Ultimate Avengers animated movies), injured industrialist Tony Stark invents a hi-tech suit of armour to escape from captivity but later returns to China, hoping to fulfil an eastern Iron Knight prophesy, defeat his sworn enemies and rescue the cursed heroine Li Mei (Gwendoline Yeo). Partly inspired by Howard Hughes, billionaire inventor playboy Stark was Marvel's answer to Bruce Wayne, as neither possesses actual super
-powers. But whereas Batman's principally a detective, Iron Man typically solves problems with advanced defensive technology and is closer to the scientist as protagonist ideal of SF than most comicbook hero types. A notable divergence from Iron Man comics’ lore is that Stark's father Howard is still alive (in the comics, Tony was orphaned by a car crash), able to lend some degree of paternal influence despite being troubled by his own failures. It's a surprising departure from the usual childhood loner story, establishing a Stark dynasty and setting up different character dynamics than expected.
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David Fairman's curio Messages (2007) is a British serial-killer mystery centred on a supernatural-thriller aspect, but its main cast: Jeff Fahey, Martin Cove (the ‘himbo’ from Cagney & Lacey), Bruce Payne, and Kim Thomson (remember the glamorous redhead from Virtual Murder?) all seem to be playing in different TV movie modes—from slasher horror and cowboy cop-show, to weirdo mannered hospital drama and bittersweet romance. There are some brief yet highly effective moments of gore, too many night-terror hauntings perhaps triggered by copious single malt whiskeys, and a confusion of female victims (including Eileen Daly) whose naked and eyeless bodies are dumped in Hertfordshire countryside. The film's casual unfolding of scare opera routines boasts all the sedentary pacing of low-key detective shows like Morse and Bergerac. The obligatory twist ending is not easily anticipated but, in retrospect, its effectiveness is barely average for this genre and, partly due to a regrettably stilted performance from Norman Bates wannabe, Father Randall (Jon-Paul Gates, from Fairman's Cold Fish), it's laughable when deployed by producer-director Fairman. Clearly, they ought to have made psycho-capable Fahey (Maniacts, Body Parts), or plausible madman Payne (Passenger 57), the villain here.
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From enterprising low-budget writer-director Brett Piper, maker of garishly camp anthology flick Shock-O-Rama, comes Bacterium (2006), about secret military biotech research accidentally creating a monster. The body-melting virus afflicts a renegade scientist, whose basement hideout in an old house is discovered by nosy paintball players. Military goons surround the place hoping to control the situation, but safely bunkered officials cannot agree on how to neutralise a potential menace to the world. Nuke it with a quantum singularity, or not? Brazenly over ambitious films can be tremendous fun, and subgenre literate filmmaker Piper knows how to shape allusive material for maximum ‘remake’ appeal to fanboy viewers. The Quatermass Xperiment and The Blob, filtered through Troma sensibilities, this weirdly gruesome, likeable schlock has strong but sexy female characters, hysterically funny techno-geek dialogue from loony boffins, hapless politicos (with names like Senator Quagmire!), and a creatively edited blend of physical and traditional miniature effects works that never fails to amuse or disgust. If you enjoy movies where gangs of gun-toting bikers come to rescue the heroes from governmental oppressors, catastrophic scenarios are discussed by inoffensively bad actors in darkened rooms, and plenty of icky stuff goes on at regular intervals, this one's for you.
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #213 Page 17
