“The type . . . ?”
“Never mind. Look. You get back now. And next time you want to have adventures, bring a pair of guards, neh?” He bowed his head smartly. “Oh, and if you speak to your father, please pass on my deepest respect. I shall make sure he receives a copy of my full and final report.” She smiled. “That is most kind, Captain. I’ll make certain he knows of your kindness and efficiency.”
She turned, looking to the young guard. “And thank you, Private Lauer. You were most helpful.”
The young soldier blushed and lowered his head. “Nu Shi...” Two soldiers escorted her to the lift, standing at a respectful distance as the big transit climbed the levels. And as it rose, she stood there, the sketchboard clutched tightly to her chest, staring blindly at the blank white doors, the image of the dead man vivid in her memory. Dead, she thought. But why?
And suddenly a second image came to mind, of the dead man fastened to a pole and slung between two guards, his thick, red-gold hair hanging like a mane beneath him as they carried him along. Yes, she thought, like the great man-eating tiger Wu Song killed up on Ching Yang Ridge.
Whatever he’d had, whatever it was she was carrying in the hollow of the sketchboard, it was something that terrified the authorities every bit as much as roaming man-eaters had terrified the villagers of long ago. But there were no heroes in the modem world, no Wu Songs or Song Jiangs, and certainly no tigers—only men and the things men did. So what was it? What could possibly be so important that a young man would rather choose death than relinquish it?
She looked down at the sketchboard, conscious suddenly of what she had done back there. Aware—suddenly, acutely aware—that three men had died over this thing she was carrying with her. Hannah closed her eyes, feeling the sharp edge of the casing pressed against her ribs, the upward motion of the lift as it climbed toward the top of the City, and shivered. She would know soon enough. But what then? What would she do with that knowledge?
She waited, emptying herself, but no answer came. Curiosity had driven her this far. But beyond that she didn’t know. She simply didn’t know. The lift slowed and stopped. Hannah opened her eyes.
“Nil Shi. ..”
She went out, between the guards, numbed, suddenly uncertain that she had done the right thing, convinced that they would find the inner workings of the sketchboard and piece together what she’d done. And then even her father’s influence would not save her. But it was done now. She had committed herself, just as surely as the young man with the red-gold hair. She, too, was now a tiger.
chen crouched over the broken sweeping machine, studying it closely. It was the tenth he had seen that morning and, like the others, it was damaged almost beyond recognition—kicked and beaten with a savagery that was hard to imagine. This time, however, they had been careless. This time they had not smashed the security cameras before the attack. “You’ll get the scum who did this, Major Kao, you understand me? I want them tracked down like the dogs they are and punished.” Chen turned, staring up at the obese form of the AutoMek director, then looked past him at his duty sergeant.
“Sergeant Krol, take Shih Cornwell back to headquarters and make sure he is treated with the respect he is due. Once I have completed my investigations here I shall join you.”
He turned back to the Company man, lowering his head respectfully. “Forgive me, Shih Cornwell, but as I’m sure you’ll understand, I must give this matter my utmost concentration.”
“I fail to see . . .” Cornwell began, all four hundred pounds of him leaning toward Chen intimidatingly, but Chen ignored the threat and, standing, raised a hand to silence him.
“You want the job done, Shih Cornwell. I understand that. Now, please, let me get on with it. Unless you want this ‘scum’ to evade us once again.” Cornwell glared at him a moment, then, relenting, took a step backward. With a terse little bow—the most his bloated form could manage—he turned, allowing Chen’s sergeant to lead him away. Watching him go Chen let out a huge sigh of relief. “These days they think they own us,” he said, turning, looking across at his lieutenant, Wilson, who stood nearby, looking on.
Wilson smiled. “I admire your patience, Major. I’m sure I’d have given him a mouthful.”
“And ended before a tribunal. . . .” Chen shook his head, then looked back at the machine. “The thing is that I understand all this. These machines”—he stood, wiping his hands together— “each one of them replaces eight good men—throws eight hardworking sweepers out of work. And for what? To boost the Company’s profits and make insects like Cornwell even fatter than they already are!”
“Isn’t that right! Half our work these days seems to be tidying up the mess our so-called superiors have made.”
Chen looked at the young officer sternly. “Oh, I don’t mean our Masters,” Wilson said quickly, raising his hands as if to defend himself. “No, I mean hsiao jen like Cornwell there. Little men, thinking they’ve the power of life and death over others—that money makes them gods.”
Chen sighed. “In a way it does. It always has. But that’s not our problem, neh? Our job is to sort out the mess. To find this . . . scum . . . and make them pay.”
Wilson moved closer, handing Chen a small cassette. “Well, this time it couldn’t be simpler. We’ve got it all here. Six faces. No masks, no hoods. Clear shots.”
“We’ve got names?”
“And addresses. They’re all ex-sweepers, naturally. So there we have it.
Evidence, motive, the lot. All we have to do is round them up.” Chen took the tape and stared at it, then looked back at him. “Who else knows about this?”
“No one. Only you and me.”
“But there’s a copy, neh? On record.”
“Not now there isn’t. I ... erased it.”
“Ah . . .” Chen looked at the tape again. “So this is it? Without this we’ve nothing?”
“That’s about it.”
Chen looked up again, smiled, then dropped the tape and crushed it beneath his heel. “Shame,” he said, meeting Wilson’s eyes clearly. “It looks like the cameras failed again. Pity. We might have got them this time.” Wilson nodded, then, taking a folded sheet from his pocket, handed it to Chen. “Those are the addresses. It’s the only record. Burn it once you’ve used it, huh?”
“Okay.” Chen slipped the paper into his pocket, then, smiling, reached across and patted his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Stephen. A good soldier. And a good friend.”
“And Comwell?”
Chen laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with that fat toad. Scum.” He shivered, a sudden indignation overtaking him. “As if he understood.”
hannah stood at her father’s door, looking in. He was sitting at his desk on the far side of the room, a reading lamp hovering just above his right shoulder. Behind him the walls were filled floor to ceiling with books. “Father?”
He looked up, then seeing it was her, stood, beckoning her across. They embraced, his face lit up with delight at seeing her. “I didn’t know you were coming home,” she said, hugging him tightly. “I thought you’d be gone another week yet.”
“I know, but something’s come up.” He indicated the files scattered about his desk. “I’ve got to prepare something for the morning. Something confidential. I thought it best, in the circumstances, to bring it back here.”