But what if?
T’ai Cho typed his query quickly, then sat back.
The answer appeared on the screen at once.
‘SUB-CODE?’
T’ai Cho leaned forward and typed in the dates, careful to include the spacing and the dash.
There was the briefest hesitation, then the file came up. ‘BRAHE, Tycho.’ T’ai Cho scanned it quickly. It was a summary of the man’s life and achievements in the manner of a genuine encyclopedia entry.
T’ai Cho sat back again, astonished, then laughed, remembering the time long before when Kim had removed the lock from his cell without their knowing. And so again, he thought. But this was much subtler, much more clever than the simple removal of a lock. This was on a wholly different level of evasiveness.
He read the passage through, pausing thoughtfully at the final line, then cleared the file and switched the terminal off. For a moment he sat there, staring sightlessly at the screen, then he stood up and moved away from the terminal.
‘T’ai Cho?’
He turned with a start. Kim was standing in the doorway, clearly surprised to see him. He seemed much quieter than normal, on his guard. There was an eri-silk scarf around his neck and his wrist was bandaged. He made no move to come into the room.
T’ai Cho smiled and sat down on the bed. ‘How was the film?’
Kim smiled briefly, unenthusiastically. ‘No surprises,’ he said after a moment. ‘Pan Chao was triumphant. As ever.’
T’ai Cho saw the boy look across at the terminal, then back at him, but there was no sign that Kim had seen what he’d been doing.
‘Come here,’ he said gently. ‘Come and sit with me, Kim. We need to talk.’
Kim hesitated, understanding at once why T’ai Cho had come. Then he shook his head. ‘Nothing happened this morning.’
‘Nothing?’ T’ai Cho looked deliberately at the scarf, the bandage.
Kim smiled but said nothing.
‘Okay. But it doesn’t matter. We already know what happened. There’s a hidden camera in the ceiling of the pool. One Matyas overlooked when he sabotaged the others. We saw him attack you. Saw him grab you by the throat, then try to drown you.’
Still Kim said nothing, gave nothing away.
T’ai Cho shrugged then looked down, wondering how closely the scenario fitted. Was Kim quiet because it was true? Or was he quiet because it had happened otherwise? Whichever, he was certain of one thing. Matyas had attacked Kim. He had seen for himself the jealous envy in the older boy’s eyes. But he had never dreamed it would come to this.
He stood up, inwardly disturbed by this side of Kim. This primitive, savage side that all the Clayborn seemed to have. He had never understood this aspect of their behaviour: this perverse tribal solidarity of theirs. Where they came from it was a strength, no doubt – a survival factor – but up here, in the Above, it was a failing, a fatal flaw.
‘You’re important, Kim. Very important. You know that, don’t you? And Matyas should have known better. He’s out for what he did.’
Kim looked down. ‘Matyas did nothing. It was an accident.’
T’ai Cho took a deep breath, then stood and went across to him. ‘As you say, Kim. But we know otherwise.’
Kim looked up at him, meeting his eyes coldly. ‘Is that all?’
That too was unlike Kim. That hardness. Perhaps the experience had shaken him. Changed him in some small way. For a moment T’ai Cho studied him, wondering whether he should bring up the matter of the secret files, then decided not to. He would investigate them first. Find out what Kim was up to. Then, and only then, would he confront him.
He smiled and looked away. ‘That’s all.’
Back in his room T’ai Cho locked his door, then began to summon up the files, beginning with the master file, referred to in the last line of the BRAHE.
The Aristotle File.
The name intrigued him, because, unlike Brahe, there had been an Aristotle: a minor Greek philosopher of the fourth century BC. He checked the entry briefly on the general encyclopedia. There was less than a hundred and fifty words on the man. Like T’ai Cho, he had been a tutor, in his case to the Greek King, Alexander. As to the originality of his thinking, he appeared to be on a par with Hui Shih, a contemporary Han logician who had stressed the relativity of time and space and had sought to prove the existence of the ‘Great One Of All Things’ through rational knowledge. Now, however, both men existed only as tiny footnotes in the history of science. Greece had been conquered by Rome and Rome by the Han. And the Han had abandoned the path of pure logic with Hui Shih.
T’ai Cho typed in the three words, then leaned back. The answer appeared on the screen at once.
‘SUB-CODE?’
He took a guess. ALEXANDER, he typed, then sat back with a laugh as the computer accepted the codeword.
There was a brief pause, then the title page came up on the screen.
THE ARISTOTLE FILE
Being The True History Of Western Science
T’ai Cho frowned. What was this? Then he understood. It was a game. An outlet for Kim’s inventiveness. Something Kim had made up. Yes, he understood at once. He had read somewhere how certain young geniuses invented worlds and peopled them, as an exercise for their intellects. And this was Kim’s. He smiled broadly and pressed to move the file on.
Four hours later, at three bells, he got up from his seat and went to relieve himself. He had set the machine to print and had sat there, reading the copy as it emerged from the machine. There were more than two hundred pages of copy in the tray by now and the file was not yet exhausted.
T’ai Cho went through to the kitchen, the faint buzz of the printer momentarily silenced, and put on a kettle of ch’a, then went back out and stood there by the terminal, watching the paper spill out slowly.
It was astonishing. Kim had invented a whole history; a fabulously rich, incredibly inventive history. So rich that at times it seemed almost real. All that about the Catholic Church suppressing knowledge and the great Renaissance – was that the word? – that split Europe into two camps. Oh, it was wild fantasy, of course, but there was a ring of truth – of universality – behind it that gave it great authority.
T’ai Cho laughed. ‘So that’s what you’ve been up to in your spare time,’ he said softly. Yes, it made sense now. Kim had been busy reshaping the world in his own image – had made the past the mirror of his own logical, intensely curious self.
But it had not been like that. Pan Chao had conquered Ta Ts’in. Rome had fallen. And not as Kim had portrayed it, to Alaric and the Goths in the fifth century, but to the Han in the first. There had been no break in order, no decline into darkness. No Dark Ages and no Christianity – Oh, and what a lovely idea that was: organized religion! The thought of it…
He bent down and took the last few sheets from the stack. Kim’s tale had reached the twentieth century now. A century of war and large-scale atrocity. A century in which scientific ‘progress’ had become a headlong flight. He glanced down the highlighted names on the page – Röntgen, Planck, Curie, Einstein, Bohr, Heisenberg, Baird, Schrödinger – recognizing none of them. Each had its own sub-file, like the BRAHE. And each, he knew, would prove consistent with the larger picture.
‘Remarkable!’ he said softly, reading a passage about the development of radio and television. In Kim’s version they had appeared only in the twentieth century – a good three centuries after the Han had really invented them. It was through such touches – by arresting some developments and accelerating others – that Kim made his story live. In his version of events, Han science had stagnated by the fourth century AD, and Chung Kuo had grown insular, until, in the nineteenth century, the Europeans – and what a strange, alien ring that phrase had; not Hung Mao, but ‘Europeans’ – had kicked the rotten door of China in.
Ah, and that too. Not Chung Kuo. Kim called it China. As if it had been named after the First Emperor’s people, the Ch’in. Ridiculous! And yet, somehow, str
angely convincing, too.
T’ai Cho sat back, rubbing his eyes, the sweet scent of the brewing ch’a slowly filling the room. Yes, much of it was ridiculous. A total fantasy – like the strange idea of Latin, the language of the Ta Ts’in, persisting fifteen hundred years after the fall of their Empire. For a moment he thought of that old, dead language persisting through the centuries by means of that great paradox, the Church – at one and the same time the great defender and destroyer of knowledge – and knew such a world as the one Kim had dreamed up was a pure impossibility. A twisted dream of things.
While the printer hummed and buzzed, T’ai Cho examined his feelings. There was much to admire in Kim’s fable. It spoke of a strong, inventive mind, able to grasp and use broad concepts. But beyond that there was something problematic about what Kim had done – something that troubled T’ai Cho greatly.
What disturbed him most was Kim’s reinterpretation of the Ch’ing or, as Kim called it, the Manchu period. There, in his notion of a vigorous, progressive West and a decadent, static East was the seed of all else. That was his starting point: the focus from which all else radiated out, like some insidious disease, transforming whatever it touched. Kim had not simply changed history, he had inverted it. Turned black into white, white into black. It was clever, yes, but it was also somehow diabolical.
T’ai Cho shook his head and stood up, pained by his thoughts. On the surface the whole thing seemed the product of Kim’s brighter side; a great edifice of shining intellect; a work of considerable erudition and remarkable imaginative powers. Yet in truth it was the expression of Kim’s darker self; a curiously distorted image; envious, almost malicious.
Is this how he sees us? T’ai Cho wondered. Is this how the Han appear to him?
It pained him deeply, for he was Han; the product of the world Kim so obviously despised. The world he would replace with his own dark fantasy.
T’ai Cho shuddered and stood up, then went out and switched off the ch’a. No more, he thought, hearing the printer pause, then beep three times – signal that it had finished printing. No, he would show this to Director Andersen. See what the Hung Mao in charge made of it. And then what?
Then I’ll ask him, T’ai Cho thought, switching off the light. Yes. I’ll ask Kim why.
The next morning he stood before the Director in his office, the file in a folder under his arm.
‘Well, T’ai Cho? What did you find out from him?’
T’ai Cho hesitated. He knew Andersen meant the matter of the fight between Kim and Matyas, yet for a moment he was tempted to ignore that and simply hand him the folder.
‘It was as I said. Kim denies there was a fight. He says Matyas was not to blame.’
Andersen made a noise of disbelief, then, placing both hands firmly on the desk, leaned forward, an unexpected smile lighting his features.
‘Never mind. I’ve solved the problem anyway. I’ve got RadTek to take Matyas a month early. We’ve had to provide insurance cover for the first month – while he’s under age – but it’s worth it if it keeps him from killing Kim, neh?’
T’ai Cho looked down. He should have guessed Andersen would be ahead of him. But for once he could take him by surprise.
‘Good. But there’s something else.’
‘Something else?’
T’ai Cho held out the folder.
Andersen took the folder and opened it. ‘Cumbersome,’ he said, his face crinkling with distaste. He was the kind of administrator who hated paperwork. Head-Slot spoken summaries were more his thing. But in this instance there was no alternative: a summary of the Aristotle File could not possibly have conveyed its richness, let alone its scope.
Andersen read the title page, then looked up at T’ai Cho. ‘What is this? Some kind of joke?’
‘No. It’s something Kim put together.’
Andersen looked back down at the document, leafing through a few pages, then stopped, his attention caught by something he had glimpsed. ‘You knew about this?’
‘Not until last night.’
Andersen looked up sharply. Then he gave a tiny little nod, seeing what it implied. ‘How did he keep the files hidden?’
T’ai Cho shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I thought it was something you might want to investigate.’
Andersen considered a moment. ‘Yes. It has wider implications. If Kim can keep files secret from a copycat system…’ He looked back down at the stack of paper. ‘What exactly is this, T’ai Cho? I assume you’ve read it?’
‘Yes. But as to what it is… I suppose you might call it an alternative history. Chung Kuo as it might have been had the Ta Ts’in legions won the Battle of Kazatin.’
Andersen laughed. ‘An interesting idea. Wasn’t that in the film they showed last night?’
T’ai Cho nodded, suddenly remembering Kim’s words. ‘Pan Chao was triumphant. As ever.’ In Kim’s version of things Pan Chao had never crossed the Caspian. There had been no Battle of Kazatin. Instead, Pan Chao had met the Ta Ts’in legate and signed a pact of friendship. An act which, eighteen centuries later, had led to the collapse of the Han Empire at the hands of a few ‘Europeans’ with superior technology.
‘There’s more, much more, but the drift of it is that the West – the Hung Mao – got to rule the world, not the Han.’
The Director turned a few more pages, then frowned. ‘Why should he want to invent such stuff? What’s the point of it?’
‘As an exercise, maybe? A game to stretch his intellect?’
Andersen looked up at him again. ‘Hmm. I like that. It’s good to see him exercising his mind. But as to the idea itself…’ He closed the file and pushed it aside. ‘Let’s monitor it, neh, T’ai Cho? See it doesn’t get out of hand and take up too much time. I’d say it was harmless enough, wouldn’t you?’
T’ai Cho was about to disagree, but saw the look in Andersen’s eyes. He was not interested in pursuing the matter. Set against the business of safeguarding his investment it was of trivial importance. T’ai Cho nodded and made to retrieve the file.
‘No. Leave it with me, T’ai Cho. Shih Berdichev is calling on me tomorrow. The file might amuse him.’
T’ai Cho backed away and made as if to leave, but Andersen called him back.
‘One last thing.’
‘Yes, Director?’
‘I’ve decided to bring forward Kim’s socialization. He’s to start in the Casting Shop tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? Don’t you think… ?’ He was about to say he thought Kim too young, but saw that Andersen was looking at him again, that same expression in his eyes. I have decided, it said. There is to be no argument. T’ai Cho swallowed, then bowed. ‘Very well, Shih Andersen. Should I make arrangements?’
Andersen smiled. ‘No. It’s all been taken care of. My secretary will give you the details before you leave.’
T’ai Cho bowed again, humbled, then backed away.
‘And T’ai Cho…’
‘Yes, Director?’
‘You’ll say nothing of this file to anyone, understand?’
T’ai Cho bowed low. ‘Of course.’
For a moment Kim studied the rust-coloured scholar’s garment T’ai Cho had given him, then he looked back at his tutor. ‘What’s this?’
T’ai Cho busied himself, clearing out his desk. ‘It’s your work pau.’
‘Work? What kind of work?’
Still T’ai Cho refused to look at him. ‘You begin this morning. In the Casting Shop.’
Kim was silent a moment, then, slowly, he nodded. ‘I see.’ He shrugged out of his one-piece and pulled the loose-fitting pau over his head. It was a simple, long-sleeved pau with a chest-patch giving the Project’s name in pale green pictograms and, beneath that, in smaller symbols, Kim’s ownership details – the contract number and the SimFic symbol.
T’ai Cho looked fleetingly across at him. ‘Good. You’ll be going there every day from now on. From eight until twelve. Your normal classes will be shifted to the afternoon.�
�
He had expected Kim to complain – the new arrangements would cost him two hours of his free time every day – but Kim gave no sign. He simply nodded.
‘Why are you clearing your desk?’
T’ai Cho paused. The anger he had felt on finishing the Aristotle File had diminished somewhat, but still he felt resentful towards the boy. He had thought he knew him. But he had been wrong. The File had proved him wrong. Kim had betrayed him. His friendliness was like the tampered lock, the hidden files – a deception. The boy was Clayborn and the Clayborn were cunning by nature. He should have known that. Even so, it hurt to be proved wrong. Hurt like nothing he had felt in years.
‘I’m asking to be reposted.’
Kim was watching him intently. ‘Why?’
‘Does it matter?’ He could not keep the bitterness from his voice, yet when he turned and looked at Kim he was surprised to see how shocked, how hurt the boy was.
Kim’s voice was small, strangely vulnerable. ‘Is it because of the fight?’
T’ai Cho looked down, pursing his lips. ‘There was no fight, Kim. You told me that.’
‘No.’ The word was barely audible.
T’ai Cho looked up. The boy was looking away from him now, his head slightly turned to the right. For a moment he was struck by how cruel he was being, not explaining why he was going. Surely the child deserved that much? Then, as he watched, a tear formed in Kim’s left eye and slowly trickled down his cheek.
He had never seen Kim cry. Neither, he realized, had he ever really thought of him as a child. Not as a true child, anyway. Now, as he stood there, T’ai Cho saw him properly for the first time. Saw how fragile Kim was. A nine-year-old boy, that was all he was. An orphan. And all the family Kim had in the world was himself.
He closed the desk, then went across and knelt at Kim’s side. ‘You want to know why?’
Kim could not look at him. He nodded. Another tear rolled slowly down his cheek. His voice was small and hurt. ‘I don’t understand, T’ai Cho. What have I done?’
Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series Page 15