The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1) (15 page)

Hoeryong

The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

Zhi watched, powerless, as Colonel Rong commandeered his desk chair. Rong ended the call with Wu Jintao and punched a number into the speaker phone.

Zhi’s mind churned, battered by events. Sweet success—the three girls destroying the USS Enterprise using Transition magic. Failure—all three dying because he pushed too soon to use them again. Catastrophe—Principal Chu-hua and his own aide fleeing with the program’s remaining children. Comrade Wu stripping him of command.

Rong’s call was picked up on the first ring by the duty officer.

“Yes, Senior Colonel?”

“This is Colonel Rong. Senior Colonel Zhi has been relieved. Send two guards to Zhi’s office immediately. They are to secure him in the holding cell.”

The conference phone’s speaker was silent.

Surely he will refuse this order until he can get verification.

The phone jumped to life. “Expect them shortly. Congratulations, Colonel.”

Rong disconnected the call without responding.

How long has Rong been working against me? Will I even make it to a Beijing prison?

Zhi said, “I demand you detain me in my quarters, not in security.”

“You demand nothing. Be thankful I wasn’t ordered to shoot you.”

Perhaps not at this moment.

Rong placed another call. “What’s the status of the search for the children?”

A long response, too indistinct for Zhi to hear. “Good,” Rong said.

Good?

“Let me reiterate. Take Principal Chu-hua and the children alive, unharmed. Kill the aide. Do not fail me.” He slammed the phone into its cradle and gazed in stony silence at Zhi.

* * *

“Get up!” Rong yelled.

Zhi started, disoriented, neither asleep nor awake. He lay on a cot in the camp’s holding cell, a freestanding box of steel bars that squatted in the center of the windowless space that also served as a receiving facility.

He’d spent the night staring at the shadowy ceiling through the bars overhead, numb with cold. The cage was anchored fifteen meters from a closed industrial garage door. Arctic air had relentlessly bumped the door during the night, shoving its way inside.

Rong unlocked the cell and threw Zhi’s coat and hat at him. They crunched through a foot of snow across the compound to the parking area. The prior day’s storm had cleared. Stars burned so brightly overhead Zhi felt he could reach up and pull them from the sky.

“What time is it?”

“Oh five hundred.” Rong directed him toward a running Mercedes SUV.

“First my command, then my office, and now my car. I’m relieved I’m not married,” Zhi said.

“You believed everything was part of your personal kingdom. That arrogance violated a sacred trust of the people and brought you down.”

Deliver me from zealots. But Comrade Wu distrusts true believers. Perhaps something to exploit.

Rong escorted Zhi to the passenger seat, then crossed in front of the car to the driver’s side and climbed behind the wheel.

No driver. No witnesses. Not good.

They arrived at the military base entrance as first light leavened the eastern sky and were directed to the rear access door of the base’s only hangar. Rong plowed through the uncleared road to the back, where two corporals stood stomping their feet. The closer one opened the passenger door.

Zhi glanced at Rong, “Not even getting out of the car to see me off?”

Rong ignored him.

Zhi climbed from the Mercedes and faced the two corporals. So similar, they could be twins. Two meters tall, young, muscles pushing at the seams of their green uniforms, faces revealing nothing, dead brown eyes.

Eng and Chang, I’ll call them. Descendants of the original conjoined twins.

Zhi faced the guard to his left. “When do we leave, Corporal Eng?”

“It’s Corporal Zhang, sir. We depart for Beijing immediately.”

They took him inside the hangar, where a Gulfstream waited, turbines warming. The G550 was a luxury business jet favored by the Chinese political elite.

Interesting choice to retrieve a man in disgrace.

Zhi led his captors up the stairs and into the plane and preemptively took a seat in the last row aft. The guards shrugged and settled in the front of the cabin.

These guys are being pretty casual.

Satisfied his death wasn’t imminent, he fell asleep before they left the ground. He often slept best under duress.

* * *

Eng woke him after the plane touched down. Zhi looked out the window at the buildings of the Beijing Capital International Airport. The jet rolled to the remote end of a service road and parked next to an S-series Mercedes limo, windows darkened, exhaust fogging in the cold air.

Why the first class treatment?

His escorts swung the door open and deployed the gangway. A frigid breeze whistled into the cabin, bearing the stink of jet fuel. Eng barked an order for Zhi to join them. He stood, shrugged into his coat and ushanka, and stalked to the front of the plane. The wind buffeted their somber parade as they marched down the stairs. Chang took point, Eng guarding their backs, with Zhi secure between them.

Chang opened the rear limo door.

Delegate Wu Jintao said, “Join me, Senior Colonel.”

Zhi’s heart leaped in his chest. He struggled to conceal his confusion.

Shit. One of the most powerful men in China doesn’t pick people up at the airport. Are we to go from here to a killing field?

Zhi sat facing his boss. Chang shoved the rear door closed; its lock snapped down like the report of a small caliber gun.

Wu’s hand shook as he put a Camel to his lips, drew the nicotine deep into his body, and exhaled through his nose. The air in the limo was blue with smoke. His ridged yellow fingernails, sallow skin, and stained mustache oozed age and jaundice.

“May I ask why you honor me by meeting the plane?”

Wu called to his driver. “Dongyue Temple.” The car accelerated away from the parked jet.

“You ceased to exist the moment Rong drove you from the Crane compound. This keeps it that way—no one in Beijing need see you.”

Sweat soaked Zhi’s armpits and slid down the center of his back.

“I value your frankness,” Zhi said. “Will you also disclose what’s to become of me?”

I am showing my fear like a child.

“I haven’t decided. Perhaps I’ll be inspired by the Dongyue Hall of Prayer.”

Wu’s anything but reflective. Prayer? What is going on?

“May I offer some thoughts for your reflection?” Zhi asked.

Wu stared out the limo’s side window, silent. “I can’t imagine what you might say that I’ve not anticipated.” He faced Zhi. “Very well. We have some time. I’ll listen.”

“I’m not going to pretend our relationship has been an easy one. And I’ll admit I’ve made errors. But you need me if you want Crane to succeed.”

“Colonel Rong can lead Crane. You are not required.”

“Not true and you know it,” Zhi said. “Rong is an excellent number two. However, he is a rigid dogmatist, with neither the intelligence nor the imagination necessary for Crane. Only I have that.”

“Rong learned from you. He doesn’t need creativity. You say he is an excellent second in command.” Wu paused, then continued. “Why do you compliment the man who brought you down?”

Zhi shook his head. “You undermined me, not Rong. And you may have destroyed the program. Had you told me of Rong’s concerns about security, I could have dealt with them. Instead, they festered like a boil.”

“You are too arrogant to listen to anyone, Zhi. It would have made little difference.” Wu lit another cigarette from the glowing stub of the one in his mouth.

“I am a pragmatist, as you are, Comrade. I would’ve acted immediately to address the security problems. You prevented that by concealing the information I needed.”

The car ground through the Beijing traffic.

Zhi gazed out the window. “You are deluding yourself if you think Crane no longer needs creativity. I
was
successful. Once. There remain many aspects of Transition that must be mastered if Crane is to consistently produce magic. How much training is required? What kind? Where are the boundaries of uniqueness? Rong will fail.”

“I would expect such a self-serving argument from you.”

“Even so, I speak the truth.”

“Let me share something with you, Zhi. My only pleasure the last few days has been contemplating the manner of your death.”

Zhi refused to be distracted by the fear that rolled over him like a rogue wave. “Are you saying Rong can do all this? That he has the subtlety to deal with the American threat? To rebuild Crane and replace the escaped children? I would be dead already if you believed that. You’re not that stupid.”

“Tread carefully, Senior Colonel. You’re an easy man to hate.”

* * *

When they arrived at the temple, Zhi climbed from the car and looked around. The grounds were surrounded by dozens of contemporary office towers, people scurrying from one glass building to another. No place in Beijing could be more commercial.

New China has little room for the old. And now the world will bow before the reality of willful magic.

Wu asked, “You’ve visited this temple before, perhaps?”

“No, comrade. I’m aware of the religion, but I don’t pay much attention to fusty old beliefs.”

“A pity your education is so shallow. Dongyue is particularly appropriate for a commander of the Crane program. Even more for a disgraced leader reflecting on the end of his time.”

Wu turned from the busy street and led Zhi toward the temple, along a red plank walkway about fifty meters long, passing through a Daoist garden of bamboo, low shrubs, and stone shrines. Thousands of scarlet fortune cards hung from a low rail on both sides of the boardwalk. A half-dozen security guards followed them.

Wu said, “I visit Dongyue when I wish to reflect on troubling matters. Daoists believe Dongyue is the divine ruler of China. This temple was built seven hundred years ago as a sort of headquarters for their faith.”

They strode through a door marked “Closed” at the end of the walkway and into the main hall of the building. The urban noises of the city fell away.

Wu didn’t slow, directing them to a door and the central courtyard beyond. The temple was much larger than was apparent from the street. The enclosed area extended for several hectares, the ground covered with stone tiles clothed in emerald moss. Gnarled trees loomed over hundreds of ancient marble obelisks three meters high and a half-meter thick.

Zhi wandered over to one of the creamy-white pillars and caressed its inscription, unable to read the archaic writing. The silence was broken by the songs of small birds. Joss sticks cast a blanket of incense over the area.

As his focus shifted beyond the stones, Zhi realized the quadrangle was surrounded by an unbroken succession of small rooms, doors opening into the courtyard.

Wu waved a long yellow nail at the perimeter. “Each chamber depicts one department of the Daoist underworld.”

Zhi strode to the nearest and peered in. The sign over the door proclaimed “Department of Rain Gods.” Contained within were nine plaster statues about a meter tall. On a raised throne at the rear of the cubicle sat a figure with the golden painted head of a fish. A mix of Chinese and fish figures, all in traditional Chinese royal costumes, attended the God.

Surreal
.

“How many are there?” Zhi asked.

“Seventy-six. The Daoist supernatural bureaucracy is extensive. Let me show you two others.”

They hiked for ten minutes to the back corner of the courtyard. Zhi cast a glance over his shoulder and noted that two guards had followed.

The old man moved as if climbing a mountain, breathing heavily between drags on his cigarettes. “This is the Department for Implementing Fifteen Kinds of Violent Death, a source of great personal inspiration.”

Zhi gazed through the door. The room held two plaster statues. One was a nightmarish figure of a man-sized devil creature, naked, painted blood red. His eyes and grinning mouth were white; the contrast to his vermillion body conveyed a ferocious evil. The demon was driving a twenty-centimeter blade into the open mouth of a standing man. The horror on the man’s frozen face was unlike anything Zhi had ever seen.

He shuddered convulsively. “Enough of the games, Comrade.”

Wu ignored him and shuffled to a room on the opposite side of the court.

Zhi examined the label above the door. Department of Transition. He glanced at Wu and peered inside.

Three statues this time. In the center, an adolescent girl with green clothing and lavender eyes, arms reaching heavenward, mouth open, as if speaking. Obviously in Transition.

On one side of her stood a creature with the head of a snake, also with lavender eyes. The serpent leaned toward the girl, its tongue extended to her ear, as if whispering. On the other side, in perfect opposition, was a Bixie, a winged lion with two horns. Bixies kept evil at bay. This one was reaching to the girl with a cupped hand, as if to cover her mouth.