Son of Heaven

DAVID WINGROVE

First published in hardback and trade paperback in Great Britain in 2011 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books.

Copyright © David Wingrove, 2011

The moral right of David Wingrove to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN: 978 1 84887 524 1
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 84887 525 8
eBook ISBN: 978 0 85789 169 3

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London
WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

CONTENTS

PART ONE The Last Year of the Old World – Autumn 2065

Chapter 2 The Nature of the Catastrophe

Chapter 3 Distant Shadows

Chapter 5 Solid Air

Chapter 6 Fragments

Chapter 7 West

Chapter 9 Enduring Willow

Chapter 10 East

Chapter 11 The End of History

Glossary of Mandarin terms

Author’s note and acknowledgments

For Susan. Always for Susan.

Chapter 1

LUCKY MAN

A
thin layer of mist wreathed the meadows all the way down to the reeds that traced the meandering path of the river. In the early morning light,
the few trees that jutted from that paleness seemed iron black, leafless now that the season had changed. This had all been heath until a few years back, from Corfe to the South Deep. Now the sea
had encroached upon those ancient fields, covering stretches of the lowlands to a depth of several feet.

Jake stood there on a ridge of higher ground, surveying the scene, his shotgun tucked beneath his arm. He was dressed for the season in a thick sheepskin coat and warm britches, a hunter’s
cap and black waders. Close by stood his son, Peter, fourteen and the image of his father, down to the gun beneath his arm. Beside
him
was Boy, their eight-year-old border collie, his coat
sleek and black, his sharp eyes and ears taking in every movement.

A cuckoo called; possibly the last of the year. For a moment after there was silence, then a slushing noise and the sound of beating wings, a heavy sound in the early morning air. As they
watched, the bird flew up. Jake’s eyes followed its path, then settled on the ruins of the old cottage.

Until six years back this had been a busy, bustling place. Jed Cooper and his family had lived here. A cheerful man, Jed had shared the cottage with his equally cheerful wife, Judy, and their
twin boys, Charlie and John, who had been Peter’s age. Only then the sickness had come and they’d been swept away, along with scores of others in the surrounding villages. Last year the
roof had fallen in and now the walls were crumbling, nature reclaiming the building, its damp brickwork sinking back into the earth.

Jake looked down and sighed. At his back, a mile to the west, the land climbed steeply to a ridge. There, its ruined keep outlined against the sky, was the castle. Almost a thousand years it had
stood. When the Normans came, they’d built it to subdue the locals and place their mark upon the land. Later, in the years of the Civil War, it had been partially demolished, yet still it
dominated the skyline, its ruined towers like slabs of living history.

Boy tensed. Peter looked down at him and smiled.

‘Seek ’em, Boy! Go chase ’em out!’

The dog was off at once, a streak of darkness cutting through the mist. Jake raised his gun. Beside him, Peter did the same, the two of them waiting patiently as Boy turned the game towards
them.

Two gunshots echoed across the meadows, barely a pause between them. Boy slowed then barked, settling beside one of the fallen rabbits.

‘Good lad,’ Jake said, looking to his son and smiling.

They walked across, Peter going straight to Boy; kneeling down to ruffle his neck and hug him close, telling him again and again what a good boy he’d been.

Jake stooped, once, then a second time, to lift the dead rabbits and slip them into the big leather satchel at his side. He straightened up. The gunshots would have frightened off any other
game, but they had plenty of time. The fields beyond the river were pocked with rabbit holes.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, lad?’

‘D’you think it’ll ever come back?’

Jake thought about it a moment. ‘I dunno… It’s just… if it were coming back, then I guess it would have by now. Only…’

‘Only?’

Jake looked down at the dog. Boy enjoyed being petted. His eyes looked back at Peter adoringly, his tail wagging eagerly.

Only nothing
. But he didn’t say that. It was gone, that old world. Never to return. And good riddance. Only Peter, who had never known it, was fascinated.

‘Well?’ Peter insisted, getting back to his feet.

Jake laughed. ‘You’d have hated it.’

‘Why? I mean… all that great stuff you had.’

They had this conversation often, and as so often happened it led nowhere. The Past – the great computer age – was dead, and most of the ‘great stuff’ with it. All that
was left were the husks.

‘Come,’ Jake said, walking on, not letting his mood be affected by such talk. ‘What’s gone is gone, lad. It’s no good grieving over it.’

‘But Dad…’

A look, a raised eyebrow, and Peter fell silent.