Authors: J. Robert Kennedy
She had
no proof of it, but she knew it to be true.
Her son
had taken his first step to regaining the throne.
Delta 173, JFK Airport, New York City
Two Days Ago
Burt Dawson took point as he led his team onto the airplane,
pocketing his passport showing that one Mr. Virgil White, State Department, was
heading on official business to China. It was a well-worn, well-travelled
document. That had been generated yesterday. He mentally began to tally how
many countries’ stamps he would have in his passport if he actually had one,
losing count after thirty.
He
exited the jetway and stepped onto the plane, showing the smiling
stewardess—flight attendant!—his boarding pass. He looked for the hooks in her
cheeks and the string drawing them back toward her ears, the smile so painfully
artificial it had to have assistance from something. He stepped by and eyed the
first class passengers and stopped in his tracks.
Niner
bumped into him from behind.
“What’s
up, boss?”
He
nodded toward two first class passengers, already enjoying a glass of
champagne.
“Jesus,”
whispered Niner, “what are the chances of that?”
Dawson
didn’t know, but couldn’t afford to find out what would happen if these two
passengers saw him first.
“You
guys go on ahead.”
Niner, Jimmy
and Spock moved past him, careful to turn their heads in the opposite direction,
away from the two passengers. Dawson stepped over to them and extended his
hand.
“Excuse
me, Professors. I’m not sure if you remember me, I’m Virgil White from the
State Department. I helped you with some permits for a dig of yours a few
months ago.
Professor
James Acton’s jaw began to drop, then it tightened up as their eyes met. His
fiancée however, Professor Laura Palmer, had less control over her jaw, it
dropping completely open, but when their eyes met, she quickly snapped it shut with
an audible click of her teeth, and extended her hand.
“Mr.
White, of course, so good to see you again!”
They
shook hands, then Acton offered his own. As Dawson shook Acton’s hand, he smiled.
“You
folks going to Beijing?”
They
both nodded.
“And
where will you be staying?”
“The Hilton.”
“Nice?”
asked Dawson, not having any doubts, Laura Palmer rich nearly to the point of
obscenity.
She gave
a modest smile.
“Then
that’s not where I’ll be staying,” said Dawson with a grin.
“You
should come by and see us if you have a chance.”
It was
Laura who made the suggestion, and Dawson nodded.
“I think
that would be a
very
good idea. I’ll contact you as soon as I can, but
it might be a couple of days.” He leaned forward and put a hand on Acton’s
shoulder. “You two be
very
careful.”
He
slapped Acton on the shoulder, beaming a smile at both of them. “Have a great
flight, Professors.”
And
walked away before they could say anything else, taking his seat beside Spock
in the much tighter confines of coach.
I
need to warn those two. They’re magnets for trouble.
Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China
January 23, 1920
Li Mei cursed the heavens and earth, and all realms in between. For
weeks she had tried to strike bargains with the deities she believed in, those
she didn’t, and some she even created herself. To no avail. Her offer of her
own soul hadn’t been accepted, and now it was over.
He’s
too young!
She sat
at the bedside of her ailing son, a son, fifteen years her junior, who should
outlive her. Shun-Sheng was dying. Some sort of ailment of the lungs, according
to the local doctors.
“Nothing
to be done,” they had said.
Nothing?
Shun-Sheng’s
children surrounded him. All but one. Zedong. He had left home at sixteen, and
had been driven to fighting the government, mostly through his writings, but
Mei feared he would soon be taking up arms.
She
feared for his life, felt pride he had spoken out against the sham of an
emperor that had replaced the Empress Dowager upon her death, and felt a mix of
pride and shame that he wanted China to stand on its own, but not with an
Emperor at its head.
They had
barely heard from him in over ten years, the odd letter, the occasional word
from a friend, or a mention in a newspaper, but word had been sent as soon as
it was clear his father, her adopted son, her little emperor, would be dying.
And they
had heard nothing since.
“Father?”
The call
came from the front of the house. It was a little deeper than she remembered, a
little hoarser, but she recognized it instantly.
My
Grandson.
Zedong
appeared in the doorway to the bedroom where they had gathered, his face that
of the concerned son, his face that of one who had never lost his love for his
father, despite his years away. It was that of a son who had expected decades
more to enjoy with his father, once he had found his own way in life.
But it
wasn’t to be, and the anguish on his face at the first site of his impossibly
frail father revealed the heartache that filled him. He rushed to his father’s
side and dropped to his knees, grabbing his father’s hand in his.
“Oh
father, I’m so sorry it took me so long,” he cried.
Shun-sheng,
so weakened by his condition, barely opened his eyes, but the smile that spread
across his cheeks, told Mei all she needed to know.
He had
been waiting for Zedong.
Zedong
had always been his favorite, and had always been his greatest annoyance.
Zedong’s insistence on schooling, of reading until all hours of the night,
wasting the oil for his reading lamp, and his dismissal of the family farm as a
bother, the success of it through Shun-sheng’s hard work apparently unimportant
to the ambitious, curious young man.
When he
had left at sixteen to go to school, never to return, Shun-sheng had been
crushed. But he had never let Zedong know how much he hurt inside when he had
hugged him goodbye, wishing him well. He knew he had driven him away. He had
arranged a marriage, and Zedong had been furious, refusing to acknowledge the
woman as his wife. She stood in this very room now, and Mei looked at her, the
poor woman’s eyes on the floor in shame at the sight of the husband that had
refused her.
“Father,
are you okay?” His father didn’t answer, merely continuing to smile. Zedong
looked at Mei, and her heart broke at the sight of his tear filled, desperate
eyes, eyes she recognized as those of the little child that she had helped
raise.
“I’m
afraid not, little one,” she said. “He’s been waiting for you to return, to say
goodbye.” Her voice cracked, and she bit her cheek, squeezing her son’s hand
she had clasped for what seemed like days. “He doesn’t have much time.”
Shun-sheng’s
head turned toward her, and he whispered something that she couldn’t hear. She
leaned forward, putting her ear over his mouth.
“Tell
him.”
Her
heart slammed against her chest as she darted away from the words. Shun-sheng’s
eyes opened slightly wider, and he stared at her, then nodded. She sighed, and
nodded in return, then looked about the room.
“Everybody
out. These words are for Zedong only.”
She was
met with curious stares, but her stern look soon forced them into movement, and
they shuffled out reluctantly. Mei and Shun-sheng had never discussed what had happened,
had never said a word about who he truly was after he had returned, and she
never knew for certain if he had been responsible for the deaths of the Emperor
and the Empress Dowager, the official stories never to be trusted when it came
to these things.
But now
he wanted his son to know.
Zedong
looked at her, his red eyes filled with curiosity.
“What is
it, Grandmother?”
Mei
smiled and reached across his father with her spare hand, and took his. She
looked at her grandson, then her son, as she held both their hands, and they
held each other’s. It was a moment of truth. A moment that could change things
forever.
It was a
moment she feared Zedong may never be able to reconcile, what with his
political beliefs. She had heard rumors he was pushing for democracy, for those
in power to be elected by the common man, and for the adoption of Western ways,
but not Western leadership.
Mei
smiled at the young man in front of her, then squeezed both hands she held.
“You know that this is my home.”
“Of
course, you grew up just down the road.”
“But it
wasn’t always my home.”
Zedong’s
eyes narrowed. “No?”
Mei
shook her head. “When I was ten I was taken to the Forbidden City, to serve the
Emperor. When I was fifteen, I was given charge of his newborn son.”
Zedong
smiled. “Grandmother, for this to have happened when you say it happened, you
must be speaking of the Tongzhi Emperor, and I know for a fact he had no sons.”
Mei
looked at the boy with pride. “You know your history well, little one, but
history is written by those who control the pen, and when my emperor, whose
name I am forbidden to say, yet you say so boldly, died, I was there. And I was
in charge of his son.”
Zedong
sunk to the floor slightly, still holding his father’s hand, and hers. Mei
gripped him a little tighter.
“My
emperor’s mother, the Empress Dowager Cixi, had him murdered, because an heir
had been born, and my emperor dared to challenge her power. He was dead within
a day, and horrible rumors spread to discredit his memory.”
Zedong
looked at his father.
“Is he—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Mei
nodded. “Your father is that baby. Your grandfather, who was in the Emperor’s
Guard, and I, were the only ones to survive the betrayal that took place that
day. In fear for your father’s safety, we married, and told everyone, including
my parents, that he was our son. Your father did not know the truth until he
was much older—after you were born in fact—and now
you
know the truth.
No one else alive today knows what I have just told you.”
Zedong
suddenly stood, letting go both their hands.
“You
mean to tell me that I am imperial blood?”
She
nodded.
“That if
my grandfather hadn’t been murdered, I would be Emperor after my father died?”
Again,
Mei nodded.
Zedong
paced the room, his chin in his hand, and a bearing that she recognized from
her Emperor. His shoulders were more squared than usual, his posture, near
perfect, his stride, long and confident, though confined to three steps before
he would be forced to spin on his heel and again cover the territory crossed
moments before.
And
there was a look in his eye that she recognized as well.
It was a
lust for power, for control. It was an overwhelming will to seize what was
rightfully his, and to command his people, and rule his country, like he
deserved to, like he was always meant to.
But she
feared it was the ambition of a young man told the girl he had lusted over, but
was now married, had secretly lusted over him as well. She was no longer
available; she was now out of reach.
Her son
gasped, and she turned her attention back to him as Zedong rushed to his side
once again.
“Does he
know?” asked Shun-sheng.
Mei put
her lips to his ear.
“He
knows, my son.”
Shun-sheng
nodded, then looked at his son.
“Now you
know who you are. Never let anyone hold you back due to your perceived
station.”
It was
the strongest he had sounded in days, and they were to be his last words. He
collapsed into his pillow, and immediately his hand went limp in Mei’s. She
cried out, and the room immediately filled with those who had been banished to
the hall.
Wails of
grief filled the room, and Mei looked at Zedong across the body of his father.
He met her gaze, with eyes never more focused or determined in their resolve.
He
looked like his father did, the day he left to exact revenge.
Delta 173, Crossing the International Date Line
Yesterday
“I’m telling you, Jimmy, never get married.”
Burt
Dawson turned his head slightly, looking forward to hearing Niner’s advice for
his friend.
“Why
not?” asked Jimmy, taking the bait.
“My
brother got married and divorced in the same year.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I
asked him about it, and you know what he told me?”
“What?”
“He
said, ‘Girls are like a brochure. They let you run your fingers over their
words, drool over the pictures, and when you finally take the plunge and sign
up for that cruise to marriage-land, the brochure is snapped shut, never to be
spread again.’”
Dawson
shook his head, stifling a groan. Jimmy didn’t, his plain and aloud. Dawson
glanced at Spock who sat next to him, his eyebrow halfway up his forehead, a
smile on his face.
“Look
out, Dr. Phil.”
Dawson
grinned then climbed out of his seat, heading forward toward the first class
cabin. He stepped around a flight attendant coming his way, then entered the
bathroom, peering out the door, waiting for the lady collecting drinks to pass
by his position. She finally did and he exited, walking with purpose into first
class. He pulled his phone from his pocket, then dropped it on the floor, the
slight push he gave it sending it between the feet of one of the passengers. He
bent down, then looked up at a surprised Professor Acton.