ChungKuo. The words mean "Middle Kingdom," and since 221 B.C., when the first emperor, Ch'in Shih Huang Ti, unified the seven Warring States, it is what the "black-haired people," the Han, or Chinese, have called their great country. The Middle Kingdom—for them it was the whole world; a world bounded by great mountain chains to the north and west, by the sea to east and south. Beyond was only desert and barbarism. So it was for two thousand years and through sixteen great dynasties. Chung Kuo was the Middle Kingdom, the very center of the human world, and its emperor the "Son of Heaven," the "One Man." But in the eighteenth century that world was invaded by the young and aggressive Western powers with their superior weaponry and their unshakable belief in progress. It was, to the surprise of the Han, an unequal contest and China's myth of supreme strength and self-sufficiency was shattered. By the early twentieth century, China—Chung Kuo—was the sick old man of the East: "a carefully preserved mummy in a hermetically sealed coffin," as Karl Marx called it. But from the disastrous ravages of that century grew a giant of a nation, capable of competing with the West and with its own Eastern rivals, Japan and Korea, from a position of incomparable strength. The twenty-first century, "the Pacific Century," as it was known even before it began, saw China become once more a world unto itself, but this time its only boundary was space.
PART I SUMMER 2207
At the Bridge of Ch’in
The white glare recedes to the Western hills, High in the distance sapphire blossoms rise. Where shall there be an end of old and new? A thousand years have whirled away in the wind. The sands of the ocean change to stone, Fishes puff bubbles at the bridge of Ch'in. The empty shine streams on into the distance, The bronze pillars melt away with the years.
—LI ho, On and On Forever, ninth century a.d.
CHAPTER ONE
Scorched Earth
LI SHAI TUNG stood beside the pool. Across from him, at the entrance to the arboretum, a single lamp had been lit, its light reflecting darkly in the smoked-glass panels of the walls, misting a pallid green through leaves of fern and palm. But where the great T'ang stood it was dark.
These days he courted darkness like a friend. At night, when sleep evaded him, he came here, staring down through layers of blackness at the dark submerged forms of his carp. Their slow and peaceful movements lulled him, easing the pain in his eyes, the tenseness in his stomach. Often he would stand for hours, unmoving, his black silks pulled close about his thin and ancient body. Then, for a time, the tiredness would leave him, as if it had no place here in the cool, penumbral silence.
Then ghosts would come. Images imprinted on the blackness, filling the dark with the vivid shapes of memory. The face of Han Ch'in, smiling up at him, a half-eaten apple in his hand from the orchard at Tongjiang. Lin Yua, his first wife, bowing demurely before him on their wedding night, her small breasts cupped in her hands, like an offering. Or his father, Li Ch'ing, laughing, a bird perched on the index finger of each hand, two days before the accident that killed him. These and others crowded back, like guests at a death feast. But of this he told no one, not even his physician. These, strangely, were his comfort. Without them the darkness would have been oppressive: would have been blackness, pure and simple.
Sometimes he would call a name, softly, in a whisper; and that one would come to him, eyes alight with laughter. So he remembered them now, in joy and at their best. Shades from a summer land.
He had been standing there more than two hours when a servant came. He knew at once that it was serious; they would not have disturbed him otherwise. He felt the tenseness return like bands of iron about his chest and brow, felt the tiredness seep back into his bones. "Who calls me?"
The servant bowed low. "It is the Marshal, Chieh Hsia."
He went out, shedding the darkness like a cloak. In his study the viewing screen was bright, filled by Tolonen's face. Li Shai Tung sat in the big chair, moving Minister Heng's memorandum to one side. For a moment he sat there, composing himself, then stretched forward and touched the contact pad. "What is it, Knut? What evil keeps you from your bed?" "Your servant never sleeps," Tolonen offered, but his smile was halfhearted and his face was ashen. Seeing that, Li Shai Tung went cold. Who is it now? he asked himself. Wei Feng? Tsu Ma? Who haw they killed this time?
The Marshal turned and the image on the screen turned with him. He was sending from a mobile unit. Behind him a wide corridor stretched away, its walls blackened by smoke. Further down, men were working in emergency lighting. "Where are you, Knut? What has been happening?"
"I'm at the Bremen fortress, Chieh Hsia. In the barracks of Security Central." Tolonen's face, to the right of the screen, continued to stare back down the corridor for a moment, then turned to face his T'ang again. "Things are bad here, Chieh Hsia. I think you should come and see for yourself. It seems like the work of the Ping Tioo, but. . ." Tolonen hesitated, his old familiar face etched with deep concern. He gave a small shudder, then began again. "It's just that this is different, Chieh Hsia. Totally different from anything they've ever done before."
Li Shai Tung considered a moment, then nodded. The skin of his face felt tight, almost painful. He took a shallow breath, then spoke. "Then I'll come, Knut. I'll be there as soon as I can."
IT WAS HARD to recognize the place. The whole deck was gutted. Over fifteen thousand people were dead. Damage had spread to nearby stacks and to the decks above and below, but that was minimal compared to what had happened here. Li Shai Tung walked beside his Marshal, turning his bloodless face from side to side as he walked, seeing the ugly mounds of congealed tar—all that was left of once-human bodies—that were piled up by the sealed exits, conscious of the all-pervading stench of burned flesh, sickly-sweet and horrible. At the end of Main the two men stopped and looked back.
"Are you certain?" There were tears in the old T'ang's eyes as he looked at his Marshal. His face was creased with pain, his hands clasped tightly together.
Tolonen took a pouch from his tunic pocket and handed it across. "They left these. So that we would know."
The pouch contained five small, stylized fish. Two of the golden pendants had melted, the others shone like new. The fish was the symbol of the Ping Tiao. Li Shai Tung spilled them into his palm. "Where were these found?" "On the other side of the seals. There were more, we think, but the heat. . ." Li Shai Tung shuddered, then let the fish fall from his fingers. They had turned the deck into a giant oven and cooked everyone inside—men, women, and their children. Sudden anger twisted like a spear in his guts. "Why7. What do they want, Knut? What do they want?" One hand jerked out nervously, then withdrew. "This is the worst of it. The killings. The senseless deaths. For what?"
Tolonen had said it once before, years ago, to his old friend Klaus Ebert; now he said the words again, this time to his T'ang. "They want to pull it down. All of it. Whatever it costs."
Li Shai Tung stared at him, then looked away. "No. . ."he began, as if to deny it; but for once denial was impossible. This was what he had feared, his darkest dream made real. A sign of things to come.