A card had come that afternoon. From Sergey. A terse, bitter little note full of recriminations and the accusation of betrayal. It had hurt, bringing back all she had suffered these last few weeks. But it had also brought relief. Her relationship with Sergey could not have lasted. He had tried to own her – to close her off from herself.
She shivered. Well, it was done with now. His clash with Ben had been inevitable and, in a sense, necessary. It had forced her to a choice. Sergey was someone in her past. Her destiny lay with Ben.
The bolt took her north, through the early evening bustle. It was after seven when she reached the terminal at the City’s edge. From there she took a tram six stacks east, then two north. There she hesitated, wondering if she should call and tell him she was coming, then pressed on. It would give him less opportunity to make excuses. She had her own key now – she would surprise him.
She took the lift up to his level, the package under her arm. It was heavy and she was longing to set it down. Inside, she placed it against the wall in the cloakroom while she took off her cape. The smell of percolating coffee filled the apartment. Smiling, she went through to the kitchen, hoping to find him there.
The kitchen was empty. She stood there a moment, listening for noises in the apartment, then went through. There was no one in the living room. Two empty glasses rested on the table. For a moment she looked about her, frowning, thinking she had made a mistake and they were out. Then she remembered the coffee.
She crossed the room and stood there, one hand placed lightly against the door, listening. Nothing. Or almost nothing. If she strained, she thought she could hear the faintest sound of breathing.
She tried the door. It was unlocked. She moved the panel, sliding it back slowly, her heart pounding now, her hands beginning to tremble.
It was pitch black within the room. As she eased the panel back, light from the living room spilled into the darkness, breaching it. She saw at once that the frame had been moved from the centre of the room; pushed back to one side, leaving only an open space of carpet and the edge of the bed.
She stepped inside, hearing it clearly now – a regular pattern of breathing. At first it seemed single, but then she discerned its doubleness. Frowning, she moved closer, peering into the darkness.
Her voice was a whisper. ‘Ben? Ben...? It’s me. Catherine.’
She knelt, reaching out to touch him, then pulled her hand back sharply. The hair...
The girl rolled over and looked up at her, her eyes dark, unfocused from sleep. Beside her Ben grunted softly and nuzzled closer, his right arm stretched out across her stomach, his hand cradling her breast.
Catherine’s breath caught in her throat. Kuan Yin! His sister!
Meg sighed, then turned her face towards the other girl. ‘Ben?’ she asked drowsily, not properly awake, one hand scratching lazily at the dark bush of her sex.
Catherine stood, the strength suddenly gone from her legs, a tiny moan of pain escaping her lips. She could see now how their limbs were entwined, how their bodies glistened with the sweat of lovemaking.
‘I...’ she began, but the words were swallowed back. There was nothing more to say. Nothing now but to get out and try to live with what she’d seen. Slowly she began to back away.
Meg lifted her head slightly, trying to make out who it was. ‘Ben?’
Catherine’s head jerked back, as if she had no control of it, and banged against the panel behind her. Then she turned and, fumbling with the door, stumbled out – out into the harsh light of the living room – then fell against the table. She went down, scattering the empty glasses, then lay there a moment, her forehead pressed against the table’s leg.
She heard the panel slide back and turned quickly, getting up, wiping her hand across her face. It was Ben. He put his hand out to her, but she knocked it away, her teeth bared like a cornered animal.
‘You bastard...’ she whimpered. ‘You...’
But she could only shake her head, her face a mask of grief and bitter disappointment.
He lowered his hand and let his head fall. It was an awkward, painful little gesture, one which Meg, watching from the other room, saw and understood. He hadn’t told her. Catherine hadn’t known how things were between Ben and her.
Meg looked beyond her brother. Catherine had backed against the door. She stood there a moment, trembling, her pale, beautiful face wet with tears, racked with grief and anger. Then she turned and was gone.
And Ben? She looked at him – saw how he stood there, his head fallen forward, all life, all of that glorious intensity of his, suddenly gone from him. He was hurt. She could see how hurt he was. But he would be all right. Once he’d got used to things. And maybe it was best. Yes, maybe it was, in the circumstances.
She went across and put her arms about him, holding him tightly, her breasts pressed against his back, her cheek resting against his neck.
‘It’s all right,’ she said softly, kissing his naked shoulder. ‘It’s going to be all right. I promise you it will. It’s Meg, Ben. I’m here. I won’t leave you. I promise I won’t.’
But when she turned him to face her, his eyes seemed sightless and his cheeks were wet with tears.
‘She’s gone,’ he said brokenly. ‘Don’t you see, Meg? I loved her. I didn’t realize it until now, but I loved her. And now she’s gone.’
It was much later when Meg found the package. She took it through to the living room, then, laying it on the floor, she unwrapped it and knelt there looking down at it.
It was beautiful. There was no doubt about it. Meg had thought no one else capable of seeing it, but it was there, in the girl’s painting – all of Ben’s power; his harsh, uncompromising beauty. She too had seen how mixed, how gentle-fierce he was.
She was about to wrap it again, to hide it away somewhere until they were gone from here, when Ben came out of the bedroom.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, looking across at her, the faintest light of curiosity in his eyes.
She hesitated, then picked it up and turned it towards him.
‘The girl must have left it,’ she said, watching him; seeing how his eyes widened with surprise; how the painting seemed to bring him back to life.
‘Catherine,’ he corrected her, his eyes never leaving the surface of the painting. ‘She had a name, Meg, like you and I. She was real. As real as this.’
He came closer then bent down on his haunches, studying the canvas carefully, reaching out with his fingertips to trace the line and texture of the painting. And all the while she watched him, seeing how his face changed, how pain and wonder and regret flickered one after another across his features.
She looked down. Their lives had been so innocent – so free of all these complications. But now... She raised her head, then looked at him again. He was watching her.
‘What is it?’
She shook her head, not wanting to say. They had both been hurt enough by this. Her words could only make things worse. Yet she had seen the change in him. Had seen that transient, flickering moment in his face when pain had been transmuted into something else – into the seed of some great artifice.
She shuddered, suddenly appalled. Was this all there was for him? This constant trading in of innocence for artifice? This devil’s bargain? Could he not just be? Did everything he experienced, every living breath he took, have to be sacrificed on the bleak, unrelenting altar of his art?
She wished there were another answer – another path – for him, but knew it was not so. He could not be without first recording his being. Could not be free without first capturing himself. Nor did he have any choice in the matter. He was like Icarus, driven, god-defiant, obsessed by his desire to break free of the element which bound him.
She looked back at him, meeting his eyes.
‘I must go after her, Meg. I must.’
‘You can’t. Don’t you understand? She saw us. She’ll not forgive you that.’
‘But this...’ He looked down at the pain
ting again, the pain returned to his face. ‘She saw me, Meg. Saw me clear. As I really am.’
She shivered. ‘I know. But you can’t. It’s too late, Ben. Don’t you see that?’
‘No,’ he said, standing. ‘Not if I go now and beg her to forgive me.’
She let her head fall, suddenly very tired. ‘No, Ben. You can’t. Not now.’
‘Why?’ his voice was angry now, defiant. ‘Give me one good reason.’
She sighed. It was what she had been unable to say to him earlier – the reason why she had come here a week early – but now it had to be said. She looked up at him again, her eyes moist now. ‘It’s Father. He’s ill.’
‘I know—’ he began, but she cut him off.
‘No, Ben. You don’t know. The doctors came three days ago. The day I wrote to you.’ There was a faint quaver in her voice now. She had let the painting fall. Now she stood there, facing him, the first tears spilling down her cheeks.
‘He’s dying.’ She raised her voice suddenly, anger spilling over into her words. ‘Goddammit, Ben, they’ve given him a month! Six weeks at most!’ She swallowed, then shook her head, her eyes pleading with him now. ‘Don’t you see? That’s why you can’t go after her. You’ve got to come home. You must! Mother needs you. She needs you badly. And me. I need you too, Ben. Me more than anyone.’
Memorandum: dated 4th day of May, AD 2207
To His Most Serene Excellency, Li Shai Tung, Grand Counsellor and T’ang of Ch’eng Ou Chou (City Europe)
Chieh Hsia,
Your humble servant begs to inform you that the matter of which we spoke has now resolved itself satisfactorily. The girl involved, Catherine Tissan (see attached report, MinDis PSec 435/55712), has apparently returned to her former lover, Sergey Novacek (see attached report, MinDis PSec 435/55711), who, after pressure from friends loyal to Your Most Serene Excellency, has dropped his civil action against the Shepherd boy (see copies of documents attached).
Ben Shepherd himself has, as you are doubtlessly aware, returned home to tend his ailing father, abandoning his studies at Oxford, thus removing himself from the threat of possible attack or abduction.
This acknowledged, in view of the continuing importance of the Shepherd family to State matters, your humble servant has felt it his duty to continue in his efforts to ascertain whether this was, as appears on the surface of events, a simple matter of rivalry in love, or whether it was part of some deeper, premeditated scheme to undermine the State. Such investigations have revealed some interesting if as yet inconclusive results regarding the nature of the father, Lubos Novacek’s business dealings. Results which, once clarified, will, if of substance to this matter, be notified to Your Most Serene Excellency.
Your humble servant,
Heng Yu,
Minister Of Transportation, Ch’eng Ou Chou (City Europe)
Heng Yu read the top copy through then, satisfied, reached out and took his brush from the ink block, signing his name with a flourish on each of the three copies. One would go to Li Shai Tung. The second he would keep for his own records. The third... well, the third would go to Prince Yuan, via his contact in the palace at Tongjiang, Nan Ho.
Heng Yu smiled. Things could not have gone better. The boy was safe, the T’ang pleased, and he was much closer to his ambition. What more could a man ask for? Of course, not everything had been mentioned in the documents. The matter of the bronze statue, for instance, had been left out of the report on Sergey Novacek.
It had been an interesting little tale. One which, in spite of all, reflected well on young Novacek. Investigations into the past history of the bronze had shown that it had once belonged to his father, Lubos, who, to bail out an old friend, had had to sell it. Sergey Novacek had heard of this and, hearing Heng Chian-ye talking of it, had set things up so that he might win it back. The matter of Shepherd, it seemed, had been a secondary matter, spawned of jealousy and tagged on as an afterthought. The statue had been the prime mover of the boy’s actions. From accounts, he had returned it to his father on his sixtieth birthday.
And the father? Heng Yu sat back, stroking his beard. Lubos Novacek was, like many of the City’s leading tradesmen, a respectable man. His trade, however, was anything but respectable, for Lubos Novacek acted as a middleman between certain First Level concerns and the Net. Put crudely, he was the pimp of certain Triad bosses, acting on their behalf in the Above, buying and selling at their behest and taking his cut.
A useful man to know. And know him he would.
As for the Great Man – that pompous halfwit, Fan Liang-wei – Heng had enjoyed summoning him to his Ministry and ordering him to desist from his efforts to get Ben thrown out of the college. He had shown Fan the instrument signed by the T’ang himself and threatened him with instant demotion – even to the Net itself – should any word come back to him that Fan was pursuing the matter in any shape or form.
Yes, it had been immensely satisfying. Fan’s face had been a perfect picture as he had attempted to swallow his massive pride and come to terms with the fact of the boy’s influence. He had been almost apoplectic with unexpressed anger.
Heng Yu gave a little chuckle, then turned to face his young cousin.
‘Something amuses you, Uncle?’
‘Yes, Chian-ye. Some business I did earlier. But come now, I need you to take these documents for me.’ He picked up two of the copies and handed them across. ‘This first copy must be handed directly to Chung Hu-yan and no one else, and this to Nan Ho at Tongjiang. Both men will be expecting you.’
‘Is that all, Uncle Yu?’
Heng Yu smiled. It was a moment for magnanimity. ‘No, Chian-ye. I am pleased with the way you have served me this past week. In view of which I have decided to review the matter of your allowance. In respect of past and future duties as my personal assistant, you will receive an additional sum of twenty-five thousand yuan per year.’
Heng Chian-ye bowed low, surprised yet also greatly pleased. ‘You are most generous, Uncle Yu. Be assured, I will strive hard to live up to the trust you have placed in me.’
‘Good. Then get going, Chian-ye. These papers must be in the hands of their respective agents within the next six hours.’
Heng Yu watched his cousin leave, then stood, stretching and yawning. There was no doubting it, this matter – of little substance in itself – had served him marvellously. He laughed, then looked about him, wondering momentarily what his uncle, Chian-ye’s father, would have made of it.
And the matter of the Melfi Clinic?
That, too, could be used. Was something to be saved until the time was ripe. For though his uncle, Heng Chi-po, had been a greedy, venal man, he had been right in one thing. Information was power. And those who had it wielded power.
Yes. And never more so than in the days to come. For Chung Kuo was changing fast. New things were rising from the depths of the City. Things he would do well to know about.
Heng Yu, Minister to the T’ang, nodded to himself, then reached across and killed the light above his desk.
Which was why, in the morning, he had arranged to meet the merchant, Novacek. To offer him a new arrangement – a new commodity to trade in; one he would pay handsomely to possess.
Information.
IN TIMES TO COME...
Chung Kuo: An Inch of Ashes is the sixth volume of a vast dynastic saga that covers more than half a century of this vividly realized future world. In the fourteen volumes that follow, the Great Wheel of fate turns through a full historical cycle, transforming the social climate of Chung Kuo utterly. Chung Kuo is the portrait of these turbulent – and often apocalyptic – times and the people who lived through them.
In Chung Kuo: The Broken Wheel the ‘War of Two Directions’ intensifies. Revolutionary activity is rife, culminating in an attack on Bremen stack, which kills over 15,000 citizens. Behind this, and behind a new splinter cult, the Yu, is our old friend DeVore – or at least a convincing copy of him – while at his side is Stefan Lehmann, son
of an old Dispersionist leader, and as cold and cruel as DeVore himself.
Whereas once there was unanimity, now things are far from well within the Seven, with the odious Wang Sau-leyan sowing discord between the T’ang. For Prince Li Yuan, personal events overtake public considerations. When Fei Yen, heavily pregnant, defies him and goes riding, he kills all her horses. Furious, she leaves him, returning to her father’s house. A week later, she tells him that the child she bears is not his.
This is not the only betrayal Li Yuan suffers. Ebert’s scheme to work with DeVore is uncovered and reported to Marshal Tolonen, Ebert’s future father-in-law. Horrified but convinced of Hans’ guilt, the old man goes to Ebert’s father, Klaus, his childhood friend, and gives him twenty-four hours to resolve the matter. Only things go wrong: Klaus is killed by one of his goat servants, while trying to choke his son to death, and Hans Ebert flees to Mars.
Kim Ward’s true history of the world – his ‘Aristotle File’ – grows more influential with every year, undermining the work of the ‘Thousand Eyes’. When his labs are attacked by assassins, everyone is killed bar Kim, who – using his darkest instincts from the Clay – savagely fights his way to freedom. He hides in the warren of ducts, traumatized, until the ancient sage and Master of wei chi, Tuan Ti Fo, led by a dream, rescues him.
With Li Shai Tung’s death, Li Yuan becomes one of the Seven. His first act is to test the paternity of Fei Yen’s child. He then divorces her, marrying three new wives. But his heart is empty, his mind numbed by what has happened.
But there is a new threat to the Seven, the ‘Sons of Benjamin Franklin’, a group of rich young Americans, heirs to their fathers’ Companies, who want change as fiercely as any lower-level Ko Ming revolutionaries.
An Inch of Ashes (CHUNG KUO SERIES) Page 34