Son of Heaven (44 page)

‘We’ll not forget them.’

‘Let’s go,’ she said bleakly. ‘Now, before I change my mind.’

As the craft lifted, Jiang Lei leaned forward, looking out.

It was impressive. Had he been a native he would have been in awe. Sixteen craft they had, including his own, and a force of 1500 men.

On most days, like today, it was pure overkill. He did not need such a force. And yet he used it always, for that was what Tsao Ch’un had ordered.

‘Gunboat diplomacy’, Tsao Ch’un had called it, smiling nastily, when he had given Jiang Lei his commission three years back. ‘Our revenge for the Treaty of
Nanking.’

And so it was. Only the irony was lost upon the natives of this land. What had happened back in 1842 on the far side of the globe was barely relevant to their lives now. Or so it seemed, but
history, for the Han, was very much alive, and the desire for revenge – to impose their new-found status on old enemies – was strong.

Not only that, but this was the part his men liked. The chance to play gods over these people’s lives. To save them or destroy them, depending on their whim.

Not that Jiang allowed them total liberty. No. He was quite strict about what they could or couldn’t do. Yet if one of his men was to make a mistake; to be too zealous let’s say,
then he would forgive them as likely as not. Or punish them lightly, just to make a point.

After the morning’s chill, the day had brightened. Jiang Lei closed his eyes, humming an old folk tune.

Behind him, in the back of the massive craft, were his eight bodyguards, Ma Feng leading them. While in the cockpit…

‘Master Jiang…’

Jiang opened his eyes again, his spirits sinking. It was Wang Yu-Lai. He had been up in the cockpit, talking to the two pilots.

‘What is it, Wang?’

Jiang saw how that rankled with the man. Wang liked his full title, especially since he had come back from his Masters with the title of
Senior
Cadre.

‘The pilot was asking, Master Jiang… Did you wish to make the same approach as before, over the castle, or…?’

Wang had clearly seen what he’d been reading. Even so, it was unusually thoughtful of the man.

What does the bastard want? He’s never nice unless he wants something.

‘We’ll fly in as before, but slower this time. Oh, and Wang… before you say anything… each captain knows his task. I have fully briefed them all.’

‘Yes, General.’

Wang bowed, then returned up front.

Jiang let a long breath escape him. One of these days he would tell the man what he really thought of him.

But not today. Today was much too fine a day to ruin.

He hummed a little louder. Down below there was sunlight on the water of the Bay, while to his right – four or five miles north-east of their current flight path – lay one of the
city’s outposts, a huge geometric chunk of whiteness consisting of a full eight stacks, each one mile high and two
li
in diameter.

Personally he found it an abomination. To his eyes it was little more than a massive plastic box. A giant storage unit for humanity.

Or, worse still, a giant hive.

Jiang had flown over parts of it while it was being constructed and seen the eight-sided, hive-like units. Had felt, momentarily, like he’d been shrunk and ingested into the stomach of a
bee.

He had even written a poem about it. Not that it was any good. No. The last good poem he had written was a year and more ago. That poem for his eldest daughter. It was after that that his muse
had soured. Had grown as dark and jagged as his moods.

They swung south, then, aligned with the castle, headed directly towards it.

Jiang came through; took Wang’s seat between the two pilots, while Wang stood behind him, silent for once.

‘Do you know how old that is, Cadre Wang?’

‘A thousand years?’

Jiang laughed lightly. ‘Precisely so. It was the king’s castle. It was here he kept his treasury. Here that he kept his political prisoners. Impregnable, it was. Until a traitor let
in the besieging rebel army. The rest is as you see. Even so, I feel, it
is
impressive, even in its ruination, neh?’

‘How long has it lain like this?’

‘Four hundred years. There was no need to rebuild, you understand. This part of the countryside… It is hardly London.’

Wang Yu-Lai nodded. For once he seemed engaged with Jiang Lei rather than watching him.

‘See how it dominates the landscape,’ Jiang continued. ‘It must have been truly something when it was whole. A true statement of power, neh, Cadre Wang?’

‘And soon it will be gone, neh, General? Will you let the men have their sport with it, perhaps?’

Jiang turned slightly, looking back at him. ‘Their sport? You mean, let them
vandalize
it?’

Wang lowered his eyes, warned by the tone of Jiang’s query. ‘Surely, General, it could be little worse than it is now. I just thought… letting off a little steam could not
hurt, surely?’

Wang was right. It wouldn’t hurt. And the place had been vandalized for centuries. Even so, Jiang felt a sense of outrage at the thought of such desecration. Ruin it might be, yet his
instinct was to harm those ancient stones no further. To leave it, buried beneath Tsao Ch’un’s city, for later generations possibly to unearth.

‘No, Cadre Wang,’ he said decisively. ‘We leave it be, neh? It would not be right…’

He saw that Wang was tempted to argue, only Wang let it drop. And that again was unlike him. The man usually pushed things until he, Jiang, was forced to bellow at him.

Slowly they drifted over it. Slowly it passed behind them. Ahead lay the village.

‘Is everyone in position?’ he asked, seeing the craft in the sky up ahead, forming a great circle about the place.

One by one they reported in. When the last had done so, Jiang gave the order.

‘Okay. Set down. Everyone to containment positions.’

He cut the connection, then looked to Wang Yu-Lai again. ‘Cadre Wang… you will stay in the craft this once.’

Wang looked stunned. ‘But General…’

‘You will do as I say. You may watch things from the cockpit, but you will stay inside the ship. Do I make myself clear?’

Wang opened his mouth, then closed it again. And then he bowed.

All of this would go into his report tonight. Jiang knew that. And maybe he ought to have feared it, for the First Dragon had him in his sights. Only he knew Wang was up to something. Some
manoeuvre or other. Something he had been asked to try by his Masters. But Jiang wasn’t going to let him. Not here.

As the big craft juddered to a halt in the sky, Jiang pointed over to the left.

‘Down there,’ he said, speaking to the senior pilot. ‘Behind the inn. Send a squad in… no, make it two… to make sure it’s safe. Then we’ll set
down.’

He glanced back at Wang. The man was brooding now.

I’m right, he thought, seeing that. They had meant him to try something. To stir things up and cause trouble.

Not while he was still in charge. It was bad enough for these people that they had to suffer this…
humiliation
. Bad enough that they were to have their lives disrupted, everything
they owned and treasured taken from them. At least, this way, they were given a second chance. To become good citizens. Yes, and to forge something good from this abomination.

Jiang Lei knew the damage he did. Knew it and hoped to mitigate it. To be his Master’s hands, and yet… somehow to keep his soul unblemished. Like a polished piece of jade, buried
inside his chest.

I am not a bad man
, he told himself for what seemed the thousandth time.
And yet what I do
…

Jiang watched as, down below, his men ran here and there, securing the inn, bringing the first of the prisoners out and laying them face down on the lawn at the back of the building.

He blew out a breath, then, touching the pilot’s shoulder, gave the order.

‘Okay, Pilot Wu… set us down.’

Jake had watched the ships come down. Had counted them and knew their chance of escape was gone.

As he stood there, among friends and family, he wondered if this, then, was the end. Whether, within the hour, he would be dead.

It was not even that he was afraid. Not for himself. What he felt was a tiredness. A mental lethargy, one might call it. A sense that to struggle would be absurd.

So the Jews must have felt, during the Holocaust.

That part of history had always troubled him. Why hadn’t they fought? What had they to lose, after all? But he realized now what it was. Now that it had come he understood.

He could see the soldiers coming into the village from all directions, some of them carrying loudhailers, shouting the same thing time and time again in broken English.

‘Fro dow yo way-pon an’ surreh-da. Re-sis an’ we wi’ kih yu or.’

He hadn’t understood it the first few times, but now he did. If any of them fought, then all would die. That, too, was like the Holocaust.

So was that their fate? To be packed off in trains and slaughtered?

Like animals.

Jake looked about him. All those he loved were here. Perhaps if they all died, now, together, it would not be quite so bad. Perhaps…

Only he couldn’t bear any of those perhapses. To allow himself hope in the face of this seemed almost obscene.

Peter came across and put his arm about his waist. The boy was trembling. Beside him, Boy was growling. A low, hostile growl.

‘Quiet, Boy!’ Peter said softly, urgently.

Jake glanced round. Mary was clutching her girls, the four of them clinging together, fear in their faces.

He had seen that too in the old black and white documentaries of the camps. Seen how families clung together at the last, as if it could protect them, when all that awaited them was the
ovens.

He closed his eyes and groaned.

This was why he’d packed the cart. To try to avoid this moment. To have a few last weeks with them. And yet he had known, this morning, even as he loaded up the cart, that it wasn’t
escape, only delay.

Now even that had been taken from him.

The soldiers were in among the buildings now. They were kicking down doors and searching every house, making sure that no one was overlooked. And then, suddenly, all of the villagers were being
moved, four men in brutal-looking uniforms – their helmets and armour making them look utterly anonymous – driving them on before them like sheep.

Out into the space behind the New Inn.

There, like some monolithic alien spaceship, sat the Han craft, its huge bulk taking up almost the whole of the lower slope. It completely blocked the view, its blackness seeming to cancel out
the daylight.

Jake felt his legs go weak. He had not thought such power still existed in the world. A cold, technological savagery seemed to emanate from within that blackness. It was not so much an object as
a concept. Not so much a weapon as an instrument to implement their will.

Like the great city they were building, it was not a continuation but a breach. Seeing that awesome ship, Jake finally understood. What he had witnessed them begin, some twenty-odd years ago,
had been but a prelude to this. A clearing away before they began anew.

Differently. With Chinese characteristics.

He looked to Mary and the girls, beckoning to them to come closer, only they seemed frozen where they were, terrified of what was to come.

Boy growled again. A long, low growl that ended in a bark.

They had not noticed Boy before, but now one of the soldiers – a captain by the look of him – hurried across, unbuttoning the holster of his handgun as he came.

Peter, reading his intention, screamed at him. ‘No! Leave him be!’

Only the soldier didn’t listen. Raising his gun, he fired at Boy, even as the dog jumped up and turned away, making to escape.

The man fired again, and then a third time, bringing Boy down. The poor dog was whimpering pitifully now, lying there in a pool of his own blood, the life pulsing out of him. Standing over him,
the soldier delivered the
coup de
grâce
.

As the shot rang out, Peter let out a cry. Seeing what was about to happen, Jake grabbed at him desperately. For a moment the boy tried to evade Jake’s grip, fighting to break free, to
throw himself at the soldier. Only Jake held on tight, wrestling with his son, knowing that if he let him go he was dead.

‘Jesus,’ someone said. ‘It was just a dog…’

One of the soldiers came across at that, slapping the man, gabbling at him in his native tongue.

Peter was gripping Jake tightly now, his face pressed into Jake’s chest, his whole body shaking as he sobbed.

The soldier stood there still, next to Boy, gun raised, as if hoping Jake would make something of it.

Jake glared at him. ‘You cunt…’

The man’s face twitched. Maybe he didn’t know the word, for a moment later he backed away.

Jake looked about him; saw the shock in people’s faces. But he just felt numb. He kept seeing how casual it had been, as if Boy were just an object, at most a piece of vermin to be
disposed of, not a cherished pet.

He gripped Peter tighter, whispering to him, so that the soldiers wouldn’t hear.

‘It’s okay, son. We’re going to be okay.’

Only he knew that wasn’t the truth. Killing Boy was only the start of it. He could not see much of their faces beneath their helmets, but he could see their eyes, see how they enjoyed
exercising their power.

A number of the soldiers, in black uniforms not the more common green, had begun to go among the villagers, instructing some to stay where they were, others to move further down the slope,
towards where a second, smaller craft was parked.

It seemed an ominous development. Only before Jake could work out what it meant, he was being separated from Peter, one of the soldiers dragging him by the arm, forcing him into one of the lines
they were forming.

‘In line,’ one of them barked, pushing him roughly. ‘Get in line!’

At the front of each of the queues, a helmet-less soldier now sat at a desk, a second soldier stood just behind, taking pictures with a polaroid camera. They were asking questions now: name,
age, place of birth. Simple stuff. And they were conducting other tests, too: fingerprinting, swabs for DNA, retinal scans.