“I wasn’t alone. At some point, I even had thirty armed men with me.”
Ching Shih stared at Xin. Her dark eyes seemed to peer beyond the shades of half-truths to the gritty, nasty truth. “What happened?”
Xin met her mother’s eyes. Ching Shih did not have security clearance, but technically, Xin wasn’t on the job either. She was in China as a private citizen, as was her mother. She looked into the calm face of the woman who had raised her—the woman she was certain understood her best. “Come into the pagoda. We’ll talk.”
On the top floor of the pagoda, in the room swept clean of surveillance devices, Xin told Ching Shih everything. Sipping green tea, the older woman listened in silence, her expression revealing nothing of what she might have been thinking.
When the story was told, Xin sank back in her seat and tried to parse through the odd feeling of relief, as if the burden was no longer entirely hers. Of course, it had not been even before this point; arguably, the problem wasn’t even technically hers. Yet speaking to her mother, even if it solved nothing, had helped in some inexplicable way.
“You must be tired,” Ching Shih said. “I will tell the kitchen to prepare you an herbal soup, and then you should go to bed.”
“Mother, there is so much I have to do—”
“And you will accomplish little, tired as you are.” Ching Shih stood and drew her black shawl around her shoulders with as much imperious grace as if it were a gold robe. “You called me mother.”
Xin swallowed through the heavy ache in her chest. “I’m sorry. When I’m tired, sometimes, it slips out.”
“Why did you stop?”
Why? When?
Sometime in junior high, when the truth finally shattered the illusion of family.
Not now. I’m tired. It’s not going to come out right.
“Xin?”
Then again, it hasn’t been right in years, so what does it matter? Xin expelled her breath in a shaky sigh. “You were nothing like the other mothers who welcomed their children’s friends into their homes. I’m not saying they were all motherhood and apple pie, but they were interested in knowing who their children’s friends were. You didn’t care.”
“It didn’t matter.” Ching Shih frowned, but her voice quavered.
“Of course it didn’t matter. My friends wouldn’t matter when I hardly did. You didn’t enjoy motherhood or me.” Xin shook her head. “I was angry then, and I stayed angry for many years, until I realized it wasn’t my fault. Neither was it yours. You weren’t my mother; it wasn’t fair to expect it of you.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” A flicker of anger crept back into Xin’s voice.
Ching Shih’s smile was sad. “More than you realize.” She leaned forward and cupped Xin’s face between her hands. “You are tired, and you are the only one who can do what must be done. Therefore, you must rest.” She straightened and walked to the doorway, stopping long enough to cast a glance over her shoulder. “Go to your room. I will bring the soup to you.”
Go to your room? Xin rolled her eyes. She was thirty, not thirteen, but Ching Shih was right. The chemical recipe for shuang kuangxi was out there—in hundreds, perhaps even thousands of computers and e-mail accounts. It had been printed, scribbled on paper, locked away in desk drawers, set aside in safes. Perhaps it had even been committed to memory. It was out there in the Internet, where nothing ever died, where nothing was lost forever.
How in God’s name was she supposed to find and eliminate every single shuang kuangxi recipe?
It was impossible. It could not be done.
Her head aching, she returned to her bedroom and stretched out on the bed, determined to listen for her mother’s step on the stair. The bright mid-morning light streamed in through the open windows but sleep, long denied, beckoned to her, and within moments, she was fast asleep.
A gentle hand jostled her out of sleep.
Xin’s eyes flashed open, focused on her mother’s face, and then at the orange-reddish glow of the sun outside the windows on the far side of the bedroom. “What time is it?”
Ching Shih stepped back from the bed. “Almost 6 p.m.”
Xin scowled. “Why did you let me sleep for so long?”
“Eight hours is not long. You needed to rest. Now you will have the spirit and energy to work. Come and eat. Your friend is here.”
“Danyael?”
“Yes, he just arrived and has asked to speak to you.”
Xin dashed water over her face, changed into clean clothes, and walked down a single flight of stairs to the dining room. Danyael was seated at the table and looked up as she entered. He managed a weary smile. “You look rested.”
“My mother insisted.”
“Lucky you.” His glance flicked past Xin’s shoulder, and he inclined his head as he rose. “Ching Shih.”
It occurred to Xin then that Danyael’s innate good manners translated into physical gestures of respect that resonated well with her mother. Ching Shih’s small smile confirmed that she was both pleased and flattered.
Xin concealed a chuckle. Well, if her mother was pleased, then she was too. She took the seat across from Danyael, and Ching Shih sat at the head of table. “My mother doesn’t approve of work-related conversations over meals. Will our discussion keep until after dinner?” Xin asked Danyael.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “At this point, I don’t think a half hour makes a difference.”
And that meant either wonderful news or terrible news. The quiet despair in Danyael’s eyes hinted at the latter.
Not now, Xin coached herself. He said it could wait.
And sometimes, the trappings of normality are all that separates humans from animals. From the jiangshi.
The servants filed in with serving dishes and bowls of steaming white rice. The aroma of perfectly seasoned food filled the large room. Danyael, however, seemed to have no appetite. He tasted a bit of everything as politeness dictated, but even to Xin’s eyes, it was pitifully little.
Ching Shih gave Danyael a steady look. “Tell me, what has stolen your appetite?”
“I thought we weren’t going to discuss work over dinner.”
“No, not work, but you can discuss your plans to steer China out of this impending disaster.”
Xin blinked, started by strong tone of affirmation and even of approval in her mother’s voice. Danyael glanced at Xin, and she nodded. “My mother knows everything.”
“It makes it easier, then.” Danyael raked his fingers through his hair. “Dr. Shen and I have come up with an altered formula. It looks a lot like the formula for shuang kuangxi, and to the non-psychics, the effects will feel the same.”
“But to the psychics?”
“In the new formula, the protein receptors on the surface of the cell are subtly different. The point is, the new formula is no longer infectious and no longer works on psychics.”
“You’re certain of this.”
Danyael nodded.
“How?”
He turned his face away, and his shoulders sagged on a silent sigh. “Yu Long sent over prisoners—psychics and non-psychics. We tested it on them.”
Xin winced, not out of sympathy for the prisoners, but for Danyael. His compassion for others would never have allowed his conscience to accept the decision to hurt them—not even if it was the only way. “Will the new formula undo the damage that was done?”
Danyael shook his head. He looked stricken. “No, we tried that. Didn’t work.”
They must have deliberately infected a psychic with shuang kuangxi to test the possible efficacy of the new formula. When it did not work, they would have killed the jiangshi. How many soul-destroying decisions had Danyael made in the past few hours?
Too many, Xin realized, as she looked into his eyes. No wonder he looked so exhausted. Danyael’s inability to know when to quit allowed him to push through any amount of physical strain, but the emotional burden of what he had done that day had drained him.
<
br /> “We tried a few other things to address the immediate problem—the jiangshi,” Danyael continued. He did not seem eager to dwell on what he had done, and neither was Xin. “Two approaches could work. One mutes the effects of shuang kuangxi, giving the jiangshi a chance to regain control of his mind.”
Xin studied Danyael’s expression. “How small of a chance?”
“Tiny. Fractional. But it’s still a chance. About five percent of the jiangshi calmed briefly.”
“Briefly?”
“They relapse when the second drug wears off.”
“It’s a Band-Aid, then, not a cure. What’s the second approach?” she asked.
“The other amplifies the sensations they’re feeling and kills them.”
Xin rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “It kills them? How?”
“They commit suicide.” Danyael’s eyes, dark and pained, met Xin’s for a moment before he pushed away from the table and strode to the window. He stared out of it, but Xin doubted he saw anything.
“This must be rough for you,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
“The worst of my empathic powers, distilled into a chemical formula, to be dealt out to the jiangshi.” His jawline tensed. “They’re the victims here, Xin. They thought they were taking a recreational drug. They didn’t ask for this. They didn’t expect it.”
“I know.”
“How can this be the answer?” Danyael whispered. His shoulders slumped.
“Is there any other way? Is there no cure?”
“We’ve tried everything we know. The serum’s too well-designed. There’s no way that we know of around it.”
“None that you’ve found in eight hours.”
“None that Dr. Shen and her team have found in the year and a half she’s worked on it. Whenever a new drug is developed, it’s standard procedure to develop a countermeasure, just in case. They’ve tried everything to develop antibodies for shuang kuangxi.” He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Ching Shih cut in. “It appears that the original reason for your visit to China scarcely matters.”
“The experiments on degenerative diseases?” Danyael’s hands clenched into fists. “As it turns out, they’re not conducting live blood transfusions. Excelsior has developed a blood preservative that retains the potency of blood beyond its original window of mere minutes. It gives them more time to do morally questionable acts, like taking blood from the young, pumping it into the old, and then sending old blood back through young veins,” Danyael said. “When we get through this crisis, I’ll find a way to shut Excelsior down. The work they do, it’s all…technically legal, but it’s wrong.”
“Will the IGEC step in?” Xin asked.
“I don’t know.” Danyael turned his face away. “The world could use a better blood preservative, but if it could be used to facilitate blood transfers the way Excelsior has done—”
“Tools are tools, Danyael. There’s no morality attached to them. Zara uses her weapons as often to save lives as to take them. It’s just a matter of which side of the fence you’re standing on.”
“I know.”
Xin studied him. “You’re a father. You feel for the children, and you have no fear of death, which is rare among people. But what about a family of young children whose father is suffering of Young Onset Parkinson’s disease. The work Excelsior is doing—”
“Will help them? I know, but at what cost? Why can’t we help people without hurting someone else?”
Ching Shih’s smile was wistful. “Because that is the nature of a balanced world. Not all can rise; some must fall. A price is paid for everything.”
Danyael shook his head, his denial sharp and immediate. “The point of technology and medicine was to reduce that price.”
“Reduce, yes. Eliminate, no.” Ching Shih’s gaze was far gentler than Xin could ever recall seeing on her mother. “And the price should not always be paid by the same people. Far better to distribute the burden so that the good are with us longer and the evil less long.”
Like the prisoners who paid the price in today’s shuang kuangxi tests. Xin and Ching Shih were both too professional in their machinations to exchange a glance, but the message was obviously received by the target audience. Danyael drew a deep breath, and when he released it, a small measure of peace had crept back into his eyes.
“What about you?” he asked. “Have you found a way to destroy every shuang kuangxi formula out there?”
“I slept on it,” Xin said. And had nightmares about it. “I think you’ve just given me the solution. What do you do if you had two versions of a recipe that would be critical to get right?”
Danyael frowned slightly. “Check both against the original?”
“What if you can’t access the original?”
“I’d compare them to other copies of the recipe, if there are any to be found.”
“One matches the many other copies you find. The other doesn’t. Which one’s correct?”
“The one that matches, of course.”
“Of course.” Xin smiled.
Danyael’s brow furrowed. “You’re planning to replace the formulas.”
“I’m a hacker, Danyael. I can get to all the formulas that exist in some kind of electronic format. What I can’t do is change anything that has already been printed or written down. But if I first change all the electronic copies and then plant a rumor of contaminated recipes, everyone will check their formulas.”
“And the majority will prevail.”
“That’s right. The electronic copies with the revised formula will eventually supersede the physical copies with the original formula.”
“Why not just wipe out all the electronic copies?” Danyael asked.
“Because I cannot destroy all the physical copies, and people will look for what has been taken from them.”
He chuckled, an ironic sound. “So, you’ll use humanity’s two most distinct characteristics—self-doubt and the herd mentality—against them.”
Xin smiled as she reached for her cup of tea. “Why not? I like to keep things simple.” The smile faded. “It’s not an immediate fix. I can get the electronic copies altered within hours, but it will take time for the rumor to take hold and the hard copies to phase out.”
“How much time?”
“Given the prevalence of social media? A few days; a week at the most.” She sipped her tea. “And have you decided which solution to use on the jiangshi?”
“No, not yet.”
Xin studied the indecision in his eyes. “You can’t save everyone, Danyael.”
“No, perhaps not. But shouldn’t I try?”
She laughed. “Zara would say no. Her only true instinct is to save you.”
He lowered his gaze as a smile spread across his face, transforming it.
Xin’s breath caught. Danyael was stunningly good-looking, but his sculptured features, combined with his deliberate emotional distance, evoked the cold perfection of a marble statue. The thought of Zara, however, and the inexplicable love he bore for a woman who was, on her best day, a short-tempered assassin with few qualms and even fewer morals, infused that rare, intimate smile with jaw-dropping radiance.
It was, Xin realized, a peek into the most private parts of Danyael’s soul—and it was beautiful.
As if he had sensed her attention, he glanced up. Their eyes met and his smile smoothed into its usual professional curve.
Too late, she thought. I see you. “So, what now?” Xin asked him.
“I have to get back to the lab. Some of the recent blood analyses didn’t quite turn out as expected, and there are a couple more things I want to talk to Dr. Shen about before making a decision. And speaking of Dr. Shen—” He looked at Ching Shih. “She asked about you.”
“Me?” Ching Shih straightened. “Who is this Dr. Shen?”
Xin found a photograph of Dr. Shen on the Internet and handed over her smartphone to her mother.
Ching Shih’s eyes w
idened. “Oh!” With a trembling finger, she traced the screen. “Yi Shen.”
Danyael leaned back in his seat. “You know her.”
“Yes.” Ching Shih did not pass the phone back to Xin. “She was one of the scientists…researchers…assigned to the project that birthed Xin and me. She came often to the house to talk and play with me. I grew up thinking she was a neighbor. I…” Her voice trembled. “I once looked up to her as a big sister.”
“She appears to think of you with a great deal of fondness.”
“Really?” Ching Shih snorted. “Hard to believe.”
“What happened?” Xin asked.
Ching Shih flipped her wrist in a dismissive gesture. “You don’t want to hear it.”
“I asked. I do.”
Ching Shih’s delicate fingers circled the rim of the porcelain cup. “After you were born, you found your place in the heart of the household. Always happy. Always smiling. Not a tear out of you. Ai Li, the woman who carried you, was your primary caretaker, but she let me hold you often. You even had a name for me. Jie. Big sister.” The softness in Ching Shih’s smile edged into hardness. “Yi visited often, even though she showed no special interest in you, until the day you turned two.”
“What happened?”
“She took you away for many hours, and when you returned, you were screaming, kicking, and thrashing to escape from her. Your face was flushed from crying so hard, but your eyes were dry. All your tears had come out. I snatched you from her arms and gave you back to Ai Li. And then Yi and I fought.”
Xin arched an eyebrow. “Fought?” Had her mother actually attacked someone for hurting her? In Xin’s mind, the concept of her unloving mother blurred, but she did not have a clear image to replace it.
“I struck her many times.” Ching Shih shrugged as if it had cost her nothing to defy the ingrained cultural traditions of respecting one’s elders. “I was trained in wushu; she was not. I struck her until she fainted, and the attendants intervened and carried her away. When Ai Li and I looked you over, we found a bandage on your lower back, and beneath it, a cut two inches long.”
“Really?” Xin tilted her head, her eyes narrowing on her mother’s face.
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