“I’m sure you would,” he continued. “For some time now the situation in North America has concerned us. We’ve waited patiently, hoping that action would be taken—strong, decisive action—to curtail such activities. But nothing. The authorities know who these troublemakers are. They have camera evidence and the statements of informers. If they wanted they could go in and arrest them, but they don’t. Why? Because they’re afraid. Because they haven’t the guts or determination to deal with the problem!” Green’s deeply lined face was hard with resentment. Beside him Chamberlain and Fairbank were nodding, willing him to go on. “Well, Wu Shih may lack the will to do the job, but we don’t. If he won’t deal with the meiyu jen wen, then we shall!” Kemp nodded. It was not the first time he’d heard that phrase. On numerous occasions in the past few months, after formal dinners, or at more private gatherings, the drink had flowed and, eventually, the subject had come around to “solutions.” And always, always, someone would come out with that description of the Lowers. Mei yu jen wen . . . Subhumans. Meat-men. And the more he heard it, the more he was convinced it was true. For more than a century now they had dealt with their criminal element by demotion. The good had climbed the levels, while the bad had been sent to the bottom of the pile— down to the Lowers—where they could be with others of their kind.
Their kind ... He smiled savagely, convinced of it. The City was the great filter of humanity, separating the good from the bad, the successful from the failures, the real men from the subhumans, the meatmen—the mei yu jen wen. Animals, they were, with the morality of animals. And what did it matter if they lived or died? They were bred in ignorance and died in it. Scum, they were. Less than scum.
Green was watching him. He smiled. “You understand, then?”
“Maybe.” He hesitated. “That thing . . . ?” “Let me tell you a story,” Fairbank said, folding his hands together on the table in front of him, his voice robust—almost youthful, it seemed, after the cancerous tones of Green’s. “When our ancestors first came to this great continent, there were beings already here. Indians, they called them. Subhuman creatures with bright red skins. Well, these Indians proved a real nuisance, attacking Hung Mao settlements and murdering women and children without reason. So the government came up with a reward system. For every Indian a man killed, they’d pay a certain amount of money. Trouble was, it was impractical to carry dead Indians back across country to claim the reward, so they devised an easier method. Scalps. They’d pay the reward on every Indian, scalp brought back.” Fairbank smiled. “Now, I don’t think that’s a bad system, do you? But I felt we could improve on it somewhat. A scalp . . . these days a man can lose half his head and still live. Lose his cock, however, and even if he does live, there’s whole generations of such scum as’ll never be born, neh?”
Kemp laughed. It was ingenious. “How much do you plan to pay?”
“Two fifty?”
“There are risks. . . .”
“Sure there are risks!” Egan said angrily. “There are always risks.”
“But two fifty. It’s . . . too low.”
“Three hundred, then,” Fairbank said. “But no more. And a cut of fifty for you.” He smiled. “Per cock. . . .”
The muscle in Kemp’s cheek twitched. Fifty. ... It was more than he’d expected. A whole lot more.
“How”—he licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry—“how do I find out who to hit?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of that side of things. You’ll be sent copies of all the relevant Security files. All you have to do is arrange to act on them, okay?”
He nodded.
“Good. Then we’ll organize a fund at once. Third party, naturally. And if there are any little problems, you sort them out. Okay?” “Okay.”
Fairbank sat back, clearly satisfied with his afternoon’s work. “You’ll be given a contact address, and you’ll deal directly with that. From now on you’ll have no contact whatsoever with any one of us. If the Pang himself comes calling on you, it’s your job to make sure he doesn’t come here next. You understand me, Shih Kemp?”
Kemp swallowed. “I understand.”
“Good. Then we’re finished here. Oh, and Kemp . . .”
“Yes, Mister Fairbank?”
“You can have the girl. I understand you were rather partial to her. ...”
michael lever climbed down from the sedan and looked about him, taking in the imposing gates, the play of water on the sculpted ImmVac logo in the square before them, and realized just how long it had been since he’d visited one of ImmVac’s facilities.
Years ago—before his incarceration by Wu Shih and the split with his father—he had spent a great deal of time touring the City, inspecting ImmVac’s installations on his father’s behalf while he learned the business. Back then he would have spent the evening partying with officials, then spent the rest of the night with the daughter of some local bigwig—someone who wished to curry favor with his father. But now the very thought was anathema.
So much had changed since then. So much had happened to him. First there’d been the arrests at the Thanksgiving Ball that night—he and a dozen other “Sons,” taken by Wu Shih’s forces for “subversive activities.” For days afterward he had raged against his captors, demanding his release, but fifteen long months had passed—most of them spent in solitary confinement—before he had been freed to see his father again. And when he had . . .
He shivered, remembering the breach with his father, the long and bitter battle for independence which had ended with a bomb blast in which his best friend, Bryn Kustow, had been killed, and he himself badly injured. It could have ended there, but it hadn’t. He had outlived his father and become the Head of ImmVac in his place. And throughout it all there had been Mary, his darling “Em,” there like a pillar of burning light in his darkest moment, supporting him, guiding him, keeping his feet firmly on the narrow path.
Without her...
He turned, hearing Johnson’s footsteps behind him. “Well, Dan? Shall we shake them up a little?”
Johnson smiled. “If you like, we can go through unannounced. I have the codes.”
“Lead on. I’m looking forward to seeing Steiner’s face when we march into his office!”
Johnson turned and went across, giving the runners and the bodyguards their instructions, then came back. “Okay. Let’s go.”
the two guards were in an elevated glass cage on the wall to the left of the entrance corridor, overlooking the outer gates. They were watching a vid, their feet up on the desk, the remains of a meal piled up on the desk in front of them, when the lights on the control panel started flashing. As the doors swung wide, there was a moment’s panic, a reaching for guns. Then they realized who it was and stood, their heads lowered, their faces flushed with embarrassment.
“Shih Lever . . .”
Michael waved them aside impatiently and walked on, his harness carrying him smoothly across the broad expanse of peacock-blue carpet. At the turn of the corridor he went left, toward the executive suites, his assistant, Johnson, struggling to keep up with him.
Seeing Michael, Steiner’s secretary began to rise from her chair, her face alarmed, but one look from Michael made her sit again, her head folding against her chest.
“You first,” Michael whispered, moving to one side. “I’ll give you a minute, then I’ll come in. Pretend you’re alone.” Johnson made a facial shrug, then tapped out the door’s locking code. With the briefest rap of his knuckles against the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
There was a startled gasp and a small high sound of surprise. “Michael?” Johnson said, a faintly amused tone in his voice. “I think you’d better see this for yourself.”