The Middle Kingdom

by David Wingrove

  He had barely said it when the sound of the explosion hit them, rocking the tiny craft.

  ‘It’s the dome!’ said the pilot in the stillness that followed. ‘It’s the fucking solarium!’

  ‘It can’t be.’

  The pilot laughed, shocked. ‘But it’s not there! It’s not fucking there!’

  The navigator stared at him a moment, then looked back up at the screen. The image was frozen at the point where the camera had locked onto the irregular heat pattern.

  He leaned forward and touched the display pad. Slowly, a frame at a time, the image changed.

  ‘Gods! Look at that!’

  Near the top of the softly glowing whiteness of the dome two eyes burned redly. Slowly they grew larger, darker, the crown of the dome softening, collapsing until the crumpled face of the solarium seemed to leer at the camera, a vivid gash of redness linking two of the four holes that were now visible. For a single frame it formed a death mask, the translucent flesh of the dome brilliantly underlit. Then, in the space of three frames, the whole thing blew apart.

  In the first it was veined with tiny cracks – each fissure a searing, eye-scorching filament of fire, etched vividly against the swollen, golden flesh of the dome. As the tape moved on a frame, that golden light intensified, filling the bloated hemisphere to its limit. Light spilled like molten metal from the bloodied mouths that webbed the dome, eating into the surrounding darkness like an incandescent acid. Then, like a flowering wound, the whole thing opened up, the ragged flaps of ice thrown outward violently, flaming like the petals of a honey gold and red chrysanthemum, its bright intensity flecked with darkness.

  He reached forward and pressed to hold the image. The screen burned, almost unbearably bright. He turned and stared at his colleague, seeing at once how the other’s mouth was open, the inner flesh glistening brightly in the intense, reflected light, while in the polished darkness of his eyes two gold-red flowers blossomed.

  ‘Gods… That’s awful… Terrible…’

  The flat, Han face of the navigator turned and looked up at the screen. Yes, he thought. Awful. Terrible. And yet quite beautiful. Like a chrysanthemum, quite beautiful.

  Chapter 27

  THE SILKWORM AND THE MULBERRY LEAF

  At the mouth of the narrow, low-ceilinged corridor they had been following, Chen stopped and placed his hand against Jyan’s chest, looking out into the wide but crowded thoroughfare beyond.

  Pan Chao Street teemed with life. Along both sides of the long, broad avenue ran balconies, four of them, stacked like seed trays one atop another, their low rails packed with people, the space between them criss-crossed with a vast unruly web of lines from which enormous quantities of washing hung, like giant, tattered veils, dripping endlessly onto the crowds below.

  A hundred smaller corridors led into Pan Chao Street, the regular pattern of their dark, square mouths peppering the walls behind the balconies, like the openings to a giant hive.

  Chen reached out and touched the smooth surface of the hexagonal, graffiti-proof plaque on the wall close by. ‘Level Eleven’, it read; ‘South 3 Stack, Canton of Munich’. Relieved, he looked back, ignoring the curious stares of passers-by. That much, at least, was right. But were they in the right place? Had they come out at the right end?

  He glanced at Jyan, then nodded. ‘Come on. Let’s find that lift.’

  It was a noisy, boisterous place And it stank. The sharp, sour-sweet smell of spiced soymeats and overcooked vegetables was mixed inextricably with the sharper scent of human sweat and the damp, warm smell of the washing. Jyan looked at Chen, and grimaced.

  ‘It’s worse than beneath the Net!’

  Chen nodded. It was true. The air was a rich, unwholesome soup. After the freshness of the higher tunnels it made him feel like retching. Each breath seemed to coat the lungs.

  Chen pushed out into the middle of the press, aware of Jyan at his back. Young children, naked, many of them streaked with dirt, ran here and there through the crowd, yelling. Some tugged at their clothes as they passed.

  ‘Ch’ian!’ one tiny, shaven-headed boy yelled, pulling at Chen’s tunic, then putting his hand out aggressively. Money! He could have been no more than three at most. Chen glared at him and raised his hand threateningly, but the child only laughed and ran away, making a sign with his hand that was unmistakable. And you, thought Chen. And you.

  People jostled this way and that, using their elbows and shoulders to force a way through the press. In the midst of it all a few of them simply stood and talked, making deals or just passing the time, oblivious of the noise, the crush, the rickshaws jostling to get by. Some turned and eyed the two men as they made their way through, but most ignored them, intent on their own business.

  At the edge of things, small groups of women stood in doorways watching the multitudes, their arms folded over their breasts, their lips moving incessantly, chattering away in the pidgin dialect of these levels. Nearby, traders pushed their barrows through the crowd, crying out in the same strange, sing-song tongue as the watching women. Small MedFac screens were everywhere, on brackets fixed to walls and in shop fronts, on the sides of rickshaws or pushed along in handcarts, their constant murmur barely distinguishable above the general hubbub, while from every side countless PopVoc Squawks blared out, some large as suitcases, others worn as earrings or elaborate bracelets. All added to the dull cacophony of sound.

  Chen moved through it all slowly, purposefully, trying not to let it overwhelm him after the empty silence of the maintenance tunnels. His eyes searched for Security patrols, conscious all the while of Jyan at his side, matching him pace for pace. He allowed himself a brief, grim smile. It would be all right. He was sure it would all be fine.

  They were mostly Han here, but those Hung Mao about were almost indistinguishable in dress or speech. These were Chung Kuo’s poor. Here, near the very bottom of the City, you could see the problem the City faced – could touch and smell and hear it. Here it hit you immediately, in the constant push and shove of the crowds that milled about these corridors. Chung Kuo was overcrowded. Wherever you turned there were people; people talking and laughing, pushing and arguing, bargaining and gambling, making love behind thin curtains or moving about quietly in cramped and crowded rooms, watching endless historical dramas while they tended to a clutch of bawling children.

  Chen pushed on dourly, swallowing the sudden bitterness he felt. To those who lived a quieter, more ordered life in the levels high above, this would probably have seemed like hell. But Chen knew otherwise. The people of this level counted themselves lucky to be here, above the Net and not below. There was law here and a kind of order, despite the overcrowding. There was the guarantee of food and medical care. And though there was the constant problem of idleness – of too many hands and too few jobs – there was at least the chance of getting out, by luck or hard work; of climbing the levels to a better place than this. Below the Net there was nothing. Only chaos.

  Below this level the City had been sealed. That seal was called the Net. Unlike a real net, however, there were no holes in it. It was a perfect, supposedly unbreachable barrier. The architects of City Earth had meant it as a quarantine measure: as a means of preventing the spread of infestation and disease. From the beginning, however, the Seven had found another use for it.

  They had been wise, that first Council of the Seven. They had known what some men were; had seen the darkness in their hearts and had realized that, unless they acted, the lowest levels of the City would soon become ungovernable. Their solution had been simple and effective. They had decided to use the Net as a dumping ground for that small antisocial element on whom the standard punishment of downgrading – of demoting a citizen to a lower level – had proved consistently unsuccessful. By that means they hoped to check the rot and keep the levels pure.

  To a degree it had worked. As a dumping ground, the Net had served the Seven well. Below the Net there was no citizenship. Down there a man had no rights but thos
e he fought for or earned in the service of other, more powerful men. There was no social welfare there, no healthcare, no magistrates to judge the rights or wrongs of a man’s behaviour. Neither was there any legitimate means of returning from the Net. Exile was permanent, on pain of death. It was little wonder, then, that its threat kept the citizens of Pan Chao Street in check.

  Chen knew. It was where they came from, he and Jyan. Where they had been born. Down there, below the Net.

  And now they were returning.

  At the mouth of one of the small alleyways that opened onto Pan Chao Street, a group of young men had gathered in a circle, hunched forward, watching excitedly as a dice rolled. There was a sudden upward movement of their heads; an abrupt, exaggerated movement of arms and hands and shoulders accompanied by a shrill yell from a dozen mouths, a shout of triumph and dismay, followed a moment later by the hurried exchange of money and the making of new bets. Then the young men hunched forward again, concentrating on the next roll.

  As they passed the entrance, Jyan turned and stared at the group. He hesitated, then, catching their excitement, began to make his way across.

  ‘Kao Jyan!’ Chen hissed, reaching out to restrain him. ‘There’s no time! We must get on!’

  Jyan turned back, a momentary confusion in his face. His movements seemed strangely feverish and uncontrolled. His eyes had difficulty focusing. Chen knew at once what was wrong. The drug he had taken to tolerate the conditions outside the City was wearing off.

  Too soon, Chen thought, his mind working furiously. You must have taken it too early. Before you were told to. And now the reaction’s setting in. Too soon. Too bloody soon!

  ‘Come on, Jyan,’ he said, leaning closer and talking into his face. ‘We’ve got to get to the lift!’

  Jyan shivered and seemed to focus on him at last. Then he nodded and did as Chen said, moving on quickly through the crowd.

  Where Pan Chao Street spilled out into the broad concourse of Main, Chen stopped and looked about him, keeping a grip on Jyan. The bell tower was close by and to his left, the distribution lift far to his right, barely visible, more than a li distant.

  Shit! he thought. I was right. We’ve come out the wrong end!

  He glanced at Jyan, angry now. He knew they had been in there too long. He had told him they had come too far along the shaft, but Jyan wouldn’t have it. ‘The next junction,’ Jyan had said when Chen had stopped beside the hatch: ‘Not this one. The next.’ Chen had known at the time that Jyan was wrong, but Jyan had been in charge and so he’d done as he’d said. Now he wished he’d overruled him. They had lost valuable time. Now they’d have to backtrack – out in the open where they could be seen. Where Security could see them. And with Jyan going funny on him.

  He leaned close to Jyan and shouted into his ear. ‘Just stay beside me. Hold onto my arm if necessary, but don’t leave my side.’

  Jyan turned his head and looked back at him, his expression vacant. Then, as before, he seemed to come to. ‘Okay,’ he mouthed. ‘Let’s go.’

  Main, the huge central concourse of Eleven, was a Babel of light and sound, a broad, bloated torrent of humanity that made Pan Chao Street seem a sluggish backwater. Along its length people crowded about the stalls, thick as blackfly on the stem, haggling for bargains, while high above them massive viewscreens hung in clusters from the ceiling, filling the overhead. On the huge, five-level walls to either side of the concourse a thousand flickering images formed and reformed in a nightmare collage. Worst of all, however, was the noise. As they stepped out into the crush the noise hit them like a wave, a huge swell of sound, painful in its intensity, almost unbearable.

  Chen gritted his teeth, forcing his way through the thick press of people, holding on tightly to Jyan’s arm, thrusting him through the crowd. He looked about him, for the first time really anxious, and saw how the longtime natives of Eleven seemed to ignore the clamour; seemed not to see the giant, dreamlike faces that flickered into sudden existence and followed their every movement down the Main. They knew it was all a clever trick; knew from childhood how the screens responded to their presence. But to a stranger it was different. Nowhere in the City was quite like Eleven. Here, in the first floor above the Net, life seemed in perpetual ferment; as if the knowledge of what lay sealed off just below their feet made them live their lives at a different level of intensity.

  Jyan was turning his head from side to side as he moved through the crush, grimacing against the brute intensity of the noise, the awful flickering neon brightness of the screens. Then, abruptly, he turned and faced Chen, leaning into him, shouting into his face.

  ‘I can’t stand it, Chen! I can’t hear myself think!’

  Jyan’s face was dreadful to see. His mouth had formed a jagged shape; his round and frightened eyes held a neon glimpse of madness. It was clear he was close to cracking up. Chen held his arms firmly, trying to reassure him through his touch, then leaned close, shouting back his answer. ‘Two minutes, Jyan, that’s all! We’re almost there!’

  Jyan shuddered and looked up, away from Chen, his eyes wide. From one of the larger screens a huge head turned and focused on him. It was a classically beautiful oriental face, the eyes like almonds, the skin like satin, the hair fine and straight and dark. Meeting Jyan’s eyes she smiled and, somewhere else, a computer matched the face she looked down into against its computer memory of all the faces in that sector of the City.

  ‘You’re a stranger here,’ she said, after barely a pause, the wire-thin stem of a speaker appendage snaking down to a point just above their heads. ‘Are you just visiting us, or have you business here?’

  Jyan had frozen. Chen too had turned and was looking up at the screen. ‘Come on,’ he said tensely. ‘It’s dangerous here.’

  As the seconds passed, and Jyan did not move, the computers spread their search, looking to match the face and find a name. It was good sales technique. This time, however, it came up with nothing. Fourteen near likenesses, but nothing to match the retinal print of the man standing beneath its screen. In a Security post five levels up a warning message flashed up on a screen.

  ‘Come on, Jyan!’ Chen said urgently, tugging Jyan away; ignoring the curious looks of passers-by, pulling him along roughly now.

  At the end of Main, only a quarter li away, the doors to one of the huge delivery lifts were opening. Chen increased his pace, glancing from side to side. As the doors slid slowly back, a number of Ministry of Distribution workers – chi ch’i – stepped out, their dark, uniformed figures dwarfed by the huge doors.

  Nearer the lift the crowd thinned and the going grew easier. Chen slowed, then stopped and drew Jyan round to face him. The doors were almost fully open now. Already a number of the low-slung electric carts were spilling out into Main, unloading the code-marked crates.

  ‘You know what to do?’ Chen asked, his hands gripping the collar of Jyan’s jacket tightly. ‘You remember what we rehearsed?’

  Jyan nodded, his eyes suddenly much clearer. ‘I’m all right,’ he shouted. ‘It was only…’

  Chen put his hand to Jyan’s mouth. ‘No time!’ he yelled back. ‘Let’s just do it!’

  There were about thirty chi ch’i working the lift. All of them were wearing wraparounds – the bulky headpieces blinkering them from all distractions. Their close-shaven heads and the heavy, black, full-face masks gave them a sombre, distinctly mechanical appearance; an impression which their routine, repetitive movements enhanced. Chen walked towards them casually, aware of Jyan moving away from him, circling towards the lift from the other side.

  There were two pan chang or supervisors. One of them stood only a few paces from where Chen had stopped, his back to the overhead screens, his headphones making him deaf to the surrounding noise. From time to time he would bark an order into his lip-mike and one of the chi ch’i would pause momentarily, listening, then respond with a brief nod.

  Chen nodded to himself, satisfied. To all intents and purposes the chi ch’i could be dis
counted. Their awareness was limited to the colour-coded crates they were shifting from the lift: crates that stood out in simple, schematic shapes of red and green and blue against the intense blackness in their heads.

  He looked across. Jyan was in position now, directly behind the second pan chang. At a signal from Chen, they would act.

  Chen had made Jyan practise this endlessly; ripping the mike away quickly with his left hand, then chopping down against the victim’s windpipe with his right. Now he would discover if Jyan had learned his lesson.

  Chen brought his hand down sharply, then moved forward, grabbing his man. Savagely he ripped the mike from the pan chang’s lips and brought the heel of his right hand down hard against the man’s throat. He felt the man go limp and let him fall, then looked across.

  Jyan was still struggling with his man. He had ripped away the lip-mike, but had failed to finish things. Now he was holding the pan chang awkwardly his right arm locked around the middle of his head, his left hand formed into a fist as he flailed frantically at the man’s chest. But the pan chang was far from finished. With a shout he twisted out and pushed Jyan away, then turned to face him, one hand reaching up to pull his headphones off.

  Chen started forward, then saw something flash in Jyan’s hand. A moment later the pan chang staggered backward, clutching his chest. At the same time some of the chi ch’i straightened up and looked about blindly, as if suddenly aware that something was going on.

  Chen ran for the lift. At the doorway he turned and looked back.

  Jyan was kneeling over the pan chang, one foot pressing down into the dead man’s shoulder as he tried to pull the long-handled knife from his chest.

  ‘Jyan!’ Chen screamed, his voice almost lost in the background noise. ‘Leave it!’

  Jyan looked up sharply. Then, as if coming to himself again, he stood up and began to run towards the lift, skirting the unseeing chi ch’i and their carts. He had made only eight or nine paces when the first shot rang out.