“No,” Bao said. “But Huu Hieu is a dangerous man to know, Cousin. Compassion doesn’t mean following people into the abyss.”
“You mean Quyen won’t approve?” The all-powerful, all-knowing Cousin Quyen, the one who thought the whole station was hers to rule, from allowances to hearts and minds?
His face didn’t move. “All revelations lead to the Way, but not every revelation must be made in its own time, to people who are ready to receive it.”
Buddhist nonsense? “I don’t worship the Buddha,” she said, more haughtily than she’d meant.
“I know you don’t,” Bao said, softly. “But think on it, nevertheless.”
And he, too, walked away, leaving her to curse at an empty corridor.
***
“This is the place?” Quyen asked Xuan Rua.
Her niece nodded. “As far as I know, yes.” She ran her fingers in her hair, nervously. “Aunt...”
“I know.” Quyen shook her head. Here they were, both of them, dressed as young, unmarried women with untied hair, with only the presence of the Honoured Ancestress in her mind.
Quyen felt naked and vulnerable, in more ways than one. It had been years since she’d left the family quarters without an escort or some sort of company. And Xuan Rua, who was too preoccupied by her father’s lack of filial piety, was hardly the ideal companion.
But she’d told the Honoured Ancestress she would retrieve Du Khach’s implant, and this hardly meant delegating the task to someone else.
It didn’t look like much, as shops went: a little store-front which sold jade ornaments and gold jewellery, mostly displaying trinkets in its window, though the rotating holos hinted at the possibility of other, more valuable pieces. Even through the trance, it came as nothing more than what it appeared to be, utterly unimportant.
Quyen pushed the door, letting the chimes echo in the narrow, dark interior of the place: an affectation, as the Honoured Ancestress had enough power to provide daylight to all dwellings.
A wizened old man was waiting for them by the counter. Though it was early in the day, he was wearing full evening garb: rich robes of silk in the Xuyan fashion, embroidered with peaches and bamboos. No doubt the pattern on the robes referred to a literary citation, or a famous proverb. But Quyen had neither the capacity nor the inclination to decipher what was at best an affectation.
“You are Zhang Pingtou?” she asked.
“I have that honour, yes,” Zhang said. His voice was slightly accented, though his Viet was flawless. “What can I do for you, elder sister? I have wedding jewellery...”
Quyen raised a hand. “I have no time for this, younger brother.” It wasn’t until she saw his shocked face that she realised she’d used her business voice, speaking with the authority of one who managed Prosper Station, rather than a timid young woman.
So much for disguises.
Zhang’s face carefully recomposed itself. He looked downwards, betraying reluctant respect. “Lady Quyen.”
Quyen was no Lady. That was a title reserved for scholar-officials such as Cousin Linh. But she wasn’t about to point that out to him. “I’m told you...” —demons take her, there was no polite way of saying this— “...you offer the opportunity to hear the twittering of sparrows here.” She used the Xuyan expression for the opening of the mah-jong game.
Zhang grimaced. It was minute, but Quyen clearly saw it. She wondered whether he’d have the guts to deny her, but he was smarter than that. “Who am I to oppose the meeting of friends, and the sharing of common interests?”
“Friends meeting sometimes leave each other...gifts?” Quyen said, ironically.
She could see his mind working, trying to find the Classic she might be quoting, before he finally realised the allusion was her own. He was too used to working with scholars, with people delighting in wordplays, in obscure references, who weighed their words before speaking or composing a letter. Quyen knew part of that, enough to follow some of her husband’s speeches, but not enough to be a scholar. And she was quite happy that way.
“Tell me what you want, Lady Quyen.”
“My elder brother played the other night,” Quyen said. “And he lost...heavily.”
Zhang’s gaze did not waver. “No more than usual, I’m afraid,” he said.
Somehow, it did not surprise Quyen that Huu Hieu was useless at mah-jong. “Nevertheless...I’m sure you know all about spending money you do not have.”
Zhang’s lips quirked, in a minute smile. “Friends do not deny each other money.”
And he was proud, no doubt, of being the one who saw to that. In other words, he made sure that no debts remained unpaid. He might even have suggested the...monstrosity of Huu Hieu’s selling his own implants.
Quyen forced down the sharp retort in her throat, and said instead, “Friends also do not spend their family’s wealth when they can avoid it. You know what I want, Master Zhang.”
“The matter is confidential. As you no doubt know. I wouldn’t remain long in business if I allowed my friends’ names to become public.”
“I would keep the strictest confidence,” Quyen said, carefully. All she had to do was ask the Honoured Ancestress to scan through who had entered the shop, and to question those people. He had a choice between giving her a single name, or having a dozen of his customers interrogated. But it would have been the height of uncouthness to make the threat explicitly. She picked her words as carefully as scholars wrote memorials, taking care never to make him lose face.
“You are an honourable woman, Lady Quyen.” If Zhang was grimacing, he hid it well. “Huu Hieu left with Thien.”
“Thien?” Quyen felt a nudge at the edge of her field of vision. When she opened herself up to it all she saw was a single blinking light in one of the middle rings, instead of the detailed biodata and genealogical information on Thien she’d been expecting.
Zhang made a complex gesture with his right hand, between approval and contempt. “Thien won’t have, ah, kept what you’re looking for, Lady Quyen. I would check with people who might... be in need of blessings?”
The blinking light in Quyen’s field of vision resolved itself into a narrow entrance, identical to the standard living units on the station. But then the overlay widened and plunged inwards, revealing a wide courtyard around which were arrayed consoles and writing tables.
“A school,” Quyen said. The overlay zoomed out to reveal the name over the courtyard: Abode of Brush Saplings. The needy. Of course. Who would need implants more than the students preparing for the state examinations? “Why this one?” she asked.
Zhang smiled. “You wouldn’t know about it, Lady Quyen. It’s a school for the mid-rings, neither poor nor wealthy enough to afford a private tutor.”
In other words, people who would desperately need to succeed at the examinations in order not to fall back into their parents’ poverty. “You’re sure?” she asked Zhang.
He nodded, with both hands spread. “Come back to me if you think I guided you falsely.”
She hesitated, but it appeared he was telling her the truth. He would have little interest in misleading her. “I’m sure you’re a man who can appreciate some of the Emperor’s sayings aren’t meant for all mortals under Heaven.” Quyen extended a hand, calling on the Honoured Ancestress in her mind to open up a stream where she could extend some minor privilege to him, as price of his silence. A favour for a favour, as the ancients would say.
Nothing happened.
It was as if her mind had gone silent, as if, tottering, she’d reached out for a familiar hand in the dark and found only emptiness. Gasping, she reached out another time. Again and again, her attempts met an invisible wall, a silence deeper than that of the void between the stars, and more frightening.
Through a haze she saw Xuan Rua move towards her, concern etched on every line of her face, her mouth shaping words she couldn’t hear; saw Zhang, his face puckered in puzzlement. Everything around her was silent, and she was as lonely as she’
d been twenty years ago, disembarking from the ship that had taken her to Prosper Station.
And then, as abruptly as a knife stroke across the throat, the world snapped back into focus. The air around her was greasy, charged with electricity. The familiar tightness filled her chest, the sense that she was small and insignificant, but always cared for.
“Child?” The Honoured Ancestress asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Quyen said, the lie tasting as acrid as dust on her tongue.
***
Linh found Quyen in the heartroom, looking upwards with the white of her eyes showing, and her lips moving once in a while. She was no doubt subvocalising with the Honoured Ancestress.
Linh wedged herself against the wall, watching the poem lines run past her across the wall until they all blurred into confused images: cities under moonlight, tribunals where people flocked to see the clear blue of justice spreading over them like the cloak of Heaven. Everything looked whole and unbroken, the buildings so new and radiant that they broke her heart. She felt a pressure against her mind, saw the world take on an oily sheen. Her mouth flooded with an acrid tartness like tamarind. “Honoured Ancestress,” she said.
The Honoured Ancestress’ touch was light, almost negligible compared to the wave of sickness that had sent Linh to her knees when she’d first arrived on Prosper. “Quyen will be with you in a moment, child. I have let her know you’re here.”
To Linh’s dread, the Honoured Ancestress did not withdraw but merely stood by, waiting. She was a Mind, Linh reminded herself with a shiver. A Mind that could be everywhere in the station, taking into account everyone’s preferences and designed environments, and still be there at her core, speaking with several members of the family through her largest interface in the station.
“You’re not often here,” the Honoured Ancestress said.
“Should I be?” Linh asked. It had been made pretty clear by Quyen that she wasn’t a member of the family, and she’d had no desire to join the daily flow of family members paying their respects to the Honoured Ancestress.
A low, thunderous sound Linh realised was a chuckle. “Oh, child. I’m no fool.”
Probably not, but she was not human. Borne in a human womb, made by humans, but still...she was not human enough to understand relationships, and feelings. Thank Heaven, for life on Prosper would become unbearable if the Honoured Ancestress literally kept watch over every one of their actions.
“I apologise,” Linh said. “I assumed my presence in the morning would be unwelcome.”
The Honoured Ancestress said nothing for a while, and appeared distracted. “You do as you wish, child. I do not rule your life.”
No, but Quyen thought she did. “I see,” Linh said. “Thank you.”
The Honoured Ancestress made that strange sound that might have been a laugh, and withdrew, leaving Linh alone, struggling to return to the calm with which she’d entered the heartroom. Truth to tell, the Honoured Ancestress disquieted her; there were no Minds on planets. The only times Linh had been in contact with a Mind had been on the mindship that had brought her to Prosper. It was a faster journey than on any normal vessel, but a deeply unpleasant one.
“Cousin.” Quyen had finished her conversation with the Honoured Ancestress, and was walking towards her. “What a surprise to see you here. I hope I did not keep you waiting too long.” The sentence was a distracted afterthought. Quyen clearly did not mean any of it, paying lip-service to politeness.
“Not at all,” Linh said in the same tone. “I was speaking with the Honoured Ancestress.”
“You were?” A flash of something Linh could not identify crossed Quyen’s face. Was it anger? Annoyance? “How did She seem to you?”
“What kind of a question is that? I’m not the one used to Prosper,” Linh said, more angrily than she’d intended.
“No. Indeed you are not. What do you want? I’m very busy, as you can see.”
Not too busy to keep track of Linh, or to send her unwanted advice about who to befriend in the family. Linh bit back the angry reply and said, “I wanted to talk to you.”
“You are talking to me.” Quyen waved her large sleeves, dismissively. “Tell me what the point of this is.”
Linh took a deep breath. “Cousin Quyen, I am not well suited to the post you gave me. Your nieces are both brilliant girls, and they have little need of a tutor to pass the examinations. Even if I were a good teacher...” She spread her hands in a conciliatory gesture. Gently, child, First Ancestor Thanh Thuy whispered in her mind. You must never force a choice upon people.
Perhaps she should not, but Linh had had more than enough of Quyen’s faceless games.
“I see.” Quyen’s face had gone flat. “You are unsatisfied with the current arrangements, then.”
“Yes.” Linh could have equivocated, could have been polite, dancing around the facts with the skill of a poet. She didn’t.
“You find, perhaps, that they are not good enough for you? That your achievements” —Quyen spat the words— “entitle you to more?”
“I can help you,” Linh said. “You are flooded with refugees, plagued with supply issues. As a magistrate, I have experience dealing with large amounts of people...”
“As a magistrate.” One could have cut ice with Quyen’s voice. “High and mighty, sheltering us all like the clear blue of the sky. You’ll find that here, such things mean little. This is no planet, and we have no use for scholars. Take what you have been given, and if you’re still unsatisfied with it, I advise you to see Magistrate Van, who might give you a better welcome as an agent of the Emperor. But I doubt it. He’s as busy as the rest of us.”
All magistrates were always busy, but they always made time. The ploy was transparent. Quyen had no intention of helping her. She’d never had any. Linh made a last attempt, struggling to keep her voice even. “It’s not Magistrate Van I’m interested in,” she said. “The family...”
“Spare me the family,” Quyen snapped. “You came to us because we were convenient, but you have no intention of being part of this station.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re not. The Twenty-Third planet is behind you, cousin. Stop dreaming on what could have been, and focus on your work and your place here. Understand what this is all about. This isn’t about running a faceless station, but about dealing with family members.”
“I am dealing with them,” Linh said, more forcefully than she’d intended to. “Teaching the girls, as you wished me to."
Quyen snorted. “This is about more than the girls, Cousin. This is about us. About what makes us the way we are, and what problems we face.”
“Are you referring to Huu Hieu?” Linh asked.
“Among other things.” Quyen didn’t even protest that she was having Linh watched for her own good, or attempt to justify herself. She was so certain that she was right, that she knew everything under Heaven. “I have enough problems with wayward family members without you being corrupted by them.”
“I’m perfectly capable of defending myself, even if you do turn out to be right about Huu Hieu.”
Quyen shook her head, and it was obvious she didn’t believe Linh. “You’re not very capable, Cousin Linh. You’re naive, and not prepared for life aboard Prosper, and show no willingness to listen and learn. Put yourself in a more receptive frame of mind. Then, perhaps, I’ll reconsider. When you’ve proved yourself.”
How dare she? She was a mere housewife who had not had the discipline to pass the examinations, who struggled with even the most simple of leadership tasks. How dare she explain to Linh what she could and could not do?
“I’ve amply proved myself,” Linh said, coldly. “I won’t perform tricks for you, Cousin.”
She could feel Fifth Ancestor Hoang wince in her head. But she didn’t need that, didn’t need their advice about reconciliation and making no enemies, about peace, and about safeguarding the harmony of the family. There was nothing she could do with Quyen, w
ho was obviously determined to grind Linh into the ground until nothing but dust was left.
Quyen had gone as pale as rice flour and her hands were shaking. Her voice, though, remained perfectly even. “Is that so? Then I think we are done here, cousin.” She turned away, back towards the centre of the heartroom, and the Honoured Ancestress’ physical presence. Her eyes rolled up a fraction and she went back to her communication with the Mind.
Linh was almost out of the room when Quyen spoke again. “I am reminded by the Honoured Ancestress that, no matter how uncouth and unpleasantly arrogant you might be, you are still family.” Every word was pronounced very clearly, with the precision of a pestle pounding against food. “You can stay here. In the light of this, I’ll grant you your one wish: you’re obviously unsuited for preparing the girls for their examinations. I’ll accept your resignation from that, but nothing else. Have a good day, magistrate.”
Linh left, seething.
***
“I have an appointment with the teacher of the Abode of Brush Saplings,” Xuan Rua said. She poured tea, carefully, into three cups. “Tomorrow, at the Third Bi-Hour, before the students arrive. We’ll both go, but I’m not sure...” She paused, staring at the table. “I’m not sure whether he’s involved or not.”
Quyen sat, watching the dark liquid pool along the translucent, veined porcelain—a painstaking reproduction of celadon from Old Earth, worth perhaps more than the entire station. She inhaled the slow smell of unfurling jasmine flowers. How easy it would be to lose herself in it, to forget about everything that needed her attention. The trance tugged at her: an altercation with the attendants on the refugee levels, three thefts from the noodle-seller stands in the outer rings, a building license for a Buddhist temple two rings away from the Family’s quarters...
On a Red Station, Drifting Page 4