An Inch of Ashes (CHUNG KUO SERIES)

by David Wingrove

  ‘Hmm.’ Spatz leaned forward and blanked the screen, then turned, looking up at his assistant. ‘I know what you think, Ellis, but you’re wrong. He’s up to something. I’m sure of it. So keep looking. I don’t want your team to relax until you’ve found out what he’s doing.’

  Ellis bowed. Once outside the room he drew a long breath, then shook his head. The Director’s obsession with the boy was bordering upon the insane. He was convinced that the boy had been introduced for one of two reasons – either to spy upon him or to ensure that the Project failed. Either way he felt threatened. But the truth was far simpler.

  He had been studying the boy for ten days now and was convinced that he was genuine. He had watched Kim working on several of his own projects and had seen how he applied himself to problems. There was no faking that; no way of counterfeiting that quickness of mind. But Spatz would not hear of it. Second-rate himself, he would not have it that a mere boy – and a Clayborn boy at that – could be his intellectual superior.

  But Spatz wasn’t to have it all his own way. Ellis had seen the directive that had come down only moments before he had gone in to see the Director. And there was nothing Spatz could do about it.

  He laughed, then walked on. No, not even Project Director Spatz would have the nerve to countermand Prince Yuan’s direct command.

  Kim was lying on his back in the pool, his eyes closed. It was late and the pool was empty, but from the gym nearby came the harsh hiss and grunt of the men working out on the exercise machines.

  For a time he simply floated there, relaxing, then, rolling over, he kicked out for the side, glancing up at the cameras overhead.

  Did they watch him even here? He smiled and ducked his face under, then lifted it, throwing the water out from him in a spray. Almost certainly. Even when he was pissing they’d have a camera on him. Spatz was like that. But he wasn’t atypical. There were many like Spatz. The City bred them in their hundred thousands.

  He pulled himself up and sat there on the side, moving his legs lazily in the water. He had always been watched – it was almost the condition of his existence – but he had never come to like it. At best he used it, as he did now, as a goad, challenging himself to defeat its constrictions.

  In that the reports on him were accurate. In this one respect the Clay had shaped him – for he was cunning. And not just cunning, but inventive in his cunning, as if the very directness of his mind – that aspect of him which could grasp the essence of a thing at once and use it – needed this other ‘twisted’ part to permit its function. He smiled and looked down, wondering, as ever, what they made of his smiles – what they thought when they saw him smile so, or so.

  He looked up; looked directly into camera. What do you see, Shih Spatz? Does the image you have of me bear any relationship to the being that I truly am?

  No, he answered, looking away. No relationship at all. But, then, Spatz had no idea what Chung Kuo would be like if the Project succeeded. All that concerned him was his own position on the social ladder, whether he rose or fell. All else was irrelevant.

  Kim stretched his neck, then yawned. He had slept little these past few nights, trying to see through the mesh of details to the heart of the problem.

  What would Chung Kuo be like if everyone were wired?

  He had run various scenarios through his head. For instance, the Seven might limit the use of wiring to known criminals and political dissidents. Or, at the other extreme, they might wire everyone, even their wives and cousins. Not only that, but there was the nature of the wiring to consider. Was it to be a simple tracing mechanism, or would it be more complex? Would they be content to use it as a method of policing Chung Kuo’s vast population, or would they seek to change behaviour by its use?

  This last caused him much concern, for the wire held a far greater potential for manipulation than Li Yuan probably envisaged. When one began to tinker with the human mind there was no limit to the subtle changes one might make. It was possible – even quite simple – to create attractions and aversions, to mould a thousand million personalities to a single mental template and make the species docile, timid, uncreative. But was that worse than what was happening anyway? It could be argued that Chung Kuo – the great utopian City of Tsao Ch’un – had been created for that very purpose: to geld Mankind and keep the curious beast within his bars. In such a light this latest step – this plan to ‘wire’ each individual – was merely a perfection of that scheme. Restraint alone had failed. The bars were not enough. Now they must put the bars – the walls – within, or see the whole vast edifice come crashing down.

  It was an unsettling thought.

  Against this he set three things: his ‘duty’ to Li Yuan; his certainty that, with him or without, this thing would be; and, last, the simple challenge of the thing.

  He had tried to convince himself that he owed nothing to any man, but the truth was otherwise. His fate had always been in the hands of others. And wasn’t that so for all men? Wasn’t even the most basic thing – a man’s existence – dependent upon a consensus amongst those he lived with: on the agreement to let him be? Hadn’t he learned that much in the Clay? No man was truly free. No man had any rights but those granted him by his fellows. In Li Yuan’s favour, the Prince at least had recognized his worth and given him this chance. Surely that deserved repayment of some kind?

  As to the second matter, he was certain now that only total catastrophe could prevent Li Yuan’s scheme from becoming a reality. Indeed, catastrophe now seemed the sole alternative to the Wiring Project. The fuse had been lit long ago, in the Seven’s refusal to confront the problem of massive population increases. Their reluctance to tackle that fundamental – a decision shaped by their veneration of the family and of the right of every man to have sons – had hamstrung any attempt to balance the slow increase in resources against the overwhelming increase in demand and to make of Chung Kuo the utopia it was meant to be. But that was nothing new; it was an age-old problem – a problem that the emperors of Chung Kuo had been forced to face for more than two thousand years. Famine and plague and revolution were the price of such imbalance, and such would come again – unless the tide were turned, the great generative force harnessed. But that would not happen without an evolutionary change in the species. In the meantime, this – this artificial means – would have to do. The Seven had no option. They would have to wire or go under.

  And the challenge? That, too, he saw in moral terms. As he conceived it now, the scheme presented mainly technical problems – problems that required not the kind of inventiveness he was good at but the perfecting of existing systems. In many ways it was a matter of pure organizational complexity: of breaking down the Wiring Project into its constituent parts and then rebuilding it. The end, however, was not unachievable. Far from it. Most of the technology required already existed. He could have said as much to Prince Yuan at their first meeting, but the challenge – the real challenge – lay in directing the research: in determining not the quality of the eventual wire, but its kind.

  And there, perhaps, he overstepped the brief Li Yuan had given him, for he had not been asked to consider what the wire should be capable of; he had been asked only to determine whether the scheme would work. Again he was to be simply the tool – the vehicle – for another’s needs; the instrument by which their dreams might become realities. As ever, he was supposed to have no say in the matter. Yet he would have his say.

  Kim stilled the movement of his legs in the water and looked up.

  ‘Joel!’

  Hammond stood there on the far side of the pool. ‘Kim... I thought I’d find you here.’

  Kim clambered up and went round the pool to greet him.

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘I’ve just got here. You looked deep in thought. Troubles?’

  They were both conscious of the watching cameras. Kim shrugged and, smiling, moved past the older man, taking his towel from the rail, then turned, looking back at hi
m. ‘What brings you here?’

  Hammond held out a wafer-thin piece of printout paper. ‘This came.’

  Kim took it. A moment later he looked up, his dark eyes wide with surprise. ‘This is for real?’

  ‘Absolutely. Director Spatz confirmed it with Prince Yuan’s secretary. I’m to accompany you. To keep you out of trouble.’

  Kim laughed, then handed the paper back, pulling the towel up about his shoulders. ‘But that’s amazing. An observatory. Does that mean we’ll be going into space?’

  Hammond shook his head. ‘No. Quite the opposite. The observatory at Heilbronn is situated at the bottom of a mineshaft, more than three li underground.’

  Kim looked away, then laughed. ‘Of course. It makes sense.’ He looked back. ‘When do we go?’

  ‘Tomorrow. First thing.’

  Kim smiled, then drew closer, whispering. ‘Was Spatz angry?’

  Hammond bent down, giving his answer to Kim’s ear. ‘Angry? He was furious!’

  Jelka woke. Outside the storm was raging, hurling gusts of rain against the window pane. Throwing on her nightgown, she went out into the passageway. The night growled and roared beyond the thick stone walls of the house. She stood there a moment, listening, then started as the window at the far end of the passage lit up brilliantly. Seconds later a huge thunderclap shook the house.

  She shivered, then laughed, her fear replaced by a surge of excitement. The storm was upon them!

  She hurried down the great stairway, then stood there in the darkness of the hallway, the tiles cold beneath her naked feet. Again there was a flash, filling the huge, stained-glass window at the far end of the hallway with brilliant colour. And then darkness, intense and menacing, filled by the tremendous power of the thunderclap that followed.

  She went on, finding her way blindly to the door at the far end of the passageway. Usually it was locked, but for once she found it open. She stood there a moment, trembling. Here, behind the thick stone of the outer wall, it was still, almost silent, only the muted rumble of distant thunder disturbing the darkness. When the next flash came, she pulled the door open and went up, into the tower.

  At once the sound of the storm grew louder. She went up the narrow, twisting steps in darkness, her left arm extended, steadying herself against the wall, coming out into a room she had not seen before. Blindly, she began to edge towards the centre of the room, away from the hole in the floor, then froze as a blaze of light filled the room from the narrow window to her left. The accompanying thunderclap exploded in the tiny space and, in the momentary brilliance, she glimpsed the sparse contents of the room.

  Jelka saw herself briefly in the mirror opposite – a tiny figure in an almost empty room, her body framed in searing light, her face in intense shadow, one arm raised as if to fend off the thunder, the dark square of the stair-hole just behind her.

  She went across, finding the steps in the darkness, then went up as a sudden flash filled the stairwell with light.

  She went to the window. The glass was cold against her face, beaded with brilliant drops. The wooden boards were smooth and cool beneath her feet. Wind and rain rattled the glass. And then a vast hand seemed to shake the building. The tower seemed alive. As alive as she. She pressed her hands against the wood of the window’s frame and stared out, waiting for each vivid stroke, each growl of elemental anger.

  As the window lit up again she turned, looking behind her. On the far side of the room a metal ladder had been set into the wall. Above it, set square and solid in the ceiling, was a hatch. For a moment she stared at it, then pushed away from the window.

  In the sudden dark she stumbled and fell, then clambered up again, her hands held out before her until they met the cold stone surface. For a moment she searched the wall blindly, cursing softly to herself, then found the metal rung and, pulling herself across, began to climb.

  She was pushing upward when the next flash filled the room. Above her the great hatch shuddered against her hands as the thunderclap shook the tower. She shivered, momentarily frightened by the power of the storm, then pushed her head and shoulder up against the hatch until it gave.

  Suddenly she was outside, the rain pouring down, the wind whipping cruelly at her hair, soaking the thin nightgown she was wearing.

  She pulled herself up and, in the half-light, went to the parapet, steeling herself against the sudden cold, the insane fury of the wind, her hands gripping the metal rail tightly. As the sky lit up she looked down. Below her the sea seemed to writhe and boil, then throw a huge, clear fist of water against the rocks at the base of the tower. Spray splintered all about her and, as if on cue, the air about her filled with a ferocious, elemental roar that juddered the tower and shook her to the bone. And then darkness. An intense, brooding darkness, filled with the fury of the storm.

  She was breathing deeply now, erratically. It felt as though the storm were part of her. Each time the lightning flashed and forked in the sky she felt a tremor go through her from head to toe, as sharp as splintered ice. And when the thunder growled it sounded in her bones, exploding with a suddenness that made her shudder with a fierce delight.

  She shivered, her teeth clenched tight, her eyes wide, her limbs trembling with a strange, unexpected joy. Water ran freely down her face and neck, cleansing her, while below her the sea raged and churned, boiling against the rocks, its voice a scream of unarticulated pain, indistinguishable from the wind.

  ‘Jelka!’

  She heard the call from far below, the cry almost lost in the roar of the storm, and turned, looking across at the open hatch. For one brief moment she failed to recognize what it was, then she came to herself. Her Uncle Jon...

  The call came again, closer this time, as if just below.

  ‘Jelka? Are you up there?’

  She turned, yelling back at him, her voice barely audible over the grumble of the storm. ‘It’s all right! I’m here!’

  She looked out across the sea again, trembling, her whole body quivering, awaiting the next flash, the next sudden, thrilling detonation. And as it came she turned and saw him, his head poking up from the hatch, his eyes wide with fear.

  ‘What in Heaven’s name are you doing? Come down! It isn’t safe!’

  She laughed, exhilarated. ‘But it’s wonderful!’

  She saw how he shuddered, his eyes pleading with her. ‘Come down! Please, Jelka! It’s dangerous!’

  The wind howled, tearing at her breath, hurling great sheets of rain against the tower. And then with a mighty crash of thunder – louder than anything that had preceded it – the hillside to her right exploded in flame.

  For a moment the after-image of the lightning bolt lingered before her eyes, then she shuddered, awed by the sight that met her eyes.

  Seven pines were on fire, great wings of flame gusting up into the darkness, hissing, steaming where they met and fought the downpour. She gritted her teeth, chilled by what she saw. And still the fire raged, as if the rain had no power to control it.

  She turned, staring at her uncle, then, staggering, she ran across to him and let him help her down. For a moment he held her to him, trembling against her, his arms gripping her tightly. Then, bending down, he picked up the gown he’d brought and wrapped it about her shoulders.

  ‘You’re soaked,’ he said, his voice pained. ‘Gods, Jelka, what do you think you were doing? Didn’t you know how dangerous it was?’

  The sight of the burning trees had sobered her. ‘No,’ she said quietly, shivering now, realizing just how cold she was. ‘It was so...’

  She fell quiet, letting him lead her down, his pained remonstrances washing over her.

  He let her move past him, out into the passageway. The passage light was on. At the far end, at the bottom of the great staircase, stood her aunt, her look of concern mirroring her husband’s.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Jelka said. ‘I couldn’t sleep. The storm. I wanted to see.’

  Jon nodded, a look passing between him and his wife. Then he
placed his arm about Jelka’s shoulder.

  ‘I can see that, my love, but it really wasn’t safe. What if you’d fallen?’

  But Jelka could think only of the power of the storm; of the way it had seemed a part of her, each sudden, brilliant flash, each brutal detonation bringing her alive, vividly alive. She could see it yet, the sea foaming wildly below, the huge sky spread out like a bruise above, the air alive with voices.

  ‘There are fresh clothes in the bathroom,’ her uncle said gently, squeezing her shoulder, bringing her back from her reverie. ‘Get changed, then come through into the kitchen. I’ll make some toast and ch’a. We can sit and talk.’

  He looked up, waving his wife away, then looked back at Jelka, smiling. ‘Go on now. I can see you won’t sleep until this has blown over.’

  She did as she was told, then went through, standing by the kitchen window, staring out through the glass at the storm-tossed waters of the harbour while he brewed the ch’a.

  ‘Here,’ he said after a while, handing her an old earthenware mug filled with steaming ch’a. He stood beside her, staring outward, then gave a soft laugh.

  ‘I’ve done this before, you know, when I was much younger than I am now. Your mother was like you, Jelka. Knut could never understand it. If there was a storm he would tuck his head beneath the blankets and try to sleep through it – as if it were all a damned nuisance sent to rob him of his sleep and no more than that. But she was like you. She wanted to see. Wanted to be out there in the thick of it. I think she would have thrown herself in the water if she’d not had the sense to know she’d drown.’

  He laughed again and looked down at her. Jelka was staring up at him, fascinated.

  ‘What was she like? I mean, what was she really like?’

  He nodded towards the broad pine table. They sat, he in the huge farmhouse chair, she on the bench beside him, a heavy dressing gown draped about her shoulders.

  ‘That’s better. It gets in my bones, you know. The damp. The changes in pressure.’ He smiled and sipped at his mug. ‘But that’s not what you want to know, is it? You want to know about your mother...’