Son of Heaven

by Wingrove, David

  He returned.

  ‘Your family will be all right. None of them will be hurt. But we are not here to speak of them. Not now, anyway.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’

  ‘Because you were there. You saw it, didn’t you? On that last day, when Tsao Ch’un gave the order. I was there, you know, in the imperial palace. I had been giving a reading. And then suddenly it was all gone. The old world. And a new world had been born. Do you understand?’

  Jake stared at him a moment, then looked down. He shook his head. Only Jiang wasn’t fooled.

  ‘You do. As soon as you saw what was happening you got out. It’s all on your record. Tsao Ch’un kept it all. Even after it was all gone. He needed it you see, to re-people his world. To fill the levels of his great city.’

  Jake looked up. ‘Is that what this is?’

  Jiang Lei nodded. ‘It’s a new beginning, Mister Reed. A new chance. But first you must be re-educated. What you knew, all that you were, all of that must be shed. Only then can you enter the city. Once the past has been purged from you.’

  ‘And my wife and family?’

  Jiang Lei smiled. ‘A man needs his family, neh?’

  Jake looked away. There were tears now in his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that he was going to live – that they were all going to live. It seemed too good to be true.

  ‘However…’ Jiang said, his voice darkening. ‘There is a problem.’

  Jake felt his stomach tighten again. ‘A problem?’

  ‘About your past.’

  ‘Ah…’

  Jiang was about to continue when there was a knock on the door. He went across, then came back a moment later.

  ‘Here,’ he said, offering Jake a glass tumbler of cold, clear water.

  Jake took it, sipped, then looked back at the Han.

  ‘They tried to kill me. Twice. They shot me out of the sky, then came after me at my girlfriend’s house. They… they murdered her. I got away…’

  ‘I know,’ Jiang Lei said. ‘Leaving three of our best assassins there behind you, neh?’

  Jake let his breath out. ‘And they won’t forget that, I guess…’

  Jiang Lei laughed. Then, more sombrely: ‘The Thousand Eyes have a long memory. They forget nothing.’

  ‘The Thousand Eyes?’

  ‘The Ministry. There is a man here, Wang Yu-Lai is his name, who serves them. He reports back on all we do here. He does not know yet of your presence here, but he soon will. It cannot be kept from him for long.’

  ‘But you said…’

  Jake dropped his eyes. It wasn’t Jiang Lei’s fault.

  ‘So what am I to do?’

  ‘You must become another… temporarily… until I can think of something better. My man, Ma Feng, is finding a suitable name for you. Then, when you are out of Wang’s sight…’

  Jake didn’t understand what he meant. Become someone else? Assume a false identity, is that what he meant?

  ‘But if there’s no file on record to match the name…’

  ‘Do not worry,’ Jiang said, looking away. ‘There will be a file.’

  Jake made to ask him what he meant, but even as he opened his mouth, he saw precisely what it meant. A dead man. Someone who had already been ‘processed’ and found wanting. Someone who hadn’t made it through reeducation and into their great city.

  He sipped at the water, then let his head fall forward. ‘Oh god… what a mess… what a total bloody mess…’

  Jiang was watching him, nodding now, his eyes filled with understanding and sympathy.

  ‘I am sorry. There was probably a time, early on, when our two peoples could have come to some much more suitable arrangement… could have learned to live with each other and shared the world. Only that time passed, and afterwards… Well, let us be grateful for what we have. We must look forward now, not back. The past is dead. There is only the future now.’

  ‘Jiang Lei…?’

  ‘Yes, Mister Reed?’

  ‘That accent. Where did you get it?’

  Jiang Lei smiled. ‘I was at Cambridge. I was a rower, you know. I had arms like pistons.’ He laughed. ‘Long ago now, neh? And in a far country. But tell me, now that I have you here… what was it like inside the datscape? What did it feel like, when it began?’

  Old Josh had drunk the best part of a bottle of single malt. Now he lay there, sprawled out on the couch, his eyes closed, loud music filling that small room at the top of the inn, its golden sound spilling out into the darkness of the deserted town.

  He was listening to Man. Rhinos, Winos and Lunatics. One of the best albums he had in his collection. Welshmen dreaming of being Californians.

  Josh smiled, then belched. Ah, but it was such a glorious sound. That wonderful foot-tapping shuffle and the two lead guitars playing off each other. Mickey Jones, particularly. Oh how he wished he’d seen the man in his prime. Only it was a long time – close on eighty years – since they’d made this and the man was long in his grave.

  The thought stirred Josh to sit up. He rubbed at his left eye a moment, then looked about him blearily.

  Where had he put the fucking bottle…

  His hand found it, tucked beneath the faded pillow. He took a swig, then raised the bottle in a salute to the end of things.

  ‘To the old world…’

  That glorious world in which this kind of pure instrumental majesty could exist.

  Josh hauled himself up unsteadily onto his feet, then went over to the open window, looking out across the moonlit landscape, that vision of grey slate and broken walls that was his home.

  Or had been. Until today.

  He’d been in the outside toilet when they’d come. Had sat there, his trousers round his ankles, afraid to move; listening to them as they bellowed harshly through their megaphones in the square beyond the inn, rounding people up.

  He’d heard their voices in the back bar, only yards from where he sat. Heard his son’s voice, protesting strongly as he’d been led away.

  And still he’d sat there, afraid to come out.

  They had come out into the garden where he sat, secluded, hidden from them, chattering away to each other in their hateful foreign gabble.

  And then they’d gone. Overlooking him. Back into their craft and away. And when he had finally found the courage to emerge, an hour or so later, it was to find the place deserted, everyone gone. Taken.

  After a lifetime of living in his own fashion, he knew this was it. The end. Roll the credits and play the theme tune, because the West was fucked. China had come, and those little fuckers didn’t play games.

  No, and they didn’t like rock music, either.

  Josh laughed, then looked about him at the cluttered shelves. Well, fuck the Chinese. This was his world. These remnants of the pre-computer age. All of that download stuff his generation had gotten into – all of that had vanished, along with the world wide web, with Google and Yahoo, MySpace and Facebook and all the other e-clutter. All of it gone without trace. But not this stuff. Not the vinyl and the plastic. That had survived.

  ‘And thank God for it.’

  He tottered back across to the turntable and changed the record. Something grand was called for. Something he hadn’t heard in a long while…

  Josh grinned, then looked about him. Where had he put it now? Or, rather, where had Jake left it?

  Ah, there…

  Josh took the album out of its sleeve, savouring the feel of it, the look of its old orange label with the black lettering – the CBS motif in a square little box about the spindle hole.

  Yes, just the thing…

  He crouched over the turntable, careful not to scratch the record as he lifted the arm and gently placed it on the gap between the fourth and fifth tracks.

  He loved the look of vinyl, the black gleam of it as it revolved. CDs didn’t have that, nor any of the stuff that followed. It was fetishistic, maybe, but such things mattered. Without them, life wasn’t worth the can
dle.

  There was the faintest noise, an underlying hiss and hum, and then it began. The crystal clarity of those opening piano notes floating from the speakers sent a ripple down his spine. ‘Aren’t You Glad’. Spirit at their very best.

  Josh turned, looking for the whisky bottle, grinning now, the music swelling up inside him.

  ‘Beautiful… fucking beautiful…’

  Wang Yu-Lai was sat by the half-open door of the craft, looking down at the silent countryside, when he heard it, drifting up to him from over to his right, beyond the castle.

  He leaned forward, speaking to the pilot. ‘What’s that?’

  The man half turned. ‘Sorry, Cadre Wang?’

  ‘That music… where is it coming from?’

  The man removed his headphones and listened for a second or two, then pointed. ‘It seems to be over there…’

  ‘Then find it!’ Wang said, impatient now. ‘Let’s silence that awful din!’

  The pilot nodded, then, adjusting the controls, banked the craft, heading back over Corfe.

  Wang saw it almost at once, there, on the top floor of the old coaching inn, to the right of the moonlit castle. There was a light at one of the windows. In that light a small, hunched figure danced.

  He was tempted to tell the pilot to launch a missile – to take out the whole inn – but he was curious. What did the fool think he was doing? And just how had he slipped the net?

  It was slack. He’d have the men responsible whipped for this!

  ‘Set us down in the square,’ he began, then changed his mind. ‘No… the other side of the inn. I’ll go in with a couple of the men.’ He looked round. ‘Li… Cho… you’ll come with me.’

  He chose those two for a reason. Because, this afternoon, they had performed well, following his instructions to the letter.

  And with enthusiasm, he thought, recalling it. He’d watch the tape later. Once he was back at base.

  They set down. Wang waited while the craft’s engines whined down, then, looking to the two guards, signalled for them to go ahead.

  If anyone was going to get shot, it wasn’t him. Not that he expected any trouble. The man he’d glimpsed looked drunk. Only it was best not to take a chance.

  As he went inside, Wang grimaced. He hated the smell of these places almost as much as he hated the people who lived in them. Why they couldn’t just eradicate them he didn’t know. Tsao Ch’un, who was so exemplary in every other way, surely had a weakness in this. Had it been he who made the decisions, there would have been no one left but Han. And even then, only pure Han, none of these fucking ethnics.

  As they climbed the stairs the sound grew louder. It was an awful, raucous noise. The kind of thing that only these barbarians could have come up with.

  At least that much is well ordered, Wang thought, knowing that this, amongst much else, would be erased from cultural memory, once the Ministry had finished.

  No. There would be none of this pop and rock in the new city. None of this retarded beat music. Nothing but traditional Han tunes, traditional Han instruments.

  One flight from the top Cho and Li stopped, looking back at Wang Yu-Lai for instructions.

  ‘Go in,’ he said, mouthing the words exaggeratedly over the pounding noise of the music. ‘Secure the room, then I’ll come in… And shut that fucking row up, neh?’

  Cho kicked the door in, Li at his shoulder as they charged inside. There was the sound of a chair being knocked over, a brief scuffle, and then the music stopped abruptly.

  Wang let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank fuck…’

  He climbed the last few steps then went inside, stopping dead as he saw the shelves and shelves of books and records.

  Kuan Yin! Look at all this stuff! The Thousand Eyes would have a field day, going through all of this!

  There was enough illicit material here to keep a team of clerks busy for a month.

  Wang Yu-Lai looked about him, then frowned. Cho and Li had their heads bowed low. Of their captive there was no sign.

  ‘Well? Where is he?’

  Cho looked to Li, then, bowing lower, answered him.

  ‘I am afraid he jumped, Cadre Wang. When we came into the room he was beside the window. He took one look at us and…’

  Wang walked across and, holding on to the frame, looked out and down.

  It was hard to tell, it was so dark, but it seemed like there was something lying in the street just in front of the inn’s front entrance.

  Wang turned and looked to the two men. He could tear them off a strip, maybe even punish them for not doing their duty properly. Only no real harm had been done, and he could cultivate these two. Use them to find out what the men really thought of their precious leader, Jiang.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ he said, nodding to himself, letting them stew a moment longer; enjoying their discomfort. ‘It would have helped us to know how he evaded us. To know who among us was to blame. But… never mind… We will leave this off the record, neh? After all, I would not wish to see two such… useful men get into trouble for some minor failing on their part.’

  ‘Thank you, Cadre Wang,’ the two men said, relieved, their heads bobbing.

  ‘But Cho… Li… do not fuck up again, neh? Next time make sure we take our man. Next time make sure that I have a chance to talk to them. To have one of our special chats, neh?’

  Cho and Li looked to each other again, then smiled, their understanding perfect.

  ‘Yes, Cadre Wang…’

  Josh groaned, then tried to move his hand. He could see it, lying there next to him on the cold stone floor, but when he tried to move it…

  No. The pain was almost too much. Despite the numbing effect of the whisky, it felt like the whole of his back was on fire. And there was a tingling, from his toes through to the back of his neck. But when he tried to move…

  Nothing. Not a damn fucking thing.

  But what had he expected? He’d just jumped out of a fucking window. Stupidest fucking thing he’d ever done, even if those pair of goons had been a shock.

  He closed his eyes, blacking out for a moment. As he faded back in again, one single thought assailed him.

  I’m dying…

  One moment he’d been in heaven, waving his arms about to that beautiful, powerful sound, and the next…

  The silence was the worst of it. If he had to die, let some glorious piece of power rock be playing. ‘Free Bird’ maybe, or ‘Whipping Post’, or… yes, fuck it… Neil Young blasting out ‘Cortez The Killer’ full volume with a reggae beat. Something truly great in those final few moments. But this…

  He hated it. Hated the silence, the cold, the numbness.

  And that, surely, was wrong? To feel so much and yet so little.

  His hand lay there, not an arm’s length from his face, and yet it was a thousand miles away.

  Dying… yeah, you’re fucking dying, boy… This is how it feels…

  How much blood he’d lost he didn’t know. Probably a lot, because he felt faint now, nauseous. But it was the cold that was going to kill him. He knew it for a fact.

  He heard their footsteps, then, coming across to him. Heard them talking among themselves. Not that Chinese gabble this time but proper English.

  He heard them stop. Heard them register surprise.

  ‘Cadre Wang… you want me to…?’

  ‘No, Li… why waste a bullet?’

  Why, indeed?

  Right then he wanted to call out to them, to tell the arseholes to go fuck themselves, only he didn’t have the strength. Even when one of them placed his booted foot on his back, Josh barely felt it. It felt like the memory of a memory of pain, sent through thick glass and vacuum across an infinite distance.

  Like he was dying by degrees.

  Which was probably the fucking truth.

  If he could have laughed right then, he would have laughed. Just the one final time. For defiance’s sake. Because that was how he’d lived his life. Defiant. With a finger up to authority.


  Old Josh smiled, or thought he smiled… and was gone.

  They turned the lifeless body over, looking for some form of documentation, only there was nothing.

  The man looked old. Eighty if he was a day.

  Wang stared at the corpse a while, then shook his head. It was no good trying to work out what motivated these people. They were not like his own.

  Nei wai yu pi’e… the saying went. The Han and the Hung Mao, the Westerners, were different. They saw the world in different ways. So it was. So it would always be. To think that they could live together… it was a mistake.

  ‘Come,’ he said, gesturing to Cho and Li. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  But as he climbed back onto the craft, he found himself remembering the figure of the man, dancing in the light beside the open window.

  Dancing…

  Wang Yu-Lai shook his head. No good would come of this experiment; of this mixing of the pure and the impure. Time would prove him right. Only what was he to do? He had no voice in the matter. He was, after all, merely his Master’s hands.

  He sighed, then, reaching for his slate, began to write that day’s report. And as he did, so other memories came back to him from earlier that afternoon.

  Wang smiled; a cruel, lascivious smile, remembering, then cleared his mind, like the good servant he was. Loyal unto death.

  But not his death. Not if he could help it.

  Chapter 11

  THE END OF HISTORY

  Jiang Lei stood there atop the castle mound, staring out across the darkened countryside.

  It was late, but you could still hear, faintly, in the distance, the sound of the machines as they worked into the night, building Tsao Ch’un’s great city.

  Those machines never stopped. Shift after shift the city kept on growing, encroaching on the land, populating it with its outposts, like a giant laying endless wei chi stones upon the board, filling it slowly, purposefully.

  Jiang Lei could see it clearly from where he stood, its pearled, lambent forms scattered across the darkness.

  Reed had left a while back, but their talk had made Jiang thoughtful; had brought him here to experience for himself what it was like to see the world from this vantage point. It was true what Reed had said. One seemed to shed the centuries standing there beneath its fallen towers.