Son of Heaven

by David Wingrove

  The ch’a smelled heavenly. As it ought, for he paid a small fortune to have his special supplies sent from home.

  He sipped at it then gave a nod.

  It was the signal Ho was waiting for. ‘Is there anything else, Master?’

  ‘Only my boots.’

  ‘Of course, Master.’

  It was their ritual. Every morning they would say the same words, and every morning Ho would bring his boots and kneel before him to help him on with them.

  Jiang Lei smiled. If he had been Wang Wei, he would have written a poem about it. Something on the lines of ‘Steward Ho brings his boots’. Only between he and Wang Wei lay thirteen centuries. And besides, Wang Wei was a poet. A real poet. He would not have feared to set down what was in his head, however jagged and misshapen. He would have found a way to make it work – to give it elegance.

  And now, with that thought, his mood had changed.

  Jiang reached across and picked up the book he had been reading yesterday evening. It was something one of his men had found and thought he might be interested in. And so he was. Only knowing about these places didn’t help. If anything, it only made things harder.

  Jiang sipped his ch’a, picked at the delicacies, but his appetite was gone. He had that sour, irritable feeling he sometimes had on collection days. That awful sense that it was he and not Tsao Ch’un who ordered things thus. For why should they discriminate? Why, if all they saw of China was him, should they think it bore another’s face?

  He the murderer. He the arbiter, the life-giver.

  Some days it was just too hard. Some days he felt like leaving it to Wang Yu-Lai; felt like crawling back between the covers and pulling the blankets up over his head, shutting it all out.

  Only that was infantile. Unbefitting a man. He had been given this task and, awful as it seemed, he would carry it out to the letter.

  After all, as the saying went, he was his Master’s hands.

  He turned. ‘Ho… take it. I’m done here.’

  ‘But Master…’

  Ho saw his look. He bowed low, then took the tray away.

  Alone, Jiang stood. The book on Corfe had woken him to the age of this land. This culture, like his own, was rooted deeply in the landscape. Perhaps that was why the great Kuoming emperor, Mao Tse Tung, had striven so hard to emulate these people, exalting the Han to be like the Ying Kuo.

  Only they were very different. He knew that now. And it wasn’t just that they stank like babies from their habit of consuming milk products. No. It was something in their heads. Some belief they shared that life should somehow be fair. As if life was ever fair.

  ‘The shadow of Magna Carta…’

  ‘Sorry, Master?’

  Jiang turned. Steward Ho stood there just inside the tent flap, his head bowed low.

  ‘It’s nothing, Ho. Nothing at all. Are the men ready?’

  ‘Almost so, Master.’

  ‘And Cadre Wang?’

  ‘He awaits you, Master.’

  Jiang looked past his servant, saw the figure pacing up and down outside, and sighed.

  ‘Another day, neh, Ho? Another day.’

  The pony was restless. As Jake tugged at the leather strap, trying to fasten it about the load on the cart, so the animal took a step forward then a step back.

  ‘Peter! Keep it still!’

  Boy barked. Peter bent down to ruffle his coat, then walked over and got hold of the pony’s bridle, smoothing the side of its long face with the other hand to calm the animal.

  Jake glanced at his son. Peter had a way with animals. He could, quite literally, make them eat out of his hands. But then, his mother had been farm bred, not city-born like himself.

  ‘You’ve not forgotten anything?’ Jake asked.

  ‘Not that I can think of…’

  ‘Good. Because we need to get going.’

  They had packed everything they’d need for the winter. Clothes, medicines and guns, and whatever jewellery and items they could barter. Every thing else they’d left, giving it to friends or trading it for things they needed.

  In an hour they would be gone. Off on the road again, heading west. There was no future here. They had realized that yesterday, when the craft had come, and when they’d talked of it last night, leaving had seemed the only option. Only now that it came to it, Jake wondered if it were. Wondered whether the few weeks they would have together were enough to compensate for the discomfort and anxiety that lay ahead.

  Besides, who was to say what the Chinese had decided? Would they build their great city over every last piece of land? Or would they stop at some point, leaving the rest in peace?

  Whatever, the future was not bright.

  Right then his old friend, Geoff Horsfield, the history teacher, made an appearance. They had spoken earlier and come to an agreement. Jake had taken Geoff’s pony. In return Geoff had ‘inherited’ all of Jake’s books.

  Geoff touched his forehead. ‘Jake? All done with?’

  Jake tightened the strap one last tiny bit then nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Is now.’

  ‘Where’s Mary and the girls?’

  ‘Inside, packing the last few things.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Geoff hesitated. ‘I mean…’

  Jake knew what he meant, and he was conscious of Peter listening, but he had to forget any doubts he had. They couldn’t stay here. Not with that thing coming over the horizon.

  ‘I’m sure. We’ll head for Dorchester. Stay there a few nights, then head on. We’ve friends in Bridport we can call in on. After that… well, nothing’s guaranteed, is it?’

  Geoff smiled sadly. ‘It’s the march of history, Jake. Though I must say, it isn’t usually so fucking visible, excuse my French.’

  ‘I guess that’s the Chinese way…’

  Geoff nodded. ‘The Three Gorges and all that, eh?’ He hesitated, then, ‘I’ll miss you, Jake. We’ll all miss you. And hey… I’ve got something for you.’

  He handed Jake the old-fashioned paperback, then watched as Jake’s face lit up.

  ‘Where the fuck did you get this?’

  It was a copy of Ubik, the novel. A ‘tie-in’ version, with Drew Ludd on the cover, playing Joe Chip.

  ‘I remember you talking about it, years back now. I meant to give it to you then, only…’

  ‘This version… with Drew Ludd on the cover… I didn’t think it existed.’

  ‘I bought it, down in Exeter, the day things began to unfurl. I was there to see my sister, god bless her soul, and I was in a bookshop there, and… Well, there it is. A little bit of cultural history, eh, Jake?’

  The two embraced warmly. As they stepped back, Mary and the girls emerged, carrying their heavily-laden packs.

  Jake slipped the book away in his jacket pocket, then looked to Mary. ‘Shall we?’

  Mary set her pack down next to the cart. ‘I thought we’d all go. Say goodbye properly to them.’

  Jake nodded, then looked to the girls. They could barely look at him right now. Not that they blamed him in any way for circumstances, only it was hard to say goodbye to their father. Hard to abandon him this way.

  He looked to Geoff. ‘Would you mind the cart for a while?’

  ‘Sure… you go…’

  The girls set down their packs, then came over to their mother. All except Meg. She went to Peter, putting his arm about her waist.

  She was wearing his ring.

  Together they went to the churchyard. There, side by side, lay Tom and Annie. Tom’s grave was fresh, raw almost, like the pain they felt. But Jake wasn’t just saying goodbye to his best friend, he was saying farewell to his wife. To the woman who had loved him. To Peter’s mother.

  It almost made him change his mind and stay. After all, how could he leave this place? This was home. The only real home he’d ever had. The place where he’d found himself again after all that loss.

  He stood there, staring at the graves, realizing, perhaps for the first time, that it w
asn’t just rotting flesh and bones that were buried here, it was them, their essential selves. All that they’d been. All that they’d meant to those who’d loved them. Here was where they were, in an English country churchyard. Here for all eternity.

  Or so he’d always thought. So he’d hoped. Only now, in a few days, it would all be gone. Cast into shadow.

  As they came away, as each of them wiped the tears from their faces, so Jake felt as if they had been cast out, into exile, like the Israelites. He took Mary’s hands and met her eyes.

  ‘We’ll not forget them.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said bleakly. ‘Now, before I change my mind.’

  As the craft lifted, Jiang Lei leaned forward, looking out.

  It was impressive. Had he been a native he would have been in awe. Sixteen craft they had, including his own, and a force of 1500 men.

  On most days, like today, it was pure overkill. He did not need such a force. And yet he used it always, for that was what Tsao Ch’un had ordered.

  ‘Gunboat diplomacy’, Tsao Ch’un had called it, smiling nastily, when he had given Jiang Lei his commission three years back. ‘Our revenge for the Treaty of Nanking.’

  And so it was. Only the irony was lost upon the natives of this land. What had happened back in 1842 on the far side of the globe was barely relevant to their lives now. Or so it seemed, but history, for the Han, was very much alive, and the desire for revenge – to impose their new-found status on old enemies – was strong.

  Not only that, but this was the part his men liked. The chance to play gods over these people’s lives. To save them or destroy them, depending on their whim.

  Not that Jiang allowed them total liberty. No. He was quite strict about what they could or couldn’t do. Yet if one of his men was to make a mistake; to be too zealous let’s say, then he would forgive them as likely as not. Or punish them lightly, just to make a point.

  After the morning’s chill, the day had brightened. Jiang Lei closed his eyes, humming an old folk tune.

  Behind him, in the back of the massive craft, were his eight bodyguards, Ma Feng leading them. While in the cockpit…

  ‘Master Jiang…’

  Jiang opened his eyes again, his spirits sinking. It was Wang Yu-Lai. He had been up in the cockpit, talking to the two pilots.

  ‘What is it, Wang?’

  Jiang saw how that rankled with the man. Wang liked his full title, especially since he had come back from his Masters with the title of Senior Cadre.

  ‘The pilot was asking, Master Jiang… Did you wish to make the same approach as before, over the castle, or…?’

  Wang had clearly seen what he’d been reading. Even so, it was unusually thoughtful of the man.

  What does the bastard want? He’s never nice unless he wants something.

  ‘We’ll fly in as before, but slower this time. Oh, and Wang… before you say anything… each captain knows his task. I have fully briefed them all.’

  ‘Yes, General.’

  Wang bowed, then returned up front.

  Jiang let a long breath escape him. One of these days he would tell the man what he really thought of him.

  But not today. Today was much too fine a day to ruin.

  He hummed a little louder. Down below there was sunlight on the water of the Bay, while to his right – four or five miles north-east of their current flight path – lay one of the city’s outposts, a huge geometric chunk of whiteness consisting of a full eight stacks, each one mile high and two li in diameter.

  Personally he found it an abomination. To his eyes it was little more than a massive plastic box. A giant storage unit for humanity.

  Or, worse still, a giant hive.

  Jiang had flown over parts of it while it was being constructed and seen the eight-sided, hive-like units. Had felt, momentarily, like he’d been shrunk and ingested into the stomach of a bee.

  He had even written a poem about it. Not that it was any good. No. The last good poem he had written was a year and more ago. That poem for his eldest daughter. It was after that that his muse had soured. Had grown as dark and jagged as his moods.

  They swung south, then, aligned with the castle, headed directly towards it.

  Jiang came through; took Wang’s seat between the two pilots, while Wang stood behind him, silent for once.

  ‘Do you know how old that is, Cadre Wang?’

  ‘A thousand years?’

  Jiang laughed lightly. ‘Precisely so. It was the king’s castle. It was here he kept his treasury. Here that he kept his political prisoners. Impregnable, it was. Until a traitor let in the besieging rebel army. The rest is as you see. Even so, I feel, it is impressive, even in its ruination, neh?’

  ‘How long has it lain like this?’

  ‘Four hundred years. There was no need to rebuild, you understand. This part of the countryside… It is hardly London.’

  Wang Yu-Lai nodded. For once he seemed engaged with Jiang Lei rather than watching him.

  ‘See how it dominates the landscape,’ Jiang continued. ‘It must have been truly something when it was whole. A true statement of power, neh, Cadre Wang?’

  ‘And soon it will be gone, neh, General? Will you let the men have their sport with it, perhaps?’

  Jiang turned slightly, looking back at him. ‘Their sport? You mean, let them vandalize it?’

  Wang lowered his eyes, warned by the tone of Jiang’s query. ‘Surely, General, it could be little worse than it is now. I just thought… letting off a little steam could not hurt, surely?’

  Wang was right. It wouldn’t hurt. And the place had been vandalized for centuries. Even so, Jiang felt a sense of outrage at the thought of such desecration. Ruin it might be, yet his instinct was to harm those ancient stones no further. To leave it, buried beneath Tsao Ch’un’s city, for later generations possibly to unearth.

  ‘No, Cadre Wang,’ he said decisively. ‘We leave it be, neh? It would not be right…’

  He saw that Wang was tempted to argue, only Wang let it drop. And that again was unlike him. The man usually pushed things until he, Jiang, was forced to bellow at him.

  Slowly they drifted over it. Slowly it passed behind them. Ahead lay the village.

  ‘Is everyone in position?’ he asked, seeing the craft in the sky up ahead, forming a great circle about the place.

  One by one they reported in. When the last had done so, Jiang gave the order.

  ‘Okay. Set down. Everyone to containment positions.’

  He cut the connection, then looked to Wang Yu-Lai again. ‘Cadre Wang… you will stay in the craft this once.’

  Wang looked stunned. ‘But General…’

  ‘You will do as I say. You may watch things from the cockpit, but you will stay inside the ship. Do I make myself clear?’

  Wang opened his mouth, then closed it again. And then he bowed.

  All of this would go into his report tonight. Jiang knew that. And maybe he ought to have feared it, for the First Dragon had him in his sights. Only he knew Wang was up to something. Some manoeuvre or other. Something he had been asked to try by his Masters. But Jiang wasn’t going to let him. Not here.

  As the big craft juddered to a halt in the sky, Jiang pointed over to the left.

  ‘Down there,’ he said, speaking to the senior pilot. ‘Behind the inn. Send a squad in… no, make it two… to make sure it’s safe. Then we’ll set down.’

  He glanced back at Wang. The man was brooding now.

  I’m right, he thought, seeing that. They had meant him to try something. To stir things up and cause trouble.

  Not while he was still in charge. It was bad enough for these people that they had to suffer this… humiliation. Bad enough that they were to have their lives disrupted, everything they owned and treasured taken from them. At least, this way, they were given a second chance. To become good citizens. Yes, and to forge something good from this abomination.

  Jiang Lei knew the damage he did. Knew it and hoped to mitigate
it. To be his Master’s hands, and yet… somehow to keep his soul unblemished. Like a polished piece of jade, buried inside his chest.

  I am not a bad man, he told himself for what seemed the thousandth time. And yet what I do…

  Jiang watched as, down below, his men ran here and there, securing the inn, bringing the first of the prisoners out and laying them face down on the lawn at the back of the building.

  He blew out a breath, then, touching the pilot’s shoulder, gave the order.

  ‘Okay, Pilot Wu… set us down.’

  Jake had watched the ships come down. Had counted them and knew their chance of escape was gone.

  As he stood there, among friends and family, he wondered if this, then, was the end. Whether, within the hour, he would be dead.

  It was not even that he was afraid. Not for himself. What he felt was a tiredness. A mental lethargy, one might call it. A sense that to struggle would be absurd.

  So the Jews must have felt, during the Holocaust.

  That part of history had always troubled him. Why hadn’t they fought? What had they to lose, after all? But he realized now what it was. Now that it had come he understood.

  He could see the soldiers coming into the village from all directions, some of them carrying loudhailers, shouting the same thing time and time again in broken English.

  ‘Fro dow yo way-pon an’ surreh-da. Re-sis an’ we wi’ kih yu or.’

  He hadn’t understood it the first few times, but now he did. If any of them fought, then all would die. That, too, was like the Holocaust.

  So was that their fate? To be packed off in trains and slaughtered?

  Like animals.

  Jake looked about him. All those he loved were here. Perhaps if they all died, now, together, it would not be quite so bad. Perhaps…

  Only he couldn’t bear any of those perhapses. To allow himself hope in the face of this seemed almost obscene.

  Peter came across and put his arm about his waist. The boy was trembling. Beside him, Boy was growling. A low, hostile growl.

  ‘Quiet, Boy!’ Peter said softly, urgently.

  Jake glanced round. Mary was clutching her girls, the four of them clinging together, fear in their faces.