He sat up then threw back the sheet. For a moment he paused, stretching, working the last traces of the drug from his limbs, then crouched, listening again.
Nothing.
He crossed the room and stood there by the door, his mind running through possibilities. Maybe they had moved him. Or maybe they had closed down the Project and abandoned him. Left him to his fate. But he was not satisfied with either explanation. He reached out, trying the lock.
The door hissed back. Outside, the corridor was dark, empty. Only at the far end was there a light. On the wall outside the guard-room.
He shivered, the hairs on his neck and back rising. The overhead cameras were dead, the red wink of their operational lights switched off. And at the far end of the corridor, beyond the wall-mounted lamp, the door to the Project was open, the barrier up.
Something was wrong.
He stood there a moment, not certain what to do, then let instinct take over. Turning to his left, he ran, making for T’ai Cho’s room and the labs beyond, hoping it wasn’t too late.
T’ai Cho’s room was empty. Kim turned, tensing, hearing the soft murmur of voices further along the corridor, then relaxed. They were voices he knew. He hurried towards them then slowed. The door to the labs was wide open, as if it had been jammed. That too was wrong. It was supposed to be closed when not in use, on a time-lock.
He twirled about, looking back down the dimly lit corridor. The few wall lights that were working were back-ups. Emergency lighting only. The main power system must have gone down. But was that an accident? Or had it been done deliberately?
He stepped inside, cautious now, glancing across to his right where Spatz’s office was. He could see the Director through the open doorway, cursing, pounding the keyboard on his desk computer, trying to get some response from it. As he watched, Spatz tried the emergency phone then threw the handset down angrily.
Then maybe it had just happened. Maybe the shut-down had been what had woken him.
He ducked low and scuttled across the open space between the door and the first row of desks, hoping Spatz wouldn’t glimpse him, then ran along the corridor between the desks until he came to the end. The main labs were to the left, the voices louder. T’ai Cho’s was among them.
He hesitated, looking back the way he’d come, but the corridor was empty. He went on, coming out into the labs.
They were seated on the far side, some in chairs, some leaning on the desk. All of them were there except Hammond. They looked round as he entered, their talk faltering.
‘Kim!’ T’ai Cho said, getting up.
Kim put up his hand, as if to fend off his friend. ‘You’ve got to get out! Now!’
Ellis, the Director’s Assistant, smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s all right. It’s only a power failure. Spatz has gone to sort things out.’
Kim looked about him. A few of them were vaguely uneasy, but nothing more. It was clear they agreed with Ellis.
‘No!’ he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. ‘The guards have gone and all the doors are jammed open. Can’t you see what that means? We’ve got to get out! Something’s going to happen!’
Ellis stood up. ‘Are you sure? The guards really aren’t there?’
Kim nodded urgently. He could feel the tension like a coil in him; could feel responses waking in him that he hadn’t felt since… well, since they’d tried to reconstruct him. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, his blood coursing like a dark, hot tide. Above all he could feel his senses heightened by the danger they were in.
He grabbed T’ai Cho’s arm, dragging him back. T’ai Cho began resisting, but Kim held on tenaciously. ‘Come on!’ he begged. ‘Before they come!’
‘What in the gods’ names are you talking about?’
‘Come on!’ he pleaded. ‘You’ve got to come! All of you!’
He could see how his words had changed them. They were looking at each other anxiously now.
‘Come on!’ Ellis said. ‘Kim could be right!’
They made for the outer offices, but it was too late. As Kim tugged T’ai Cho round the corner he could see them coming down the corridor, not forty ch’i away. There were four of them, dressed in black, suited up and masked, huge lantern guns cradled against their chests. Seeing the tall figure of T’ai Cho, the first of them raised his gun and fired.
Kim pulled T’ai Cho down then scrambled back, feeling the converted warmth of the gun’s discharge in the air, accompanied by a sharp, sweet scent that might almost have been pleasant had it not signalled something so deadly.
‘Get back!’ he yelled to the others behind him, but even as he said it he understood. They were trapped here. Like the GenSyn apes they had been experimenting on. Unarmed, with no means of escape.
‘Dead…’ he said softly to himself.
Dead. As if they’d never been.
The assassin backed away, shuddering, glad that his mask filtered out the stench of burned flesh that filled the room. He felt a small shiver ripple down his back. He hadn’t expected them to act as they had. Hadn’t believed that they would just get down on their knees and die, heads bowed.
But maybe that was what made them different from him. Made them watchers, not doers; passive, not active. Even so, the way they had just accepted their deaths made him feel odd. It wasn’t that he felt pity for them, far from it – their passivity revolted him. Himself, he would have died fighting for his life, scratching and clawing his way out of existence. But it was the way they made him feel. As if they’d robbed him of something.
He turned away. The others had gone already – had gone to fetch the boy and plant the explosives. Time, then, to get out. He took a couple of paces then stopped, twisting round.
Nerves, he thought. It’s only nerves. It’s only one of the apes, scuttling about in its cage. Even so, he went back, making sure, remembering what DeVore had said about taking pains.
He stopped, his right boot almost touching the leg of one of the dead men, and looked about him, frowning. The four apes lay on the floor of their cages, drugged. ‘Funny…’ he began. Then, without warning, his legs were grabbed from behind, throwing him forward on to the pile of bodies.
He turned, gasping, his gun gone from him, but the creature was on him in an instant, something hard smashing down into his face, breaking his nose. He groaned, the hot pain of the blow flooding his senses, stunning him.
He put his hands up to his face, astonished. ‘What the hell?’
This time the blow came to the side of his head, just beside his left eye.
‘Kuan Yin!’ he screeched, pulling his head back sharply, coughing as blood began to fill his mouth. He reached out wildly, trying to grasp the creature, but it had moved away. He sat forward, squinting through a blood haze at what looked no more than a child. But not just a child. This was like something out of a nightmare.
It stood there, hunched and spindly, the weight held threateningly in one tiny hand, its big, dark, staring eyes fixed murderously on him, its mouth set in a snarl of deadly intent.
‘Gods…’ he whispered, feeling himself go cold. Was this what they were making here? These… things?
But even as the thought came to him, the creature gave an unearthly yell and leapt on him – leapt high, like something demented – and brought the weight down hard, robbing him of breath.
*
Li Shai Tung turned, angered by what he had seen, and confronted the Chief Surgeon.
‘What in the gods’ names did this to him, Chang Li?’
Chang Li fell to his knees, his head bent low. ‘Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but the cause of the General’s affliction is not yet known. We are carrying out an autopsy on his wife and children, but as yet…’
‘The children?’ Li Shai Tung took a long breath, calming himself. His eyes were red, his cheeks wet with tears. His right hand gripped at his left shoulder almost convulsively, then let it go, flinging itself outward in a gesture of despair.
‘Will
he live?’
Again the Chief Surgeon lowered his head. ‘It is too early to say, Chieh Hsia. Whatever it was, it was strong enough to kill his wife and two of his children within the hour. Nocenzi and his other daughter… well… they’re both very ill.’
‘And you’ve definitely ruled out some kind of poison in the food?’
Chang Li nodded. ‘That is so, Chieh Hsia. It seems the Nocenzis were eating with friends when they were stricken – sharing from the same serving bowls, the same ricepot. And yet the three who ate with them are totally unharmed.’
Li Shai Tung shuddered then beckoned the man to get up. ‘Thank you, Chang Li. But tell me what you can, neh? As soon as anything is known. And do not tell the General yet of the loss of his wife or children. Let him grow stronger before you break the news. I would not have him survive this only to die of a broken heart.’
Chang Li bowed his head. ‘It shall be as you say, Chieh Hsia.’
‘Good.’ He turned, making his way across to the great hallway of the hospital, his guards and retainers at a respectful distance. Nocenzi had been conscious when he’d seen him. Even so, he had looked like a ghost of his former self, all his ch’i, his vital energy, drained from him. His voice had been as faint as the whisper of a breeze against silk.
‘Forgive me, Chieh Hsia,’ he had said, ‘but you will need a new general now.’
He had taken Nocenzi’s hand, denying him, but Nocenzi had insisted, squeezing his hand weakly, not releasing it until the T’ang accepted his resignation.
He stopped, remembering the moment, then leaned forward slightly, a mild wash of pain in his arms and lower abdomen making him feel giddy. It passed and he straightened up, but a moment later it returned, stronger, burning like a coal in his guts. He groaned and stumbled forward, almost falling against the tiled floor, but one of his courtiers caught him just in time.
‘Chieh Hsia!’
There was a strong babble of concerned voices, a thicket of hands reaching out to steady him, but Li Shai Tung was conscious only of the way his skin stung as if it were stretched too tightly over his bones – how his eyes smarted as if hot water had been thrown into them. He took a shuddering breath then felt the pain spear through him again.
Gods! What was this?
Doctors were hurrying to him now, lifting him with careful, expert hands, speaking soothingly as they helped support him and half carry him back towards the wards.
The pain was ebbing now, the strength returning to his limbs.
‘Wait…’ he said softly. Then, when they seemed not to hear him, he repeated it, stronger this time, commanding them. ‘Hold there!’
At once they moved back, releasing him, but stayed closed enough to catch him if he fell. Chang Li was there now. He had hurried back when he had heard.
‘Chieh Hsia… what is it?’
Li Shai Tung straightened, taking a breath. The pain had left him feeling a little light-headed, but otherwise he seemed all right.
‘I’m fine now,’ he said. ‘It was but a momentary cramp, that’s all. My stomach. Hasty eating and my anxiety for the General’s welfare, I’m sure.’
He saw how Chang Li looked at him, uncertain how to act, and almost laughed.
‘If it worries you so much, Surgeon Chang, you might send two of your best men to accompany me on the journey home. But I must get back. There is much to be done. I must see my son and speak to him. And I have a new general to appoint.’
He smiled, looking about him, seeing his smile mirrored uncertainly in thirty faces. ‘I, above all others, cannot afford to be ill. Where would Chung Kuo be if we who ruled were always being sick?’
There was laughter, but it lacked the heartiness, the sincerity of the laughter he was accustomed to from those surrounding him. He could hear the fear in their voices and understood its origin. And, in some small way, was reassured by it. It was when the laughter ceased altogether that one had to worry. When fear gave way to relief and a different kind of laughter.
He looked about him, his head lifted, his heart suddenly warmed by their concern for him, then turned and began making his way back to the imperial craft.
Yin Tsu welcomed the Prince and brought him ch’a.
‘You know why I’ve come?’ Li Yuan asked, trying to conceal the pain he felt.
Yin Tsu bowed his head, his ancient face deeply lined. ‘I know, Li Yuan. And I am sorry that this day has come. My house is greatly saddened.’
Li Yuan nodded uncomfortably. The last thing he had wished for was to hurt the old man, but it could not be helped. Even so, this was a bitter business. Twice Yin Tsu had thought to link his line with kings, and twice he had been denied that honour.
‘You will not lose by this, Yin Tsu,’ he said softly, his heart going out to the old man. ‘Your sons…’
But it was only half-true. After all, what could he give Yin’s sons to balance the scale? Nothing. Or as good as.
Yin Tsu bowed lower.
‘Can I see her, Father?’
It was the last time he would call him that and he could see the pain it brought to the old man’s face. This was not my doing, he thought, watching Yin Tsu straighten up then go to bring her.
He was back almost at once, leading his daughter.
Fei Yen sat across from him, her head bowed, waiting. She was more than eight months now, so this had to be dealt with at once. The child might come any day. Even so, he was determined to be gentle with her.
‘How are you?’ he asked tenderly, concerned for her in spite of all that had happened between them.
‘I am well, my lord,’ she answered, subdued, unable to look at him. She knew how things stood. Knew why he had come.
‘Fei Yen, this is… painful for me. But you knew when we wed that I was not as other men – that my life, my choices were not those of normal men.’
He sighed deeply, finding it hard to say what he must. He raised his chin, looking at Yin Tsu, who nodded, his face held rigid in a grimace of pain. ‘My Family… I must ensure my line. Make certain.’
These were evasions. He had yet to say it direct. He took another breath and spoke.
‘You say it is not my child. But I must be sure of that. There must be tests. And then, if it is so, we must be divorced. For no claim can be permitted if the child is not mine. You must be clear on that, Fei Yen.’
Again Yin Tsu nodded. Beside him his daughter was still, silent.
He looked away, momentarily overcome by the strength of what he still felt for her, then forced himself to be insistent.
‘Will you do as I say, Fei Yen?’
She looked up at him. Her eyes were wet with tears. Dark, almond eyes that pierced him with their beauty. ‘I will do whatever you wish, my lord.’
He stared at her, wanting to cross the space between them and kiss away her tears; to forgive her everything and start again. Even now. Even after all she had done to him. But she had left him no alternative. This thing could not be changed. In this he could not trust to what he felt, for feeling had failed him. His father was right. What good was feeling when the world was dark and hostile? Besides, his son must be his son.
‘Then it shall be done,’ he said bluntly, almost angrily. ‘Tomorrow.’
He stood then walked across the room, touching the old man’s arm briefly, sympathetically. ‘And we shall speak again tomorrow, Yin Tsu. When things are better known.’
The old Han squatted at the entrance to the corridor, waiting there patiently, knowing that the dream had been a true dream, one of those he could not afford to ignore. Beside him, against the wall, he had placed those things he had seen himself use in the dream – a blanket and his old porcelain water-bottle.
This level was almost deserted. The great clothing factory that took up most of it had shut down its operations more than four hours back and only a handful of Security guards and maintenance engineers were to be found down here now. The old man smiled, recalling how he had slipped past the guards like a shadow.
The corridor he was facing was less than twenty ch’i long; a narrow, dimly lit affair that was little more than a feeder tunnel to the maintenance hatch in the ceiling at its far end. Tuan Ti Fo watched, knowing what would happen, his ancient eyes half-lidded, his breathing unaltered as the hatch juddered once, twice, then dropped, swinging violently on the hinge. A moment later a foot appeared – a child’s foot – followed by a leg, a steadying hand. He watched the boy emerge, legs first, then drop.
Tuan Ti Fo lifted himself slightly, staring into the dimness. For a time the boy lay where he had fallen, then he rolled over on to his side, a small whimper – of pain, perhaps, or fear – carrying to where the old Han crouched.
In the dream this was the moment when he had acted. And so now. Nodding gently to himself, he reached beside him for the blanket.
Tuan Ti Fo moved silently, effortlessly through the darkness. For a moment he knelt beside the boy, looking down at him; again, as in the dream – the reality of it no clearer than the vision he had had. He smiled, then, unfolding the blanket, began to wrap the sleeping boy in it.
The boy murmured softly as he lifted him then began to struggle. Tuan Ti Fo waited, his arms cradling the boy firmly yet reassuringly against his chest until he calmed. Only then did he carry him back to the entrance.
Tuan Ti Fo crouched down, the boy balanced in his lap, the small, dark, tousled head resting against his chest, and reached out for the water-bottle. He drew the hinged stopper back and put the mouth of the bottle to the child’s lips, wetting them. Waiting a moment, he placed it to the boy’s mouth again. This time the lips parted, taking in a little of the water.
The Broken Wheel Page 18
