Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (28 page)

‘
Hung Mao
or Han, what does it matter? They’re Above. They despise us Clayborn.’

The three boys were sitting on the edge of the pool, their feet hanging out over the
water.

Kim was looking down into the mirror of the water, his eyes tracing the patterns of
the stars reflected from the Tun Huang map overhead. He had been silent for some while,
listening to the
others speak, but now he interrupted them.

‘I know what you mean, Anton, but it’s not always like that. There are some…’

‘Like Chan Shui?’

Kim nodded. He had told them what had happened in the Casting Shop. ‘Yes, like Chan
Shui.’

Anton laughed. ‘You probably amuse him. Either that or he thinks that he can benefit
somehow by looking after you. As for liking you…’

Kim shook his head. ‘No. It’s not like that. Chan Shui…’

Josef cut in. ‘Be honest, Kim. They hate us. I mean, what has this Chan Shui done
that’s really cost him anything? He’s stood up to a bully. Fine. And that’s impressed
you. That and all that claptrap T’ai Cho has fed you about Han justice. But it’s all
a sham. All of it. It’s like Anton says. He’s figured you must be important –
something special – and he’s reckoned that if he looks after you there might be something
in it for him.’

Again Kim shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. You really don’t.’

Anton laughed dismissively. ‘We understand. But it seems like you’re going to have
to learn it the hard way. They don’t want us, Kim. Not for ourselves, anyway – only
for
what we are. They use us like machines, and if we malfunction they throw us away.
That’s the truth of the matter.’

Kim shrugged. There was a
kind
of truth to that, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He thought of Matyas and Janko.
What distinguished them? They were both bullies. It had not mattered
that he, Kim, was Clay like Matyas. Neither was it anything Kim had done to him. It
was simply that he was different. So it was with Janko. But to some that difference
did not matter. T’ai
Cho, for instance, and Chan Shui. And there would be others.

‘It’s them and us,’ said Anton, laughing bitterly. ‘That’s how it is. That’s how it’ll
always be.’

‘No!’ Kim was insistent now. ‘You’re wrong. Them and us. It isn’t like that. Sometimes,
yes, but not always.’

Anton shook his head. ‘Always. Deep down it’s always there. You should ask him, this
Chan Shui. Ask him if he’d let you marry his sister.’

‘He hasn’t got a sister.’

‘You miss my point.’

Kim looked away, unconsciously stroking the bruise on his neck. Shame and guilt. It
was always there in them, just beneath the skin. But why did they let these things
shape them? Why
couldn’t they break the mould and make new creatures of themselves?

‘Maybe I miss your point, but I’d rather think well of Chan Shui than succumb to the
bleakness of your view.’ His voice was colder, more hostile than he had intended,
and he
regretted his words at once – true as they were.

Anton stood up slowly, then looked down coldly at his fellow. ‘Come on, Josef. I don’t
think we’re wanted here any more.’

‘I didn’t mean…’

But it was too late. They were gone.

Kim sat there a while longer, distressed by what had happened. But maybe it was unavoidable.
Maybe he could only have delayed the moment. Because he
was
different – even from his
own kind.

He laughed. There! He had betrayed himself: had caught himself in his own twisted
logic. For either they were all of one single kind – Han,
Hung Mao
and Clay – or he was
wrong. And he could not be wrong. His soul cried out not to be wrong.

He looked up at the dull gold ceiling, stretching and easing his neck, then shivered
violently. But what if he
was
? What if Anton was right?

‘No.’ He was determined. ‘They’ll not make me think like that. Not now. Not ever.’
He looked down at his clenched fists and slowly let the anger drain from him.
Then he stood and began to make his way back. Another morning in the Casting Shop
lay ahead.

The machine flexed its eight limbs, then seemed to squat and hatch a chair from nothingness.

Kim laughed. ‘It seems like it’s really alive sometimes.’

Chan Shui, balanced on his haunches at Kim’s side, turned his head to look at him,
joining in with his laughter. ‘I know what you mean. It’s that final little movement,
isn’t it?’

‘An arachnoid. That’s what it is, Shui!’ Kim nodded to himself, studying the now-inert
machine. Then he turned and saw the puzzlement in the older boy’s face.

‘It’s just a name I thought of for them. Spiders – they’re arachnids. And machines
that mimic life – those are often called androids. Put the two together
and…’

Chan Shui’s face lit up. It was a rounded, pleasant face. A handsome, uncomplicated
face, framed by neat black hair.

Kim looked at him a moment, wondering, then, keeping his voice low, asked the question
he had been keeping back all morning. ‘Do you like me, Chan Shui?’

There was no change in Chan Shui’s face. It smiled back at him, perfectly open, the
dark eyes clear. ‘What an absurd question. What do you think?’

Kim bowed his head, embarrassed, but before he could say anything more, Chan Shui
had changed the subject.

‘Do you know what they call a spider in Han, Kim?’

Kim met his eyes again. ‘
Chih chu
, isn’t it?’

Chan Shui seemed pleased. ‘That’s right. But did you know that we have other, more
flowery names for them? You see, for us they have always been creatures of good omen.
When a spider
lowers itself from its web they say, “Good luck descends from heaven.”’

Kim laughed, delighted. ‘Are there many spiders where you are, Chan Shui?’

Chan shook his head, then stood up and began examining the control panel. ‘There are
no spiders. Not nowadays. Only caged birds and fish in artificial ponds.’ He looked
back at Kim,
a rueful smile returning to his lips. ‘Oh, and us.’

His bitterness had been momentary, yet it was telling. No spiders? How was that? Then
Kim understood. Of course. There would be no insects of any kind within the City proper
– the
quarantine gates of the Net would see to that.

Chan Shui pulled the tiny phial from its slot in the panel and shook it. ‘Looks like
we’re out of ice. I’ll get some more.’

Kim touched his arm. ‘I’ll get it, Chan Shui. Where do I go?’

The Han hesitated, then smiled. ‘Okay. It’s over there, on the far side. There’s a
refill tank – see it? – yes, that’s it. All you have to do is take this
empty phial back, slip it into the hole in the panel at the bottom of the tank and
punch in the machine number. This here.’ Chan Shui pointed out the serial number on
the arachnoid’s
panel. ‘It’ll return the phial after about a minute, full. Okay?’

Kim nodded and set off, threading his way between the benches. Returning, he took
another, different path through the machines, imagining himself a spider moving swiftly
along the spokes of his
web. He was halfway back when he realized he had made a mistake. Chan Shui lay directly
ahead of him, but between them stood Janko, beside his machine, a cruel smile on his
face.

‘Going somewhere, rat’s arse?’

He stepped out, blocking Kim’s way.

Kim slipped the phial into the top pocket of his scholar’s robe, then looked about
him. One of the big collection trays had moved along the main gangway and now barred
his way back, while
to the left and right of him stacks of freshly-manufactured furniture filled the side
gangways.

He looked back at Janko, unafraid, concerned only not to break the phial. If he did
there would be a fine of a day’s wages for both him and Chan Shui. For himself he
didn’t mind. But
for Chan Shui…

‘What do you want, Janko?’

Janko turned, facing Chan Shui’s challenge. ‘It’s none of your business, Han! Stay
out of this!’

Chan Shui just laughed. ‘None of my business, eh? Is that so, you great bag of putrid
rice? Why should you think that?’

Surprisingly Janko ignored the insult. He turned his back on Chan Shui, then faced
Kim again. His voice barked out. ‘Come here, you little rat’s arse. Come here and
kneel!’

Kim bent his knees slightly, tensing, preparing to run if necessary, but there was
no need. Chan Shui had moved forward quickly, silently and had jumped up onto Janko’s
back, sending him
sprawling forward.

Kim moved back sharply.

Janko bellowed and made to get up, but Chan Shui pulled his arm up tightly behind
his back and began to press down on it, threatening to break it.

‘Now just leave him alone, Janko. Because next time I
will
break your arm. And we’ll blame it on one of the machines.’

He gave one last, pain-inducing little push against the arm, then let Janko go, getting
up off him.

Janko sat up, red-faced, muttering under his breath.

Chan Shui held out his arm. ‘Come on, Kim. He won’t touch you, I promise.’

But even as Kim made to pass Janko, Janko lashed out, trying to trip him, then scrambled
to his feet quickly, facing Chan Shui.

‘Try it to my face, chink.’

Chan Shui laughed. ‘Your verbal inventiveness astonishes me, Janko. Where did you
learn your English, in the sing-song house where your mother worked?’

Janko roared angrily and rushed at Chan Shui. But the young Han had stepped aside,
and when Janko turned awkwardly, flailing out with one arm, Chan Shui caught the arm
and twisted, using
Janko’s weight to lift and throw him against the machine.

Janko banged against the control panel, winding himself, then turned his head, frightened,
as the machine reared up over him.

The watching boys laughed, then fell silent. But Janko had heard the laughter. He
looked down, wiping his bloodied mouth, then swore under his breath.

At that moment the door at the far end of the Casting Shop slid open and Supervisor
Nung came out. As he came down the gangway he seemed distracted, his eyes unfocused.
Coming closer he paused,
smiling at Kim as if remembering something. ‘Is everything okay, Chan Shui?’ he asked,
seeming not to see Janko lain there against the machine.

Chan Shui bowed his head, suppressing a smile. ‘Everything is fine, Supervisor Nung.’

‘Good.’ Nung moved on.

Back at their machine Kim questioned him about the incident. ‘Is Nung okay? He seemed
odd.’

Chan Shui laughed briefly, then shook his head. ‘Now there’s a man who’ll be his own
ruin.’ He looked at Kim. ‘Supervisor Nung has a habit. Do you understand me,
Kim?’

Kim shook his head.

‘He takes drugs. Harmless, mainly, but I think he’s getting deeper. These last few
weeks… Anyway, hand me that phial.’

Kim passed him the phial, then looked across, letting his eyes rest briefly on Janko’s
back.

‘By the way, thanks for what you did, Shui. I appreciate it. But really, it wasn’t
necessary. I’m quick. Quicker than you think. He’d never have caught me.’

Chan Shui smiled, then looked up at him again, more thoughtful than before. ‘Maybe.
But I’d rather be certain. Janko’s a bit of a head case. He doesn’t know quite when
to
stop. I’d rather he didn’t get near you. Okay?’

Kim smiled and looked down. He felt a warmth like fire in his chest. ‘Okay.’

‘Is everything all right?’

Kim looked up from his desk console and nodded. ‘I’m a little tired, that’s all, T’ai
Cho.’

‘Is the work too much for you?’

Kim smiled. ‘No. I’ve had a few restless nights, that’s all.’

‘Ah.’ That was unusual. T’ai Cho studied the boy a moment. He was a handsome boy now
that the feral emaciation of the Clay had gone from his face. A good diet had worked
wonders, but it could not undo the damage of those earliest years. T’ai Cho smiled
and looked back down at the screen in front of him. What might Kim have been with
a proper diet as an
infant? With the right food and proper encouragement? T’ai Cho shuddered to think.

T’ai Cho looked up again. ‘We’ll leave it for now, neh, Kim? A tired brain is a forgetful
brain.’ He winked. ‘Even in your case. Go and have a swim. Then get to bed
early. We’ll take this up again tomorrow.’

When Kim had gone, he sat there, thinking about the last week. Kim seemed to have
settled remarkably well into the routine of the Casting Shop. Supervisor Nung was
pleased with him, and Kim
himself was uncomplaining. Yet something worried T’ai Cho. There was something happening
in Kim – something deep down that perhaps even Kim himself hadn’t recognized as yet.
And
now this. This sleeplessness. Well, he would watch Kim more closely for the next few
days and try to fathom what it was.

He got up and went across to Kim’s desk, then activated the memory. At once the screen
lit up.

T’ai Cho laughed, surprised. Kim had been doodling. He had drawn a web in the centre
of the screen. A fine, delicate web from which hung a single thread that dropped off
the bottom of the
screen.

He scrolled the screen down, then laughed again. ‘And here’s the spider!’

But then he leaned closer and, adjusting the controls, magnified the image until the
spider’s features filled the screen: the familiar, dark-eyed features of a child.

T’ai Cho frowned, then switched the machine off. He stood there a moment, deep in
thought, then nodded to himself. Yes. He would watch him. Watch him very carefully
indeed.

DeVore sat up, startled into wakefulness. He had had the dream three times now. The
same dream, almost identical in its detail.

He looked about him at the room. Red dust lay in tiny drifts against the walls, blown
in by the airlock. It was a cold, barren room. More cell than resting place.

He blew out a long breath.

In the dream he had been out there – out on the very edge of the void, enfolded in
a darkness that no light could ever reach, no warmth ever touch; distant beyond all
measure. He had sat
there on that iced and barren rock, or rather...
crouched
, for there was something wrong about him. Not that he could get the tiniest glimpse
of himself. Only... it felt like he’d been
coated with lacquer, like a clay figure fresh from the kiln. It felt...