“It is … very vital.” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Mr. Wu is very kind to me.”
“You are a student?”
“Yes. I study mathematics at the university, one part of the exchange program which SwarnaCom has established.”
Promise felt a moment of discomfort. So … near Wu, quite near him, was at least one human who owed allegiance to Phillipe Swarna. She would have to be very, very careful.
They stepped off the escalator, and walked through a gorgeously appointed hallway. Hides decorated the walls, and with an intake of breath she realized that several of them were illegal. Endangered species. Zebra, lion, ohmigod—black leopard! And there were delicate carvings of bone, what kind of bone she did not know, although if pressed she would have guessed elephant.
The aroma of oolong tea drifted to her through the hall as she was guided to a series of low, comfortable seat cushions. She had, of course, smelled the tea before, but this was the first time that the scent was so … vital?
A rather plain Caucasian woman drifted into the room. She seemed a bit vague at first, and Promise wondered what it was that gave that impression. Then she realized that she was almost sleepwalking. A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
She carried a silver tray inlaid with gold. Upon it steamed a pot of tea. She nodded languidly to Promise, and set the tea tray down. She folded her legs beneath her carefully, with the precision of some dreaming insect.
Promise recognized that look, but couldn’t quite place it.
After a moment’s pause, the woman turned two teacups over, and set one each before Promise and Leslie.
Leslie held her cup out, nestled between her delicate pink palms, rosebud of a face upturned sweetly.
The woman roused from her reverie for the first time. There was a very slight change of expression, and Promise would have called it jealousy, except that it was overlaid with something so serene and confident that Promise envied her.
The curtains at the far end of the room parted, and Wu entered.
Wu (the only name by which she knew him) was perhaps five foot three inches tall, and weighed about a hundred and ten pounds. He would have seemed emaciated, were it not for a feverish life force raging within him. Although generally half-lidded, at the moment his eyes were as bright as newly minted silver.
He was related to the Ortegas by marriage, joining his inherited opium empire with the South American cocaine trade. Those empires had grown more legitimate over the past decade, but the illicit roots remained.
The Ortega empire was still largely drug-based, but they had diversified into many, many other realms.
Wu had done even more, steadily converting his illegal capital into as many other ventures as he could. Ten years ago, Tomaso Ortega had murdered his brother Luis, using Aubry like a guided missile. Then Tomaso’s treachery was exposed, triggering civil war.
Tomaso ended up in an asylum. Wu had, after the death of Margarete, inherited the world.
On the three occasions that Promise had met Wu, she had been impressed by the man’s serenity. Now, not for the first time, she was tempted to call his demeanor not serenity but …
Impenetrability.
No matter who plotted what, and no matter how it went, Wu ended up on top. He had an uncanny knack for positioning himself to profit by any turn of fortune. Chance? Manipulation? Luck? Genius? A level of duplicitous strategy so sophisticated that he had, thus far, eluded detection? She wasn’t sure.
The one thing that Promise depended upon was Wu’s genuine interest in Aubry Knight.
He bowed to them, and raised one elegant eyebrow at the sight of Leslie.
“Your child—” He paused, rolling the word child around in his mouth, tasting it like a sip of wine. “—is superb.”
Promise inclined her head. Wu floated down beside his woman, and served them tea with a hand that was absolutely steady. When he moved, he was both totally absorbed in the movement and, in some bemused manner, separate from it, as if his attention was elsewhere. Promise recognized its similarity to the demeanor of the professional dancer. Such a woman performed at such intensity that the audience believed her thoughts and feelings to be one hundred percent with them. But there was some private part of the dancer that was always separate, always …
Safe.
That was it. No matter what Wu did, or where he was, or who was about, Wu was … safe.
“Drink, please,” he said. She sipped. Heat flowed through the china like a radiant fluid.
“Now,” he said. “I know that you have come for my aid. I do not know what it is that I can do for you. There may be a possibility. I make no commitment.”
Promise nodded.
“Can you think of any debt which I owe you? Any reason that I should place myself or my affairs at risk to aid you?”
Promise could not.
Wu watched her. “Proceed.”
“I need information, and perhaps help,” Promise said. “If the situation is as bad as I think, there may not be anything that can be done. But I have to know.” She lowered her voice. “I have to know.”
Wu examined her, and then turned his attention to Leslie. “You take after your mother,” he said. “In appearance. I have heard rumors about the quality of your movement.”
“Rumors?” Leslie asked, very precisely, in perfect Cantonese.
Wu inclined his head, and barked out a few rapid-fire phrases. Leslie answered in kind. Promise sat very still. She had not known that her strange child spoke Cantonese.
Wu sat back against his chair, and his expression was bemused. “Yes,” he said finally. “It would give me a great deal of pleasure to see Leslie’s movement.”
Leslie rose from her seat. Her baby-blue jumpsuit was made of some stretch material that clung to the declivities of her body almost affectionately. She didn’t warm up—Leslie never needed such preparations. Nor did she need to exercise, in any formal sense of the word. Leslie’s world was a world of facts, of flows of information, and one of the ways in which she sorted that information was kinesthetic. So Leslie was in constant movement.
For Leslie, breathing was exercise.
“Would it be presumptuous to assume,” Leslie said, “that you practice the Wu family form of t’ai chi ch’uan?”
Wu inclined his head. “Not in the slightest.”
“Please excuse any imperfections in my movement,” Leslie said gravely.
She brought her heels together, and began.
With a single slow, steep inhalation of breath, Leslie raised her hands, as if she were a flower greeting the sun. With perfect balance she floated to the left, floated to the right, arms expanding or contracting, face perfectly placid, and Promise tried to hide her astonishment. She knew that Leslie had practiced durga, and a modified form of Nullboxing, and whatever killing arts that the NewMen and Gorgons had taught him. But she had no idea that Leslie practiced t’ai chi.
She didn’t know whether the movements were correct, but it seemed that every motion flowed from Leslie’s waist, her legs always a little bent, but firmly planted on the ground.
Her hands were as expressive as a mime’s. Hypnotic, lulling Promise into a deep and pervasive sense of calm, as if there were a magical quality about the whole performance. Leslie possessed the power to still the passage of the sun, to quiet the air around them. There was no sound in the room. Hong Kong’s eternal traffic burr simply … evaporated.
Promise kept her peripheral vision on Wu. The little man’s casual attentiveness had given way to true interest, and then rapt attention, and then excitement.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet, crying, “Wait! Wait! This is wrong. You move magnificently—truly a credit to your teacher—but the middle phrase is wrong.”
Wu demonstrated. It was strange, to see that skeletal frame corkscrewing and unwinding with such savage power. Even given the state of total relaxation that Wu entered, it was impossible not to see the focus and power of his movement. His hands extended
like the rays of the sun, and he was grace incarnate, the product of a lifetime of study
But …
There had been a spontaneity about Leslie’s performance that Wu could not even approach. Her child projected the impression that the movements were being … discovered …?
“Here,” Wu said. “In this phrase, you have moved incorrectly. It proceeds from Snake Creeps Down, to Golden Cock Stands on One Leg, to Repulse the Monkey. You have performed the same movements, but see how your angles shift?”
Leslie watched. Politely, he said, “Please, sir. If I might. Would you extend a series of straight punches? Slowly, for the sake of the demonstration.”
Mystified, Wu did so. Leslie evaded the slow punches easily, moving straight back as Wu had demonstrated.
“So,” Wu smiled. “You understand now.”
“Yes,” Leslie said. “Now—would you do the same with me?”
“You may come at speed, if you wish.”
“If I may,” Leslie said politely, “I will move at three-fifths speed.”
Wu’s face darkened in displeasure. Then he looked at Promise, and for a moment she imagined that he was thinking, This is the child of Aubry Knight. Perhaps. Just perhaps …
“I am ready,” he announced.
And Leslie flew at him. The acceleration was so great that it looked as if the world had suddenly tilted sideways, and Leslie had dropped off a wall. With Wu backpedaling frantically, the first punch missed, the second grazed Wu’s brocaded robe, and the third one would have crushed his throat.
Wu stopped, and smiled. There was something in the older man’s face that Promise had never seen there before: delight.
“Yes,” Wu said. “And that was three-fifths speed!?”
“Yes,” Leslie said. “However, the problem was that you moved straight back. The secret is in the angulation. Take a twenty-degree, twisting the hips as I did on every slide-step “
They tried the movement as Leslie suggested, and this time, although she came at Wu with even greater speed, intensity that narrowed her beautiful face until she resembled some sort of hunting animal, speed which left Promise breathless, able to think only …
Aubry …
Even moving backward, Wu was able to glide a quarter-inch out of range. At every moment his body was perfectly positioned for the counterstroke.
“It’s simple,” Leslie said. “I can always run forward faster than you can run backward. Your only hope is to move off line. By cutting the angle properly, you can even compensate for an opponent’s superior speed.”
“I see.” For a full minute Wu seemed lost in thought, as if replaying memories in his head. “And which of your instructors taught you this?”
“Ibumi,” Leslie said, “was most responsible for tactical education.”
“And he taught the t’ai chi? Superb. I must know his instructor. And his instructor’s instructor. There must have been a link to my ancestor’s most secret teaching. A son, or daughter …”
Leslie blushed. “I … I hope not to offend you, but no one taught me t’ai chi. I learned it from a book.”
“Ah. A … book. Not even a holo …” Wu returned to his seat. His face looked deeply troubled, his brows coming together, his eyes deeply socketed, as if he were contemplating far-off vistas. “Are you telling me that you achieved this insight on your own?”
Leslie blushed. Promise was delighted—she rarely saw Leslie losing even the slightest control. “Well, yes. Did I do something wrong?”
“Amazing,” Wu said, to Promise this time. “Without formal instruction, with no live movement at all as guidance, your child not only performs a superb t’ai chi form, but has also, in all likelihood, corrected an error which has gone undetected for two hundred years.”
Leslie stood very still.
Wu nodded his head. “Very well. Now, Leslie. I am very pleased by your demonstration. I would like to give you a present in return. What would you like?”
Leslie looked at her mother, and Promise nodded.
“I would like information about my father,” Leslie said.
11
SEPTEMBER 9
Promise and Leslie were guests in Wu’s home that day, and the next. Promise had trouble allowing herself to enjoy the amenities. Leslie, with her absolute focus, swam and played and read with endless energy.
On the afternoon of the second day, Wu returned to Promise, his face neutral. “I have news for you,” he said. He sat next to her on the bed, and took her hand as if she were a fond daughter. “Do you know what an Alpha team is?”
“First team?”
“Yes. In military parlance, the Alpha and Beta are the first and second teams. Very good. But the terms in and of themselves have little meaning. Now. What I have discovered about Aubry is disturbing. He is considered both Alpha and ‘bird dog.’ In other words, Aubry is being backed up. But the backups consider him to be a distraction. Something to draw fire. And he is considered vulnerable to sacrifice.”
Promise felt her emotions boiling just beneath the surface. “But … after the pardon? After the service to President Harris? How could they?”
“The president doesn’t plan such operations. The man in charge is named Koskotas. General Koskotas. A venomous racist, a Swarnaphobe. A man capable of hating Aubry Knight for his skin color alone. Aubry used his connection with Harris to force his way into the operation. Koskotas would hate that. Therefore … Aubry is expendable.”
He clapped his hands, and a map appeared in the air before them. “It seems that Aubry will be brought to this point, where he will be substituted for an athlete performing at the dedication of Swarnaville Spaceport. There may be a chance to make contact.”
“Why? What is happening there?”
Wu’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know. To tell you the truth, I now have more information than it is safe to possess. I am unsure of the game.”
“When is he due there?”
“In five days, on the fourteenth.”
Promise looked at the map, and nodded. “Do you have any word on the second matter?”
“Kanagawa? Yes. As Swarna’s minister of public works, he not only handles contract bids from organizations such as your Scavengers, he also pockets a huge amount of bribe money. Two years ago, your bid was rejected for insufficient side profit.”
“Damn.”
“I have had dealings with this man. I believe that if … say, the Scavengers and Wu Industrial were to propose a joint venture, Kanagawa would be receptive. Would you be interested in such a proposal?”
Promise had to laugh. “Can you even sneeze without making a profit, Mr. Wu?”
He coughed modestly. “It is quite unlikely.”
She extended her hand. “We’ll work out the details later.”
“Beware, Mrs. Knight—my lawyers know no mercy.”
“A happy coincidence,” she said. “How nice to know that we two can remain civil, while our minions go to war.”
“It has ever been thus, Mrs. Knight.” Wu’s green eyes sparkled. He clapped his hands sharply. “Tea?”
12
SEPTEMBER 14
The flavor of festival was in the air.
Aubry, Bloodeagle, and Jenna slipped through the crowd, feeling almost invisible.
Truckloads of Zulu mercenaries roared past. They swaggered through the streets laughing and joking in Japanese. Alarm buzzers triggered in the back of Aubry’s head.
“What is it that bothers you?” Jenna asked.
“Zulus are part of the inner circle. Bodyguards. Agents. Spies. Armed forces. They are Swarna’s eyes and ears.” He spoke urgently. “This is your last chance,” he said. “There’s still time for you—both of you—to leave. Once I take the next step, that opportunity disappears.”
They remained motionless.
Aubry nodded and strode away, feeling, presciently, that within the next few hours one of them would be dead.
The tracer in Aubry’s ulna hummed when he took the
correct directional turns. It pulsed when he was within thirty feet of his goal, and then he saw the tent with its red flag flying, with the tiny river symbol upon it. He slipped into the tent, closing the flap behind him.
Within the tent, three women talked in low voices. When Aubry appeared, their conversation stopped. They wore facial veils. One of them waved a hand to the other two, and they rose. He saw nothing but had the distinct impression that he had just been scanned.
The lead woman came to him, and said in a low, throaty voice, “Can I help you?”
“I seek food,” Aubry said. “I have had influenza.”
“You should boil your water.”
“I heard that the water was good.”
She nodded sympathetically. “Don’t believe everything that you hear. Come in.”
He stepped through a flap in the back of the tent, and into another tent, and stopped breathing.
The man who lay there, in a coffin-sized box, was him. Not the old him, but the twin for his new face.
“What in the hell is going on?”
“He is … was … Faakud Azziz,” a small, bald Caucasian man behind him said quietly. “And he was the favorite for the PanAfrican Nullboxing tournament.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Jacobs. Azziz’s manager.”
With those words, Aubry heard voices talking in his head. Memories, images flashed into existence, as if Jacobs had opened a floodgate. Samuel Jacobs. Expatriate American Nullboxing trainer.
Agent of STYX.
“Is he…?”
“Unconscious, and will be for twenty-four hours.” Jacobs said coolly.
Two silent coveralled black men entered the tent and sealed the box. The word EQUIPMENT was stenciled on the sides. They lifted it up and carried it out.
“Where are they taking him?”
“You don’t need to know.” Jacobs said.
“Just like that?” Aubry’s throat was terribly dry. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“There was no need for you to know, Aubry,” he said. “If you’d been captured it would have placed other aspects of the operation at risk. You were evaluated physically—you trained as a Nullboxer eight years ago. I guess they’re betting that you can do the job.”
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