When I don’t reply, Bi smiles icily. “Oh, I’m sorry. I see the question disturbs you.”
“I’m already disturbed, thanks. You’re telling me the human race is directly descended from the Hydrae?”
Bi shakes his head. “Our planet was originally seeded by a far older civilization. They come around every so often, too, but not often enough I’m afraid. Other civilizations have stepped in and made a hash of things, none more so than the Hydrae.”
I give Bi a cool gaze. “No, I didn’t know my father. What of it?”
“Do you have unusually high intelligence?” he fires back. “Let me guess. Your IQ is off the charts, you’ve never been sick a day in your life, and you’re a bit telepathic. Or maybe a lot telepathic?”
When I don’t reply, Bi smiles chillingly. “I don’t suppose you’re ever drawn to the occasional little taste of violence?”
“Only against myself,” I reply. “As for the rest, how did you know?”
The unblinking gold eyes gauge me carefully. “Are you telling me that you are not given to unprovoked acts of violence?”
“Sorry. Actually I’m experiencing a sister problem, and I wondered if—”
“You have a sister?” interrupts Bi, “and you haven’t killed her?”
“I gave her a hickey once, but she really deserved it. And this may be the strangest conversation I’ve ever had.”
“You’re mocking me?” whispers the man in the wheelchair. He begins to tremble, his face flushing. Bi seems to double in size. All at once, it appears inescapable that he will either launch himself at my jugular or fall dead at my feet. Finally Bi’s breath catches and he falls back in his chair, wheezing. As he fights to regain his composure, I ask myself how close I just came to annihilation at the hands of a crippled senior citizen with a row of really nice pot plants. I also wonder how he knows so much about me.
“Your sister,” pants Bi, wiping a tear from an iridescent eye. “Is she younger or older?”
“Yes,” I reply. “We’re twins. And I think I should probably be going.”
“Twins?” gasps Bi, rolling closer still. “You said twins? And you’re both alive?”
I back away from the wheelchair, which appears very close to creasing at least one of my feet. “Uh, you seem to know quite enough about me already, if you—”
“We are the Hydrae. You and I. Your sister, as well.”
With a little leap, I flee to the other side of the room, and Bi turns his chair to face me. “I was one of three brothers. We never knew our father. Not a word was ever spoken about him. When my older brother was twelve, he lost his temper and killed our mother then himself. My younger brother and I weren’t present, or I’m sure he’d have killed us as well. Shortly thereafter, my surviving brother and I fell very ill. Poisoned, I believe. Culled by the Hydrae as failed genotypes. My brother died. I survived to be passed from one relative to another. Finally I was placed with a wealthy family with the resources to deal with a very sick child. The Hydrae lost my trail.”
Bi looks up at me. “My privileged circumstances have meant unlimited access to books and tutors. I’ve used those resources to help me understand what happened to my family and what could still happen to my new adoptive one. I’m not so different from my older brother, you know. I, too, am capable of murder.” Here he almost giggles. “I think I might like it, actually. So I determined that it would never happen. Never. As soon as my writing income allowed, I left my adopted family and assumed a series of false identities, moving frequently, all the while continuing my research, looking into myth and history and archetype and ancient architecture, unearthing all I could about these… “ Bi’s gaze flickers. “About these monsters we are.”
“You’re telling me that you are a failed genetic experiment among extraterrestrials?” I say. “And that I am a more current one?”
“Everything here is extraterrestrial,” growls Bi. “Even the planet itself. What is a planet but a coagulation of interstellar gases and minerals caught up in the orbit of a newborn star? After the initial coagulation, other foreign things—meteors, asteroids, bits of emerging life—are attracted. Much later, more advanced forms of life come along. But it all begins somewhere else, don’t you see? Every bit of it.”
“Is there a nine-pod of Hydrae on Earth now?” I ask.
Before answering, Bi slumps in his wheelchair, exhausted by his recent rage. “They’ve been here for some time. I think they’re near the end of their lifespan, perhaps down to a lone survivor. I’m fairly certain they arrived here six to eight hundred years ago, here in China, and established deep political connections in Beijing. I think they’re still here, what remains of them.”
Bi stares at me for a moment. I fear that he’s going to tell me something I don’t wish to learn.
“I think they’re desperate,” he continues. “Once there’s only one remaining pod member, that survivor must posit his DNA somewhere, must keep it going by any means possible. It’s their most compelling racial imperative. It’s a madness, really. That’s why the ninth head of the Hydra is said to never die but remain lodged beneath a rock somewhere.” Bi smiles icily. “Earth, in the present instance.”
For a moment I ponder this thing compelling racial imperative and ask myself to what extent I myself am operating on compulsion and, if so, whose? I keep telling myself I’ve no idea what my next move will be. And yet it really couldn’t be much clearer where I’m going. Finally I come out with the question that’s been gnawing at the edges of my awareness. “What can you tell me about the Circular Mound Altar?”
Bi’s eyes brighten. “At the Temple of Heaven Park? Why would you ask me about that?”
“I seem to be headed there. Not that I’ve decided to go. I’m not sure when I last decided anything, to tell you the truth. That place means nothing to me. Yet I can scarcely close my eyes without seeing it. And when I look back on the past three or four days, I don’t know how I could be beating a path there any faster.”
Neither of us speaks for a moment. Unwilling to gaze into the unblinking yellow eyes, I look through the window-glass at the cityscape that so improbably and unfailingly delivered me to this singular conversation. I’ve held fast to the belief that my mad dash to Beijing has been all about Lillian, about freeing her from that hospital from hell—and of course it is.
But freeing her for what exact purpose?
Finally Bi speaks again, his voice gravelly. “The truth about the Temple of Heaven is there for anyone to see. Just read the dedication. The temple is dedicated to ‘The Supreme Ruler of the Universe’ whose home is in the heavens. I’ve little doubt that the Hydrae themselves designed that altar as a way of re-invoking their dominion here. Think about it. The most exalted man in the world, the emperor himself, was required to go to that place three times yearly, humbly and on foot, and offer human sacrifices to the glorious ruler of the sky.” Bi’s mouth curls in disgust.
“It’s more than that,” I tell him. “That structure is composed entirely of materials selected for their piezoelectric signature.”
Bi stares, transfixed, and I swallow hard. I’ve very little idea what I’m talking about.
“Very similar really to the paramagnetics and diamagnetics of the Great Pyramid of Giza. This focuses a very clear geometric signal into the bedrock below, in effect making of the entire planet an amplifier.”
The gold eyes narrow. “You’re telling me the Circular Mound Altar is focusing a signal into the Earth? What kind of signal?”
“A bad one. It’s a Trojan Horse just about to whinny, and it seems to have something to do with me. Or I with it.”
“Go, then,” says Bi, “but you’ll find it locked. The whole complex is closed indefinitely, supposedly because of SARS. But that doesn’t quite explain the newly-installed razor wire or the thumbprint-reading device now placed at the main entrance.”
Bi rolls his chair closer to me, close enough for me to see tiny flecks of red in the unblinking gold irises.
“Maybe that means nothing. It certainly suggests the Hydrae have re-established their connections within the Beijing power elite. I’ve felt for some time that they’re waiting for something. Some opportunity. Could it be that you are that opportunity?”
Bi wheels suddenly closer, using his chair to pin me against the wall. “Monster!” he snarls. “Fool! You think you can play with these creatures? You’ve no idea what you’re up against. They’re inside you, Julian!”
I struggle to free my legs from the wheelchair, but Bi grips my wrists with two powerful hands and yanks my face closer to his. I wince at his breath.
“It’s not enough to look for them out there!” he snarls. “You have to start by finding them inside you. As I have my entire life!”
Pulling away, I stumble toward the elevator and push the button to open the door.
Bi wheels to point a trembling finger at my face. “You have a decision to make, Julian.”
I dart inside the elevator. As the metal door begins to closes, the man in the wheelchair sneers in my direction as though wishing me a truly unpleasant day. Just before the door closes, he whispers hoarsely, “Who is your family, Julian?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Hurrying along the barren street, I tell myself that I’m walking toward the nearest subway station. It gives me a sense of purpose. I find that if I bounce on the balls of my feet, I can be just another guy on the street going about his truly unpleasant day. No intention at all of lurching to the Temple of Heaven Park with a glazed expression and a secret password that I don’t know that I know.
That Bi Yu Nu interview was creepy. I did, though, like the touch about Lil and myself being galactically coveted on the basis of mutual amity. I’d say the world is getting stranger by the moment. Finally there’s only the next step, the next breath, the next alarming oddity.
No sooner does this thought register than I see something no man should ever live to see: a red-bearded East Texan walking toward me with a sawed-off shotgun.
“Get down,” says Ralpho, raising the barrel to the level of my chest.
I oblige, actually grabbing my head with both hands and collapsing onto the sidewalk with a sputtering wail. Immediately comes a horrendous BOOM! followed by the clatter of a spent shotgun shell falling quite near my head. Ralpho’s scuffed boots stride past me.
Turning to look, I discover the crumpled and bloodied remains of a matronly Chinese woman gasping for breath. Beside her on the sidewalk is a pair of powder-blue cat’s-eye glasses. Ralph O’Malley takes a decisive step back and fires another blast into the woman’s body, which spasms violently then falls still.
“What in the name—?” I cry, crawling away from the bloody corpse.
Looking left and right, Ralpho slides two more shells into the magazine and says, “Who else is following you?”
“What?” I reply, dazed. “You want the whole list? Why did you kill Madam Wu?”
Ralpho’s boot kicks something toward me. It’s a stiletto.
“You were just about to receive a kidney donation,” he says.
I grab both kidneys protectively. “Why would—” I begin. “Why should—”
Ralpho says, “I told you, Julian. There’s a lot of people interested in you. Now that you’re officially off the reservation, it’s simpler all around to have you dead. Watch this.”
Bending with a groan, Ralpho pulls at the woman’s thick head of hair. It comes away in his hand, revealing a buzz cut over a scalp roughly as pale as my own. I’m looking at the head of a man, a Westerner and someone I have personally met. With a start, I recognize Barry Scribner, the Latter Day Charlestown attorney—or someone, it now occurs, who pretended to be.
Ralpho tosses the wig. “It’s steady work keeping you alive, dude,” he says, turning to stride away.
“Wait!” I cry. “No, never mind. Don’t wait.”
Stumbling to my feet, I hurry in the opposite direction. The next thing I know with any clarity, I’ve entered a subway station, passed through a dysfunctional infra-red temperature scanner, trotted down three flights of stairs, and huddled against the least conspicuous wall available. As I try to sort through my thoughts, a gathering rumble becomes a clattering burst of sound. A train slows to a stop. Mechanically I step onboard and claim a seat. The other passengers, most of them wearing surgical masks, eye me suspiciously. The current round of gossip seems to have Westerners once more at the head of the bad list.
Only gradually do I understand that this train is northbound, meaning I need to change trains only once to reach the northernmost end of the line. That would put me reasonably near Lillian’s place of detainment. I guess that’s my next move.
Now I’m walking dazedly through another near-empty station plastered with notices, most of them bearing the characters for “disinfected.” I pass through one then another abandoned infra-red temperature scanner, their displays showing nothing but a throbbing string of nines. Every face I see stares accusingly, and I examine my hands and clothing to see whether I’m carrying any bits or pieces of Madam Wu. Or whoever that unfortunate cross-dresser was. I find no trace of her/him and for a moment I wonder whether I might have imagined the entire episode. And hopefully Bi Yu Nu’s apartment before that. I have to dismiss the question. Were that the case, I’m imagining this train station, as well, which leaves me no place at all to stand.
The second northbound train dumps me, or fully appears to, at a small above-ground station where a lone attendant sits inside a glass booth. I hover near that booth, trying to formulate a means of asking directions—when I hear something arresting.
Arresting doesn’t even say it. I turn a complete circle, trying to establish where a certain voice is issuing from. I’m reasonably certain that someone is speaking Mandarin with a West Tennessee accent and a strong dose of Lower Midtown attitude. I begin to walk, peering one way and another, increasingly aware of a voice that at some moments is an emphatic purr, sweet yet gritty like the honey at the mouth of the jar.
I approach a city bus stop, and the string of syrupy Mandarin words gives way to a spirited bar of “I Loves You, Porgy.” I’m looking at the backside of Tree Carter, who is verbally engaged with a bus driver blocking the entrance to his bus. Still a bit dazed, I watch the driver secure the door then give Tree an imperious stare through the glass while wiping his hands on a cloth from his pocket. A moment later, the near-empty bus has whooshed away down the street.
Tree, alone at the bus stop, sighs loudly and says, “Leave unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.” She takes hold of the handle of her rolling suitcase. Turning, she finds herself looking straight at me.
“Did you say please?” I inquire.
Tree’s mouth falls open.
“No hugs,” I tell her.
“Oh my God!” exults Tree, abandoning the suitcase.
“I said no hggghhhh—”
Tree’s embrace forces all the air out of me and damages a few additional ribs.
“My Julian, my Julian! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! I knew we’d be put together somehow, and here you are.”
Gasping, I say, “I don’t suppose you can guarantee that I’m not imagining this?”
“Did you see that bus driver?” asks Tree. “Did you see that? Come on, let’s find us a taxi.”
“What exactly is the plan?” I ask, more or less knowing the answer.
Grabbing the handle of her suitcase, Tree sings, “We are committing our foot to the path, and the road shall appear beneath our feet.”
“I was afraid that would be the plan.”
As we scout for a taxi, I learn that Tree was picked up at her apartment by Shenzhen detectives shortly after our last meeting. “Didn’t bother me,” she says. “I knew that the forces of darkness would appear, and I knew that they would not prevail. Sure enough, two men came from the Consulate and told the po-lice they couldn’t hold me one minute longer. Those kind-hearted men refused to leave without me, praise be to God. They even escorted me to the airport
and put me on the plane, and I haven’t had a single problem since.”
Of course you haven’t, comes the thought. They’re using you to find me. “You’re sure you aren’t being followed?”
“Goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” trumpets Tree.
“Actually, I wasn’t thinking about goodness and mercy.”
As we circle the station in search of the inevitable line of taxis, I give Tree the short version of my story. I got a lift to Beijing from a friend whose organized-crime connections didn’t quite connect.
“You were going to talk to the Triad?” asks Tree, trying not to laugh.
“I had planned,” I reply irritably, “to consult with the Triad.”
“You had planned to consult with the Triad,” she repeats before surrendering to an extended sputter.
“I’m glad it makes you so happy,” I say.
“Don’t you get it? You knew, Jules. You knew all along that the answer is in the triadic. You just took it a little too literally, baby.”
“Tree, not now.”
She looks at me in surprise. “What do you mean, not now?”
“I mean, not now that whole wad of goo, okay? There is no triadic. All there is, is a very bad case of the nines, and I certainly hope you aren’t going to gild that particular lily.”
“You can still doubt it?” says Tree, amazed. “You can doubt that Spirit is at work here? After we just walked straight to each other in a city of thirteen million people?”
I look away.
“Mighty armies are arrayed around us, Julian Mancer!” thunders Tree in her radio voice.
“Got it,” I say, noting a nearby policeman now turning to stare.
“Mighty forces of light and darkness are being brought to bear all around us!” shouts Tree. “It’s coming to a head right here and right now, and you had better prepare your weapons. Are you hearing me, Julian Mancer? Are we communicating?”
“Wall to wall, dearest,” I say, pulling Tree along.
The Year of the Hydra Page 51