Ming turned to him. She offered a faint smile but shook her head.
“Hydration is key for a successful return trip,” Ito said, handing her a glass of water anyway.
She took it, then threw a glance over her shoulder at her aunt. The back of Xi’s chair was to her, and the old woman was engaged in a hushed but animated conversation with a holographic figure Ming couldn’t see.
She patted the seat next to her. “Sit.” Ito hesitated, looking toward Xi at the rear of the craft. “Please. She’s busy. And you’re my sensei.”
Ito smiled, sitting down. “It has been many years since I was that.”
Ming had realized long ago how indebted she was to her father’s bodyguard. He’d taught her everything about self-defense he knew: hand-to-hand combat, knives, swords, guns. When she remembered growing up, Ming counted her training days with Ito among her happiest memories. They were islands in the sea of angst and pain her childhood had become after her eighth birthday.
She could remember the exact day her mother had taken ill. Ming had just returned home from third grade, flushed with pride over her grade on a new coding experiment. Usually Wenqian Qinlao was waiting for her daughter with a snack and a smile, but on this day the house was silent.
Anxious to impart her good news, Ming had called for her mother again and again until she finally heard a noise in her parents’ bedroom. She’d found her mother sprawled on the floor, her body paralyzed. Drool puddled the tile under her slackened cheek and the room smelled of urine. Upon seeing her daughter, Wenqian made a sound like a wounded animal.
The shuttle’s engines droned. Out the window, the cyclone turned almost imperceptibly over the ocean. From here, it was beautiful. Ming could only imagine the havoc it would wreak on land. In a way, the storms were like antibodies, Earth’s way of ridding herself of the disease of mankind.
Her mother had been stricken by a gene-hopping virus that corrupted her central nervous system. Her father, Jie, had returned within hours, recalled from Germany where he was closing a major deal with the European space agency. He found his wife a shell of the woman he’d left mere days before. Even now, Ming remembered the words that sounded like a foreign language then: gene therapy, stem-cell treatment, bionic enhancement. It was an agonizing year of physical therapy combined with the latest in stem-cell interventions before Wenqian could sit up, speak, and feed herself. But after millions of dollars and one cast aside doctor after another, they at last accepted that she would never walk again. Her muscles required constant external stimulation to maintain the little progress she’d made.
Bionics were out of the question. Looking back, Ming realized, this was the first rift between her parents. If her father had had his way, he would have remade his wife into a bionic woman capable of doing anything she wanted. She’d be better than before, he’d pleaded.
Wenqian would have none of it. Her one compromise was to adopt one of the new maglev chairs for mobility.
At nine years old, Ming knew nothing of boardroom politics or corporate succession plans. She knew her parents had desperately wanted another child—a son—but the reasons were shrouded in unfathomable grown-up logic.
It was when she saw her mother crying, when her father was away, that Ming learned to hate him. He had taken business trips before, but now—with Wenqian crippled and the house so quiet—nine-year-old Ming had decided his place was at home, with them, to care for her mother.
Ming saw her father less and less as time went on. Despite her resentment, she was elated when he showed up unexpectedly in their Shanghai villa one rainy, autumn afternoon. He kissed her in greeting as he always did, but his eyes were cloudy with emotion. When he held her in a close hug much longer than normal, she allowed that too. Part of her even wished it had lasted a little longer.
“You will need to make a choice, Ming-child. Soon.” He hugged her again. “I will not force you. Know that.” Then he went into Wenqian’s bedroom with her Auntie Xi, followed by a woman and a man carrying briefcases. Ito had stayed with Ming.
She and Ito played chess while they waited. He wasn’t very good, but she liked the way his brow furrowed as he considered the board.
“Who are those people with Papa?” she asked.
Ito’s concentration broke. He looked out the window. It was raining harder, fat drops thumping against the glass. “Lawyers,” he said finally, like he had a bad taste in his mouth.
The door to her mother’s bedroom opened, and Auntie Xi left with the lawyers. Her aunt had a glowing smile. Ito’s cheek twitched as she passed.
Evading Ito’s grasp, Ming ran to the bedroom. She found her father kneeling by her mother’s chair, his head in her lap. Wenqian’s hand, withered and quivering, softly stroked his hair.
Ito cleared his throat to get her attention. Angrily, she swiped at the wetness on her cheeks.
“Are you crying for your father, Little Tiger?” he asked.
Ming smiled at the old endearment. “I was thinking about the day of the divorce.”
Ito nodded, his eyes hooded. “It was a difficult day. For your father, most of all.”
That surprised her. “How can you say that? It was mother who was left behind. Traded in, like an old automobile.”
Lily crowded back into her thoughts. In leaving her, had Ming just committed the same sin she’d damned her father for? They weren’t married, there were no children, no contract to uphold. But she’d led Lily to believe they would have a lifetime of loving together .
“I was proud of you,” Ito said, interrupting the cascade of guilty thoughts. “You stayed with your mother.”
“Someone had to.”
Ito nodded. “You did the right thing. I was so proud of you, but I missed you all the same.”
Family. That was why she’d left. The seesaw of emotions, the never-ending sense of obligation. In the end, it was just easier to run away.
On impulse, Ming kissed the old man on the cheek. “And I you, Ito.” She hesitated to ask but wanted to change the subject. “How is Sying?”
“Sying is coping,” Ito said after a moment’s hesitation. “Though your father’s death was most unexpected.”
Her father’s second wife had all the necessary qualifications to serve as the wife of the CEO of one of the most powerful manufacturing dynasties on the planet. She was young, barely a decade older than Ming, beautiful, fertile, and the first daughter of the CEO of a large competitor company. Like some ancient, arranged union aligning ruling houses, the two corporations married their fortunes together. There was no messing around with fate this time: on the day of their wedding, Sying Zhu now Qinlao, was implanted with an embryo, a male child engineered from her DNA combined with Jie Qinlao’s. Nine months later, Ruben was born.
Her father made attempts to blend the families, but Ming would have none of it. She saw Ruben as another betrayal, a way for her father to disown first her mother through the divorce, and now Ming herself through a rival sibling. Ming had been determined to grow up an only child .
“How did he die?” she asked.
Before Ito could answer, Auntie Xi put her hand on his shoulder. “May I speak with my niece, Ito?” Although her voice dripped with honey, Ming steeled herself for a confrontation. Ito relinquished his seat, making his way to the back of the craft.
The old woman made a great show of adjusting her chair so she could face Ming, fussing with the lumbar controls and the angle of recline. Ming focused on the ever-larger Earth in the window. The storm seemed headed toward Vietnam. Her aunt placed a long hand on Ming’s thigh. “How are you holding up, Ming-child?”
Ming stared at the red nails until her aunt pulled them back. “It’s just Ming, Auntie.”
The skin around the older woman’s eyes creased in momentary frustration, then smoothed again with effort. “Of course, dear—I can still call you dear , yes?” She laughed at her own request that was not a request.
“It’s a free … shuttle.” Ming injected as much laiss
ez-faire into her voice as she could muster.
A long silence ensued as each woman attempted to wait the other out.
“How did it happen?” Ming asked finally. There was no mystery about the subject of her question.
“An accident,” Xi said. “Your father insisted on going to a very remote part of Indonesia to inspect a job site. There was a heavy migrant worker force and, well, you know, some countries aren’t as exacting in their screening programs as we are. A virus swept through the work camp.” Ming watched her aunt dab at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “Everyone died. They had to firebomb the site to make sure the virus was contained. It was horrible.”
Overseeing a remote jobsite certainly sounded like her father. Always the exacting engineer, he would have wanted to inspect the latest installation himself. And international worksites were natural breeding grounds for the latest virulent diseases. Screenings were mandatory, but companies weren’t above bribing officials if they thought they’d save money in the long run by hiring cheaper labor.
“Where was Ito?” she asked. Jie Qinlao’s bodyguard had been like his shadow. “Why wasn’t he…” With Papa? Dead as well? Shame and silence finished her question for her.
“He was with me. I was dealing with an internal company issue.” Xi glanced to the back of the shuttle. “He’s taken your father’s passing very hard, Ming. It’s best not to bring it up.”
Ming felt suddenly very alone with this woman. “I want to see my mother,” she said. “As soon as we land.”
Her aunt shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s no time for that, dear. The funeral is the day after tomorrow, and there’s a fitting for your dress and—”
“Why are you here?” Ming demanded.
Xi ceased counting off the pre-funeral items on her elegant fingers. The red of her nails shone in the shuttle’s pale, synthetic lighting. “I came to get you, dear.”
“That’s not what I meant. Why are you here? You could have sent a message or sent Ito, if you thought I needed a personal escort. So—why you?”
“Because I am your family, Ming. Besides, your father made it clear that he wished for you to attend the funeral, if you could be persuaded. ”
“Why?”
“He wasn’t blind to the animosity you held for him since you were a child, Ming. Maybe he felt like your being there would be a sign of your forgiveness.”
Guilt flooded through Ming again. With her father dead, she would have no opportunity to explore reconciliation. The guilt became something softer, more permanent: regret.
“Also, there is the reading of the will. Your presence is required for that as well.”
The will. Ming hadn’t thought of that. A final cementing of the corporate alliance between her father and his new family.
“I will see my mother as soon as I land. I don’t care what appointments you’ve made for me.”
Her aunt bowed her carefully coiffed black hair in a curt nod. “As you wish, dear.”
“And another thing, Auntie.”
Xi’s cold eyes waited.
“My mother will attend the funeral with me.”
• • •
Auntie Xi had planned a funeral worthy of a head of state and staged it in the auditorium of the massive Qinlao building in downtown Shanghai. The building’s facade was draped entirely in gauzy black by some famous artist from Germany who specialized in “transforming death through art.” Her father, a lifelong atheist, was to be lionized by representatives of all five major religions, none of whom had known him personally. The catty side of Ming supposed the five-ring circus was a nod to investors, who’d come from all over the world to pay their respects .
Jie Qinlao would have hated all of it, but since he wasn’t around to be consulted for his opinion, she hated it for him.
Her father’s cremated remains had been sterilized and placed into an antique vase from the Qin dynasty—another touch of extravagance by her aunt.
Two 3D photographs flanked the vase. The one on the right showed her father last year, a posed portrait in a conservative double-breasted dark suit and red tie, the Qinlao logo revolving behind him. His hair was iron-gray but still full, and his eyes were dark and steely. His expression was the epitome of a strong business leader with a vision for the future.
The picture on the left had been taken when Ming was seven. She loved it but hadn’t seen it in years. It was taken at a worksite in Japan, where the Qinlao boring machines cut tunnels for a hyperloop bullet train between the island and the Korean peninsula. Her father’s hair was dark in the photo, uncombed and blowing lightly in the wind. Safety glasses nested on the top of his head. He held a wrench in one hand and smiled as, behind him, men swarmed over a piece of equipment.
A young Ming was there just behind him. As the image moved through its frames, she stood tall, reaching for a butterfly she would never catch in that 3D moment.
“It’s my favorite picture of him,” her mother whispered. Ming agreed by placing one hand on Wenqian’s withered arm and lightly squeezing.
The choreographed service crawled by, with one overblown speech following another, as Ming watched her young self attempt over and over to catch the butterfly. She suddenly became aware it was her turn to speak .
It had all been said already, she realized. Her father’s life’s work, his engineering genius, his business acumen, his international savoir faire. Ming realized it was selfish, but she just wanted to be done with this ceremony.
But her participation was expected. It wouldn’t be over until Ming had played her part.
She stood and took two lit incense sticks—one for herself and one for her mother—and held them between her palms as she bowed to the older of the two photos. She pushed aside her anger with her father and stared at the happy little girl behind him, rising and reaching for the butterfly. Then she focused on the engineer in the foreground with the wrench in his hand, ready to work alongside his men to see the project completed to success. Strong, curious, happy. That’s how she would remember him.
She heard the whir of Wenqian’s maglev chair as it maneuvered next to her. As the sharp smoke wafted over both of them, the sense of loss overwhelmed Ming. She bowed again and replaced the joss sticks, slowly turning to face the packed room.
Her father’s second wife, Sying, sat directly in front of her, barely six feet away. Sitting beside her was Ruben, a boy of fourteen now. Sying Qinlao raised her eyes to find Ming’s. What did she feel on this day? Ming wondered. Her father had married Sying out of convenience, as a business transaction, but had she grown to love him? Did she miss him, or was she glad to be rid him?
Ming’s eyes slid past the widow to rest on her aunt. As ever, she was beautiful, imperious, and haughty. Her dark eyes blazed with pride at the ceremony she had orchestrated .
And here was Ming, standing mute in front of hundreds of business associates and friends. For the deceased’s eldest child to remain silent…
Say something , her aunt’s eyes demanded.
Ming moved in front of Sying and bowed formally, then without a word resumed her seat. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Her mother’s maglev purred into place beside her. Ming stared forward, ignoring the glaring daggers from her aunt.
Xi waved her hand at someone across the room. Mournful music filled the room.
“Have you decided?” her mother asked in a labored whisper.
“Decided what?” she whispered back.
Belying the slackness of her face, the old woman’s eyes danced with life.
“Are you in or out?”
Chapter 8
Remy Cade • Location Unknown
Remy opened his eyes to a darkened room. He took a breath, and pain arced across his chest. Beneath his back he felt the slickness of a fresh bed sheet. Carefully, his fingers explored the rest of his body.
Massive chest contusion, probably a few bruised ribs, but no skin broken. Flash burns on his neck and the underside of his chin. Behind him, a chor
us of soft beeps. He craned his head carefully and found a bank of monitors. And he was wearing a loose gown. A hospital.
Remy sniffed the clean, air-conditioned air. Oddly, a smoky aftertaste lingered on his palate, a bitter sweetness.
First hospital I’ve ever been in where they burn incense , he thought. Where the hell am I?
With each breath, the sharp twinge in his ribs returned. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think.
The UN mission in Alaska … the valley with the dead caribou … the ambush … Rico shooting him. Elise! Where was Elise ?
He blinked on his retinal display to send her a pulse.
Nothing. No signal.
How was that possible? He enjoyed worldwide coverage thanks to the Kisaans. The only thing that should have interrupted that was an outage of the WorldNet satellite network.
Or maybe the Kisaans had canceled his contract.
Remy tried to rise. One of the monitor tabs popped off his chest, and the machine screamed a warning.
“Lights,” someone said.
Soft illumination came up in the room like a fast-rising sun. In the doorway, a well-muscled Chinese man with a shaved head stood dressed in yellow robes.
“Mr. Cade, awake at last, I see.” His voice was a pleasant baritone with a musical lilt. A voice used to speaking softly because it didn’t need to speak any louder.
Remy took stock of his situation in the light. Injured, but receiving medical care, and facing a physically imposing man. Maybe he was a prisoner, maybe he wasn’t.
“Where am I?”
The large man smiled broadly. “In a safe place.” He closed the door behind him. His robes seemed to shimmer through the spectrum of the sun as he walked. He pulled a chair up next to Remy’s bed and sat.
“What are you, a monk?”
“Something like that,” said his host. “You can call me Brother Donald. How do you feel?”
“I asked where I was.”
“I should think it is obvious,” Donald continued, with a gesture toward the wall behind Remy’s head. “You are in the Temple of Cassandra, Mother of the New Earth.”
The Lazarus Protocol: A Sci-Fi Corporate Technothriller (The SynCorp Saga Book 1) Page 6