Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series

by David Wingrove

  He poured, then handed out the tiny bowls, conscious that the eyes of the ‘gentlemen’ would from time to time move to the twelve thick folders laid out on the table beside the tray.

  He raised his bowl. ‘Kan pei!’

  ‘Kan pei!’ they echoed and downed their brandies in one gulp.

  ‘Beautiful!’ said Moore with a small shudder. ‘Where did you get it, Soren? I didn’t think there was a bottle of Shou Hsing left in all Chung Kuo that was over twenty years old.’

  Berdichev smiled. ‘I have two cases of it, John. Allow me to send you a bottle.’ He looked about him, his smile for once unforced, quite natural. ‘And all of you chun t’zu, of course.’

  Their delight was unfeigned. Such a brandy must be fifty thousand yuan a bottle at the least! And Berdichev had just given a case of it away!

  ‘You certainly know how to celebrate, Soren!’ said Parr, coming closer and holding his arm a moment. Parr was an old friend and business associate, with dealings in North America.

  Berdichev nodded. ‘Maybe. But there’s much to celebrate tonight. Much more, in fact, than any of you realize. You see, my good friends, tonight is the beginning of something. The start of a new age.’

  He saw how their eyes went to the folders again.

  ‘Yes.’ He went to the table and picked up one of the folders. ‘It has to do with these. You’ve noticed, I’m sure. Twelve of you and twelve folders.’ He looked about the circle of them, studying their faces one last time, making certain before he committed himself.

  Yes, these were the men. Important men. Men with important contacts. But friends, too – men he could trust. They would start it for him. A thing that, once begun, would prove irresistible. And, he hoped, irreversible.

  ‘You’re all wondering why I brought you up here, away from the celebrations? You’re also wondering what it has to do with the folders. Well, I’ll keep you wondering no longer. Refill your glasses from the bottle, then take a seat. What I’m about to tell you may call for a stiff drink.’

  There was laughter, but it was muted, tense. They knew Soren Berdichev well enough to know that he never played jokes, or made statements he could not support.

  When they were settled around the table, Berdichev distributed the folders.

  ‘Before you open them, let me ask each of you something.’ He turned and looked at Moore. ‘You first, John. Which is more important to you: a little of your time and energy – valuable as that is – or the future of our race, the Europeans?’

  Moore laughed. ‘You know how I feel about that, Soren.’

  Berdichev nodded. ‘Okay. Then let me ask you something more specific. If I were to tell you that in that folder in front of you was a document of approximately two hundred thousand words, and that I wanted you to hand-copy it for me, what would you say to that?’

  ‘Unexplained, I’d say you were mad, Soren. Why should I want to hand-copy a document? Why not get some of my people to put it on computer for me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Berdichev’s smile was harder. He seemed suddenly more his normal self. ‘But if I were to tell you that this is a secret document. And not just any small corporate secret, but the secret, would that make it easier to understand?’

  Moore sat back slightly. ‘What do you mean, the secret? What’s in the file, Soren?’

  ‘I’ll come to that. First, though, do you trust me? Is there anyone here who doesn’t trust me?’

  There was a murmuring and a shaking of heads. Parr spoke for them all. ‘You know there’s not one of us who wouldn’t commit half of all they owned on your word.’

  Berdichev smiled tightly. ‘I know. But what about one hundred per cent? Is anyone here afraid to commit that much?’

  Another of them – a tall, thin-faced man named Ecker – answered this time. A native of City Africa, he had strong trading links with Berdichev’s company, SimFic.

  ‘Do you mean a financial commitment, Soren, or are you talking of something more personal?’

  Berdichev bowed slightly. ‘You are all practical men. That’s good. I’d not have any other kind of men for friends. But to answer you, in one sense you’re correct, Edgar. I do mean something far more personal. That said, which of us here can so easily disentangle their personal from their financial selves?’

  There was the laughter of agreement at that. It was true. They were moneyed creatures. The market was in their blood.

  ‘Let me say simply that if any of you choose to open the folder you will be committing yourselves one hundred percent. Personally and, by inference, financially.’ He put out a hand quickly. ‘Oh, I don’t mean that I’ll be coming to you for loans or anything like that. This won’t affect your trading positions.’

  Parr laughed. ‘I’ve known you more than twenty years now, Soren, and I realize that – like all of us here – you have secrets you would share with few others. But this kind of public indirectness is most unlike you. Why can’t you just tell us what’s in the folder?’

  Berdichev nodded tersely. ‘All right. I’ll come to it, I promise you, Charles. But this is necessary.’ He looked slowly about the table, then bowed his head slightly. ‘I want to be fair to you all. To make certain you understand the risks you would be taking in simply opening the folder. Because I want none of you to feel you were pushed into this. That would serve no one here. In fact, I would much rather have anyone who feels uncomfortable with this leave now before he commits himself that far. And no blame attached. Because once you take the first step – once you find out what’s inside the folder – your lives will be forfeit.’

  Parr leaned forward and tapped the folder. ‘I still don’t understand, Soren. What’s in here? A scheme to assassinate the Seven? What could be so dangerous that simply to know of it could make a man’s life forfeit?’

  ‘The secret. As I said before. The thing the Han have kept from us all these years. As for why it’s dangerous simply to know, let me tell you about a little-known statute that’s rarely used these days – and a Ministry whose sole purpose is to create an illusion, which even they have come to believe is how things really are.’

  Parr laughed and spread his hands. ‘Now you are being enigmatic, Soren. What statute? What Ministry? What illusion?’

  ‘It is called, simply, the Ministry, it is situated in Bremen and Pei Ching, and its only purpose is to guard the secret. Further, it is empowered to arrest and execute anyone knowing of or disseminating information about the secret. As for the illusion…’ He laughed sourly. ‘Well, you’ll understand if you choose to open the folder.’

  One of those who hadn’t spoken before now sat forward. He was a big, powerful-looking man with a long, unfashionable beard. His name was Ross and he was the owner of a large satellite communications company in East Asia.

  ‘This is treason, then, Soren?’

  Berdichev nodded.

  Ross stroked his beard thoughtfully and looked about him. Then, almost casually, he opened his folder, took out the stack of papers and began to examine the first page.

  A moment later others followed.

  Berdichev looked about the table. Twelve folders lay empty, the files removed. He shivered then looked down, a faint smile on his lips.

  There was a low whistle from Moore. He looked up at Berdichev, his eyes wide. ‘Is this true, Soren? Is this really true?’

  Berdichev nodded.

  ‘But this is just so… so fantastic. Like a dream someone’s had.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Berdichev said firmly. They were all watching him now. ‘Which of us here has not been down into the Clay and seen the ruins? When the tyrant Tsao Ch’un built his City he buried more than the architecture of the past, he buried its history, too.’

  ‘And built another?’ The voice was Parr’s.

  ‘Yes. Carefully, painstakingly, over the years. You see, his intention wasn’t simply to eradicate all opposition to his rule, he wanted to destroy all knowledge of what had gone before him. As the City grew, so his officials collect
ed all books, all film, all recordings, allowing nothing that was not Han to enter their great City. Most of what they collected was simply burned. But not everything. Much was adapted. You see, Tsao Ch’un’s advisors were too clever simply to create a gap. That, they knew, would have attracted curiosity. What they did was far more subtle and, in the long run, far more persuasive to the great mass of people. They set about reconstructing the history of the world – placing Chung Kuo at the centre of everything, back in its rightful place, as they saw it.’

  He drew a breath, then continued, conscious momentarily of noises from the party in the gardens outside. ‘It was a lie, but a lie to which everyone subscribed, for in the first decades of the City merely to question their version of the past-even to suggest it might have happened otherwise – was punishable by death. But the lie was complex and powerful, and people soon forgot. New generations arose who knew little of the real past. To them the whispers and rumours seemed mere fantasy in the face of the reality they had been taught and saw all about them. The media fed them the illusion daily until the illusion became, even to those responsible for its creation, quite real.’

  And this – this Aristotle File… is this the truth Tsao Ch’un suppressed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you come upon it?’

  Berdichev smiled. ‘Slowly. Piece by piece. For the last fifteen years I’ve been searching – making my own discreet investigations. Following up clues. And this – this file – is the end result of all that searching.’

  Ross sat back. ‘I’m impressed. More than that, Soren, I’m astonished! Truly, for the first time in my life I’m astonished. This is…’ He laughed strangely. ‘Well, it’s hard to take it in. Perhaps it’s the brandy but…’

  There was laughter at that, but all eyes were on Ross as he tried to articulate their feelings.

  ‘Well… I know what my friend, John Moore, means. It is fantastic. Perhaps too much so to swallow at a single go like this.’ He reached forward and lifted the first few pages, then looked at Berdichev again. ‘It’s just that I find it all rather hard to believe.’

  Berdichev leaned forward, light glinting from the lenses of his glasses. ‘That’s just what they intended, Michael. And it’s one of the reasons why I want you all to hand-write a copy. That way it will get rooted in you all. You will have done more than simply read it. You will have transcribed it. And in doing so the reality of it will strike you forcibly. You will see how it all connects. Its plausibility – no, its truth! – will be written in the blood of every one of you.’

  Ross smiled. ‘I see that the original of this was written in your own hand, Soren. You ask us to commit ourselves equally?’

  Berdichev nodded.

  ‘Then I for one am glad to do so. But what of the copy we make? What should we do with it? Keep it safe?’

  Berdichev smiled, meeting his friend’s eyes. Ross knew. He had seen it already. ‘You will pass your copy on. To a man you trust like a brother. As I trust you. He, in his turn, will make another copy and pass it on to one he trusts. And so on, forging a chain, until there are many who know. And then…’ He sat back. ‘Well, then you will see what will happen. But this – this here tonight – is the beginning of it. We are the first. From here the seed goes out. But harvest time will come, I promise you all. Harvest time will come.’

  ‘Hung Mao or Han, what does it matter? They’re Above. They despise us Clayborn.’

  The three boys were sitting on the edge of the pool, their feet hanging out over the water.

  Kim was looking down into the mirror of the water, his eyes tracing the patterns of the stars reflected from the Tun Huang map overhead. He had been silent for some while, listening to the others speak, but now he interrupted them.

  ‘I know what you mean, Anton, but it’s not always like that. There are some…’

  ‘Like Chan Shui?’

  Kim nodded. He had told them what had happened in the Casting Shop. ‘Yes, like Chan Shui.’

  Anton laughed. ‘You probably amuse him. Either that or he thinks that he can benefit somehow by looking after you. As for liking you…’

  Kim shook his head. ‘No. It’s not like that. Chan Shui…’

  Josef cut in. ‘Be honest, Kim. They hate us. I mean, what has this Chan Shui done that’s really cost him anything? He’s stood up to a bully. Fine. And that’s impressed you. That and all that claptrap T’ai Cho has fed you about Han justice. But it’s all a sham. All of it. It’s like Anton says. He’s figured you must be important – something special – and he’s reckoned that if he looks after you there might be something in it for him.’

  Again Kim shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. You really don’t.’

  Anton laughed dismissively. ‘We understand. But it seems like you’re going to have to learn it the hard way. They don’t want us, Kim. Not for ourselves, anyway – only for what we are. They use us like machines, and if we malfunction they throw us away. That’s the truth of the matter.’

  Kim shrugged. There was a kind of truth to that, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He thought of Matyas and Janko. What distinguished them? They were both bullies. It had not mattered that he, Kim, was Clay like Matyas. Neither was it anything Kim had done to him. It was simply that he was different. So it was with Janko. But to some that difference did not matter. T’ai Cho, for instance, and Chan Shui. And there would be others.

  ‘It’s them and us,’ said Anton, laughing bitterly. ‘That’s how it is. That’s how it’ll always be.’

  ‘No!’ Kim was insistent now. ‘You’re wrong. Them and us. It isn’t like that. Sometimes, yes, but not always.’

  Anton shook his head. ‘Always. Deep down it’s always there. You should ask him, this Chan Shui. Ask him if he’d let you marry his sister.’

  ‘He hasn’t got a sister.’

  ‘You miss my point.’

  Kim looked away, unconsciously stroking the bruise on his neck. Shame and guilt. It was always there in them, just beneath the skin. But why did they let these things shape them? Why couldn’t they break the mould and make new creatures of themselves?

  ‘Maybe I miss your point, but I’d rather think well of Chan Shui than succumb to the bleakness of your view.’ His voice was colder, more hostile than he had intended, and he regretted his words at once – true as they were.

  Anton stood up slowly, then looked down coldly at his fellow. ‘Come on, Josef. I don’t think we’re wanted here any more.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  But it was too late. They were gone.

  Kim sat there a while longer, distressed by what had happened. But maybe it was unavoidable. Maybe he could only have delayed the moment. Because he was different – even from his own kind.

  He laughed. There! He had betrayed himself: had caught himself in his own twisted logic. For either they were all of one single kind – Han, Hung Mao and Clay – or he was wrong. And he could not be wrong. His soul cried out not to be wrong.

  He looked up at the dull gold ceiling, stretching and easing his neck, then shivered violently. But what if he was? What if Anton was right?

  ‘No.’ He was determined. ‘They’ll not make me think like that. Not now. Not ever.’ He looked down at his clenched fists and slowly let the anger drain from him. Then he stood and began to make his way back. Another morning in the Casting Shop lay ahead.

  The machine flexed its eight limbs, then seemed to squat and hatch a chair from nothingness.

  Kim laughed. ‘It seems like it’s really alive sometimes.’

  Chan Shui, balanced on his haunches at Kim’s side, turned his head to look at him, joining in with his laughter. ‘I know what you mean. It’s that final little movement, isn’t it?’

  ‘An arachnoid. That’s what it is, Shui!’ Kim nodded to himself, studying the now-inert machine. Then he turned and saw the puzzlement in the older boy’s face.

  ‘It’s just a name I thought of for them. Spiders – they’re arachnids. And machi
nes that mimic life – those are often called androids. Put the two together and…’

  Chan Shui’s face lit up. It was a rounded, pleasant face. A handsome, uncomplicated face, framed by neat black hair.

  Kim looked at him a moment, wondering, then, keeping his voice low, asked the question he had been keeping back all morning. ‘Do you like me, Chan Shui?’

  There was no change in Chan Shui’s face. It smiled back at him, perfectly open, the dark eyes clear. ‘What an absurd question. What do you think?’

  Kim bowed his head, embarrassed, but before he could say anything more, Chan Shui had changed the subject.

  ‘Do you know what they call a spider in Han, Kim?’

  Kim met his eyes again. ‘Chih chu, isn’t it?’

  Chan Shui seemed pleased. ‘That’s right. But did you know that we have other, more flowery names for them? You see, for us they have always been creatures of good omen. When a spider lowers itself from its web they say, “Good luck descends from heaven.”’

  Kim laughed, delighted. ‘Are there many spiders where you are, Chan Shui?’

  Chan shook his head, then stood up and began examining the control panel. ‘There are no spiders. Not nowadays. Only caged birds and fish in artificial ponds.’ He looked back at Kim, a rueful smile returning to his lips. ‘Oh, and us.’

  His bitterness had been momentary, yet it was telling. No spiders? How was that? Then Kim understood. Of course. There would be no insects of any kind within the City proper – the quarantine gates of the Net would see to that.

  Chan Shui pulled the tiny phial from its slot in the panel and shook it. ‘Looks like we’re out of ice. I’ll get some more.’

  Kim touched his arm. ‘I’ll get it, Chan Shui. Where do I go?’

  The Han hesitated, then smiled. ‘Okay. It’s over there, on the far side. There’s a refill tank – see it? – yes, that’s it. All you have to do is take this empty phial back, slip it into the hole in the panel at the bottom of the tank and punch in the machine number. This here.’ Chan Shui pointed out the serial number on the arachnoid’s panel. ‘It’ll return the phial after about a minute, full. Okay?’