Son of Heaven (47 page)

Like he was dying by degrees.

Which was probably the fucking truth.

If he could have laughed right then, he would have laughed. Just the one final time. For defiance’s sake. Because that was how he’d lived his life. Defiant. With a finger up to
authority.

Old Josh smiled, or thought he smiled… and was gone.

They turned the lifeless body over, looking for some form of documentation, only there was nothing.

The man looked old. Eighty if he was a day.

Wang stared at the corpse a while, then shook his head. It was no good trying to work out what motivated these people. They were not like his own.

Nei wai yu pi’e
… the saying went. The Han and the
Hung Mao
, the Westerners, were different. They saw the world in different ways. So it was. So it would always be. To
think that they could live together… it was a mistake.

‘Come,’ he said, gesturing to Cho and Li. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

But as he climbed back onto the craft, he found himself remembering the figure of the man, dancing in the light beside the open window.

Dancing…

Wang Yu-Lai shook his head. No good would come of this experiment; of this mixing of the pure and the impure. Time would prove him right. Only what was he to do? He had no voice in the matter.
He was, after all, merely his Master’s hands.

He sighed, then, reaching for his slate, began to write that day’s report. And as he did, so other memories came back to him from earlier that afternoon.

Wang smiled; a cruel, lascivious smile, remembering, then cleared his mind, like the good servant he was. Loyal unto death.

But not his death. Not if he could help it.

Chapter 11

THE END OF HISTORY

J
iang Lei stood there atop the castle mound, staring out across the darkened countryside.

It was late, but you could still hear, faintly, in the distance, the sound of the machines as they worked into the night, building Tsao Ch’un’s great city.

Those machines never stopped. Shift after shift the city kept on growing, encroaching on the land, populating it with its outposts, like a giant laying endless wei chi stones upon the board,
filling it slowly, purposefully.

Jiang Lei could see it clearly from where he stood, its pearled, lambent forms scattered across the darkness.

Reed had left a while back, but their talk had made Jiang thoughtful; had brought him here to experience for himself what it was like to see the world from this vantage point. It was true what
Reed had said. One seemed to shed the centuries standing there beneath its fallen towers.

He sighed. It would have to be destroyed, of course. Now that he’d seen it for himself he understood. The whole ridge would have to come down. Normally they would build around the more
mountainous regions, encircling them, only this was too small a natural feature. No. They would flatten this, pushing the city on, over and above its pounded ruins.

Jiang Lei imagined it, holding the thought a moment, seeing how he could make a poem of it. A poem of ice and time and broken lives. Especially the last. A delicate, elegant poem. An observation
from the edge of the world.

He turned, looking back down the hill. There, not fifty metres away, Ma Feng and the youngster, Li Ying, were waiting for him, sharing a cigarette, the glow of its stub the only sign of them in
the darkness.

Jiang smiled. Today, for once, had been a good day. His talk with Reed… it was rare that he had such conversations. But then Reed seemed a rare kind of man. It was a pity he was
Hung
Mao
. Much more a pity that he was on Wang’s list.

Jiang sniffed in the cool night air. He was not sure what he would do about that yet. He had given Reed a new identity. One that would keep him from discovery for the next few days. But after
that…

‘Ma Feng…’

The man hurried up the slope, taking form from the darkness.

‘Yes, General?’

‘My talk this afternoon… with the prisoner… I want no word of it to get back to Cadre Wang, you understand?’

Ma Feng’s head bent lower. ‘Yes, General. I shall speak to the men.’

‘Good. Then I am finished here.’

Ma Feng remained as he was, head lowered. He showed no sign of ever moving from that pose.

Jiang knew what it meant. Knew, of old, that Ma Feng would not ask directly, and so asked the question for him.

‘You want to know why, neh? Why I, Tsao Ch’un’s general, should be so interested in a simple villager? Well… I am… only the truth is, our friend Wang Yu-Lai would
be even more interested.’

He paused, then, ‘The man is on the list…’

Ma Feng looked up, shocked, then quickly down again.

‘You understand, then? Why Cadre Wang must not know?’

‘No, General, only… you must have a reason.’

‘I do indeed. But what I said… no word, yes?’

Ma Feng hesitated, then, ‘Yes, General.’

‘Good. Then let’s be gone from here.’

Jake stepped down from the craft and looked about him. It was a camp. A detention camp, complete with barbed wire fences and guard towers. As far as history was concerned, he
might as well have been living a hundred years before. Only now that he’d met the man in charge, he found this strange. To be so cultured and yet so cruel. Or was it mere necessity?

He had not thought to live out the day. When he’d been sitting in that room, alone, his hands bound, he had thought himself a dead man. Only here he was, alive and, in a minute or so, to
be reunited with his loved ones.

He looked back at the guard, but the Han wasn’t interested in him any longer. He waved Jake on, gesturing vaguely towards the huts. There were people over there – prisoners, Jake
thought, for what else were they? There was a single light on a pole in the centre of the camp, and the low hum of a generator.

He made his way across. A number of people were gathered beneath the lamp, next to a standing water tap. Jake looked about him, recognizing some of the faces from nearby villages. Some of them
had even been there in Corfe the other night, when they’d had the barbecue.

The ‘huts’ were further on, twelve long low buildings laid out in three straight lines, their opaque material glowing faintly from within. Vague shadows moved within that glow.

Beyond them lay the fence, lit every twenty metres or so by spotlights.

Light spilled from the doorway to each hut.

‘You seen the Church Knowle crowd?’

‘Middle row,’ one of them answered, pointing. ‘Down near the end. Can’t miss ’em.’

‘Thanks.’

He heard them long before he made out who it was. A few of them were standing by the door, just outside, talking like they were back home. Like this wasn’t some bad dream they had stumbled
into.

Will Cooper was there, and John Lovegrove from Corfe, and – to his surprise – Jack Hamilton from Wareham and his new wife, Becky.

Jake stepped out from the darkness, surprising them. Will Cooper said it for them all. ‘Jake… fuck me, mate, where you been?’

‘Thought you were for it,’ John Lovegrove chipped in.

Becky stepped over to him and gave him a hug. ‘Good to see you, Jake,’ she said in his ear. ‘Best go see Mary and the others… they’ve been worried
sick…’

‘They inside?’

‘Down the end on the left… poor Petie… been crying ’is eyes out, poor boy.’

Jake gave her a gentle squeeze then went inside.

It all looked very spartan: a cross between a large dormitory and a massive tent made out of what looked like thick plastic. There were light sources actually embedded in the walls. Beneath
those, pallet beds had been set up either side of the central aisle, army style.

He saw Mary at once, sitting on one of the beds at the far end, Cathy and Beth sat either side of her, holding her hands. Nearby, two beds down, Peter lay face down, Meg sat next to him,
smoothing his hair.

The sight of them moved him deeply. For a while, earlier, he thought he’d lost them; thought he’d never see them again.

He walked across. They all had their backs to him. They didn’t realize he was there, until Meg glanced up and saw him.

‘Uncle Jake!’ she squealed, jumping up. ‘It’s Uncle Jake!’

In the chaos that followed he was hugged and kissed, their happiness at seeing him again making his heart leap, the tears come flooding from his eyes.

Peter clung to him, as if he’d never let him go.

As it calmed, he sat between them all, Peter cuddled in beneath his arm, as he told them everything that had happened. Others had gathered about them, eager to hear Jake’s news, fascinated
by Jake’s description of the man who seemed to hold all of their fates in his hands.

Only Jake didn’t tell them everything. For once, instinct made him hold back; made him relate only the bare bones. He didn’t know why, but he felt it a kind of betrayal. The man had
clearly spared his life, and he ought to feel grateful for that, not repay him with idle chatter.

As for the false identity… Of that he said nothing. Not even to Mary. For who knew, in these changed circumstances, which of his erstwhile friends and neighbours would betray him?

Later, as he lay there, stretched out on his bed, Mary came across.

She sat down beside him, putting her hand on his brow, and smiled. ‘Hi…’

He let his eyes take in how beautiful she was.

‘Hi…’

He put his arm about her, pulled her down and kissed her.

‘You know what? I never thought I’d ever do that again…’

‘What, kiss me?’

‘Yes… I sat there in that room and… oh god… I dunno… I thought I was dead. And I kept thinking…’

Jake swallowed, choked up by the thought.

‘I kept thinking of my promise, to Tom, and…’

She put her finger to his lips. ‘I’m glad, you know… really glad you came back. I wasn’t sure before… you know, about what I felt… about us… but
when I thought I’d lost you…’

Jake stared back at her, surprised by the tear that rolled down her cheek.

‘I missed you, you know.’

‘Did you?’ She tried to smile, but she was crying now. ‘Oh, Jake… what’s going to happen to us? Why are we in this dreadful place?’

Wang Yu-Lai stood there on the podium, in the centre of the yard, looking out over the heads of the gathered prisoners. A handful of guards stood close by, their big
automatics held casually, almost lazily. They knew nothing would happen. These people were as docile as sheep.

Wang himself had slept well. For once he was in the very best of moods. That little ‘excursion’ yesterday had whet his appetite for more. Which was why he was here, now, at this
unearthly hour, welcoming the dawn.

He looked about him at the captives. They were a ragged bunch. Most of them had no more than the clothes they’d been wearing when they were taken. Few had coats. Most stood there,
shivering in the cold morning air.

Wang smiled. He oughtn’t to have been there. Not officially. This wasn’t really his job. But what Jiang Lei didn’t know about couldn’t possibly hurt him. And besides, it
would make the general’s job much easier.

He summoned Cho, then spoke to him in a low whisper, so that none of the others could hear.

‘Cho… I want you in the office. I don’t want any of these fuckers trying to contact General Jiang, understand?’

Cho bowed low, then ran off to do as he was bid.

Wang straightened, pulling his cloak tighter about him against the chill. With Jiang absent, he was the senior ranking official here, and what he said went.

He jumped down, walking among them, seeing how they were cowed by his power, his eminence. Hate him they might, but they also feared him.

‘This one,’ he said, touching the arm of one of them. ‘And this one, too,’ he said, indicating another.

One of his men was filming this from the podium, while another, beside him, noted down those he selected. Others waded into the crowd to take those whom Wang had picked and dragged them off to
one side of the main mass.

Wang shook his head, a sneer of disgust crossing his features. Jiang Lei was far too soft, far too undiscerning in those he let through. And that was bad for the city. For the city, if it was to
have
Hung Mao
at all, must surely have the best of them, the strongest genetically.

No, his Master, the First Dragon, was right. General Jiang was far too lenient.
If he can’t make the choice, I’ll have to make it for him
.

He could see the old man in his mind, his Steward fussing about him, making him
ch’a
and bringing him a fresh sheet of paper, so he might compose another poem.

It made Wang want to spit. To have such a man as a general.

He did not like to criticize Tsao Ch’un, even in his thoughts, but in appointing Jiang Lei to such a rank, he had surely been mistaken. Jiang was not hard enough, not ruthless enough, for
the task.

He chose another, then another, most of them older men, though there were one or two women among them. Women of advanced years.

Wang stopped. Now what was this? He gave a grunt, then shook his head. No, no… they couldn’t have this. Look at the woman’s eye!