Only corpses filled these levels.
He moved away from the table, looking about him at the huge, gutted shell of the place. In some ways it was worse here than on the edge of the crater. There, at least, the transformation had been so great as to defy the imagination. Here, however, it was only too easy to imagine the suffering. Here everything was scorched and blackened. Ash and debris scrunched underfoot wherever one trod. And the bodies . . . He shuddered, then closed his eyes, remembering, seeing the two bodies again, as if they were etched on his inner lid. They lay together on their backs, their knees up, their arms in a strange begging position, almost like dogs performing tricks. Looking closer he had noticed how their features had been erased—their faces made anonymous by the heat. Blackened tar covered their grinning skulls.
And the stench . . .
They were flying men in to pile up the dead, but it was a hopeless task.
They were piled everywhere one looked, and to burn them . . . He put his hand up to his face and began to sob. It was like what had happened on Mars. As if it were all happening again. Punishment . . , this was the punishment of the gods. Destruction . . . endless destruction. And nothing untouched. General Althaus came across, and bowed. “Am I needed here, Chieh Hsia? If not...”
Wu Shih shivered and then looked up, not bothering to wipe his tear-stained face, noticing the ash that stained his hands an unfamiliar black.
“No,” he answered wearily. “You’d best go. There’s nothing for us here.
Let’s save what can be saved.”
kemp ran down the corridor, his silks flapping, his breath gasping from him.
He had woken to a violent screaming from downstairs and to the smash of breaking vases. Locking his bedroom door behind him he had hurried to the House com, flicking through the viewing cameras with mounting panic. There were strangers in the house, roaming his corridors, thin-faced young men in faded one-pieces, humang— punks—by the looks of it. The screaming came from the downstairs scullery where three youths were taking turns fucking his youngest maid. He watched a moment, his heart thudding in his chest, then switched, looking to the main gate. The guard hut was empty. “Aiya!” he moaned softly, the bastards had deserted him! Then, knowing he had little time, he went to the door on the far side of the room and, taking the key from his pocket, opened it and slipped through, locking it on the other side.
The bathroom was a big, echoing room. On the far side, high up, was a window. He went across, picked up the bath chair, and set it down beneath the window. Climbing up, he looked out. The gap was narrow—maybe too narrow—and the drop . . . ten, twelve ch’i at least, maybe more. If he fell he’d break his hips, maybe his back, yet to stay... He sniffed. Fire. They had set fire to the Mansion. He whimpered, then began to pull himself up, the effort almost beyond him. Fear gave him strength, however, and for a moment he was balanced on the ledge, half in, half out.
Behind him the door-lock rattled. There was a shout of triumph.
“In here! The fucker’s in here!”
He cried out, terrified suddenly, and struggled to edge farther out.
Stuck . . . Aiya! I’m stuck!
Behind him the door thudded, as someone threw himself against it. There was more shouting, and then silence. A moment later a shot rang out. There was the sound of metal clattering across the floor behind him, and then the door burst open.
He couldn’t turn. Stuck there, he could only imagine them coming up beneath him. He closed his eyes, expecting another shot, but it didn’t come. Instead there was laughter. An awful mocking laughter. “Lao jen!” one of them taunted. “Laojen!”
Old man .. .
He heard the creak of the bath chair as one of them climbed up onto it, then his legs were tugged violently and he fell back, cracking his chin as he fell.
He lay there, stunned, his back numb. As his mouth filled with blood, he looked up through blurred and doubled vision into three young and snarling faces. “Laojen ...” one of them said gently, almost tenderly, putting a hand behind his neck as if to support him. And then the first blow fell, smashing his nose, blinding him with pain. “Lao jen...”
the imperial cruiser lifted slowly, the two guard ships already in position half a li up. Wu Shih, seated inside, looked out through the portal, frowning in stunned disbelief at the infernal scene below. It was hard to imagine that anyone had ever lived there. Hard to believe . . . As they edged out over the ruins, the cruiser hovered a moment, maneuvering about the outjutting edge of a fallen stack. As it did, a rocket streaked up from below and hit the cruiser near the tail. The explosion rocked the ship, yet miraculously, when the smoke cleared, it was still there. Slowly, very slowly, it began to spin, a trail of black smoke snaking from its gaping rear. For a moment it lifted, as if it was going to clear the outcrop, then it struck with a sickening crunch and began to fall back to the earth.
Inside, Wu Shih turned, staring back at the jagged hole that had appeared just behind where he was sitting. He was vaguely aware of someone screaming close by, an awful, ragged sound, but it was muted by the ringing in his ears. It was cold suddenly—bitterly cold—though the cabin itself was on fire. Smoke swirled like an ill-focused hologram. Out, he thought. I have to get out. .. .
In a haze he tried to release his belt, but for some reason his fingers were numb and wouldn’t work. Looking down he saw blood on his silks, a glint of bone through the bloodied flesh of his left arm. No, he thought. Not possible . . .
On the ground below soldiers were staring up, mouths agape, as the ship began to descend. A moment later they were scrambling for cover as small arms fire and mortars began raining down on them from nearby vantage points.
“It’s the Hand!” someone yelled. “It’s the fucking Black Hand!” There was shouting now and screams. Overhead the two escort cruisers had returned and were trying to get into the fight. The Pang’s ship struck the ground nose first, its reinforced frame buckling.
Trapped in his seat Wu Shih groaned and closed his eyes. Alive. I’m still alive. But the smoke was much thicker now that the ship had come to rest, and the flames . . .
He opened one eye. Two lines of blood lay like sticky threads across his vision, distorting it. He coughed, the pain like a tiny bomb exploding in his chest.
The flames . . .
He swallowed painfully. His silks were on fire. And his legs . . . both of his legs were crushed.
He groaned. Help me ... for the gods’ sake help me, I am a Son of Heaven.
. . .
Yet even as soldiers ran to assist, there was a small explosion and the whole ship lit up brightly. A mortar had hit it dead center. Watching from above, the captain of the second cruiser saw the missile strike and winced, knowing there was no chance anyone would have survived. “Oh, shit. . .” He groaned softly. “Oh, fucking shit! Kuan Yin preserve us now!”
the hatch was closed, the engines warming up. In an hour they would be in Europe.
Mary sat at the window seat, Michael beside her. In a few minutes the window shields would come down and that would be it. America would be like a dream. Something that had happened in another life. It was dark now; even so, the sky above the distant City was bright. Rumor had it that the imperial palace was a gutted ruin and that Wu Shih himself was dead . . . shot by an assassin, or murdered in his bed by one of his guards—the details were obscure. The only certainty was that it was all over for the great T’ang and his City.