The Broken Wheel

by David Wingrove

  She stood and brushed past it, spilling her wine over the creature’s jacket, the stain a vivid slash of colour on the ice-white velvet of its sleeve.

  The creature’s eyes flared briefly, following her figure as she crossed the room towards her father. Then it looked down at its sleeve, its brutal lips curled back with distaste at the spoiled perfection there.

  Li Shai Tung sat at his desk, his hands resting lightly to either side of the tiny porcelain figure, his face a mask of pain and bitter disappointment. He had tried to deny it, but there was no doubting it now. Tsu Ma’s last message made it clear. It was Wang Ta Chuan. Wang, his trusted Master of the Inner Palace, who was the traitor.

  The old T’ang shuddered. First the boy, Chung Hsin, and now Wang Ta Chuan. Was there no end to this foulness? Was there no one he could trust?

  He had done as Tsu Ma had suggested after the last meeting of the Council; had looked for the spy within his household and concluded that only four people had been privy to the information Wang Sau-leyan had used against him; four of his most senior and trusted men: Chung Hu-yan, his Chancellor; Nan Ho, Master of Yuan’s chambers; Li Feng Chuang, his brother and advisor; and Wang Ta Chuan.

  At first it had seemed unthinkable that any one of them could have betrayed him. But he had done as Tsu Ma said; had brought each to him separately and sown in them – casually, in confidence – a single tiny seed of information, different in each instance.

  And then he had waited to hear what Tsu Ma’s spies reported back, hoping beyond hope that there would be nothing. But this morning it had come. Word that the false seed had sprouted in Wang Sau-leyan’s ear.

  He groaned then leaned forward, pressing the summons pad. At once Chung Hu-yan appeared at the door, his head bowed.

  ‘Chieh Hsia?’

  Li Shai Tung smiled, comforted by the sight of his Chancellor.

  ‘Bring Wang Ta Chuan to me, Hu-yan. Bring him, then close the doors and leave me with him.’

  Li Shai Tung saw the slight query in his Chancellor’s eyes. Chung Hu-yan had been with him too long for him not to sense his moods. Even so, he said nothing, merely bowed and turned away, doing his master’s bidding without question.

  ‘A good man…’ he said softly, then sat back, closing his eyes, trying to compose himself.

  Wang Ta Chuan was a traitor. There was no doubt about it. But he would have it from the man’s lips. Would have him bow before him and admit it.

  And then?

  He banged the table angrily, making the tiny porcelain statue shudder.

  The man would have to die. Yet his family might live. If he confessed. If he admitted of his own free will what he had done. Otherwise they too would have to die. His wives, his sons, and all his pretty grandchildren – all to the third generation, as the law demanded. And all because of his foolishness, his foulness.

  Why? he asked himself for the hundredth time since he had known. Why had Wang Ta Chuan betrayed him? Was it envy? Was it repayment for some slight he felt had been made to him? Or was it something darker, nastier than that? Did Wang Sau-leyan have some kind of hold on him? Or was it simply greed?

  He shook his head, not understanding. Surely Wang had all he wanted? Status, riches, a fine, healthy family. What more did a man need?

  Li Shai Tung reached out and drew the statue to him, studying it while he mulled over these thoughts, turning it in his hands, some part of him admiring the ancient craftsman’s skill – the beauty of the soft blue glaze, the perfect, lifelike shape of the horse.

  It was strange how this had returned to him. Young Ebert had brought it to him only that morning, having recovered it in a raid on one of the Ping Tiao cells. It was one of the three that had been taken from the safe in Helmstadt Armoury and its discovery in the hands of the Ping Tiao had confirmed what he had always believed.

  But now the Ping Tiao were broken, the horse returned. There would be no more trouble from that source.

  There was a knocking on the outer doors. He looked up then set the statue to one side. ‘Come!’ he said imperiously, straightening in his chair.

  Chung Hu-yan escorted the Master of the Inner Palace into the room then backed away, closing the doors behind him.

  ‘Chieh Hsia?’ Wang Ta Chuan said, bowing low, his manner no less respectful, no less solicitous than it had always been.

  ‘Come closer,’ Li Shai Tung ordered. ‘Come kneel before the desk.’

  Wang Ta Chuan lifted his head briefly, surprised by his T’ang’s request, then did as he was told.

  ‘Have I displeased you, Chieh Hsia?’

  Li Shai Tung hesitated, then decided to broach the matter directly, but before he could open his mouth, the doors to his study burst open and Li Yuan stormed in.

  ‘Yuan! What is the meaning of this?’ he said, starting up from his chair.

  ‘I am sorry, Father, but I had to see you. It’s Fei… Sh …’ Li Yuan hesitated, taking in the sight of the kneeling man, then went across and touched his shoulder. ‘Wang Ta Chuan, would you leave us? I must talk with my father.’

  ‘Yuan!’ The violence of the word surprised both the Prince and the kneeling servant. ‘Be quiet, boy! Have you forgotten where you are?’

  Li Yuan swallowed, then bowed low.

  ‘Good!’ Li Shai Tung said angrily. ‘Now, hold your tongue and take a seat. I have urgent business with Master Wang. Business that cannot be put off.’

  He came from behind the desk and stood there over Wang Ta Chuan. ‘Have you something to tell me, Wang Ta Chuan?’

  ‘Chieh Hsia?’ The tone – of surprise and mild indignation – was perfect, but Li Shai Tung was not fooled. To be a traitor – to be the perfect copy of a loyal man – one needed such tricks. Tricks of voice and gesture. Those and a stock of ready smiles.

  ‘You would rather have it otherwise, then, Master Wang? You would rather I told you?’

  He saw the mask slip. Saw the sudden calculation in the face and felt himself go cold. So it was true.

  Li Yuan had stood. He took a step towards the T’ang. ‘What is this, Father?’

  ‘Be quiet, Yuan!’ he said again, taking a step towards him, the hem of his robes brushing against the kneeling man’s hands.

  ‘Father!’

  He turned at Yuan’s warning, but he was too slow. Wang Ta Chuan had grabbed the hem of the T’ang’s ceremonial pau, twisting the silk about his wrist, while his other hand searched amongst his robes, emerging with a knife.

  Li Shai Tung tried to draw back, but Wang Ta Chuan tugged at the cloth viciously, pulling him off balance. Yet even as the T’ang began to fall, Li Yuan was moving past him, high-kicking the knife from Wang’s hands then spinning on his hips to follow through with a second kick that broke the servant’s nose.

  Li Shai Tung edged back, watching as his son crouched over the fallen man.

  ‘No, Yuan… No!’

  But it was no use. Li Yuan was as if possessed. His breath hissed from him as he kicked and punched the fallen man. Then, as if coming to, he stepped back, swaying, his eyes glazed.

  ‘Gods…’ Li Shai Tung said, pulling himself up against the edge of the desk, getting his breath.

  Li Yuan turned, looking at him, his eyes wide. ‘He tried to kill you, Father! Why? What had he done?’

  The old T’ang swallowed drily then looked away, shaking his head, trying to control himself; trying not to give voice to the pain he felt. For a moment he could say nothing, then he looked back at his son.

  ‘He was a spy, Yuan. For Wang Sau-leyan. He passed on information to our cousin.’

  The last word was said with a venom, a bitterness that surprised them both.

  Li Yuan stared at his father, astonished. ‘A traitor?’ He turned, looking down at the dead man. ‘For a moment I thought it was one of those things. Those copies that came in from Mars. I thought…’

  He stopped, swallowing, realizing what he had done.

  Li Shai Tung watched his son a moment longer, then went back round hi
s desk and took his seat again. For a time he was silent, staring at his hands, then he looked up. ‘I must thank you, Yuan. You saved my life just then. Even so, you should not have killed him. Now we will never know the reason for his treachery. Neither can I confront our cousin without the man’s confession.’

  ‘Forgive me, Father. I was not myself.’

  ‘No… I could see that.’ He hesitated, then looked at his son more thoughtfully. ‘Tell me. When you came in just now – what did you want? What was so important that it made you forget yourself like that?’

  For a moment it seemed that Yuan would answer. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, it was nothing.’

  Li Shai Tung studied his son a moment longer then nodded and reached out, holding the tiny statue to him as if to draw comfort from it.

  Klaus Ebert and the Marshal stood there, face to face, their glasses raised to each other.

  ‘To our grandchildren!’

  Ebert nodded his satisfaction then leaned closer. ‘I must say, Jelka is lovelier than ever, Knut. A real beauty she’s become. She must remind you of Jenny.’

  ‘Very much…’

  Tolonen turned, looking across. Jelka was sitting beside Klaus’s wife, Berta, her hands folded in her lap, her blonde hair set off perfectly by the flowing sky-blue dress she was wearing. As he watched, Hans went across and stood there over her, handsome, dashingly elegant. It was the perfect match. Tolonen turned back, almost content, only the vaguest unease troubling him. She was still young, after all. It was only natural for her to have doubts.

  ‘Hans will be good for her,’ he said, meeting his old friend’s eyes. ‘She needs a steadying influence.’

  Klaus nodded then moved closer. ‘Talking of which, Knut, I’ve been hearing things. Unsettling things.’ He lowered his voice, his words for the Marshal only. ‘I hear that some of the young bucks are up to old tricks. That some of them are in rather deep. And more than youthful pranks.’

  Tolonen stared at him a moment then nodded curtly. He had heard something similar. ‘So it is, I’m sad to say. The times breed restlessness in our young men. They are good apples gone bad.’

  Ebert’s face showed a momentary distaste. ‘Is it our fault, Knut? Were we too strict as fathers?’

  ‘You and I?’ Tolonen laughed softly. ‘Not we, Klaus. But others?’ He considered. ‘No, there’s a rottenness at the very core of things. Li Shai Tung has said as much himself. It is as if Mankind cannot live without being at its own throat. Peace, that’s at the root of it. We have been at peace too long, it seems.’

  It was almost dissent. Klaus Ebert stiffened, hearing this bitterness from his friend’s lips. Things were bad indeed if the Marshal had such thoughts in his head.

  ‘Ach, I have lived too long!’ Tolonen added, and the sudden ironic tone in his voice brought back memories of their youth, so that both men smiled and touched each other’s arms.

  ‘All will be well, Klaus, I promise you. We’ll come to the root of things soon enough. And then…’ He made a movement of pulling up and then discarding a plant. ‘Then we shall be done with it.’

  They looked at each other grimly, a look of understanding passing between them. They knew the world and its ways. Few illusions remained to them these days.

  Tolonen turned to get a fresh drink, and caught sight of Jelka, getting up hastily, the contents of her glass splashing over the serving creature who stood beside her. He frowned as she came across.

  ‘What is it, my love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

  She shook her head, but for the moment could not speak. There was distinct colour in her cheeks.

  Klaus Ebert looked at her, concerned. ‘Did my creature offend you, Jelka?’ He looked at her tenderly then glared at the creature across the room.

  ‘No…’ She held on to her father’s arm, surprised by her reaction to the creature. ‘It’s just…’

  ‘Did it frighten you?’ her father asked gently.

  She laughed. ‘Yes. It did. It… surprised me, that’s all. I’m not used to them.’

  Ebert relaxed. ‘It’s my fault, Jelka. I forget. They’re such gentle, sophisticated creatures, you see. Bred to be so.’

  She looked at him, curious now. ‘But why?’ She was confused by this. ‘I mean, why are they like that? Like goats?’

  Ebert shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s what we’re used to. My great-grandfather first had them as servants and they’ve been in the household ever since. But they really are the most gentle of creatures. Their manners are impeccable. And their dress sense is immaculate.’

  She thought of the fine silk of the creature’s sleeves then shuddered, recalling childhood tales of animals that talked.

  That and the musk beneath the scent, the darkness at the back of those blood-pink eyes. Impeccable, immaculate, and yet still an animal at the back of all. A beast for all its breeding.

  She turned to look but the serving creature had gone, as if it sensed it was no longer welcome. Good manners, she thought, but there was little amusement to be had from it. The thing had scared her.

  ‘They breed true,’ Ebert added. ‘In fact, they’re the first of our vat-bred creatures to attain that evolutionary step. We’re justly proud of them.’

  Jelka looked back at her future father-in-law, wondering at his pride in the goat-thing he had made. But there was only human kindness in his face.

  She looked away, confused. So maybe it was her. Maybe she was out of step.

  But it was ugly, she thought. The thing was ugly. Then, relenting, she smiled and took the glass of wine Klaus Ebert was holding out to her.

  An hour later the ritual began.

  Overhead the lighting dimmed. At the far end of the room the huge doors slowly opened.

  It was dark in the hallway beyond, yet the machine glowed from within. Like a pearled and bloated egg, its outer skin as dark as smoked glass, it floated soundlessly above the tiled floor, a tightly focused circle of light directly beneath it. Two GenSyn giants guided it, easing it gently between the pillars of the door and out across the jet-black marble of the tiles.

  Jelka watched it come, her stomach tight with fear. This was her fate. Unavoidable, implacable, it came, gliding towards her as in a dream, its outer case shielding its inner brilliance; masking the stark simplicity of its purpose.

  She held her father’s arm tightly, conscious of him at her side, of how proudly he stood there. For him this moment held no threat. Today his family was joined to Klaus Ebert’s by contract – something he had wished for since his youth. And how could that be wrong?

  The machine stopped. The GenSyn servants backed away, closing the doors behind them. Slowly the machine sank into the lush carpeting: dark yet pregnant with its inner light.

  Beyond it, in the shadows, a stranger stood at Klaus Ebert’s side. The two were talking, their hushed tones drifting across to where she stood. The man was much smaller than Ebert; a tiny creature dressed entirely in red. The Consensor. He looked at her with a brief, almost dismissive glance then turned back.

  Dry-mouthed, she watched him turn to the machine and begin to ready it for the ceremony.

  ‘Nu shi Tolonen?’ He stood before her, one hand extended.

  It was time.

  She took his hand. A small, cool hand, dry to the touch. Looking down, she saw that he wore gloves: fine sheaths of black, through which the intense pallor of his skin showed. Holding her hand, he led her to the machine.

  The casing irised before her, spilling light. She hesitated then stepped up, into the brilliance.

  He placed her hands on the touch-sensitive pads and clamped them there, then pushed her face gently but firmly against the moulded screen of transparent ice, reaching round her to attach the cap to her skull, the girdle about her waist. The movements of his hands were gentle, and for a time her fear receded, lost in the soothing comfort of his touch, but then, abruptly, he moved back and the door irised closed behind her, leaving her alone, facing
the empty space beyond the partition.

  There was a moment of doubt so great her stomach seemed to fall away. Then the wall facing her irised open and Hans Ebert stepped up into the machine.

  Her heart began to hammer in her breast. She waited, exposed to him, her body held fast against the ice-clear partition.

  He smiled at her, letting the Consensor do his work. In a moment he was secured, his face pressed close against her own, his hands to hers, only the thinnest sheet of ice between them.

  She stared into his eyes, unable to look away, wanting to close her eyes and tear herself away, she felt so vulnerable, so hideously exposed to him. The feeling grew in her, until she stood there, cowed before his relentless stare, reduced to a frightened child. And then he spoke.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I’d never hurt you.’

  The words seemed to come from a thousand li away, distant, disembodied; from the vast emptiness beyond the surface of his pale blue eyes. And yet, at the same time, it was as if the words had formed in her head, unmediated by tongue or lip.

  And still he looked at her. Looked through her. Seeing all she was thinking. Understanding everything she was feeling. Emptying her. Until there was nothing there but her fear of him.

  Then, in her mind, something happened. A wall blew in and three men in black stepped through. There was the smell of burning and something lay on the floor beside her, hideously disfigured, bright slivers of metal jutting from its bloodied flesh.

  She saw this vividly. And in the eyes that faced hers something happened: the pupils widened, responding to something in her own. For a moment she looked outwards, recognizing Hans Ebert, then the memory grabbed at her again and she looked back inwards, seeing the three men come towards her, their guns raised.

  Strangely, the memory calmed her. I survived, she thought. I danced my way to life.

  The partition between them darkened momentarily, leaving them isolated. Then it cleared, a circular pattern of pictograms forming in the ice; a tiny circle of coded information displayed before each of their pupils, duplicated so that each half of their brains could read and comprehend. Genotypings. Blood samplings. Brain scans. Fertility ratings. Jelka felt the girdle tighten, then a momentary pain as it probed her.