The Middle Kingdom

by David Wingrove

  ‘It’s a disease that’s rife amongst the whole of this new generation. Things have changed, I tell you. They are not like their fathers, solid and dependable. No, they’re ill-mannered brutes, every last one of them. And they think they can buy change.’

  Lwo Kang stretched his bull neck and nodded. ‘They lack respect.’

  There was a murmur of agreement. Yang Lai bowed, then answered him. ‘That’s true, my lord. But then, they are not Han. They could never be ch’un tzu. They have no values. And look at the way they dress!’

  Lwo Kang smiled, sitting back again. Though only in his late thirties he was already slightly balding. He had inherited his father’s looks – a thick-set body already going to fat at waist and upper chest – and, like his father, he had never found the time for exercise. He smiled, knowing how he looked to them. I am not a vain man, he thought; and in truth I’d be a liar to myself if I were. Yet I have their respect.

  No, it was not by outward show that a man was to be judged, but by his innermost qualities; qualities that lay behind his every action.

  His father, Lwo Chun-Yi, had been born a commoner; even so, he had proved himself worthy and had been appointed Minister to Li Shai Tung in the first years of his reign. Because of that, Lwo Kang had been educated to the highest level and had learned the rudiments of service in his earliest years. Now he in his turn was the T’ang’s Minister. He looked about him again, satisfied. No, there was not one here who did not know him for their master.

  ‘What these Hung Mao need is a lesson,’ he said, leaning forward to take a shrimp and snow pickle sweetmeat from the tray on the footstool next to him. He gulped it down, savouring the sweet, spicy hoisin sauce on his tongue, and belched appreciatively. ‘A lesson in manners.’

  Jyan clung to the outside of the dome like a small, dark insect. Three of the hoops were set. It remained only to place and arm the last charge.

  Where he rested, one hand attaching him to the dome’s taut skin, the slope was relatively gentle. He could look out over the capped summit of the dome and see the distant, moon-washed peaks. It was a beautiful night. Clear, like glass. Above him the stars shone like polished jewels against the blackness. So many stars. So vast the blackness.

  He looked down. Concentrate, he told himself. You’ve no time for stargazing. Even so, he took a final glimpse. Then, working quickly, he placed and fastened the hoop, taping it at four points. That done, he tugged gently but firmly at the joint.

  Where he pulled at it, the hoop came apart, a thin thread joining tail to mouth. Like a snake’s wire-thin tongue. Fully extended, the thread was as long as his little finger. Already it was being coiled back into the body of the hoop. Eventually the ends would join up again and the hoop would send out a trigger signal. When all four were primed, they would form a single, destructive harmonic. And then…

  Slowly, carefully, he backed away, edging back down the steepening wall of the dome. Like all else in the City its skin was made of the super-plastic, ice. Normal charges would scarcely have dented the steel-tough, fire-resistant skin, but these would eat right through it before they detonated.

  He was balanced at the point where the dome wall fell sharply away when he stopped, hearing a noise beneath him. He turned his head slowly, scarcely daring to breath. Who in the gods’ names…?

  The figure was directly underneath, staring up at him. As Jyan turned his face a brilliant beam of light shone directly into his eyes.

  ‘You! What are you doing up there?’

  Jyan looked away, momentarily blinded, then looked back in time to see Chen coming up behind the man.

  The man turned quickly, sensing something behind him. As Chen struck out with his knife, the man raised the big torch he was carrying and deflected the blow.

  Chen’s knife went clattering across the roof.

  For a moment the two faced each other warily, then Chen moved, circling the newcomer. He feinted, making the other back off, then dropped to his knees, searching for his knife in the shadows at the base of the dome.

  The man looked at his torch, considering whether to use it as a weapon and go for Chen, then turned and ran off to the right, where a faint patch of light revealed a second maintenance hatch.

  ‘Pien hua!’ swore Jyan under his breath. Loosening the claws, he dropped the last five metres and rolled. Crouched there, he looked about him.

  He saw Chen at once, to his right, running after the stranger. But the man was already at the hatch and climbing down.

  ‘Shit!’ he said desperately, trying to ease the claws from his hands as quickly as he could. If the bastard got to an alarm they would both be done for.

  He looked up in time to see Chen disappear down the hatch.

  ‘Hurry, Chen!’ he murmured anxiously, folding the claws and tucking them away in his pocket. He turned, looking back up the dome’s steep slope, then glanced down at the dragon timer in his wrist. Six minutes. That was all that remained.

  And if Chen failed?

  He swallowed drily, then began to run towards the second shaft, his heart pounding in his chest. ‘Shit!’ he kept saying. ‘Shit!’

  He was only twenty ch’i from it when a figure lifted from the hatch and turned to face him.

  He pulled up sharply, gasping with fear, but it was Chen. The kwai looked up, the broad shape of his face and chest lit from beneath, his breath pluming up into the chill air.

  ‘Where is he?’ hissed Jyan anxiously, hurrying forward again. ‘Oh, gods! You didn’t let him get away, did you?’

  Chen reached down and pulled the man up by the hair. ‘He’s dead,’ he said tonelessly, letting the corpse fall back. ‘There was no other way. He was trying to open a Security panel when I came on him. Now we’ll have to find somewhere to hide him.’

  Jyan shuddered, filled with relief. ‘Thank the gods.’ He turned and glanced back at the dome. ‘Let’s go, then. Before it blows.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chen, a faintly ironic smile lighting his big, blunt face. ‘The rest should be easy. Like the bamboo before the blade.’

  The maid had gone. Pi Ch’ien sat alone in the room, his ch’a long finished, contemplating the fifteen-hundred-year-old painting of Wen Ti that hung on the wall above the door. It was Yen Li-pen’s famous painting from the Portraits of the Emperors, with the Han Emperor attended by his Ministers.

  Every schoolboy knew the story of Wen Ti, first of the great Emperors. It was he who, more than twenty-three centuries before, had created the concept of Chung Kuo; who, through his thorough adoption of the Confucian virtues, had made of his vast but ragtag land of warring nations a single State, governed by stern but just principles. Wen Ti it was who had first brought commoners into his government. He who had changed the harsh laws and customs of his predecessors so that no one in the Middle Kingdom would starve or suffer cruel injustice. Famine relief, pensions and the abolition of punishment by mutilation – all these were Wen Ti’s doing. He had lowered taxes and done away with the vast expense of Imperial display. He had sought the just criticism of his Ministers and acted to better the lot of the Han. Under his rule Chung Kuo had thrived and its population grown.

  Eighteen hundred years later, the Manchu Emperor, K’ang Hsi, had established his great empire on Wen Ti’s principles. Later still, when the Seven had thrown off the yoke of the tyrant, Tsao Ch’un, they too had adopted the principles of Wen Ti’s reign, making him the First Ancestor of Chung Kuo. Now Wen Ti’s painting hung everywhere in the City, in a thousand shapes and forms. This, however, was a particularly fine painting – a perfect reproduction of Yen Li-pen’s original.

  Pi Ch’ien got up and went over to the painting, remembering the time when his father had stood there with him beneath another copy of the portrait and told him the story of the finding of the handscroll.

  For centuries the Portraits of the Emperors roll had been housed in a museum in the ancient town of Boston, along with much more that had rightly belonged to the Han. When the American Empire had finally
collapsed much had been lost. Most of the old Han treasures had been destroyed out of spite, but some had been hidden away. Years had passed. Then, in the years when the Han were building their City over the old land of America, skilled teams had been sent across that continent to search for any remaining artifacts. Little was found of real value until, in an old, crumbling building on the shoreline of what had once been called California, they had found a simple cardboard box containing the scroll. The handscroll was remarkably preserved considering its ill-use, but even so, four of the original thirteen portraits had been lost. Fortunately, the painting of Wen Ti was one of those that had emerged unscathed.

  He turned away and went back to his seat. For a second or two longer he contemplated the painting, delighted by the profound simplicity of its brushwork, then leaned across and picked up the handbell. He was about to lift the tiny wooden hammer to ring for more ch’a when the door swung open and Yang Lai came hurriedly into the room.

  Pi Ch’ien scrambled to his feet and bowed low.

  ‘Well, Pi Ch’ien?’ Yang Lai barked impatiently. ‘What is it?’

  His expression showed he was far from pleased by his Third Secretary’s intrusion.

  Pi Ch’ien remained bowed, the card held out before him.

  ‘I have an urgent message for you, Excellency. I was told to bring it here at once.’

  ‘Give it here!’ Yang Lai said irritably.

  Pi Ch’ien handed the card across. Yang Lai stared at it a moment, then turned away. With upturned eyes Pi Ch’ien watched him tap his personal code into the Instruct box and place his thumb against the Release.

  There was a moment’s silence from Yang Lai, then he gasped. When he turned to face Pi Ch’ien again, his face was ashen. For a moment his mouth worked silently, then, without another word, he turned and left the room, his silk cloak flapping as he ran.

  Pi Ch’ien lifted his head, astonished. For a moment he stood there, rooted to the spot. Then he rushed across the room and poked his head out into the corridor.

  The corridor was empty. There was no sign of Yang Lai.

  He looked back into the room. There, on the floor, was the message card. He went across and picked it up, then turned it in his hand, studying it. Without Yang Lai’s thumb on the Release pad the surface of the card was blank; even so, it might prove interesting to keep.

  Pi Ch’ien hesitated, not certain what to do. Yang Lai had not formally dismissed him; but then, he had fulfilled his duty – had delivered the message. Surely, then, it was all right for him to go. He went to the door and looked out again. The corridor was still empty. Careful now, conscious of the watching cameras, he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. Then, composing himself, trying to ignore the strong feeling of wrongness that was growing in him by the moment, he began to walk towards the entrance hall.

  There was movement up ahead. Chen crouched in the narrow circle of the horizontal shaft, perfectly still, listening. Beside him, tensed, his breathing like the soft hiss of a machine, Jyan waited.

  Chen turned, smiling reassuringly. In the dim overhead light Jyan’s face seemed more gaunt than normal, his cheekbones more hollow. The roseate light made him seem almost demonic, his cold, black eyes reflecting back two tiny points of redness. Chen wanted to laugh, looking at him. Such delicate features he had; such neat, small ears. He could imagine how Jyan’s mother would have loved those ears – back when Jyan had yet had a mother.

  He looked away, sobered by the thought. It’s why we’re here, he realized, waiting, knowing the noise, the movement would go away. If we had loved ones we would never have got involved in this. We’re here because we have no one. Nothing to connect us to the world.

  Chen kept his thoughts to himself; like a good kwai he cultivated the appearance of stupidity. Like all else, it was a weapon. He had been taught to let his enemies underestimate him; to always keep something back – something in reserve. And lastly, to make no friends.

  Ahead it went silent again. He waited, making sure, then began to move up the access tunnel once more, his right hand feeling his way along the tunnel wall. And as he moved he could sense Jyan immediately behind him; silent, trusting.

  Minister Lwo pulled himself up out of his chair and stretched his legs. It was almost time to call it an evening, but first he’d dip his body in the pool and cool off. His Junior Ministers had risen to their feet when he had stood. Now he signalled them to be seated again. ‘Please, gentlemen, don’t break your talk for me.’

  He moved between them, acknowledging their bows, then down three steps and past a lacquered screen, into the other half of the dome. Here was a miniature pool, its chest-deep waters cool and refreshing after the heat of the solarium. Small shrubs and potted trees surrounded it on three sides, while from the ceiling above hung a long, elegant cage, housing a dozen songbirds.

  As he stood there at the pool’s edge two attendants hurried across to help him undress, then stood there, heads bowed respectfully, holding his clothes, as he eased himself into the water.

  He had been there only moments when he heard the pad of feet behind him. It was Lao Jen.

  ‘May I join you, Excellency?’

  Lwo Kang smiled. ‘Of course. Come in, Jen.’

  Lao Jen had been with him longest and was his most trusted advisor. He was also a man with connections, hearing much that would otherwise have passed the Minister by. His sister had married into one of the more important of the Minor Families and fed him juicy titbits of Above gossip. These he passed on to Lwo Kang privately.

  Lao Jen threw off his pau and came down the steps into the water. For a moment the two of them floated there, facing each other. Then Lwo Kang smiled.

  ‘What news, Jen? You surely have some.’

  ‘Well,’ he began, speaking softly so that only the Minister could hear. ‘It seems that today’s business with Lehmann is only a small part of things. Our friends the Dispersionists are hatching bigger, broader schemes. It seems they have formed a faction – a pressure group – in the House. It’s said they have more than two hundred Representatives in their pocket.’

  Lwo Kang nodded. He had heard something similar. ‘Go on.’

  ‘More than that, Excellency. It seems they’re going to push to reopen the starflight programme.’

  Lwo Kang laughed. Then he lowered his voice. ‘You’re serious? The starflight programme?’ He shook his head, surprised. ‘Why, that’s been dead a century and more! What’s the thinking behind that?’

  Lao Jen ducked his head, then surfaced again, drawing his hand back through his hair. ‘It’s the logical outcome of their policies. They are, after all, Dispersionists. They want breathing space. Want to be free of the City and its controls. Their policies make no sense unless there is somewhere to disperse to.’

  ‘I’ve always seen them otherwise, Jen. I’ve always thought their talk of breathing space was a political mask. A bargaining counter. And all this nonsense about opening up the colony planets, too. No one in their right mind would want to live out there. Why, it would take ten thousand years to colonize the stars!’ He grunted, then shook his head. ‘No, Jen, it’s all a blind. Something to distract us from the real purpose of their movement.’

  ‘Which is what, Excellency?’

  Lwo Kang smiled faintly, knowing Lao Jen was sounding him. ‘They are Hung Mao and they want to rule. They feel we Han have usurped their natural right to control the destiny of Chung Kuo, and they want to see us under. That’s all there is to it. All this business of stars and planetary conquest is pure nonsense – the sort of puerile idiocy their minds ran to before we purged them of it.’

  Lao Jen laughed. ‘Your Excellency sees it clearly. Nevertheless, I…’

  He stopped. Both men turned, standing up in the water. It came again. A loud hammering at the inner door of the solarium. Then there were raised voices.

  Lwo Kang climbed up out of the water and without stopping to dry himself, took his pau from the attendant and pulled it on,
tying the sash at the waist. He had taken only two steps forward when a security guard came down the steps towards him.

  ‘Minister!’ he said breathlessly, bowing low. ‘The alarm has been sounded. We must evacuate the dome!’

  Lwo Kang turned, dumbstruck, and looked back at Lao Jen.

  Lao Jen was standing on the second step, the water up to his shins. He was looking up. Above him the songbirds were screeching madly and fluttering about their cage.

  Lwo Kang took a step back towards Lao Jen, then stopped. There was a small plop and a fizzing sound. Then another. He frowned, then looked up past the cage at the ceiling of the dome. There, directly above the pool, the smooth white skin of the dome was impossibly charred. There, only an arm’s length from where the wire that held the cage was attached, was a small, expanding halo of darkness. Even as he watched, small gobbets of melted ice dropped from that dark circle and fell hissing into the water.

  ‘Gods!’ he said softly, astonished. ‘What in heaven’s name… ?’

  Then he understood. Understood, at the same moment, that it was already too late. ‘Yang Lai,’ he said almost inaudibly, straightening up, seeing in his mind the back of his Junior Minister as he hurried from the dome. ‘Yes. It must have been Yang Lai…’

  But the words were barely uttered when the air turned to flame.

  The patrol craft was fifteen li out when its tail camera, set on automatic search-and-scan, trained itself on the first brief flicker from the dome. On a panel above the navigator’s head a light began to flash. At once the pilot banked the craft steeply, turning towards the trace.

  They were almost facing the dome when the whole of the horizon seemed to shimmer and catch fire.

  The pilot swore. ‘What in Chang-e’s name is that?!’

  ‘The mountains…’ said the navigator softly, staring in amazement at the overhead screen. ‘Something’s come down in the mountains!’

  ‘No…’ The pilot was staring forward through the windscreen. ‘It was much closer than that. Run the tape back.’